Travel

Interviewee: Jan Sokal

Lodz

Poland

Interviewer: Judyta Hajduk

Date of interview: March 2006

We met with Mr. Jan Sokal in his home on Gandiego Street in Lodz, where we talked for many hours. Mr. Sokal is 91 years old. In spite of his slight stature he is a very vivacious and active man. He does housekeeping by himself and takes care of his wife who is a blind person. Our first meetings went on in the atmosphere of limited confidence. Mr. Sokal was very particular about text authorization just after the first draft. As time went by and the succeeding biography versions were completed, our relations became more and more friendly. During one of the meetings Mr. Sokal confessed he had been dreaming about writing a 'Saga of the Sokal Family' and because of that he agreed for the interview. Mr. Sokal often digresses, develops sideplots with pleasure, frequently does not finish sentences or skips subjects, and this is a reason for so many editor’s notes in the text.

Mr. Sokal didn’t want to let us publish the present pictures of him and his family, but with pleasure he made his prewar pictures accessible to us. He hopes that thanks to Internet someone of his friends from the old days will contact him in Lodz.

I rather didn’t know my [grandparents] from my father's, Natan Sokal [1860-1938] side. Some gentleman used to come, a short Jew, bearded, and his name was Fuks. Where he [used to come] from I don’t know, probably, I suppose, from somewhere in Rawa Ruska [small town, ca. 100km north-east of Przemysl, today in Ukraine], since Father was from there. [There] was such a custom that a freeholder [of the land] would give family names. [And my father's family was given the name] Sokal. [That name] is not popular. Here in Lodz, [there is] one, some doctor. [I know that, because] I used to receive his mail for a certain period of time. [But I] have never spoken to him.

My father probably came from somewhere in [the vicinity of] Rawa Ruska. I can only suspect he was born in 1860. No one in our family was keeping such a calendar, right. He was a normally shaved, cropped man. [He did not wear a beard]. I have never seen him [having a beard]. Father was a townsman. He worked until year 1928. He was a hired employee in a certain beer wholesale firm, right. He was a collector. He would travel with a carter and a load of beer and would distribute it [the beer] to restaurants, and it was his job. During those times it was a relatively well paid [job]. I suppose [so], but having such a big family wasn’t easy. And later, during that time when our family went into financial troubles, he lost his job. Father, I remember, liked to smoke a lot. [He kept smoking] until the end of his life. He apparently [started to smoke] before the war, when he was [working] in a propinacja [archaic Polish: a nobleman's monopoly, sales of alcohol beverages] of vodkas. [Father] was not a drunkard, right. No! But he did not scorn from alcohol. When he used to work, I remember him, he would return [home] frozen in winter, in the kitchen he had such ‘tens’, small [liquour-glasses, 10ml], like a thimble, [and he would drink one].

[Father] was a good expert in the history of the Jewish nation and religious matters. He had [knew] a rabbi, and Father attended his services. The rabbi's name was Herszel. When I was very young I was there [with my father] several times, lead by the hand. It was just an apartment, and people used to come there. There was a man who had rabbinical, national knowledge. And Father was respected by him, too. Because my father was strong [in that knowledge]. He knew it through and through, right. That’s how we used to say, in our family. And he used to live in accordance to that religious knowledge. All the holidays that existed [he would go to pray]. I remember, as long as I was at home, since later I flew away too, he was observant of that, [but] he was normal. As normal civilized people are dressed, [same about him] he did not distinguish himself. [Mr. Sokal wants to emphasize his father was 'civilized', in other words that he was not fanatical, not a Hasid; pious, but a progressive man]. He knew the Polish language very well. He died probably in 1938. I was already in Cracow back then.

[I do not remember my grandparents from my mother’s side].  Simply, I have never seen them in my life. I only heard some stories about them. My mother Bronislawa Sokal [?-1933] came from the Schorrs, exactly the Przemysl Schorrs. [See: Mojzesz Schorr]2. The whole family from my mother’s [side] came [from Przemysl] [town ca. 400km east of Cracow]. Grandfather's name was Ben Cijon. That was his name. My grandmother's name… [I don’t remember].

I knew my uncles [from my mother’s side]. They were my mother's brothers. They used to come to us [to the house] until the Soviet-German war broke out [1941]. They also lived in Przemysl. Their family name was same as Mom's maiden name, Schorr. They were rather intelligent people, accountants by occupation. I knew my uncle Dawid by name. The eldest. I remember another uncle, his name was Jozef [Schorr]. [He] was a kind of a story-teller. He used to reminisce about the war time [WWI], because he did his military service in the Austrian [Austro-Hungarian] forces. He could talk about the history quite vividly. There was probably a lot of fiction in it, but [I listened to it willingly]. And he lived for a long time. I still saw him in 1943 in Lwow. I had one more uncle. His name was Oskar Schorr. When I was a little boy, he was already a lawyer, right, and he was a very respected man. His story is a bit convoluted. I know Mom was very unhappy [because] of him. That is, because of the life he led. Because he married some lady, a girl, who came somewhere from tsarist Russia. She was a refugee from the Bolsheviks. And it was something terrible for my mom [who] came from such a traditional family. [My mom's family] was very national-Jewish by ancestry. Mom was raised according to this spirit, [filled with] this faith. [To her] it was a shock. How could it be? He's from such a noble [traditional, Jewish] home, and she's from some tsarist, not-Jewish one. Terrible sin! I know, when my mother learned about that, she was trying to find him in order not to allow for that misalliance, right. This was a tragedy in her life. I also knew Fajga, my mother's youngest sister, a beautiful girl. She got married late, to Mr. Lewski. A handsome man. He was a trade agent. [They had] a little boy [son]. [He was] a beautiful boy. They all perished [in Holocaust].

[My mother’s first name was] Bronislawa. Broncia, Bronia, something like that. She was slim, slender. She didn’t wear a wig, [she had] long hair. [She used to dress] normally, in a middle-class manner. She did housekeeping and looked after the children. It seems Mom's cooking was kosher. I suppose so. But I can’t characterize it. [She used to cook] very tasty. I fed only on that cuisine. [Mom worked] till late, I remember. And she was doing everything herself. Such a martyr. As the girls [my sisters] were growing up, they were surely helping her, they were involved, forced to do that. I know that as a young boy I also had my duties, because I was strong enough. I used to carry water. From a well, of course. I carried water since early childhood. I carried two buckets normally in hands. And it was not that I carried it from a building to home, but it [was] a good bit of the way, half a kilometer at least. And a lot of water was used. [Especially] when washing took place. Mother was an amazing [woman]. Good. Loving. Knowing how to raise [children]. Not old-fashioned, absolutely not. If I came to blows with someone, she used to say: 'Your fault, if you take up with such bounders, it's all right. Don’t go barging over there'. Something like that. She was an angel, not a human being. She died probably in 1933, I don’t remember exactly. She had a lot of problems, those life experiences related to certain matters that afflicted our home.

 [My parents] were not politically engaged. Absolutely not. They had no interest in that. Well, Father sometimes looked at the [socialist] literature my brothers had. But [my father] was a man who had broader horizons. Parents didn’t really lead a social [life]. I don’t remember them having [many friends]. Whereas, each of us [their children], had friends, boys and girs. And obviously we kept in touch within the family. I had many cousins in Przemysl, with the same last name Schorr, because all of them lived here [in Przemysl] with us.

This town of mine, [Przemysl], was not that big. In the pre-war times, it was also not that small, because it was a town with a population of 65 thousand citizens, right. Located beautifully. In Lwow province. Przemysl is about 100 km from Lwow. And even nowadays Przemysl is a border city. Over there, not too far from Przemysl, about 3-4 kilometers there is the Ukrainian border [Editor’s note: the border is ca. 10km from Przemysl]. Lovely foot-hills land, with water. There is the San River. I learned to swim in that San, in early childhood.

A modern city. There were, I remember, big factories. Tools and agricultural machinery factory, for example the 'Field Factory'. It was its name. The owner was a Jew, Klagsbald. [The biggest factory in town. Established in 1925 as 'Field Machinery Factory and Iron Foundry Joachim Klagsbald & Sons'. Located on Zyblikiewicza Street,  produced agricultural machinery, sewing machines, bicycles etc. In 1938 the ‘Field Factory’ employed 150 workers. Joachim Klagsbald was an active member of the Zionist organization.] And the second one, big for Polish conditions back then, the Rindeg's [factory]. It was a kind of a home factory. Of children's toys. [Also] Jewish. [Most probably 'Minerwa', producing mainly mechanical toys. Established by Jozef Reiner, Town Council councilor. In 1938 it employed about 100 people.] Furthermore there was a Gorlinger sawmill [Gorlinger & Gottfried Sawmill]. I remember since a brother of one of my friends used to work there.

There were two synagogues [in Przemysl] [Editor’s note: There were four big synagogues in Przemysl before WWII]. I knew them. [Located] fairly close to my place of living. One of them about ten houses ahead. The one [on Slowackiego Street] is still there to this day. And that was the Szynbach's [Editor’s note: Scheinbach’s or New Synagogue, at 15 Slowackiego Street, erected in the years 1910-1918. In 1960-1961 turned into a library.] Beautiful, modern. A big building. It wasn't really radical. There were children choirs and cantors. Young boys, 14 [years old], [who] had beautiful voices, used to sing there. Young folks used to go there regularly. Beside that there was the so called ‘Templum’. [Located] next to San. That ‘Templum’ [was] beautiful. [It looked like] a big hall. Very progressive people [used to go] there. [‘Tempel’, on Jagiellonska Street, erected in the years 1886-1890 as an initiative of the group of so called progressive Jews, demolished by the Germans during WWII.] However, there were [also] a couple of prayer houses, [that] my father loved. I knew the one [Father used to go to].

[From Przemysl I remember] a Jewish cemetery that exists to this day, but it’s a ruin now. [Mr. Sokal most likely refers to the cemetery on Slowackiego Street. Established in 19th century, with a cemetery gate and about 200 tombstones preserved.] I have been there several times, just after the war. [Last time] I was there probably ten years ago. A part of the cemetery with an iron gate was used after the war. It was brought into use. The mazevot were grown over. It would be necessary to dig everything up. My deceased parents lie there, [but] nobody can [tell me where].

On Basztowa Street, somewhat far from the centre of town, at the border of some district, [there was] a Jewish hospital. [Editor’s note: Mr. Sokal most likely means Staszkiewicza Street with a hospital that had been there since 1900. The hospital was supported by the Jewish religious community and the Society of Friends of the Jewish Hospital.] I have a kind of a memento [related to it]. It was an accident. I broke my leg once, when I was a child. [I broke it] when doing sports. I was 10, 12 years old. Obviously, my parents took me to the hospital. They [the doctors] set the bones on that leg back, but not properly. It was in a cast only up to the knee. I didn’t pay any attention to it; I lay in the hospital until it healed up. Friends used to come, look at my leg and laugh: 'What a crescent roll you’ve got here!' Because that leg was kind of like that. I brought it to my parents attention and I lodged a complaint. Indeed, they repeated everything, broke the leg with no anesthesia and put it together again. I was a strong boy, so I could [endure] it all.

Somewhere on Tarnawskiego Street or Dworskiego Street there was a Hebrew gymnasium. [The Hebrew gymnasium organized by the Hebrew Educational Institute in 1927. The school’s first location was in a rented house at 4 Gorna Street (today Grottgera Street). The opening ceremony of the new school building at 15 Tarnawskiego Street took place on 14th October 1928.] I don’t know who supported it. For sure it wasn't a public gymnasium. Young people used to attend it normally and [it was] a school of high standards. My girlfriend used to go to that gymnasium. She was a nice girl. A beautiful blonde, hundred percent. Petka Pater. Yes, it was such a youthful love. Those was early times, even very early. [We were both] in our teens. Maybe 17. For a certain period of time we were very close to each other, right. She completed that gymnasium. And later her history was such that during the war the fate sent her probably somewhere to Asia. After the war I got [information] from my friend that in Trybuna Ludu [‘The People's Tribune’, daily 1948-1990, an official newspaper of the Polish United Worker’s Party] there was a list of people who were looking for their families. Press advertisement. And she [was] among those people. She was searching for [her relatives], she gave her parents’ last name, address. I got interested [in it], took advantage of that opportunity, and sent a letter to her. She came back to Poland after the war. She was with her husband. He was a printer.

Various types of celebrations were organized in town. Each Sunday an orchestra used to play on the market square. Usually military orchestras. There was a lot of greenery there, right, trees [grew] around, nice atmosphere. [I know that since] as a young boy I used to go there with pleasure. Mostly young residents liked [to go there]. I don’t recall those to be any rallies [in a patriotic sense].

I think it’s worth to mention some persons [from Przemysl]. Those were important people who counted [in the town] and in the country. They were Jews by origin. The ones I am mentioning here I knew personally when I was a child. They were [all] excellent professionals, prominent physicians. For example there was Dr. Lieberman [Herman Lieberman (1870-1941), socialist, member of Polish parliament]. He was a noble man. He represented left-wing political opinions. Great, famous activist. A politician on a national scale, parliamentarian from PPS [See Polish Socialist Party]3. Yes, he was very respected by people. Workers were very fond of him, they adored him. Dr. Zustwain was a pediatrician [Editor’s note: most likely Dr. Julius Susswein, one of the most meritorious activists of the Health Preservation Society – TOZ] The Society came into existence in 1927. There were always [a lot of] people ready to join it. He was popular in the Przemysl community, regardless of his nationality. There was also doctor Sohn [one of most meritorious activists of TOZ]. [He] was a physician, an activist. I used to be treated by him. There is even a monument of him in Przemysl, [in] that undestroyed part of the [Jewish] cemetery. Uberal was an excellent dentist. In general he was a nice person and he was popular because of that. All ladies, regardless their date of birth [age], used to go [to him]. Doctor Tirkel was a director of a Jewish hospital in Przemysl, an excellent surgeon. Then, a major socialist activist, also from PPS, was Dr. Ludwik Grosfeld. A lawyer, a counsel for the defense in all those left-wingers’ cases. Moreover, during the war, he was a member of the Polish government in exile. I think he was the Minister of Trade in the Polish government in London. [Editor’s note: 1943-1944 Ludwik Grosfeld was the Minister of Finances in the Polish Government in Exile] And he was also a true-born Przemysl citizen. Sztrudler: a young industrialist in his prime. He was probably about 50 years old. He had a quilt factory. And he was a member of Bund, too. [Editor’s note: most likely Jozef Strudler, an active member of the Jewish Musical-Dramatic Society Juwal, the organization promoting Jewish culture, music, arts, theater. Almost all Jewish intelligence of town was centered around that organization.] There were also several others from Bund.

The Jewish community [in town] was diverse. It consisted of a several shades. A lot of intelligence. Generally, quite a large Jewish intelligence. For example Herszdorfer, a wealthy man, he had a large insurance company. Both his sons were sympathizers of left-wing, of communism, right. [They were men] of Zionist political opinions. I belonged to Zionist youth, Hashomer Hatzair 4. I remember that organization very fondly, because it was my school of maturation. There were a lot of shoemakers, tailors. A lot of noble men, whom I remembered, whom I knew, right.

When it comes to Hasidim, there was the Tajcher family in our house. He [was] a rather venerable gentleman. He had one daughter, if I remember correctly. Later, after she got married, she used to live in Drohobycz [town ca. 200km south-east of Przemysl, today Ukraine]. Beside that the Hirszows were also orthodox Jews. The parents observed tradition; wives wore wigs on their heads. There were also the Frenkls, the Kielcs families. The Kielcs family was poor. There were, at the same time, children, two daughters and a wife. I knew the daughters. One of them was Rozia and the other one was named something else. Lajka, something like that [probably diminutive for Lea]. And he [Mr. Kielc] was a furrier, a craftsman on his own. So there [in an apartment] he had a workshop and he tightened and cut those leathers.

There were rabbis in Przemysl. But I wasn’t familiar with those matters. Over there, where my father used to go [to the prayer house] I knew [the rabbi] by name. [His name was] Herszl. There were such men who used to kill poultry. They were butchers, specialists. They had kosher meat shops. Opposite of our house the Frost [family] [lived]. They were bakers. We often used to buy [from them]. I used to do errands at that shop. During a certain period of time we used to buy bread on credit. I used to go to the shop, he wrote down how much we were due, and so on.

During my life there were no pogroms, no disturbances. Yes, there were some town sections, [like] Pralkowce [Editor’s note: actually a village near Przemysl], where there were hooligans, but one rather did not go there. So personally [I did not experience] any harm.

Some Ukrainians also used to live [near us]. They had their beautiful, representative house. It means a national house. It was a well known house. And their various events [used to take place] over there. And probably meetings [too]. It was located in the right side of the town. I’ve never gone there, but I know something like that existed, and Ukrainian intelligentsia used to center around that. Similarly [there was] a Polish [house]. Located at the other side of San. This was the Workers' House. [It was] owned by the Polish Socialist Party. Mr. Zigman was an administrator there.

[We lived] at 3 Slowackiego Street. And this house still exists. This is a two-storey building, in the centre of Przemysl. [There] was electricity, a sewage system [too], only toilets [were] out on the porch. Each family had access to their own toilet. They took care of it. How many tenants were there [in the building], I’m not certain. Four families on each floor. With us [on the first floor], the landlord lived, the Frenkl family - they had an ironmongery hardware store, wealthy people, the Kielcs – a poorer [family], and we used to live on the first floor, too. And [everyone had] more or less two rooms. So it was a pretty big house. Obviously, on the ground floor, there were shops. Various ones. I remember, the owners of this house were the Schechter family. Their sons-in-law lived on the first floor, next to us, right. [Their last name was] Trajbec, and they had a big store downstairs with newspapers [press], stationery, etc.

My family [occupied] two big rooms and a kitchen. In the kitchen, first of all, there was a big stove. A cupboard was there for sure, a table, but we didn’t use to eat there. And a small room [a pantry] where the housewife used to store all the things necessary for housekeeping. The wash-tub was huge. When laundry was being done, all that took place in the kitchen. Some fat lady [used to come]. [But I] didn’t know the details. Beside that we had no house-maid. During my life, everyone had some kind of chores. No one had an entire single room [for themselves]. I never had a bed of my own. There was no such convenience. During that period of time, I remember, I usually [slept] together with my brother Bernard.

Our home was very progressive, with a fully formed outlook upon life, of left-wing opinions, right, and this often caused trouble for the whole family. Only the Polish language was used at home. Except my father, who knew Hebrew and Yiddish perfectly, I have no doubts, none of my brothers [spoke these languages]. Maybe the older brothers [knew some] because they went through all the periods necessary for that [cheder, grammar school, gymnasium]. Probably, I don’t know that for certain, my parents also spoke Yiddish. Somewhere, it came to my ears. I really doubt other homes knew Polish and used it to such an extent as it was at the home in which I was born.

[At home we would read] lay books, belles-lettres, all contemporary [writers]. And everyone knew [them]. Boys and girls lived to read. It was normal. Nowadays [it is] a special virtue, [but back then] nobody could imagine [otherwise]. My brother Bernard used to eat his dinner with a spoon and read.

There was [also] foreign and Polish [press], that was a rarity not everyone could put their hands on it. It was delivered [by order]. [For example] 'Imprekor' [Inprekor, a trockist, Polish-language paper of 4th International, issued in the 1880s], about the world upper class, criticizing mutual relations between people, right, in different countries. Kind of  left-wing. Uncles used to come [to us] and often read it.

Tradition was [present] all the time regardless of [the home being] progressive. During those early years, holidays were legalized [observed]. Obviously, all holidays, Easter time, when you don’t eat bread, only those matzot, right, and so on. Mostly on Saturdays [Father used to go for prayers]. He really abode by it during holidays, but he never forced us to celebrate it. Such a custom it was and that's it. I don’t know, but it was applied probably because of religious reasons. I don’t remember if anyone deviated in these matters When my parents could afford it, there was that traditional fish [gefilte fish], too. There was [also] a crisis time, [when] [there were no] such fancy dishes. We just couldn’t afford it. Mostly because of those reasons I don’t have such [recollections].

We were four brothers and four sisters [Editor’s note: five sisters; Mr. Sokal doesn’t count the sister who died in her youth]. A typical [Jewish], large, numerous family. Exactly as God told: 'Procreate and give birth.' We kept very close together. These memories of those young family years are still alive in me. Maybe it’s my weakness.

The oldest one at home was probably [my sister]. Her name was Andzia [from Anda]. But she died when she was 21 years old. I don’t even remember her, very foggy. She died of meningitis. The oldest brother's name was Abraham. He was born in 1905. He was a wise man. He was in Poland until 1930. [Abraham] practically directed upbringing at home. He infected us with opinions that the whole family well accepted. Leftist opinions. Where did such opinions come from? I don’t know. He probably died tragically. I don’t know the details of his death. I don’t have specific information and I will never have it in my life. [The next one] was another [sister], who also died in her youth. I cannot even recall her name. Then there was another brother, Bernard [1909-1939]. He was a gymnasium student. I don’t know if he completed [the gymnasium], but he was an educated druggist. Not a pharmacist but a druggist. He [used to sell] hygienic articles [in] a drugstore. The story of his life was also very complicated, right. He got into a lot of trouble. He was sent to prison because of his opinions, because of his activity. It was such radically leftist [activity]. He was severely punished, right, eight years in prison. He didn’t survive the war. He didn’t even return home. He died in 1939 on the way. This I know specifically. Next the twins. My sister Fryda and my brother Emanuel. Both were born in 1910 [or 1911]. Bernard was probably two or three years older then them. [Emanuel] started to attend the gymnasium. Fryda was the same age as him, so she probably [also] began going to school. Emanuel served five years [in prison because of his opinions]. Fryda probably died when the Germans entered Przemysl. In 1941, 1942 I suppose, something like that. Emanuel died after the war in 1951 in the Dzierzynski Antituberculotic Sanitarium in Otwock. I already lived in Glucholazy then. His grave is at the Jewish cemetery in Cracow. [Emanuel used to live in Cracow]. There is a tablet with his [particulars].

Next there was Eugenia. A very nice, beautiful girl. She was always regarded as very [attractive]. Tadzio [Bilan's] wife, right. His family used to live on Zasanie [the part of Przemysl on the left bank of the River San]. [They were]  non-Jews. But it was a healthy, beautiful family. Athletic, all [boys] were football players. And my brother-in-law was a good football player too, he used to play for good clubs. And what is characteristic, they had very Aryan opinions. National ones.

And it’s her [my sister Eugenia’s] correspondence with her husband from the pre-war times that I’ve got. It used to arrive to our home address until 1939. At 3 Slowackiego Street. My entire knowledge, wisdom, traces from the back-then world, [all that] [came to me] [thanks to] my brother-in-law’s brother. One day [after the war], when I was already working on the western territories [in Glucholazy], Leszek [brother of my brother-in-law Tadeusz Bilan] probably brought this treasure of mine to me. Their family also tragically died. [Genia] spent the entire occupation in Poland. She went through [survived] both [occupations]. She probably wasn’t in the ghetto. Genia [from Eugenia] died in Cracow in 1945. In June or July, something like that. There was one more sister, Minka, Mina. Born in 1913 or 1914. Minka was a nurse. She died probably in 1940, something like that. I was born in 1915.

My siblings at home were educated differently. My eldest brother went up to a [Polish] gymnasium. I've got a photo of him dressed in that gymnasium uniform. He normally passed the high-school final exams, and I think he started to study law. At some state university, Polish, but I don't remember where exactly. Maybe in Lwow, because it's close to Przemysl. Minka [for example] completed a co-educational school in Przemysl. Apparently, I suppose, Father could still afford it then. [Later] It was recession, family status did not allow to achieve that luxury.

I never belonged to a political party before the war. I didn't want to, because I knew [what could come out of it]. My two brothers served in prison [because of their opinions]. Bernard and Emanuel. [Yes], I was fascinated by that. I made some attempts, but I was never a member [of any party]. I believed it had [already] ruined our home terribly.

I was sent to a [cheder] to learn Jewish. [The cheder was] not far from my place. Only 10 minutes to the left [from my house]. Several steps [further] to the right Mickiewicza Street [began], Franciszkanska Street to the left. And that cheder was on Slowackiego Street, on that even [side of] the street. The cheder was in an apartment. Those were private issues. I [even] remember the rebbe's surname: Rispler. He was not a rabbi, but a rebbe and he used to teach that [Hebrew] alphabet. A, b, c. He taught in that way. He always showed majesty. And if something was wrong, he’d pinch one's ear. He was a rather venerable man, bearded, and you had to pay him some, because it wasn’t free back then [he accepted children for lessons]. The hours were fixed. I remember, I don't know how old I was [when I attended his lessons], 3, 4 years old. But I didn't stay there long.

And later [at 6 years old] I went to a grammar school. [It was] a normal grammar school.
There was no typical Jewish grammar school over there [in Przemysl]. I used to go
[to a school] on Wodna Street. Again, it was a good bit of a way [from home]. It was a 7-grades school. And what is characteristic, I already learned a foreign language - Ukrainian in that school. [If] the town had, assuming 100 [as the whole population], then the Przemysl community consisted of approximately 30 percent [of each] nationality: Jews, Poles, Ukrainians [Editor’s note: according to the 1931 census there were 63% of Polish, 30% of Jewish and 7% of Ukrainian population in Przemysl]. And it was because of that, I understand, such a requirement. That language [Ukrainian] was common in Przemysl. Religion was [also] at school. I remember, in the grammar school, the religion teacher's name was Weksler. Later, in higher grades, it was professor Gotesman. There was Polish [language], there was mathematics. I completed [the grammar school] and it was my entire education before the war. To my mind, I was not a good student. Kind of average. My school report card [was rather poor].

[I have] very pleasant memories of the school. I had a lot of friends, but I was close [mainly] with Jewish children. I had nothing against [was not biased against] Ukrainians, Poles. Absolutely not. Kids always jerk and hit one another [but] nobody ever told me: 'You Jew'.

As a child I used to go to summer camp. Those were [summer camps] for poorer Jewish children, so called 'two-pennies'. Jewish social organizations took care of it. [Most likely the Health Preservation Society, or Society 'Two Pence']. In the town we’d get onto the rack carts, padded with straw, and they took us 40, 50km away to particular villages. Those were not summer camps with some propaganda. We just simply knew we were a group of Jewish children that went to recover their health. There was healthy food and games of various kinds there. Such children's [games].

I had many weaknesses in my life. Since early childhood I wanted to ride [a bicycle]. But it was a pipe dream. I was not in such an environment where a kid would have a bike. But I liked to ride. [Rebbe's] son, Mr. Rispler, had a bicycle workshop vis-à-vis our apartment. At the same time [there] was a bike rental place and people used to come, pay per hour [and rent]. So [I] used to go there, to that shop, I would clean up those bicycles, and later Mr. Rispler in return would loan me a bike, and I would ride it. It was my whim.

I also liked to ride round on a carousel. The carousel was located somewhere near San.
It was always crowded over there. A barrel organ used to play polkas, mazurkas.
At the bottom of the carousel there was a mechanism. Boys my age pushed it at the
bottom and it would spin around. Children sat down in the saddles on the carousel,
the boys would push it and earn some. Actually they did not earn [money], instead they could later ride for free. [It was] dangerously over there. There were scamps, thieves, such an 'aristocracy'. Parents didn't know [I used to go there]. I was 8, 12, then. But a young person was curious about it then.

Beside that I had another fondness. I wanted to learn to swim, [so] I would go
several kilometers out of town, and over there, on the San River, I would pick up some reed, tie it with a belt to fasten it firmly. I would put it on the water, [there was] a strong current, and I’d let myself downstream. Later I swam up to the town, to Przemysl. That’s how I learned to swim. It doesn't mean I was a master swimmer. But, at any rate, I was not chicken-hearted, and so I learned. Over there [on San] my friends had boats and a canoe rental place, and I was also eager for that. Whenever I had some time, I would learn to paddle a canoe on San. I was probably 14 years old then.

San was my favorite place, where I would find an outlet for my energy. [Near San]
there was Gora Parkowa. There was a castle [Kazimierzowski Castle] over there, [in which] an amateur theater [functioned]. In that castle there was a Fredreum auditorium. Polish theater. [Dramatic Society Fredreum came to existence in Przemysl in 1869. It is the oldest amateur theater in Poland and most likely also in Europe. During the first
several years plays were produced in actors-amateurs' private houses. In 1865-1867 an antique Kazimierzowski Castle of Przemysl was renovated, and in 1884 a big part of it was assigned to the theater.] [I also] used to go there to see those performances. There
was some payment for that but [I don't remember] the details any more.

[Beside that] I used to play soccer. I was probably 15 years old then. I used to go to
a club. Hagibor [Hagibor Przemysl] was its name. It was a 2nd class Jewish
[sports] club. Not the 1st class - record-seeking, but a 2nd class. They assigned [players] to groups according to strength, [play] level. I [was] in the 5-th [or] 6-th group. Over there I got shoes, [special] ones, and we would kick.

We had leather balls. [We’d play] with rag balls somewhere out at courtyards. The older boys, who played there, taught us. They taught us to kick and say: penalties, fouls. I ran well, was able to kick, but it doesn't mean I was a soccer player according to present-day understanding. It's a fantasy. And I, even when I was already working, I had to be at work at 8:30am, I would leave home at 5am and literally run, not walk, I’d run beyond the town to the soccer field. Later [after the training] [I’d] run back to work. It was a great satisfaction for me, because I was quite involved in that.

[Beside that] I was brought up in a Hashomer Hatzair environment. It was a Jewish youth organization. They taught us orienteering. A type of scouting. Beautiful young people [belonged to it], very progressive, very noble people, the most gifted, the most honest people. I grew up in there.

After the 7th grade there were no funds [at home] for further education. They came to the conclusion that I should get a profession fast. Very good, that's fine with me. All the same. I had judicious parents. They were not formally educated, but they wanted to do something for these children. And when I was 13, they sent me for training, to learn to be a dental technician. This was a private apprenticeship.

The apprenticeship, what does that mean? During a day I had to work normally. In the morning I would come in and clean up the dental office. I tempered cement, I tempered
plaster, right, for those secondary tasks for the doctor. And later [if] I had spare time, I would go to the room at the back and there was technology. [The office] looked very well, as it looks nowadays. There was nothing different, except, auxiliary technology is probably different today. And in that room there was a cabinet with tools and dental accessories, those phials, those tools for tooth extraction, for drilling. Big leather dental chair, or leather-like, it doesn't matter. And over there on the dental chair, there was a container for water for patients to rinse their mouths. There was a machine there, with a foot pedal. I stepped on it, while the doctor was repairing teeth. I worked [in that office] for one full year. It was a very good occupation. Splendidly [paid]. [But] Father was dismissed in 1928. [World economic recession; In Poland, year 1935 can be recognized as the end of the recession]. We were badly off at home and we couldn’t afford [to pay for the apprenticeship] any longer. Father used to pay $5 per month for the apprenticeship. It was such an agreement with the owner of the office. Besides, that was hard currency. It was a lot for our conditions. And then I had to do something.

I ended up in a [clothes] store, a very elegant men's clothing salon, not far from my home. Firm Lette [was its name]. Mr. Jozef Lette was the owner. Mainly aristocracy and [especially] Polish [aristocracy] used to dress over there. [Mr. Lette] was a very noble man, very refined. He had a rich past. During the war [WWI] he was in a Russian servitude. I know that since he used to tell [about that] sometimes. He was a lover of cars, but he couldn’t afford to buy a car. On free Sundays he used to hire taxi-drivers [who] parked not far from his store. He would make an appointment on a free Sunday afternoon and would drive [by himself] with them. He was married, his wife was an excellent dressmaker. They used to live on Slowackiego Street, only a couple houses away [from us], right.

First [I] was his trainee. Next, I [worked] in that field. So there was continuity. I got the experience in the clothing trade. Besides, I’ve made use of it in my life. I think he [Mr. Lette] [finally] went bankrupt. [The firm] disappeared, [but] since we were in touch with a firm from Rzeszow, they produced clothes [over there], at the same time they had a big salon, [so] I got a job in Rzeszow in 1936.

Mr. Samuel Tanz was the owner [of the salon]. After one year Mr. Tanz sent me

[back] to Przemysl for some time. He opened a store in Przemysl, I returned there and
managed it for him. I lived [in Przemysl] until a certain year and later went to Cracow. Yes, it was a kind of promotion for me. I was in a big city and Cracow was an interesting town. [Besides,] I wanted to be close to somebody from my family, since my sister lived in Cracow, that Bielan [Tadeusz Bielan's wife, Genia]. [At the very beginning] I stayed with Sister for some time. She helped me find the firm Sztrasberg in Cracow. Over there I also [worked] as a salesman in an elegant [clothes] store.

I remember exactly the moment, when Hitler came to power. I was [already] an
adult man. And just [then] the Family's tragedy began. My brothers were a political
threat for the then-authorities, so as a result they served in prison. Moreover, even before then something began to happen. They alluded that the situation was tense a little. My cousin, related to the Przemysl Schorrs [family], used to live in Germany and they evicted her to Poland in 1933 [or] 1934. And she returned 5.

[I] was in Cracow. The war found me over there 6. [Father] lived in Przemysl. In 1939 Przemysl was divided. The left side of Przemysl, the Germans quartered there, but the right [side of the town] was occupied by the Soviets. At that time the Soviets were on relatively good terms with Poland. They occupied whatever they wanted and they [didn't go] any further. Father lived on that Soviet side. After some time he had to leave [our] apartment because it was too expensive. There was an owner, [so] we had to give it back. [Since that time] he stayed somewhere at private people's accommodations. What  happened over there [with that apartment and its tenants] later, I don't know. All the owners probably died.

In 1939 there was a disaster. Besides the general disaster, that there was the war,
the additional hardship was that the Jewish people were [persecuted]. Fortunately,
the fate somehow spared me. I had another history. I joined the army early, set off into the world and survived the war.

On 1st [September 1939] I was going to work and two airplanes flew by over [my] head.
[People were saying:] 'Ours are flying, ours are flying '. I was on Zwierzyniecka Street, and not far from there, there is a bridge, the Debicki Bridge. And they started bombing that bridge. [I] worked close to there, I was outside and I [saw] that. It was 8 [in the morning]. And this is how the war started for me. I realized it [was] already bad, right. I even didn't go to my sister then. I went to the house of my friends' from Rzeszow [Roza Horn and Fawek Auerchan] and said: 'Listen we have to escape'. I let my sister know I was leaving home [getting out of town]. Because there was nothing there to wait for. It was already a mess.

Along with Roza and her boyfriend we decided to get on our way [to Rzeszow]. Roza's family lived over there. At one time I lived [with her]. When I worked in Rzeszow I found accommodation with them. She was an excellent expert, an accountant. A very serious [girl]. He [Fawek] didn’t have any specific profession. They were not married then. In one little town on the way, Fawek came to conclusion [that] he they will for certain draft him to the army. He was a young, healthy fellow, right. 'I will [marry Roza], so that she’s [married], just in case'. And they came to an agreement. In one of Jewish apartments, they just used to marry couples. They had a chuppah on a rod and so on. But he [Fawek] was a smoker. And he went out for a cigarette. I stayed with Roza. Such a bad luck, a trifle, they call her, him, but he's out smoking somewhere. So I went instead of him and that’s how I happened to replace him]. Well, does it really matter? All of this [was done] in a rush. The family name was right. He got a certificate immediately, that [on that day he married Roza].

It was a long, long way from Cracow to Rzeszow. The road was difficult and it wasn't so that we [would move] as punctually as a train would. It was war time. There were no such directors that one would plan and get a first class voyage. [We moved] on foot, by cart, by train. Whichever way was possible. In the end, together, we reached Roza's home in Rzeszow. All [family members] were still alive then.

At their home there were: Roza, Chana, Mania, son Donek, brother Janek – an engineer with leftist opinions. It so happened, that he, all exhausted, [came  back] from jail [on that day]. He managed to come out of the prison safely. He sat, I remember as if it was today, keeping his legs soaking in some container. Later his story went on beautifully. For a certain period of time he was an important person in Poland. He was an educated man, a Voivodship Committee Secretary. However, his name [back then] was not Horn but Rogowski. [Roza's] Father was a Jew, bearded, but a wonderfully fine Polish scholar. He had beautiful handwriting. He earned his living by writing court applications for people. He was a ‘vinkel shrayber’ [Yiddish, literary ‘corner writer’], as we used to say.

But over there, in Rzeszow, [the war] just began. The Germans already administered everywhere. They raided [people] on streets. Once, I was in a group that was taken away into barracks to tidy them up. To clean up, to sweep. They led [the group] and called up such people as me on the way. I was well dressed. I [wore] such a new, nice jacket. I was experienced enough to wear all of that. When they caught me and I joined the group, they striped of my jacket, gave me something of their own, and took me into those barracks out of town. I already knew that something bad [was going to happen] here, and I shouldn’t expect anything good. [Finally] they released us with no consequences. I saw things were heating up in Rzeszow. There was nothing more to seek over there. We [Mr. Sokal, Roza and Fawek], without saying much, set off from there. We managed to bid [Roza's] parents goodbye and we were refugees again. We left Rzeszow.

We were on the way for several days. In the meantime, some time in September, the Soviets and the Germans signed an agreement that the Soviets would liberate the Ukrainians. For us, it was a surprise from that side. They had attacked [our country]. This is a simple name for it 7. Then, since Przemysl was free, I decided to take the opportunity to return home. The right side of Przemysl, where I used to live, was ruled by the Soviets. Then we parted. [Roza and Fawek] could not return to Rzeszow, [because the town] was occupied by the Germans.

In Przemysl, the Soviets used to say to young people: 'We can take you to Donbas. Over there, young folks who want to learn more [will have the conditions]'. Yes, it impressed me and in December of that year, 1939, I agreed and went to that Donbas in Ukraine. But it was a big mistake in my life. I let them deceive me. That was no chance to learn. I lived in such a collective barrack. There were tens of men over there. And I worked normally. They initiated me into a storehouse of cement, buildings material, I remember. I used to unload bricks, cement from carts. I was young, I could stand it pretty [well]. We were there for quite long. I don't remember exactly how long, a year or two. But I was not satisfied with that. I knew I went there to make self-improvement, to make up for my lost time, but there were no prospects over there, so I broke away from there. Me, a restless, uneasy soul. I couldn’t agree with all that. [I was] to learn, to go to college, I always used to dream about that. But it was only a dream.

Where to go to? [I decided] do go to Lwow, because I had an Uncle [Jozef Schorr] in Lwow, right, and, as it turned out, my sister [Minka], that nurse, worked at a hospital in Lwow. And again, my trip to Lwow, that was an experience.

Before I got on the train to Lwow, I was in Kiev. I camped on a street. I just wandered around. I rested to get on the train. I slept near the station, somewhere out on a street. Empty wagons stood on train tracks, so I would get into the wagons at night and would sleep there, right. I didn’t have anything, just a coat; I sold it at the station. Some thieves would come there. Those little boys, homeless, would wander about, sneak something away from you. And I had such an incident there. I bumped into a friend from Rzeszow. Hirsz. That was his name. I don’t know if he’s still alive, I don’t think so. I said: ‘Listen. I haven’t got a single grosz [Polish equivalent of a cent] to go any further.’ And I borrowed some money. And I somehow managed to get on the train to Lwow.

I arrived at Uncle’s, because I knew his address. [Then] I called my sister [Minka]. My sister was surprised: ‘You got all the way here. What happened? What all of the sudden?’ I was still in shock: ‘Don’t ask me about the details, there’s no point. We won’t talk about that.’ I stayed there, in Lwow, for a short time, I knew they couldn’t support me, right. And I went back to Przemysl.

Przemysl was in the same Soviet district as Lwow. I stayed at my sister Fryda’s. I took on various jobs, to have something to live off, right. I remember, I went to some grocery store and worked there for some time. I’ll keep it short, there’s no point to talk more about that.

All those games ended [quickly]. The Germans attacked the Soviets 9 whom they had formally been friends with since they had signed a pact with them. And the war began again. I was always unlucky. There was a new escape from Przemysl. I couldn’t be there any more. We talked, we had a family meeting. My sister Fryda, and my brother Emanuel were there. And she says: ‘Where am I to go to? Uncles [Dawid, Chaskiel] are here in Przemysl. It won’t be that bad, the Soviets will get [Przemysl] back. It’ll all be good.’ They were convinced everything would be so. [The Soviets] convinced everyone their army was unbeatable. They were as good strategists as me. They knew nothing about that. I convinced my brother [Emanuel]: ‘Listen, we have to leave. We have to!’ We weren’t ready [for the trip]. [They only thing we had] was a small sack of sugar. Maybe 5kg, maybe 3kg. So we brought it along and left on foot. We knew the area. We went through a forest, through fields.

We walked and walked, but that was just the beginning of the Gehenna. All the way to the Soviet border? To that old border, in Rowne [a city in the western part of Ukraine, the capital city of the district. It’s located on the main road between Warsaw and Kiev, about 200km from today’s Polish border.] Somewhere on the way to Dobromil [a town in Ukraine located in the Lwow county], fortunately, we met a group of ladies from our town. Glansberzanka, Wilner’s wife, with a small child in her arms, and some other [woman was with them]. Three of them. And my brother says: ‘Listen, you sit down here, I’ll walk them off the main road for a bit and then come back.’ I said: ‘Good’. I sat down. What difference does it make? Sitting or walking. I sat there until late at night. [Finally] I said: ‘There’s no point for me to stay here. He must have stayed with them.’ And I decided to go on. Without him. I can see a ‘tachanka’ coming, Russian  vehicles. Those were some kolkhoz 8 men, I ran after them and wanted to get on. I ran up, jumped on at the back [of the ‘tachanka’], and they lashed me with a whip: ‘Hola, kuda, kuda [Russian: where]?’, but I gave them such a speech, such an interpretation, that they understood.

And we drove and drove, I don’t know how many days, nights. I was hungry, simply hungry. Why not? I always had a good appetite. And I had nothing there. That sugar [only], [but] I don’t know what happened to it, did I leave it out [on the road] there, did my brother take it? Well? I ride with them and see that they’re eating. They had provisions, butter in a barrel, food. And they were bored and didn’t like they had a freeloader on board. ‘Listen, you can’t be like that. You’ll be driving the horse.’ ‘Not a problem.’ At first those horses did whatever they wanted with me. I had never driven a horse carriage [before], and they kept scorning me for it. And finally we got somewhere to Rowne. I remember it more or less. And they went to a military point there.

I can see they’re murmuring there on me, I think, that I’m a who-knows-what. And they took me for questioning, for a conversation. Fortunately I had a passport on me. But, if I had known what I know today, that I had a wrong passport, because I had a note in it that I have a sister abroad. [My] sister, Minka, when she wanted to go home [to Przemysl] from Cracow, she had to cross the border. And they must have noted that somewhere there. And later, when I got a Soviet passport, I also had a note [in it] that I have a sister abroad. [So they asked me] if I had anyone abroad. They always asked whether you had anyone on the other side of the ‘kordon’ [Russian: border]. So I say: ‘Yes, my sister is abroad, in Cracow.’ ‘All right.’ And they started talking to me [in Russian]. Fortunately I was able to talk to them. They spoke [Russian], I spoke some similar language and we managed to communicate. ‘OK, you can go’ and they left me alone. All right. Off I went.

Where to? To a train. Besides, it wasn’t far from a train station. What kind? A cargo train. Cars were divided with wooden planks, upstairs and downstairs, so that more [people] could fit in. [And] there [on the train station] entire Soviet families, with children, were running away home. Excellent, whichever way was good for me. On larger stations, since it was still the Soviet side at the time, the trains would stop. They [the Soviet families] we unhappy because they had money, but nothing to eat. They would ask to get them some groceries. [So] they’d give me those rubles, I’d jump out of the train whenever it stopped to buy food. And so I rode with them, buying them food, eating at the same time, right. We went together, but I don’t know how long because it was still on the cargo train. First we got to Turkmenistan, later all the way do Ashkhabad. That’s the capital city of Turkmenistan, on the Caspian Sea. It wasn’t far to Iran from there.

It was 1941. Over there, on the road, of course a new ‘proverka’ [Russian: control], that is a check-up, control. They talk to everyone, [ask] where they’re from, their family, brothers. So I say I have an older brother, right. He’s somewhere in the Soviet Union, I don’t know where, I can’t say, but he’s a soldier in the army. I lied, I knew there was something wrong going on with him. I told them what my education was, 7 [grades]. And they accepted me, somehow trustfully, because I could communicate in their language. I wasn’t any big expert in Russian, but I spoke ok. Actually, Ukrainian as well. That helped me everywhere.

In Ashkhabad I lived with my friend Kestenbaum, from Przemysl. Siunek Kestenbaum, that was his name. We met on the train to Ashkhabad [and since then] we were practically [together]. We always slept somewhere near town. Because it’s Asia, plains. There were no brick houses. We didn’t have an address. We borrowed a rack [bed] somewhere, and we slept like that. They [the Soviets] offered me, to my surprise, without knowing me, [a job in trade]. Can you imagine, such a surprise? They must have liked me, because they offered me a managerial position in a grocery store. I was well off. I had everything [during that time]. All the good food: butter, honey. And the working conditions were good, very good. And I worked well, nobody had any complaints.

[The Soviets] necessarily wanted to recruit me, they had a hook on me. But not rudely or something.  The head manager of the wholesale firm, [who dealt with] assigning [food to stores] was a Russian man, I don’t know his last name. After some time it turns out I’m supposed to go to a school. There was going to be a man in a classroom, on the first floor, and he [will] talk to me. He wants to meet me. All right. Siunek knew I was going there, but he accompanied me, so that I wouldn’t get lost, and so that he didn’t lose me. We were always afraid for one another. Nobody knew what was going to happen. And that man talks to me. Again, he’s asking about my life history, how I’m doing, whether I’m happy with my job. I say that yes, indeed, I know [how to do] it, and I think others are happy with me as well. ‘Well, you know, but…’ he begins: ‘Because we can see you’re our patriot, we can count on you. You, an intelligent, wise man, shouldn’t be wasting yourself in a store, should you? We have another suggestion for you.’ He doesn’t want me to go to some other business or something, but he’s got a better, respected job. I say: ‘Unfortunately I can’t do it, I don’t have life experience in those matters. You’d have big problems with me, and I’d have worries. If you want to, take me to the army. I feel healthy, I can join the army. Give me a placement. I’ll do it happily.’ ‘No, you can still stay with us, the time for that will come later. We will find you, we’ll take you to the army [later].’

And how did I know [what it was all about]? [That man when] he was talking to me, wore civilian clothes. A coat. But you could see [decoration on a uniform] underneath. A uniform top gave him away. Besides, I could tell what he represented by the character of the conversation. We parted in peace, all was good, I went back to my job. It didn’t last long, soon after that they fired me, because I’m not suitable. Too bad. [It was] a good job, an excellent job for conditions back then, [but, well, too bad]. [I went] to the head manager, [and] he says: ‘We have to make some cuts’. I understood what that ‘cutting’ was.

I was looking for a job. I learned there was an Ashkhabad Kinostudio. A movie factory, a film company in Ashkhabad. There were artists, among them a Pole, Krasnowiecki [Wladyslaw Krasnowiecki (1900-1983), Polish actor, director, theatre manager. Since 1918 he acted mainly in theaters in Lwow and Cracow. During WWII he was associated with the Polish Army Theatre. After 1945 he was a manager of theatres in Lodz, Katowice and Warsaw.] And Wohl, that famous, huge movie expert in Poland after the war. He played a huge role in the making of a Polish movie [industry]. [Stanislaw Wohl (1921-1985) a film operator and a director. In 1930 he co-founded an Artistic Movie Enthusiast Association ‘Start’. During WWII he worked for the Russian cinematography in Lwow, Kiev and Ashkhabad. In 1945 he organized technical bases for the Polish cinematography in Cracow and Lodz.] And two more operators. I don’t remember their names right now, [but] they were Jews. And I went there for a year, as a physical worker. ‘All right. What am I supposed to do?’ ‘Whatever there is to do. You’ll drive trucks, load bricks, sand, whatever is needed.’ I was strong enough to be able to do that. And I worked there. During that time, I remember perfectly, they were filming a movie. The director of that movie was a Russian Jew, Mark Donskoy, that was his name. [Mark Semyonovich Donskoy (1901-1981), director.] I don’t know how long it took. Did they leave me alone for even a year? And they came up with another idea. They invited me again for a talk, but not there [to the school] any more, but they gave me some address. It turned out it was the security [The Security Agency]. [People, when] they walked by, they tried to go around [avoid] that building. There was no sign to inform what was in there. They only let specific people in.

 [Again] that friend [Siunek Kestenbaum] went with me. And indeed, they were already waiting for me. I gave them my name. They let me inside. All those additional impressions. That silence in the building made a horrible impression, like in a sanatorium. [They led me] over such plush carpets, you walk quietly, there’s nobody in sight. They tell me to go up on the first or second floor, I don’t remember. I sat there and waited. I waited and waited, until I fell asleep. After some time somebody came and [led me] into a large room, beautiful, with luxurious armchairs. And they talk to me again. He’s suggesting again, but this time seriously, and he’s pushing me. He tells me what kind of a job it is. I said I had already had a similar conversation. I had one and I rejected it, because I really don’t think I can do it, I don’t know how to do ‘such a job’. ‘Please send me to the army’, I keep saying the same thing. But they had a different idea. But it was a polite conversation, very reasonable. They didn’t threaten me. Finally I got out of there.

 [I] didn’t like [what was going on] [anymore]. We knew we were losing ground and we decided to leave there [with Siunek]. We went to Uzbekistan. It’s a pretty country. We tried to find a job somewhere there. On a station there, a regular train station, they were looking for kolkhoz workers. Oh well. All right, let’s go to a kolkhoz. We were young and determined, we didn’t want to just travel around. I thought that kolkhoz, that there will be a normal possibility for work and some life. But there were no buildings there. Some shacks, you can’t see any movement. So we left. How? On foot, we jumped on trucks, however we could

We arrived at another station. Ziyadin, near Buchara. A busy, junction station. And we lived there for some time. I lived at some people’s. A very religious Jewish marriage, older people. They were poor, [but] whenever they cooked for themselves, they always gave me something, right. We worked, each one of us in whatever we could. You could only trade there. Fabrics, they [Uzbekistan inhabitants] were impressed. They looked for fabrics, because there was nothing else there. And that lasted for a while. I don’t remember how long I spent there. About a year, until they wanted to make me happy again and recruit to a ‘stroy-batalion’ [short for ‘stroityelniy batalion’; Russian: construction battalion]. It was a work battalion. They were building something, somewhere, they needed young people. They didn’t [ask]   whether I wanted to go or not, they just drafted me in.

I don’t remember what was the town’s name. It was also out in some field. A house was in such a deep hole, in a dugout. People there weren’t too attractive, only Uzbekistani. After a few days I said: ‘We’ve got nothing to look for here. It’s not a job with some perspective.’ And we knew that there was an army recruitment point near by. An army office, where they drafted people [to the army].  I said: ‘I want to go to the army.’ ‘Oh yes? Very good. The 1st army [Editor’s note: actually the 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division] is already formed 10, but now they have another drafting. I’m sure they’ll accept you. You’re young, agile.’ A few of us went. They gave us a formal document for the train. And they also gave us some little money to do some shopping. All in all, they helped us leave.

It was already 1943. Probably 13th October. They drafted me into the 4th Regiment. It was the 2nd Division [2nd Henryk Dabrowski Infantry Division]. It was a regular army. Military exercises, everything. When I was an older soldier, I was moved to the 3th Regiment. When 4th Division, 10th Infantry Regiment was created, they directed me there. And that was my career. I already had my provision and all. At first they placed me in a unit of Regiment Armature, as an office chief.

They knew I could write some. My responsibility was to equip my unit with ammunition and weapons in suitable amounts, right, and then write reports on that. A normal, plain job. I didn’t have problems doing that. And I had that function almost until the end of the war.

I kept moving with this regiment, this unit. They kept moving us into various disasters. There were air raids on trains. I didn’t really have any difficult experiences. I was lucky not to ever get wounded. And we kept going towards our country, right. [In the end] we arrived in Lublin.

It was 1944 already when they pushed us [out of Lublin] further, towards Warsaw. It was peaceful for us there, because the Germans didn’t attack there. We were here [there] during the Warsaw Uprising 11. One of our units, some battalion of our regiment, was sent to help. Unfortunately nothing could be done. The uprising authorities back then were certain they could deal with liberating Warsaw by themselves. [Besides], political matters probably decided that they didn’t want the Soviets to free them. They were being slaughtered there, [and] we heard all that. [But] we kept sitting on this bank until the offence moved on 17th January 1945. Thankfully, there was beautiful weather when we marched through Warsaw. [In the city] there was still war equipment laying around, corpses; [we saw on the way] lots of destruction.  Wherever we went, it was unimaginable what we saw. Warsaw was destroyed.

[Later] through the Polish territory, through Grudziadz, we went that way to Germany, until we got close to Berlin. We ourselves, our unit didn’t fight for Berlin, but the war goes on. And my commander tells me: ‘Listen, we’re all good here, we’ll go to the country soon, home, to Poland. [But first] we’ll go to Berlin, to Reichstag. We’ll look around there.’ [And Reichstag] was all destroyed. Each [soldier], it was such a soldier manner, would go there and write his name, with a piece of coal or chalk on a wall there. First name, last name, the regiment. Just for personal satisfaction. A few days later we arrived in Poland.

And in Poland, it was fall 1945, in October, I think, demobilization. They were laying of those older people. To tell you the truth, they were trying to convince me not to go, because it was going to be good. The chief of the general headquarters tells me: ‘Janek, kuda? Ostay sye. Poyezhday ku nas.’ [Incorrect Russian: ‘Janek, where are you going? Stay. Come with us.’] ‘We respect you. You’re our man.’ I really felt good in that unit. I was much respected. Not for any special accomplishments. I had more luck than brains. [But] I said: ‘But I really want to go to Przemysl. I hope to find my family.’ Indeed, I still had hope. I knew what went on there, but somehow everybody had hope.

I don’t share a common opinion here that in Poland everybody was waiting to give the Jews up to the Gestapo. Not everyone was like that. And for example I can say that I have a few letters, correspondence between my brother-in-law in Auschwitz and my sister who lived in Cracow during that time. [That correspondence] was [sent to] a Cracow address where she used to live before the war broke out. I used to go there, slept there several times, [even my] brother [when] he came out of jail also slept there. Those tenants who had [their apartments] there knew they were a mixed family and nobody told on them. And the correspondence went back and forth between them for several years. I’m looking at it objectively. That’s the way it was. Well, not everyone was that brave to want to help, take a risk. [But] I can’t generally be upset at everyone because of that.

After the war I got a job in the western region, in Glucholazy [town ca. 360 km south-west of Warsaw, near today’s Polish-Czech border], in the position of a general manager of a company. I was supposed to organize it from the basics. Glucholazy is a beautiful town, near Nysa, between Nysa and Prodnik. There was almost no war there. The place was intact. They introduced me to the party 12 there. I was involved in my professional career, but not only, I also did some communal work. I was active in the community. They would send me here and there. Those were units of the the official government that did some community service. But I wasn’t really involved. I paid my member fees. Everyone knew about it. I’m not hiding it. It was a legal party. In the end it turned out the party accomplished nothing. I don’t regret it. I won’t change my beliefs. I had such views and I don’t feel guilty, as nobody suffered because of me.

I worked in Glucholazy for 6 years. We had a very good life there. The conditions were better than I would have dreamt up. First I had an elegant 2-storey house. With a bathroom like this room, with tiles. There were 3 rooms, I think, or 4, and a kitchen on each floor. Then they moved us, [because I] was the only one in Glucholazy that didn’t live in a villa. That was their ambition. They did me a favor. I was on a business trip somewhere, I came back, [and] my wife tells me they had come with a car and moved her to a villa. A beautiful villa, with a garden, fish.

I met my wife in Glucholazy in 1947. And we became friends there. Her first name is Malgorzata, maiden name Rademacher. She was born on 11th December [1911]. She comes from a coal-miner’s family, she was born in Katowice-Szopienice. She came to Glucholazy looking for a job. She met with a mayor who she had known before the war.  [And] because he knew I was working on something, he sent her to me: ‘Go there, he’s a decent man.’ And that’s how we met. We got close, we liked it, and we’ve been together ever since. The wedding was very modest. We got married in 1949, but I don’t remember it exactly. Malgorzata isn’t of the Jewish origin. [She is a Catholic], but she’s never been practicing, thankfully. I [also] never had a need [to practice my religion].

Nowadays my wife is unhappy. It’s been 10 or 15 years since she lost her eyesight and she can see almost nothing. She’s losing the iris. We went with my wife to [many] doctors and they [all] told her the same thing. Unfortunately… She can find her way around the house perfectly, she remembers where everything is, but that’s all. And my wife practically raised both Grandsons. Daughter didn’t have time, and [because of that] they adore their Grandmother, they really do.

My daughter was born in 1950, in January, [in Glucholazy]. She wasn’t raised in the Jewish tradition. She always knew everything [about my past]. We didn’t have any problems [with her].  She had good grades. [When] she was at a university, they pressured her a lot. Some major [wanted] her necessarily to join ZMS [Socialist Youth Union, a youth organization founded on 3rd January 1957 in Warsaw by joining Revolutionary Youth Union and Peasant Youth Union]. Since December 1957 ZMS was idealistically, politically and organizationally subordinate to PZPR. The main goal of ZMS was getting its members ready to join PZPR] and to the party [PZPR]. But she kept saying she didn’t feel like it, she wasn’t interested in it. And it didn’t interfere with anything, entry exams to the university, and she never had problems at the university. She’s a good specialist in her field. She is a doctor, a psychiatrist. She has worked for many years. She has decided to retire.

I, by the way, decided to leave [Glucholazy and go to Lodz] because of my daughter’s birth. Because, I said, what am I going to do here? [Lodz] is a big city. [I] had never been in Lodz, but I knew it, I had contacts there. So, everything has its own reason. In 1951 they called me up to the ministry. I was taking oral high school final exams then. [I remember] I asked them to let me take the exams earlier, because I had to go to Warsaw to a personal meeting with a minister. I had a letter, showed it to them, and I went. Over there, during the meeting, they suggested I move from Glucholazy to Lodz, because I did all there was to do: ‘We don’t want to waste your time. You’ll have a unit with 35 people. You’ll do fine. We know you will…’ ‘But, Minister, here, in Glucholazy,  I didn’t learn much’, I said. ‘That’s all right’ ‘But I have one condition. I have a beautiful apartment in Glucholazy, a perfect one. I don’t want anything better, as long as the conditions [are] good.’ ‘There’s a key to your apartment.’ That’s it. That’s good. It impressed me.

Starting in July [1951] I was employed in Lodz. I was moved to the Central Office of the Textile Industry Union. [Central Office of the Textile Industry Union in Lodz (CZPO) was founded in 1948.] I became the general manager of the Dr Prochnik Textile Industry Institute [Dr Prochnik Textile Industry Institute was created in 1948, by nationalization of the Martin Norenberg Krauze Partnership textile factory existing in Lodz since 1939.] Prochnik was a multi-factory corporation. The headquarters were in Lodz, a plant in Poddebice, new plants in Rawa and Uniejow. Al those factories exported [clothes] to most developed western coutries: America, England, Holland, Switzerland. I introduced those plants onto western markets.

Probably in 1957 [I started] a few years of studies here [in Lodz]. At first it was the Evening University of Marxism and Leninism at the Lodz Committee. It was political-economical education. Very valuable for managers and other head positions. But I had ambitions to finish formal studies. [Later] I took 3 year long vocational studies in the department of Economics at the Lodz University. Those were extramural studies. Saturday afternoons, because we used to work Saturdays, and Sundays from morning until 4pm [I had my classes during that time]. All that while working, having so many responsibilities, I don’t know [how I did that], [but] all went well. I graduated with very good results. The defense was in 1967. In the same year when I finished my studies, my daughter began medical studies.

[I] never had [any problems with anti-Semitism], [but] it turns out that in 1968, during my absence, somebody from the Committee came, some activist. He gathered a few [employees] and appointed one for a position of a general manager, because that was my position from the beginning. I came back and found out about it. I called that candidate for a general manager and [asked] how things were in the company. He was an educated man, with higher education, right, an excellent employee, a great specialist. He was a bookkeeper. I talk to him, ask him what the results for the last months are. [He says] the results are good, there are no problems. I say: ‘Good. So, how was it during that meeting?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know anything.’ ‘So, I’ll remind you. But you know what, let’s do it this way, why talk about it just the two of us, why don’t you call the crew up, on my behalf, to the common room and we’ll all talk. I understand you, maybe it won’t be nice, but we’ll talk to each other with the others present.’ ‘But, director, Sir, I’ve got nothing…’ he talks like that. ‘So, let’s turn things around. I will call up the crew to the common room.’ There were always about 500 people on a shift. Because there were always 1,000 people in one unit of the factory. Altogether I had a staff of 4,500 people in Prochnik. Regardless of that I was the boss of some additional people. I had over 11 thousand of them in the field, since they added that co-operation. Co-operative Institute of Men’s Clothing, to that. I said: ‘So, I will call that meeting, but I would like you to be there, because I want to talk to people. What am I supposed to talk to them about without you.’ He says: ‘I don’t know anything, I don’t want to.’ Not even three days passed, the guy is called off by the Union. They needed a vice director at Wolczanka [a clothing factory, well known manufacturer of men’s shirts] and they moved him, so that he disappears. [There was] a secretary of the basic organization in the company and she went [together] with the [entire] board of directors [to the Committee and said]: ‘Commrade, don’t do anything. If you remove Mr. Sokal from the position, the entire staff will stand up. They’ll go on streets.’ That’s what they said. I don’t know if it would ever come to that, maybe so, since I had no troubles with [people] in those factories. There were some arguments about finances, they happened, but [all problems could be resolved] reasonably.

My [employment] with Prochnik was dissolved in 1977, and I finished working in 1998. Even when I was retired, I still worked in the same Union, part-time. I used to be involved in exporting to capitalist nations. I used to go to America, to England and other western countries. And without knowing English. Because they would always give me a translator. One from the embassy. Also because I don’t believe there is something you can’t accomplish in life. It depends on people. I needed [work] for a living, life on retirement isn’t pleasant.

I have two grandsons. Adas [from Adam] is 30 [years old]. He lives in Warsaw. He does well. He works in the movie-business. He’s not an actor, he is a technician. The second one, younger – Mateusz. He’s 24. He graduated from the Musical Academy in Lodz. He is a musician, he plays double-bass. He works for the Lodz orchestra. He lives in Lodz. [Both of them], whenever they have a spare day, they still drop by, come to visit.

[My grandsons] know everything [about me, about my family]. They don’t brag about it, I suppose. [They don’t flaunt it.] It’s their business. [My daughter] is of mixed origin, she’s not Jewish. Her husband is 100 percent Polish. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered in my family. Never! Because it’s not something to show off, brag, or worry about. In my opinion, it isn’t. Yes, during the occupation there were some worries, but thankfully, I somehow never had deal with those.

I am very happy. Whatever happened there and however the society thinks, I personally think that the last governing party [was very good]. [Mr Sokal refers to Ariel Sharon and the Likud Party.] I consider him a wise, reasonable man. [But] it’s just my personal opinion about this man. Let everyone have [their own beliefs], but [one person must] govern a country. [On the other hand], those in charge must have the wellbeing [of the country and its citizens at heart]. This is how I worked. They didn’t teach me that at a university. [Simply] life taught me that. I never went [to Israel] but I would like to [go]. I would have no problems with going to Israel.

I keep in touch with the Jewish Community in Lodz. I used to even go there during the cadence of previous group, Mr. Minc and his helper. I used to go [only] on some Saturdays, listen to [the prayers]. I worked in Prochink then. They knew what my beliefs were. [But] they tolerated me the way I was. And nowadays I’m [also] never questioned. Symcha Keller [the president of the Jewish Community in Lodz], he does a lot for religious matters. During his term, they treat [people of non-Jewish origin] very liberally.  I can often see people [there] who I never knew and still don’t know, who come, listen. Some got quite comfortable there and they always come. Most likely they have some connection to Judaism. But it doesn’t really matter.

It’s unfortunate that here, in Lodz, there aren’t many Jews. That’s a problem. They are [people] from mixed marriages, [but] they come to services. Once I read in Midrasz [Jewish monthly social-cultural magazine in Polish, treating about life of Jews in Poland and abroad], there was a discussion: Ronald Lauder, some rabbis [took part in the discussion] and they talked about that work, so unfortunate, because there are no prospects, there are no live people, right. [Symcha Keller] really did something very valuable for the commune. [He caused] some institution to exist, but there are few people, it has few members.

Now I don’t go anywhere, I spare myself. I go [to the commune]. I go there, but it doesn’t mean I’m practicing. I was never a practicing Jew. Before the war I had no opportunity or need. After the war I [also] never [practiced]. Those are such individual matters. I’m not a specialist in these matters, but I willingly, with pleasure, whenever I can, I go [to the commune] on holidays. I usually [go] to those services and I listen.  I even have a Polish-Hebrew prayer book. I never learned Jewish [Hebrew] and now I have no patience, but if you know Polish, you can easily navigate [the text]. I actively pray in the sense that I read [what’s written in the prayer book].

And, whenever I can, I mainly do my own groceries. To get imperishable goods, larger groceries, I even go once a week to a supermarket.  And for everyday stuff – here, [not far from home]. Somebody has to do it, right. I do try, within possibility, move about by myself. It’s for my health. I don’t want to brag, not at all, [but] I’ve never been idle in my life and I’m happy with it.

Why did I agree for this interview? Simple. Because it’s not just my personal matter. I want something to be left of me. And because my hope to have a real saga of the Sokal family didn’t work out, I thought to at least tell a short story.

GLOSSARY:

Romana Holder
Warsaw
Poland
Interviwer: Maria Koral
Date of interview: May/June 2005

Mrs. Romana Holder lives in Warsaw with her son. They have a two-bedroom apartment in a block of flats. Mrs. Holder is very fragile. Recently she broke her arm, which has caused her some discomfort, but she is still entirely independent. She speaks with energy and perfect elocution. She remembers many details and has a wonderful sense of humor. She remembers many names of her teachers, friends and neighbors. She tends to reconstruct the world from before the war through tiny details, the slightest of facts, but does not create a full narrative. We spoke about difficult matters, but only once was there a tremor in her voice, when she spoke about her child who died. But there was a sense of outrage in her words when she spoke about the life of her husband after the war and about the current political situation in Poland, in which she feels anti-Semitism is very much present. It is mostly for that reason, in fear for her son’s welfare, that Mrs. Holder did not agree to the publication of her story before the year 2015.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background 

My family was from Warsaw, all of us. I know nothing about my great-grandparents. I never knew them and we never talked about them at home, for lack of interest in those matters, I suppose. To be honest, I don’t know much about my grandfathers either. I had none; when I was born they were gone. I never knew my father’s father or his mother, not even their names. I had one grandmother: my mother’s mother.

My grandmother’s name was Perla, nee Klajnbajcz. I’m sure she was born in Warsaw. I have no idea when she got married, I know nothing about her husband’s family or about himself; I never even saw his picture. Mine was not a household where people were interested in their roots, deep down.

My grandmother had a brother, Ludwik, who must have been younger than she was. He had a hat store on Zabia, I think [a prewar street in central Warsaw near the Saski Garden, no longer in existence]. His wife, Gucia, he used to call Guciuchna. They were wealthy people, without children. They had a house–to say a ‘palace’ would be too much–with a garden, in Sulejowek [a town 20 km east of Warsaw]. Aunt Gucia was very pretty. She was larger than her husband, portly, dark-blond. She ruled him and knew how to make him fear her. He loved her so much, I don’t know how he survived her death. She died before him, during the Warsaw occupation, in the Ghetto, from typhus. I never knew any other of my grandmother’s siblings, so she probably didn’t have any.

My grandmother’s married name was Kropiwko. She had four children: Felek, who ran away to France to escape the tsar’s army; then there was, most likely, my mother; after her Mania; and Szymon, the youngest. My grandmother was small, like me; I am very much like her, including the early gray hair. My mother always said she turned gray at an early age. Before I was born, Grandmother sold the Warsaw house–for which my mother never forgave her–and went to France to her son, Felek, who fell ill, I don’t know what with. When she came back after his death she was still young and worked taking care of elderly rich people. Then she took care of her younger daughter Mania’s household.

Aunt Mania was a very pretty woman, dark. She liked entertainment and frequented ‘tombola’ balls [Ital.: a party with music and a lottery]. Her husband, Nathan Gleichenhaus, opened a store at Marszalkowska [Warsaw’s main street, before the war and now], next to the bar ‘Pod setka.’ It sold stockings, socks, maybe thread and suchlike, just like haberdashery stores today. But my uncle had little to do with that store, my aunt took care of it. I know he liked to drink; he went to the next-door bar and drank with the waiters. Mostly he spent his time in the company of drunk Poles. He went to the races. Once they said in the paper: ‘Mr. Gleichenhaus was shaking like a jelly.’ I remember that because the family would talk about it constantly. They lived on Wspolna Street [central Warsaw, outside the old Jewish district]. They had two children: the daughter’s name was, I think, Natalka, but I don’t know what she had in her birth certificate; the son was Miecio. Natalka was my age, a pretty girl, black hair, gray eyes. Miecio was younger, a pretty boy, too. Uncle Nathan later left them for a woman with three kids. But I don’t know whether she was Polish or Jewish. Nobody in the family did. My aunt never remarried. She ran the store until the war.

My mother’s brother, Szymon, lived in the Old Town, at Piwna, I think [outside of the Jewish district], with his wife Cesia, also Jewish, and two sons. Those boys were younger than I was; one was Dudek–we called him Dudus–the other’s name I can’t remember. I don’t know what Uncle Szymon did, we didn’t see each other very often. He was still very young, 30-something, under 40, when he fell ill with consumption. He went to the Jewish hospital in Czyste 1. I know that my mother visited him there; either the place was so horrible or his condition so bad, she cried all day. He died of tuberculosis before the war began. We had no contact with his wife and sons.

My mother had a Jewish name, Niselcyrla. I don’t know how she became Natalia, they must have called her that since she was a child. She was born in 1890, in Warsaw. I don’t know which school she attended and I don’t remember any particularly important events from her childhood. She got married in 1911, most likely through a matchmaker. What kind of wedding they had, I have no idea; I’m sure it wasn’t held in a synagogue, because a synagogue wedding is very expensive, it’s not free. I never asked about that, it didn’t cross my mind to ask.

My father’s name was Mojzesz Bachner. He was born in 1881, also in Warsaw. He had two sisters and two brothers. Them and my mother’s siblings were our closest family. I never met one of my father’s brothers, Edward, because he lived in Bydgoszcz [a town approx. 260 km west of Warsaw]; I have no idea how he ended up there. He had no children, no wife, only a lady friend; I think she was Polish, because we never spoke about her. That’s why he didn’t get married. I don’t know what his occupation was, I was too young to be interested in things like that. He was rich, because when he died he left an inheritance for my father and the two sisters. I don’t know whether the other brother, Adolf, got a share of that inheritance.

Uncle Adolf was older than my father. He was the director of some paper factory, but it got closed down and he was left without a job. He couldn’t find another; maybe he didn’t look for one. For a while he’d come over to our house and scrounge up cigarettes from my dad, his brother. His wife, Regina–I don’t know what her maiden name was–looked like all other Aryans. They had two children, Edek and Helena.

Helena was a talented girl. She painted beautifully and her paintings decorated their apartment at Nowolipie [a street in the old Jewish district]. Helena graduated from Law School at Warsaw University. She must have been a few years older than I was, because when I graduated from high school she was already a practicing lawyer, and a good one, too. She was having an affair at the time with this famous prosecuting attorney, Lemkin. But she married below her. Her husband was not a good match at all; he was a traveling salesman of sweets and candy; she was completely out of his league. He was a Jew from Luck [now Ukraine], Lowa Lukacz. A nice, clever guy. I remember their daughter, very pretty, I think her name was Blanka. They lived all together, my cousin with her husband, daughter, mother, father and brother. Helena supported the whole household. In that big apartment she ran her own practice. Her brother Edek was a bit of a failure; he was maybe not retarded, but at least strange. He had a sweet tooth: he’d come to our house, open the cupboard and rummage around for sweets. I remember he used to carry those sweets around in a bag or brief-case and try to sell them, but he would end up eating them instead. I think he was older than I was, but he didn’t act older at all. He never got married before the war. That sister of his simply supported him. And his mother adored him.

My father also had two sisters. One was an old maid–Syma or Sima–she was really horrible. She had this big goiter, I couldn’t take my eyes off it; I was scared of her. The other aunt was Rozia. A big woman, quite fat, not very pretty; she married Maks Wach, a very decent man. I have no idea what his occupation was. She was very energetic and worked at home, finishing ties. They lived together with Aunt Sima, in the same building we did, at Leszno [part of the Jewish district before the war, now Solidarnosci Avenue], only you entered their staircase thorough a different courtyard. And they had a daughter, Niusia, whom I taught to read and write. That Niusia later played a bad trick on me and died in the Ghetto from diabetes.

Of our family, we were closest to Aunt Mania and Uncle [Nathan]. She was very different from my mom. She went dancing with her husband and they both danced. He even tried to teach me the Charleston, Uncle Nathan did. And Aunt Regina, my father’s sister-in-law. My mother’s cousin, Pola From, I think, was also in touch with us. Her daughter Emma came to my birthday parties. Later she got married to a man from Belgium. But she came back–I guess they split up and so she came back–and she must have died. Her brother Miecio, a doctor, contacted me after the war.

As I said, my parents were married in 1911. My sister Hanka was born in 1912, me in 1917 and my brother Dawid in 1918, all of us in Warsaw. Where exactly my sister and my brother were born I don’t know. From my mother’s stories I know she gave birth to me in a gynecological clinic, a private Polish practice, somewhere at Chmielna Street. We lived at 76 Leszno, second house from Zelazna [in the Jewish district].

My father was basically a tradesman, but I don’t think he had any education. He started off as a craftsman in a big shoe factory, ‘Slon.’ I don’t know where it was located, because I don’t remember seeing him work there (that was before I was born). I only remember a huge picture of the director–Barke was his name–hanging at our place. And then Father became a tradesman and had a store at the corner of Sienna and Wielka [Wielka, a street downtown, does not exist any more], with leather: ‘giemzy’ [Ger.: soft goat leather used for shoe-tops, gloves, bags, etc.] and polishes; I remember Sterling polishes were the best. It was a big store with a good selection of leathers. My father had a partner in it, Mr Zylberlast, an engineer, who knew nothing about all that, so my father went bankrupt. When that happened, he fixed up a little store for himself in the courtyard at Franciszkanska [in the Jewish district]. This time he chose leather that goes inside, not outside, the type that is used for the lining of shoes, goatskin. He had great clients there: Strus, Kielman, all of Nowy Swiat [an exclusive street in the center of Warsaw], all those well-known shoe companies.

My father was a smart man; he used to wear a bowler-hat, and later other hats. He was very handsome, mustached, they called him ‘the Pilsudski of Franciszkanska’ 2. He never talked  about himself or his family, he was always busy. He was addicted to dominoes. He used to go to the ‘Loursa’ cafe [a café well-known already in the first half of the 19th century, under the arcades of the Wielki Theater] to play with other maniacs like himself. I could never understand what that game was all about if it could get grown-up people so obsessed. For me dominoes were a game for children. I’m at a loss, I still don’t know what it is all about. But that game cost us! We lost everything because of it, life was miserable. My mom got mad at him when he came home at midnight. Even when he came early and bragged about winning, he said he’d go out again; and he did, I remember that, and lost everything. There was a huge row about that. Once it got so bad there was nothing to eat. I must have been a teenager by then or I wouldn’t remember it so well. My mom moved out and stayed with Mania, my aunt. Terrible. There was no dinner at home. But it didn’t help any. He promised her he would stop playing – and carried on playing.

My mother was quiet, unless she was ticking my father off for those domino games. She was just a housewife, taking care of us all. She was a handsome woman; my sister resembled her a little and my sister was considered pretty. I remember Mom’s picture from before she got married. Each time we looked at it we laughed so hard we cried. It’s the clothes she was wearing: the wasp figure, long jacket, an even longer skirt, a hat with some feather, and to top it all she had some kind of a collar, but she wasn’t wearing it but holding it in her hand and it looked like a tail.

My mom called my father Moryc or Maurycy and he called her Talka. They called me ‘kid’, that is, my father did; I think my mother called me Romcia. I used to say ‘Daddy’ to him, but later I called him ‘Father.’ My brother was called Dada, just that, even later. At home we spoke Polish; everybody in our family spoke good Polish, without an accent. My mom definitely knew Yiddish, my father probably did too, because sometimes they jabbered to each other when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. I did understand some words, but not everything. Grandma Perla must have known Yiddish in her youth. And the rest of the family? I never heard them speak Yiddish.

Growing up

We lived at 76 Leszno, on the third floor, two rooms with a kitchen, a toilet in the hall, no bathroom–there were no bathrooms then. I took my bath in a large basin, then in a tub. I remember the tub hanging in the hallway with writing on it which said ‘Down with Mrs. Bachner’s laundry!’ We wrote that, me and my brother, because we didn’t want my mom to do the washing and be tired. My mom used to go to the bathhouse–state, municipal, I don’t know who owned them. She took me once, maybe, but I didn’t want to go again. There was a stove in the room which heated in two directions. I remember a ticking clock, a cupboard, a couch, a table. We had electric light and small oil lamps. We had a wood stove and a small gas one, similar to those we use today. The kitchen was very small and not very interesting for me. There was a table, a shelf, a sink and a bed for the maid. We also had a cellar in which the food was kept. I never went there because I was damn scared of the cellar, I still never go. My mom did all the cooking by herself and she was a good cook. The maid helped her with the peeling, plucking, keeping the stove hot. The maids were mostly Polish. The last one’s name was Marysia; she lasted till the end of freedom [until the Ghetto was created in 1940]. She was a very decent girl, and handsome. But earlier there was one called Elsa, a young one, who was a Volksdeutsche 3. She was once visited by a cousin or an uncle who asked what she was doing in a Jewish house.

My parents obviously felt Jewish, I’m sure of that. In those times it used to be called ‘of Moses’ creed.’ I think they had Jewish names in their papers. My mother was a little religious; she didn’t wear a wig. She lit the candles on Friday, but then, when it got closer to the tragedy, she stopped; there was no point in keeping that up. I don’t know if the kitchen was kosher or not, but I don’t think so. But before the war we never ate pork. Only later did I start buying ham for myself. I remember that during the war, in the Ghetto, my father would get mad that my mother bought meat from peasants: Polish meat, which meant pork. He didn’t want to eat it, but then he had to. My father was a man with no teeth, ever since I can remember. And he never agreed to have teeth made for him, he had to eat everything ground or chopped, even then. [My mother did not celebrate the Sabbath] because father had a bad stomach; he was on a diet and couldn’t eat certain things. He had doctor’s orders to eat fresh food, it had to be made fresh every day. He ate on the Day of Atonement. He was a superstitious man, but he never went to synagogue, never observed any of the laws. [Did your father go to the mikveh?] I don’t know, he never told me. He prayed in the morning, before going out, because he was superstitious. It’s only because he was afraid that he’d put on that thing, I don’t know what it was called, he put something on his head, a black square thing, and another on his arm; I think it was made of leather [tefillin]. He also had a white cloth with black stripes [tallit]. There was a mezuzah by the door to the apartment. My father used to touch it whenever he came or went; my mother never did.

My mother’s home was very different from that, because my grandmother was not observant. After all, she’d lived for quite a long time at that other daughter’s house. And Mania’s house was totally ‘anti’: my mother’s sister was very assimilated. She didn’t celebrate anything. She passed for a shikse and felt like one. Why my mother was different, I don’t know. She was the only one to be so [i.e. to live according to Jewish tradition]. As I said, she lit the candles on Friday and she did something over them [blessed them], then she covered her face and whispered something, I don’t know what. I remember there was always fish for Friday dinner, boiled carp. Later, after the war, I did that, too; I learned it from my mom. I can give you the carp recipe. Carp in jelly: Ingredients: carrots, celery root (or celery stalks), parsley root (or fresh parsley), 1 onion; cleaned fish cut into pieces; salt and pepper; butter. Make vegetable stock, take out the vegetables. Place the fish in a small amount of the stock, add butter, pepper and salt and cook for about 30 mins. Place the cooked fish on a platter, garnish with the vegetables, cover with stock, and chill until the stock thickens into jelly. You can add raisins for a sweet version of the dish.

At home we celebrated the Easter holidays [Pesach]. My mom did all this cleaning, I remember that. She had some pots and pans, separate tableware which she kept in a cupboard behind glass doors, wine glasses, all those treasures. For those holidays my mother baked special cookies, macaroons, made with almonds only. I remember when she made them she hid them from us, otherwise we would eat them all. On the holiday evening the table was set and everything was there. We sat around it: mother, father and us, the three kids. For a while we thought it was all very pretty. And the food was delicious, we always looked forward to those holidays, especially I looked forward to the matzah balls. Matzah balls: Pour water over 1 cup of matzah flour with salt; add 2 eggs, 1 tablespoon of butter and fresh parsley leaves. Form balls and place them in the refrigerator for 15 minutes so they thicken; Cook them in boiling salted water untill they swell (about 15 mins); serve with boulion.

I remember a little plate was placed on the table with something that tasted bad, bitter… maybe it was horseradish [maror]. There were eggs and matzah. Matzah was bought at the bakers, I think, because it was round and very tasty. Later Mom also bought commercial matzah [baked in large bakeries, mass-produced]. I remember a pillow was placed next to my father and under the pillow something was hidden, matzah or something else, and we had to find it [afikoman]. We didn’t play at that for long, but you remember things like that. Father would trick us, push the table, pretend the wine got spilled from the glass. I think Father prayed during those holidays, but I honestly have to say I’m not very well informed.  There were these little dark red or reddish-purple books in our house written in Hebrew. I don’t know what those prayers said. When we got older, we made fun of our father, because all that seemed funny to us then. We were terrible. One time, already as a grown man, my brother went out to have a drink of cider or beer on the Day of Atonement, when my mother was fasting. We were bad too, me and my sister. So our home was neither this nor that. In December we always had a Christmas tree. No presents, but dressing up the tree was a lot of fun. I liked that very much, and my sister took part in it too: we made the baubles, paper link chains… But that was entirely our–the kids’–affair. We copied it from our friend in the same house, Marysia Feldman. She had a tree, which made me jealous, so I wanted one too. I remember Purim and [the Feast of] Tabernacles, but we didn’t celebrate those holidays. I remember them from the homes of our neighbors.

Our house was a large, four-story building. It had a booth built in, very pretty, made of glass and bricks. The owners of the house–Mr. Rowinski and his family, who went to Israel even before the war started–celebrated their dinner [Sukkot] there. Others camped out in the courtyard–that’s how I knew about the holiday. It was a very pretty courtyard, with a long, egg-shaped garden and trees. The staircase was rather shoddy, wooden, with two apartments on each floor; yes, there were us and the neighbors. Now the front was much more elegant. Some relatives of my father’s used to live there, some cousin or other. As I said earlier, my father’s sisters also lived in that house, only their entrance was off a different courtyard. There was a janitor at the main gate, a Pole, I think his name was Walenty. I remember how the children teased him and he’d chase them around the courtyard with a broom. He locked the gate for the night and you had to ring to have it opened. Some people gave him a tip, others didn’t. When my father went playing dominoes and came back at night the janitor had to go up the stairs with him and turn on the light. Many people lived in that house, a thousand souls. You could say it was like a little town. Both Poles and Jews lived there. I suppose people who were neighbors had some contact with each other. My mother claimed they were all gossips, but she had her buddies too. They spoke Polish to each other.

Across from us lived the Aleksandrowicz family. They were real Jews. Something was always cooking there, because they had all these children. Later they moved to a different place because they only had two rooms, like us. Then Mrs. Gelbfisch moved in. Their daughter said her name was Irka Goldfish [Ger.: gelb-yellow, fisch-fish]. A pretty girl, later she grew up to be quite a lady and got married. Then the Janowers came, who had two daughters. One of them got married, but the other didn’t, I don’t think. There were no Polish families in our part of the building, everybody was Jewish… No, there was Mrs. Jakubowska at the ground floor with a son of a different sexual orientation. He would approach boys on the street and there were rows about that. Poor woman–his mother–she was very nice. What happened to them? They must have moved out, it was the Ghetto after all 4, so they had to leave. That was the only Polish family in our stairwell.

On the fourth floor lived the Edelsztajns, with three children. There was a girl, older than me, maybe even older than my sister. She graduated from the department of Polish literature and language and got married, to a Jew, naturally. After the war she was a professor of grammar. Her name was Salomea Szlifersztejn [1912-1994, a professor of linguistics at Warsaw University]. Her daughter emigrated to Sweden after 1968.5 Her sister Lotka–what kind of a name is that?–was a Halutz scout before the war. She belonged to this organization 6 that trained young people to go to Israel, and she did go. There was a son, too, but I think he was killed. Opposite us, on the fourth floor, there lived Janka, a terrible woman, an anti-Semite. In the corner, there was Dziunia Fajertag, a communist, very ugly; that’s probably why she was a communist. She later went to the Soviet Union with her beau, a Pole. And why the hell did they come back? They didn’t do well over there, so they came back here and got killed. Marysia Feldman, that friend of mine, lived with her parents a floor below. Her mother was a music teacher and her father a traveling salesman of a very well known company selling clothes fabrics, called AGB, at Marszalkowska. Across the courtyard from us, on the first floor there lived a mother with two daughters. Her name was Berta, as far as I can remember. When I was small I used to go there, because she used to baby-sit kids, two or three at a time. She was cross-eyed and I learned from her to cross my eyes, so my mother took me away. Then a young Jewish girl came to our house, Pola. I can’t remember her last name. She had three sisters. She taught me to read, taught me my first letters, she even taught me about nature, for example where ice comes from.

When I was 6, I went to kindergarten, even though I could read and write. That was because of that friend from downstairs, Marysia Feldman. She was disabled. She was born with a hip they had to operate on seven times and still it didn’t help, because she couldn’t walk right to the end of her life. So I had to go to school with her. We walked from Leszno to Przejazd Street, [a street in the old Jewish district no longer in existence; near the intersection of today’s Andersa and Solidarnosci] . We went to Goldman-Landauowa’s private school for girls. 5 Przejazd Street was the address; it’s where the movie theater is today [Muranow, near Bankowy Square]. The school had a very nice building; there were eight grades with a pre-kindergarten and kindergarten class; we went from Monday till Friday, Saturdays and Sundays were free–the only school which worked like that. We went for six hours, from 8am to 2pm. Our headmistress was baptized for sure, her sister Julia, the secretary, looked like a hundred shikses. The headmistress’s husband was a gym teacher in the lower grades. I remember they had her portrait done and hung it on the wall in the main gym hall. She was a crazy woman. Once she caught my friend with dyed hair and stuck her head in the sink.

For a short while, in kindergarten, I was the top student. Later I also had good grades, I did study. I had a breakdown in the 4th grade, because our teacher committed suicide out of love. She poisoned herself. Her name was Wanda Konowna, she was a teacher of Polish. She fell in love with a well-known chess-player, Frydman, I think. Her parents came for her body from Lodz in this special car and I remember we followed it [the hearse, which later went to Lodz]. We all had fits of crying, we couldn’t deal with regular classes, it was awful. She was a lovely woman. Another teacher, Pola Borensztajn or Berensztajn, taught German. I had only occasional contact with her because I took French. She called me by my full name, very official. A petite woman, we called her ‘the flea.’ She was funny; she seemed to be afraid of us. I did like some of the school subjects. I liked math, but only algebra, geometry was beyond me. The math teacher’s name was Glas. We really made her miserable, we were so bad. Today, when I think about it, I don’t know why girls go like that. One of my friends, called Bander, pretended she went mad and wanted to throw herself out the window. Poor Glas ran around the classroom begging us to stop her. Good God!

I also really liked Latin, because I was in love with the teacher. His name was Halpern and he was very handsome. He addressed us by our first names (not everybody did). I ran into him later, at the Jewish community office, in the Ghetto by then, I think; anyway, the Germans were already here. He pretended he didn’t know me. I did too. So. He was married to our [nature] teacher, a big blond called Bronislawa. He was a Jew and she was not. She died of typhus in the Ghetto. I don’t think he survived either. I also liked ancient history, I really did. It was taught by the director, the history teacher’s husband. First he was our history teacher, then her. His name was Dinces. Later I didn’t like history so much. Somehow it wouldn’t stick in my head, I couldn’t remember the dates. We had no Yiddish at school but we did have history of the Jews, up to 4th grade. Our teacher’s name was Inwentarz. I read very well, articulating everything clearly, so I was always called on to read everything. He gave me these thick volumes to read; it was something religious, but I don’t know what. I read in Polish, but I didn’t understand a word of it. Poor Mr. Inwentarz, we didn’t take his class very seriously and we made fun of him. He once wrote: ‘The whole class wanders around the class and nobody takes any notice when I call them to attention.’ Oh, there are things one never forgets… Marysia, from the floor below, didn’t like that teacher and once she spoke back to him rudely. Her mother had to take her out of the school. She went to the Polish school run by  Mrs. Warecka at Nowy Swiat. 10% of their intake were Jews. But my school was basically Jewish. Even though the headmistress was probably baptized, only Jewish girls went to that school. A Polish girl came once, stayed a few days and left. I guess she didn’t like it. She was probably from a mixed marriage, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to that school in the first place; that’s what I think.

A dancer, Pola Nirenska, the wife of Jan Karski 7 graduated from that school. She danced at all our events, back at school. Then she went to the Ballet School, not Wysocka’s but a different one. Then she went abroad and made a career there.

There were around twenty of us in my class. I used to remember all the names. At the front desk there sat a very good student, Gehen; she was good at math and physics, but she wouldn’t help anyone cheat. Next to her, there was this girl from some provincial place, very miserable-looking. There was Rega Segal, the daughter of the director of the Jewish Theater. I used to go there a lot, to that theater–at Dzika? Gesia?–[Ed. note: probably the Jewish Theater at Dzika; in 1930-33 a theater hall there was used by Jewish theater companies] because she’d drag me there with her. I think at school she sat with this Russian girl, Zenia Weksler. At the next desk sat Polcia Klaps, who looked like a shikse. Then Zosia Kestenbaum and Celinka Finkelkraut, who lived closest to me, on Chlodna, at the corner of Zelazna. Then Runia Bander, who was friends with Halinka Zlotogora. I saw Halinka later in the Ghetto; she already had a child and a musician husband. Then Zosia Klajnbart, Franka Jarlicht, and next to her this girl who was emotionally unstable, as we later decided, who committed suicide, even before the war. I also remember this wild Bronka, who pretended to faint in class and we had to carry her out. Good grief! There was also Zula Wermus, she went to dancing school. Our headmistress said it was either dancing or school so she quit dancing. She wrote very beautiful compositions. Another one was Anka Bortner who, I think, never graduated.

I sat in the last row, with Lola Henigman. But I hung around with Halinka Zlotogora, Anka Bortner and Rozka Madrzak. Rozka was the youngest of three daughters of the owner of ‘Plutos,’ a large chocolate factory. Very wealthy people; they lived at 31 Krolewska [a smart street downtown, near the Saski Garden]. That was a huge, beautiful house, with 11 rooms or so. And I’ll never forget one special room with a couch on which only pillows were arranged. I also remember the food was strange at their house; there was no bread for dinner, only chocolate. Rozka sometimes invited friends over but not everybody. All three daughters of the Madrzak family died during the war, only the son survived. After the war I had this very short meeting with my friends, including Franka Jarlicht, who didn’t spend the occupation here but went to Israel [Palestine] with her husband. Anka Bortner also visited me. After the war I got a call from the headmistress’s son, a car mechanic. He wanted to find those of us who had survived the war. But there was only one other one–Zosia Klajnbart. He wanted to put together a commemorative album. His mother, our headmistress, died before the war, I think.

Our school was politically undefined. On September 1st [the beginning of the school year in Poland] they took us to the Tlomackie Synagogue [a large synagogue in the center of Warsaw, built in the Renaissance style in 1872-78] for a service. Professor Schorr 8 read to us, I don’t know what, I only remember it was in Polish. One time we simply walked out of the service, because someone let out a pigeon with a red ribbon tied to its leg–a very communist gesture. Our class teacher quickly took us out of there. At school there were some leftist girls, I’m sure, but I don’t know if they belonged to any organization. We didn’t care for politics much. I also wasn’t interested in finding out if my friends were religious, but I think they came from homes like mine.

I never studied anything outside of school. I remember once, when my brother had his confirmation [Ed. note: bar mitzvah], someone came to teach him. So I took the opportunity to learn some Hebrew from him. But when he mispronounced some word, said ‘eart’ instead of ‘earth,’ I couldn’t stop laughing and I quit studying, just like that. I do remember a few words: ‘tsipor ofo, tsipor ofo’ [Hebr. Tsipor afa–the bird flew away], which means something like the bird went away? I also don’t remember anything from the celebration or whether it was held in the synagogue or not. There may have been a lunch or a dinner.

My brother was a good boy, really. When he was younger, he was stupid and beat us up. My mother would chase him around the table with a carpet-beater. You never forget things like that. When he was young, he played with the neighbors’ children out in the yard. Then he had some friends at school. He went to a secondary school where most of the students were Jewish, too. The school was called ‘Spojnia’ and was a teachers’ cooperative, somewhere at Dluga [a street downtown, on the border of the Jewish district]. It was a school for boys, rather leftist. We had the same geography teacher, Stefcia Halbersztat. She had a crush on my brother and they went to Zakopane together later. She married an eye-doctor, Arkin. My brother didn’t want to go to college, because he didn’t like studying, but he did graduate from high school. I remember I went to stand at the door of his school when he was taking his matriculation exam, because I was very worried about him. Until the war he worked in our father’s leather store at Franciszkanska.

My sister did not finish school; she was the lazier one, that is. She went to a Polish school, to Matyskowa. Natalka, Aunt Mania’s daughter, also went there and also never finished, because she wouldn’t study. The school was near Koszykowa Street [in the center of Warsaw, outside the old Jewish district], but I don’t know what the name of the street was, because it was quite far away from us. In the 5th grade something came over my sister and she said she wouldn’t go to school any more and nothing could make her. I remember how my mother screamed at her for not wanting to study or read.

I don’t know what I read at school. I was very taken by this book called Zycie dziewczat [‘Girls’ Lives’], I can still remember the opening of that book. It was about these two sisters, one of which is very sick; it was all very sad. I can’t remember if there was a library at school. I never borrowed books from there. I went to the ‘Humanite’ library at 14 or 16 Leszno. Even during the war, not the owner, but the woman she employed, came to Leszno where I lived and brought me a book which was a hit at the time, I can’t remember anymore what the title was. She came and brought me fresh books for a while, but then she stopped coming. Before the war, there were basically no books at my house except for the ones I bought at the Wirgin bookstore at Elektoralna Street [downtown] and the dark red [religious] ones; I can’t remember any others. Anyway, there was no space with three kids in two rooms. My mother probably read what I did and I never saw my father reading. He was busy doing something else: playing dominoes. As far as papers went, we read Nasz Przeglad 9. I remember my brother entered a quiz there, because there was also Maly Przeglad [Mini Review, one of a number of supplements, established by J. Korczak 10, published in 1926-39, addressed to children and co-edited by them]. My brother won a tennis racket in that competition.

Politics wasn’t much of a subject in our house. My father was not interested in it at all. I know he liked Pilsudski very much and my mother thought that as long as Pilsudski was in power things would be all right. So they voted for him. I remember once Dziunia Fajertag, the communist from our courtyard, came over asking us to keep some papers [leaflets, illegal materials] for her. When my father found out about it he almost kicked me out of the house. My parents didn’t belong to any party, nothing like that. My sister and brother never belonged to any organizations either, never went on youth camps, they were an asocial bunch. And neither did I; I never went on summer camp.

In the summer we went to a place near Warsaw, in the direction of Otwock [a pre-war resort around 30 km south-east from Warsaw]. When we were small we went to Michalin, Jozefow and Swider, later to Srodborow. We took the train and our stuff went on a horse-drawn cart. We used to go for two whole months. What did we do there? I don’t know. We lived in a guesthouse, my mother did all the cooking. My father didn’t come with us. He went to the ‘Srodborowianka’ house [in Srodborow]. That was a private guesthouse which belonged to a doctor, whose name was Gorewicz, I think. Father spent his holidays there and got his meals there. Unfortunately, I spent one summer with his sister Rozia–the two sisters always went together–but I can’t remember where that was. I only remember this one incident when my aunt bought a pastry for her daughter, who wouldn’t share it with me. So my memories are not very happy. For a while I was in Sulejowek [a small town 20 km east of Warsaw] at my grandmother’s brother’s, Ludwik’s. That was when my brother got sick with scarlet fever.  I remember an aunt there who was unbelievably stingy–when she bought sour cream, she waited until it went really thick before she let us eat it. There was another niece of hers there with me; we were both very young girls then, just kids really. Another time I went with Marysia Feldman to a guesthouse in Srodborow, run by a Mrs. Markuszewicz. On Sundays in Warsaw we went to Skaryszewski Park [a park on the east bank of the Vistula river, created at the beginning of the 20th century] with my mom, and Marysia and her mom. I don’t know why we didn’t go to Saski Park [a park in downtown Warsaw, created in the first half of the 18th century, often visited by Jews between the wars], which was closer. I guess it was fashionable to go to Skaryszewski. I remember once when we were getting off a tram at the corner of Chlodna and Zelazna [downtown] my brother was hit by a bike. But he was all right as far as I can remember.

As for our medical care, before the war we did not belong to the Insurance [an institution in Poland between 1920 and 1934 which provided free medical care to the insured]. We had a doctor come over to our house. Doctor Zacharewicz came to our father, and Doctor Roszkowski to us, the kids. They were both Polish, I can’t remember a Jewish doctor. No, sorry, there was one, Zylberlast, the brother of my father’s partner from that store on Sienna. He would always say, ‘Well, as far as I’m concerned…’ which meant he was taking no responsibility for his words, so we didn’t particularly trust him. I remember having blood drawn when I was sick once. I was about 14. A guy came from a clinic–a doctor or no doctor–and said: ‘Lie still or the needle may pop out.’ So I said I wouldn’t let him do it. So he left and my mother had to chase him down the staircase to bring him back. Finally he did draw my blood. My mom also took us to the dentist.

I took my matriculation exam in 1935, I think. I remember I studied for it together with Celinka Finkelkraut and she failed. She had to take it again the following year and I felt very sorry for her. I didn’t study history with Celinka, but with Bander, Runia Bander. First I had an exam in Polish. Then, even though I liked math and couldn’t do physics, I had an exam in physics. Since Rega Segal was sitting right in front of me, I said to her: ‘If you don’t help me, I’ll kill you!’ and the poor thing did; I would have never been able to do it without her help. And Latin. I had a very good grade in Latin, because I liked the teacher, unlike the other subjects where I had threes and fours [B’s and C’s]. The Latin teacher must have been scared we wouldn’t pass, so before the exam he dictated lists of words to us. And I got lucky. My mother’s cousin was a Latin teacher (she graduated from the Latin Philology department at the University) and she came to us from Konskie [around 160 km south from Warsaw]. Basing on those lists of words she figured out what I would have to translate in the exam. Can you believe that?! And indeed, when I went to the exam, he gave me that text. So I passed it with flying colors.

After matriculation I decided to study at the University. A friend, Irka, and I, we applied. But I didn’t go to a single class. I decided it was too much for me and said ‘No way, I’m not going.’ The first exam came along–with Witwicki [Wladyslaw Witwicki, 1878-1948, philosopher, psychologist, professor at Warsaw University]– which I didn’t study for, I didn’t even open a book. So I never went, and my friend did the same. But I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. So I started attending sewing classes at ORT 11. I was very good at drawing and I planned to become a fashion designer. My mother even wanted me to go to Vienna, to learn cutting, because Vienna was known for fashion design. But it all came to nothing. I didn’t do well at ORT, because I didn’t like sewing. I went to that school, but it didn’t make sense really. I went for almost a year, but didn’t even take the exam at the end.

At ORT, I met Blima Ramler from Kolomyia [now Ukraine]. I renamed her Lidka. She was a very good student of sewing, unlike me. She did all the machine-sewing for me. She was a lovely girl: small, dark. Once I invited her home for chulent. I got my mom to make chulent. I liked it very much, I don’t know where from, because we very rarely had it at home. My father wouldn’t eat it. So she came to dinner, but she didn’t like the chulent. We remained friends even after ORT. She graduated and went back to Kolomyia. Once she came to Warsaw with her fiance, Henryk, to see an exhibition. They knew each other from a school in Kolomyia. She was five years older than him. He studied law in Lwow [now Ukraine]. In Warsaw, they stopped at my and my parents’ house and stayed for two days. Then she invited me to Kolomyia and I spent ten days there. They behaved as if they were married, which they weren’t. I don’t remember the town at all. I only remember that I was very popular as the girl from Warsaw and that we went dancing in ‘Cafe Roma.’ I met Henryk’s friend there, Emanuel, Menio. He enlarged my high school graduation picture and touched it up so that my headmistress at school said I wore makeup for it. Ridiculous! I had that portrait up on the wall above my bed. That friend went to the Soviet Union after the war broke out, and after the war went to Cuba, where his uncle had a hotel. There it turned out that the hotel was a brothel, and Menio went to Israel.

Around 1938, Lidka wrote to me because she was getting married to Henryk. I even got her a special hat at my milliner’s and sent it to her by mail. I know that until the war she was a very popular seamstress in Kolomyia and her husband worked at a friends’ law firm as an apprentice. They didn’t have children.

My other friend was Marysia Feldman, the one from the floor below. She graduated from the Warecka Gymnasium. She never went to college either. I think she was out of school already when she got married, after the death of her mother. I remember I went to that funeral with my mother. It was held at the cemetery at Gesia [Jewish cemetery at Okopowa]. But I ran away; I must have heard the weepers and I ran away. After her mother’s death, Marysia got married to Elek Kahan. She was very young, maybe 18? I don’t think I went to their wedding, I don’t know what it was like. Her husband Elek–what kind of a name is that?–had a brother Mulek; they were the sons of the editor of a Jewish newspaper, a very quiet man. I can’t say what kind of a paper it was. Their mother, Szoszana, was an actress, and behaved like one. There was a daughter there, too, Lilka, who became a dancer and then also gave recitations. I remember her reciting at IPS, the Art Institute [Institute for Art Propagation, a cultural and artistic institution active in 1930-1939, which organized shows, exhibitions, etc.], at Prosta. They lived at Nowolipki.

Those two brothers belonged to a group called ‘Balagania,’ a dozen or so men, all from the Polytechnic. I met them through Marysia. It all started when she got married to Elek and they would come to play bridge at her place. I didn’t play, though they tried to teach me. I think they were all Jewish. One of them, from Lodz, didn’t look like a Jew, but was Jewish for sure. His name was Knaperbaum. Another’s name was Kacap, but that wasn’t a real name. He lived at 13 Leszno. There was Stasiek Lipecki, who survived in the Soviet Union. Then there was Szmulenty Baran: ‘Baran’ [the ram] because his hair was kinky, but his real name was Eilenberg [Samuel Eilenberg, 1913-1998, professor of mathematics, one of the creators of homological  algebra]. He was a mathematician, very talented; at 21 he already had a PhD in mathematics. He went to America and stayed there because the war broke out. My beau, Beniek Trokan, already had his degree in surveying. We were dating for something like seven years. Then he said his mother thought that since we had been together so long we should get married. I had no such intention, I had other things to think about, so we split up. There was also Ignas Tyrmand, not a member of the ‘Balagania’ group, but he would come to play bridge. I think he worked for his father’s wire business. I don’t exactly understand how he was related to Leopold [Leopold Tyrmand, 1920-1985, prose-writer and journalist, connoisseur and propagator of jazz; from 1966 lived abroad], anyway, it was a very close relation. They used to come to play bridge and we went to the movies together. We always went at the last minute, by taxi, to the late, 10 o’clock show. When I was a girl, they didn’t always want to let me into the movie, because I looked very young. My mother suggested that I show them my high heels. I bought my clothes at Vilars’s, at Marszalkowska, I remember that as if it was today. He was the owner of a women’s clothing firm. A friend of my sister’s, Irka Fenigsztajn, was his girlfriend, but then she married someone else.

As I said earlier, my sister never finished school. She took some accounting courses and found a job. She worked for a few years. Then she got sick, mentally sick, I should say. She was afraid to go out on the street. She once fainted on the street, so she later had these fears. But finally she got married in 1937. I don’t know how they met, they dated for a short time. His name was Abram Feldman and my sister renamed him Adam, though at the beginning she did call him Abram. I know very little about him, because he was from Radom. I know he was a tradesman dealing in metal products, ovens for farmers or something like that. I have to say that at their wedding I was only a spectator, I didn’t take part in all that commotion. The wedding took place in a room rented from a rabbi from Norway or somewhere. That rabbi, if he was a rabbi at all, was wearing plain clothes, no robes or anything, only, I have to say, he did wear a hat. I don’t know, I guess he prayed in Hebrew. It was a very secular wedding because my brother-in-law was a leftist and he didn’t go in for that stuff. (He didn’t say the Kaddish for his mother when she died, for which his sisters never forgave him.) I know he did break the glass at the wedding. My sister was wearing a beautiful white striped suit. It’s difficult for me to say what kind of people came, because I hardly knew anyone. I only remember that my mother forgot to serve the salad with the dinner (back at home). The next day she found the salad on the windowsill. Those are the things you remember.

After the wedding, my sister and her husband went to Lublin. He once came to visit me with his sister, Salomea I think, from Radom. She was very ill, and it turned out she had cancer; I think it was bone cancer. She stayed in bed in our house for three days and some professor came to see her. Then her husband–for her husband came with her too–took her back to Radom in an ambulance. The other sister’s name was Kala. Salomea was not entirely assimilated, the way my brother-in-law was. My sister’s husband also had a brother, but I can’t remember his name. He was an important army official in the communist army; I saw his name in a Russian encyclopedia. In 1937 or 1938, more likely 1938, my nephew Gucio was born. He was born in Warsaw, because it was a complicated delivery. Then they went to Lublin, but not right away. They stayed in Lublin until the war.

In 1937, the year my sister got married, I started working in the ‘Linia i Litera’ print shop. It started out at Krochmalna [in the Jewish district] in a rundown building. I worked in the basement, in this horrible office, somewhere under the stairs. Then a new building was put up, on Grzybowska, I think [in the Jewish district], where the print shop was located on the first floor. I ran the office there: I paid the workers their salaries, typed various things and did some accounting. A real accountant came occasionally to check if everything was in order. I even went to the tax office occasionally; they sent me there to make sure they weren’t getting in trouble. It was a big company, with over a dozen workers and draftsmen employed. I remember I had four bosses: Michal Walersztajn, Jerzy Bursztyn–a bon vivant and a very handsome man–and two others: a type-setter and a machinist who made prints on those printing machines. They printed posters, booklets. I remember how we botched a job once with one of them. We were supposed to print a Philips radio manual. We had plates with the drawings. But even though he checked them and I checked them, we didn’t notice that the drawings were upside down. Nothing happened, because it was on the day before the war broke out. When the Germans came in, the print shop lasted a month or two and was closed down.

There was a boy in that print shop who went around on a bike with boxes of printed material. Very well-behaved, pleasant and nice. And then, when the Germans were here, someone saw him in an SS uniform.

During the war

There were both Jews and Poles at Leszno, where we lived, but really there were no anti-Semitic clashes. Maybe once only. I remember there was a family, quite religious. I can’t remember how many sons there were. One of those sons was beaten to death by Polish boys. He was 12 or 13. I will never forget that funeral in the courtyard. Terrible. And once when I was walking down Marszalkowska with that beau of mine, Beniek, suddenly these heavies started breaking windows in the stores, including Hirszfelds, this big delicatessen.12 So we grabbed a carriage and I went home. Really annoying. Once I had to pay for my own lack of common sense. I was given a costume, Tyrolean-style, gray with green stripes, with red and white lining, Tyrolean lapels and buttons (later, in the Ghetto, an acquaintance took it away in a suitcase, because I was afraid to keep it). So I went out on the street in this costume, got on a tram and this woman said: ‘Well, well, a Jewish broad wearing this?!’ What do these people have against Jews? In August 1939 I was in Muszyna [a resort in the south of Poland, in the Beskid hills] with this friend of mine from the print shop. We were coming back from Zegiestow [a resort near Muszyna] on a train. We were the last ones to get on the train and this man looked at us and said: ‘Those Jews, they’re everywhere.’ Well, that’s enough for me.

I retuned to Warsaw from Muszyna on 23rd August. My brother was in Zakopane. On 1st September 1939 I went back to work at ‘Linia i Litera’ [on 1st September 1939 the German army crossed the Polish border and World War II began]. One of my bosses said they were putting up posters about the draft, so I started crying. So this son-of-a-bitch, one of the owners, says, ‘What are you crying for?’ So I said ‘What do you mean, what for? I have a brother who is 18.’ My brother responded to the Umiastowski order 13 in September, I think. A whole group of my friends went as well. My sister’s little son moved in with us, because at the time [when the war broke out] he was spending his holidays in Srodborow with my mother. So my mom walked back to Warsaw with this child in her arms under the falling bombs. I remember she told me how she walked across the bridge with him, scared to death.

Then I went looking for my sister and my brother-in-law. I went to Bialystok [a town in north-east Poland, approx. 200 km from Warsaw], because everybody who was leaving went through Bialystok. The cafes in Bialystok were all covered with slips with names written on them. One of those slips told me my brother-in-law and my sister were in Luck. From there they were planning to go to Lwow, because my brother-in-law wanted to look up his brother, who was somebody important in the Soviet army. I stayed with them for a month and then signed up to go back to Warsaw–with my sister, because, after all, her child was there without his mother.

At the Russian-German crossing–there was no special border there, only a table where Germans sat on the one side and Poles on the other–my sister tried to cross with me. Everything was going well, only when you took a step forward you heard ‘Jude raus!’ [Ger.: ‘Jew – out’] and then shots in the air. She couldn’t take it; she pulled her hand out of mine and ran back. She hid somewhere in a kennel or sty and landed up back in Lublin. She went back to Lublin, because that’s where they used to live. And me, I was left standing there on that crossing between two Polish men, very nice. One of them took me by the hand, held tight and said ‘stand still.’ So I did. And I crossed with the two of them. I crossed and went back home to Warsaw. My mother was very surprised, because I should have stayed on the other side. Then my sister reappeared, a few months later, infested with lice. It was terrible. That was a very difficult time. She escaped from Lublin because it was even more dangerous there. So she stayed with us for a while with the child; then she left again and the child stayed behind. He was 2 years old then, maybe 2 and a half. He couldn’t say ‘ciocia’ [Pol.: auntie], he said ‘Tuta,’ so I was ‘Tuta.’ Then a Polish woman was supposed to come and pick him up. Marysia [Feldman] told me that apparently on the tram he asked her: ‘When is that shikse coming?’ There was always a bit of laughter in everything. ‘That shikse’ did come, and took him to Lublin. My brother also came back to Warsaw. I wrote to Lidka, because she lived in the East, and Kolomyia was not yet taken by the Germans, asking if my brother couldn’t hide with them. But her husband wrote back that the entire family came to stay with them. That was the beginning of a miserable life.            

Until the war, my father had his store at Franciszkanska. He had only one employee there, Albert, I think, Szapiro or Szpiro. He had the keys to the store, because he lived in the same building. When he learned the Germans were coming he took everything to his house, all that leather. We were left without money, without anything, it was a nightmare. I don’t know how, but a few packages of that leather found their way to our house. So I took a carriage to the Kielman firm [a shoe company], on Chmielna [a street downtown, outside the Jewish district] and I sold them, because we had no money to live on. (That shop assistant met a terrible end, because later I saw him and his wife and child being led in a column to the Umschlagplatz 14.)

My father was so terrified that he didn’t go out on the street, never laid his eyes on a German. He stopped shaving, he deteriorated fast. He only went to visit his sisters, who lived in the other courtyard. Once we went with him to cousin From. And From threw us out of his house for bringing father in such shape. God! My father cut it short and committed suicide, through the window in his sisters’ apartment… It might have been in 1940, before the Ghetto [before October 1940], for it couldn’t have been in 1939… I don’t remember much from his funeral at the Jewish Cemetery at Okopowa. The funeral procession was allowed to walk without German police supervision, and a group of us followed the hearse. I went to another funeral at the Jewish Cemetery later, when the father of that boyfriend of mine, Beniek, died of typhus. I wanted to go to my father’s grave. But I was told that this was not done, that one doesn’t visit [graves]. So I didn’t go. I still haven’t been. I have no idea where the grave is; I haven’t been to that registry office to check. I haven’t looked for it, I have to admit.    

We lived at Leszno: my mom, my brother and I. We had the last maid with us, Marysia, until they created the Ghetto. She was a very decent girl. She went out to the fields and pulled up tomatoes or something, so that we wouldn’t die of hunger. It was very hard. I remember how, in the Ghetto by then, I made the Jewish dish chulent, because it would keep for two or three days. You used barley, potatoes and some kind of meat. It cooked all night on a low flame, the top wrapped in paper.

When there was the Ghetto, my grandmother lived with us. First she was with my mother’s sister, Mania, but then that aunt’s kids did something inexcusable. When things got tough–not as bad as with us, because we had no means of supporting ourselves–they told her to leave. So later we didn’t have anything at all to do with them. There was no fight, no reproaches, nothing. Only we never went to my aunt’s house and she never came to ours, as if she didn’t exist. I don’t know when she left that apartment at Wspolna–she certainly had to, because that wasn’t the district for the Jews. I only know the return address on my brother’s letters said ‘53 Wspolna,’ where she used to live. I think I once saw Natalka on my street, Leszno. Before the war her hair was black as a raven’s, almost bluish. I saw someone like her on the street, only her hair was dyed red, to make it less dark. But we pretended we didn’t know each other. And that’s how it was. When Grandma was with us, her brother Ludwik came to visit her and sometimes he’d bring a little money. And then I read an announcement on a post or some fence that his wife died. He posted that obituary himself. He probably died too. My grandmother was 84 when she got ill because the food was unsuitable. A doctor came and said that it was an intestinal torsion, and that she was too old to have an operation and anyway, in those conditions, in the Ghetto…. If not for the war maybe they would have saved her. She died shortly after. I wasn’t at home at the time. I don’t even know where she’s buried.

Our family relations deteriorated greatly: we didn’t visit each other, didn’t know what was happening to any of the others. I only remember that once my cousin Helena put me in touch with this Volksdeutscher who went with me to pick up some stuff of my sister’s. Because my sister, when she was coming to Warsaw from the other side [from Poland’s eastern territories, not yet occupied by the Germans], had had two or more suitcases with her with good quality clothing. Those things were very attractive, among others there was a beautiful fur of Persian lamb paws, braytshvantse [Yid.: astrakhan] or something like that, and a whole set of linens…. She left them with some peasant on the way. So I went to pick up those suitcases with the Volksdeutscher, my lawyer cousin’s friend. Maybe he’d been her client and that’s why she trusted him. Anyway, I paid him and he took me. My mother cried that it was too dangerous. I got to the town, Siemiatycze [130 km east of Warsaw]. He introduced me as his wife, because his German friends were there with him. It was terrible. Luckily it lasted only one night and one day. In that town we looked up the man, who said he knew nothing about a suitcase or suitcases. So the whole trip was in vain and my mother worried in vain. That cousin of mine thought the Volksdeutsche would save her. She bequeathed him her fully furnished four-room apartment. But nothing came of it. She met a terrible end. Her little daughter, Blanka, who was 8 at the time, died too. How? When? Where? These are terrible questions for which there is no answer.

We lived at Leszno. Close to our house there was a ‘shop’ [German compulsory workshop in the Ghetto] where Jews worked who were conscripted by the Germans. It was called the Toebbens shop [on the corner of Leszno and Zelazna, a factory producing for the German military industry]. Before the war, Rowinski’s cotton products workshop was located there; I have no idea if it was the same Rowinski who owned the building where we lived. We remained at Leszno until the deportations began.15 Two Germans entered the house and yelled: ‘Alles raus!’ [Ger.: everybody out!]. We were all scared, so we all went out. Only we took bedclothes with us, to have something to sleep on. We got an apartment at 16 or 18 Mila. That’s a building well-known in the history of the Ghetto; the headquarters were located there. [In the bunker at 18 Mila were the headquarters of the Jewish Fighting Organization 16. On 8th May 1943 the leaders of the Ghetto uprising, surrounded by the Germans, collectively committed suicide in that bunker.] I wasn’t there long, only a few weeks; then I got out of the Ghetto.

But before I got out, I worked. First, for a short time, I worked for Ringelblum’s archive 17 in the basement of the synagogue at Tlomackie. I got that job through an acquaintance of my brother’s who was madly in love with him. Her name was Felka, I don’t remember her last name, and I think she was active in some organization. A few other girls worked there, too; we were making lists of donations for Jewish children.

And then I worked in an ink factory. A private company, not far from where I lived, called ‘Leszczynski and Company.’ A big firm. They employed Jews for the dirty jobs in which you had to deal with ink. Poles did all the other kinds of jobs, because there were also paints, carbons and other papers. Some of the Poles were very decent people, very nice. But there were a few really unpleasant ones, especially the Polish woman who supervised us, and this foreman, Stokowski, an older, gray, small guy, terribly vicious. So there were various people there. There were these two who would come to us, to the ink department, and insult people using bad words. For some reason I was spared: either they had some respect for me or they found me attractive, who knows. They had strange names, like the two painters; one called himself Michal Aniol [Michelangelo] and the other’s name was Walicki [Michal Walicki, 1904-1966, professor of history of art, specialist in painting–a coincidental similarity of names]. When things got really bad and Jews were being rounded up, one of them offered to get me out of the Ghetto. I asked how much for. And it turned out that for nothing.

It was September 1942, a few days before the big deportation [Grossaktion]. So I got up and left. I hid a few pictures in my purse: my mom’s, my brother’s and sister’s, her son’s and my own. And five dollars which my last friend made me take. I remember that somewhere on the way from Leszno to Gesia [a street which exists only partly today, as Anielewicza], I had to go through a Jewish kitchen where they gave out soup. And there was my friend’s mother. It was the first time I saw her. She gave me a rose from my friend and with that rose I went out of the Ghetto. Opposite the Jewish Cemetery I had to cross the Ghetto demarcation line. A German stopped me at the exit and said ‘Ausweis!’ [Ger.: identification card]. Damn it, nobody told me you had to have an ausweis. I just went like an idiot with nothing, not a slip of paper for that German. I hadn’t thought they should have written something for me in German. I had toilet paper with me, so I took out a piece and showed it to the German. He said ‘Los’ [Ger. colloquial: go], so I walked on. Was the German bribed already? Maybe my brother arranged that for me? And there, on the other side of the street one of those workers was waiting for me [Walicki or Michal Aniol]. I accidentally dropped the rose, so I bent to pick it up and he told me off me for being silly, wasting time for a rose. We got on a tram and went to his house on the corner of Marszalkowska. The pregnant wife of one of the men was there; she worked for the Pakulski brothers [a company selling wine and imported foods]. I spent two days there.

As was decided earlier, I called the husband of my friend Marysia. Before the war, she was the wife of Elek Kahan, but then she got baptized and married Wojtek Matuszczyk. And during the war, that Wojtek of hers would look for apartments for people, mostly people he knew. He also helped get papers; I know it cost 1500 zloty and that was a lot. He didn’t take any money from me, because I came out without any money. When I called him, he came to pick me up and we went to their house at Czackiego [in the city center]. I stayed there only for 2-3 days, because other people were hiding there too.

Wojtek found a very pleasant apartment for me, at 62 Hoza [in the city center], at a Mrs. Barbanel’s. Her husband was a lawyer. He wasn’t there, I guessed he was in hiding too. She was French-born, so her Polish was terrible. She had a beautiful, large apartment. Apart from me, a Dr. Rajchert was staying at her apartment. He survived the war and went to America. In the third room a woman lived whose name was Hanka. She would go out and not return before curfew. Mrs. Barbanel and I were both always very worried about her, worried that something happened to her. But then she would appear, all of a sudden. Once she said in French to Mrs. Barbanel that she suspected I was Jewish; so Mrs. Barbanel said that was impossible. Wojtek paid the rent for me. He also managed to get me these little toy cars to paint. He brought them, I painted them and then he picked them up.

Naturally I had to leave the house, I had to go out for dinner. I went alone to ‘Nadswitezianska,’ a restaurant at Aleje Jerozolimskie [one of the major streets in Warsaw]. There I would sit over dinner and think that everyone, the entire restaurant, was watching me, and I was scared to death. Whatever I did, I did it in fear. How else? Once, when I left Wojtek’s office and went out on the street, a guy approached me. He must have been no more than 16 or 18, my age. He says to me: ‘You’re Jewish. I’m taking you to the police.’ I knew right away that I had to act tough, so I said: ‘You punk! Just wait and I’ll take you!’ I turned around and marched off, weak at the knees. I walked on foot to Hoza and the first thing I did was to call Wojtek and tell him to come over. I was lucky I acted like that. What gave me the idea? I don’t know if I could be so clever today.

I lived for a month or two at Barbanel’s, but then Marysia got mad and refused to help me any more. She probably thought I was flirting with Wojtek. Anyway, it was horrible. I asked her ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ ‘As far as I’m concerned you can walk out of a fourth story window,’ was all she said. So I wrote a letter to my brother saying that I wanted to go back to the Ghetto. So Wojtek took offense and that was it.

My brother had been in hiding, but the Germans caught him and sent him to work. He worked outside the Ghetto, they took him to work in Skaryszewski Park.18 Marysia went to visit him twice, but later she said to me, ‘You know, I won’t go there anymore, because this woman stopped me after one visit and asked, ‘Why do you come visiting those Jews, are you Jewish too?’’ So she must have been scared to go there. When I wrote to my brother that I wanted to get out [get back to the Ghetto], he wrote back that a woman would come and take care of me.

And indeed, a woman came. She was in mourning. It turned out her father committed suicide by hanging himself. She was a friend of my brother’s, Zaba, from Konskowola [around 100 km south-east from Warsaw]. I have no idea where he met her. The year was 1942. I went with her, scared stiff, because I had no papers. Wojtek only managed to get me a fake birth certificate. He told me to walk on it, so that it wouldn’t look too new. Wojtek was a good guy. I think he was killed.

So I went to Zaba’s, to Konskowola and I actually was very comfortable there. She was a nurse, 6 years older than I was; before the war she took nursing courses in Warsaw. Her mother was Czech, a lovely woman. Zaba’s husband was a railway man. They had a daughter Ewa who was 2 or 2-and-a-half when I came. Zaba was a brave woman, and her husband was a sissy. She took care of me, she hugged me, she ruled that house so that he didn’t have much say, lucky for me… We lived in a brick house next to the railway tracks, by the crossing. When they started deporting the Jews, I could see the boxcars with people in the windows. Once I thought I saw my brother, but I don’t know if it was him… And when those trains were going to Majdanek 19, then Zaba’s husband–a kind, polite man–said that one good thing Hitler was doing was what was happening to the Jews. I told Zaba about that, and she said ‘Come on, he doesn’t know what he is saying.’ That was the end of it, but it stayed with me. Anyway, it wasn’t good company for me. Zaba’s sister-in-law, Hela, a bad one, took an astrakhan fur coat from her Jewish friend and denounced her to the gendarmes. Why didn’t she denounce me? When one of Zaba’s friends came over I had to spend the whole time under the bed. So it was pretty interesting over there…

I was pestering Wojtek for a kennkarte 20. He had good relations with the priests. His wife, Marysia, wrote me back that a human being doesn’t deserve anything from another human being. Everybody around must have known I was Jewish, but nobody said anything. I was there as a cousin; the little girl called me ‘auntie.’ But the news spread among the railway men who I was. One young one, very handsome, said to me ‘I’d find you attractive even if you were Jewish.’ And another time, when Zaba wasn’t home and I couldn’t start the stove–it was a coal stove–I went to the office where that guy worked and asked him for help. Apparently he knew right away that I was Jewish [according to a pre-war stereotype held by some Poles, Jewish women didn’t know how to start a fire in a stove]. It was only after the war that I found out why.

When I stayed with Zaba, her brother Czesio came to visit once. But because I was there, he went back to his house for the night. And that night the Germans pulled out all the young people, including him. I had a bad conscience because if he’d stayed the night, instead of me, maybe he would have survived. And he was shot.

My brother sent me letters by mail addressed to Zaba [toward the end of 1942]. My mom no longer added anything. He lied to me that she had bad legs, but what could legs have had to do with writing? Probably she was already gone. They took her out of the house and just took her away.  I don’t even know where and when she died. To this day I can’t forgive myself that I wasn’t there. I got the last message from my brother on 14th April 1943. He wrote: ‘I am well, don’t worry about me, think about yourself.’ Zaba went to Warsaw to get him out, even though we didn’t have a hiding place for him. But when she got there she saw that all of the Ghetto was burned down 21. He was a wonderful brother and a wonderful son…he loved our mother very much.

When I was in Konskowola, I still got messages from my sister. She was taken from Lublin to Majdanek. From Majdanek she apparently sent me a diamond, through a man who undertook to give me some of the money for that diamond. For a while that was the only money Zaba and I had to support ourselves. In the meantime, my sister’s husband–who they didn’t take to Majdanek and he was still in Lublin–wrote to me asking if Zaba could organize a hiding place for him. It was hard to read what he said, he’d gone completely crazy. He was wealthy. If he’d given her some money, maybe Zaba would have managed to help. But he only liked making money and didn’t know how to use it. Sometime earlier my sister wrote us that we should remember about this man – she gave his name - who could save her husband. So Zaba and I went to Lublin, which was rather dangerous as we later found out. The man said he didn’t know my brother-in-law, though he was wearing my brother-in-law’s jacket… It’s all so strange. My brother-in-law really had a chance of surviving: he didn’t have black hair, he had brown hair and blue eyes, he spoke Polish well. I’m not even talking about the rest of his family but himself. Because he was basically alone by then. His little son Gucio and my sister died in Majdanek, the child before her. I figured that out from the letters I got from my brother-in-law: there was no mention of the child.

Everybody died. Nobody was left from this family, nobody. I got out of the Ghetto then because I wanted to live. I was the only one to cut myself off, and that’s why I’m left all alone. Closer family, distant family, they’re all gone…

I spent two years with Zaba, from 1942 till the end of the war, when Lublin was freed [July 1944], possibly before Warsaw was. When the Russkies came, they wanted to arrest Zaba’s other brother, Edward, who was the mayor. People were denouncing him, because apparently he was stealing their cows and produce. To put it short, he was a son-of-a-bitch. When they came to get him he hid somewhere. But the people who he’d rubbed up the wrong way came after him and there was a court case in Lublin after the war. And I was the main witness for the defense. I said in court: ‘I can’t say anything against Edward, because I am Jewish and this family saved my life.’ I did it only for Zaba and her mother, not anybody else from that family. Because of what I said he was released, after having been held for a year and a half.

In 1944, when I was still in Konskowola, the Russian Army and Polish officers arrived.22 One time, one of them, Lajchman, slapped me on my behind in this little bar. So I told him I’m Jewish. So he asked what I was still doing there. He told me to go to Lublin to the army and say he sent me. I went to Lublin to look for someone from my family. I went to the Jewish Committee, but I didn’t find out anything. I registered in case someone was looking for me. Nobody was. So I went to the army and registered under the name Szymanska. Two women took care of me. It must have been luck among all the misfortunes that I came across that woman who signed me up. I got clothing, I got food, I got an apartment.

In Lublin I worked in the office of General Grosz. Mrs. Zabludowska was the head of that office and I was her helper. I wrote up orders on the typewriter. And once the order was to transfer somewhere a Col. Henryk Holder, son of Michal. Could it be the husband of Lidka from Kolomyia? Could there be another person of the same name? I wrote to him without thinking much of the future, only because he was someone who knew me, remembered me… He came to visit, which was very kind of him. I told him all about myself and asked about his wife. Both she and his entire family died. So later I thought, ‘What do I care which one it is?’ Since I knew him from Lidka’s stories and believed he was a decent man, we got together.

Then he went to the front and I stayed in Lublin. He was in Warsaw the day after it was liberated [17th January 1945]. I still have a letter from him in which he says that Warsaw was all gone and that the Germans should be shot, beaten, murdered. And I went through that miserable city later, too. I went from Lublin to Berlin with the army as an ensign. I was demobilized in Katowice.

After the war

In Katowice, in December 1945, we got married. I remember I had nothing to serve our two witnesses. I borrowed potatoes from the neighbors, we bought some frankfurters and that was our wedding feast.

My husband was born in 1914 in Szczerc near Kolomyia. His father worked in an office in the court in Kolomyia. His mother died before the war from diabetes, on the train to Truskawiec [a resort around 140 km north-west from Kolomyia, now Ukraine]. He had an older brother, also a lawyer, Izio, Izaak or Izydor. Henryk graduated from a secondary school in Kolomyia and then studied law in Lwow. He only took his exams there, but he studied at home. He graduated before the war. He worked in Kolomyia in the law firm of his friend, Wilf, who I later met, in Katowice, after the war. Well, and he married a friend from school, Blima–Lidka. After the Germans entered Kolomyia, his brother committed suicide in the Ghetto. He left behind a wife, Marysia, also a lawyer, and their daughter. Some acquaintances told me that Marysia left her child in front of a store and did a runner. She told me she gave the little one to the nuns and never saw her again. So I don’t know how it really was. Anyway, she is gone. Marysia remarried after the war; her new husband was an army lawyer, and they lived in the same house we did and had two children. My husband’s father must have been killed during the war. Lidka was also killed. She wanted to get through to Hungary.23 She was caught near the Romanian border. They took off her shoes and she walked barefoot to Kolomyia. There she was shot. My husband went there in 1976, to the monument to the victims.

When the Germans came, my husband fled further east. That’s how he ended up in the army, in a school for officers in Ryazan [in the Soviet Union then, now in Russia, around 200 km south-east from Moscow]. They did pre-military training. Then, I guess, he must have joined the Berling army 24. When we met he was in the First Army, in the prosecutor’s office. I didn’t even know what a prosecutor is. Had I known, maybe I wouldn’t have decided to be with him… [Communist prosecutors were infamous for their role in the post-war history of Poland: through false accusations they contributed to numerous death sentences for those belonging to the political opposition.] And he was the prosecutor for a long time. Luckily, in 1950 they fired him, most likely because of his Jewish background, and hired a Pole in his place. He was let go before all those trials, but in his time there must have been trials, too. I don’t know; he never told me and I never asked.

After the wedding we lived in Katowice. We occupied a room in an apartment at Francuska which used to belong to some Germans. But that didn’t last long, we soon got an apartment at Zamkowa. There were five rooms in the apartment, I don’t know what we needed such a big place for, plus a huge kitchen and a maid’s room. A luxury apartment – I never saw one like it since. We had a male servant, but he didn’t have much work, because we always ate at the canteen. All he did was sew on my collars. Actually I don’t know what he did in that apartment, nothing went on there. We had an army car, a beautiful green Audi. My husband had friends from Kolomyia living in Katowice. Those were Wilf, whose law firm he had worked in before the war, and the three Gotfryd brothers who survived the Kolomyia Ghetto.

My husband was then transferred to Warsaw. I followed him in a short time, for I wasn’t my own from then until the end of his life. We got an apartment which belonged to the Army at Belwederska [a representative street in Warsaw]: three beautiful rooms, a bathroom with a window, a maid’s room. I had my first child Piotr in 1948, but he died within 12 hours. In the army hospital, in Warsaw, he was taken to the other world. In 1949 my second son, Jerzy, was born, so we hovered over him. I even went to Wroclaw [to Prof. Ludwik Hirszfeld (1884-1954), immunologist, serologist, the first person to do research into high-risk pregnancy in Poland] to give birth to him. Then we came back to Warsaw. There was a very good nanny and a maid. So I finally went out to work, because we had to pay for all of it somehow. In 1954 I went on a year-long drafting course. I completed it, I even have the certificate, but I can draft just about as well as I can sew. So obviously I didn’t work in that line, but as a secretary in an office of this state enterprise, Construction of Housing for Workers, BOR. First I was in the department of planning, but I just couldn’t get it. Even today if they ask me to plan something, you can guess what it’s going to look like. We had a manager who couldn’t even sign his name, illiterate. So I said, ‘I don’t want anything to do with that kind of education.’ Later I was the secretary of the main Director. I was bored witless, I read books, because he went to conferences every day and there was nothing for me to do. I didn’t work there long, a year maybe. After that, I don’t think I worked anywhere else.

During the summer we went to those government resorts, in Bulgaria, Hungary and the GDR 25. But I wasn’t proud of that or happy about it. I knew people held it against us, particularly that we were Jews.

When my husband was fired in 1950, he was a colonel. He moved to Mr. Bierut’s 26 legal office. I can’t remember if he worked there until Bierut’s death [1956], but afterwards he became the manager of the Office of the State Council. First his boss was Zawadzki, I think [Aleksander Zawadzki, 1899-1964, secretary of the Party’s Central Committee, from 1952 head of the State Council] and then Ochab [Edward Ochab, 1906-1989, secretary of the Party [PZPR] Central Committee, 1964-68 head of the State Council]. My husband was fired from there as well, in 1968. They kicked him out for giving preference to Jews. That was all a bunch of lies, of course–no one talks about that today.

My son studied foreign trade. I wanted him very much to leave [Poland]. He gave up his studies to go abroad, but they wouldn’t let him go. He had to do something, so he went to work for this company producing glass containers. But as soon as he started working, he got his draft card from the army. Our home was in a state of panic, almost like during the occupation. An acquaintance interceded on our behalf to get him enrolled as a student again, even though a year had already passed since he left. He did manage to become a student again and did very well. After he graduated he went abroad, first to Sweden–after all, so many different people went there at the time–and then to France, then London and finally West Germany 27, to the Gotfryds. Finally he called me from Germany to say that he was coming back. I can’t believe he got out only to come back…

We had many acquaintances abroad. Before 1956 28, my friend from school, Zula Wermus, who survived the war in the Soviet Union, decided to go to Israel. She came to our house asking my husband what she should do. And she went, with her husband. Then, after 1956, my husband’s secretary left, a colleague he really trusted, Fels. He went to Israel with his Polish wife, who wanted to go, too; she was a smart girl. The sister of my husband’s first wife, Andzia, was also in Israel. She even wanted to come back, but her son, Icchak, didn’t. He was 13 then, in a kibbutz he liked a lot, so they didn’t come back. The Gotfryds went to West Germany. A friend of my husband’s from Kolomyia went to London and worked in a bank. I didn’t have anyone that close who went abroad. Ignas Tyrmand went to Australia, and the mathematician Eilenberg–from the ‘Balagania’ crowd–lived in America; I saw him twice after the war.

I keep on wondering why I didn’t think of going abroad right after the war. In 1956 when everybody was leaving I asked my husband ‘Maybe we should go, too?’ But he said ‘Go if you want, I’m staying.’ So what was I to do? Take my son and leave? I was uneducated, untrained, I didn’t have anywhere to work, I didn’t know what to do. So I stayed, like an idiot. I should have gone. A wasted life…

When my husband got fired in 1968, Cyrankiewicz 29 was still Prime Minister. So he gave my husband a retirement pension which could support us: 5000 zloty for the three of us. But they took away our apartment, of course. It was 1972; they persisted so we moved out. The apartment we’re in now was waiting for us, so to speak, because the building was newly finished when we moved in.

After that ordeal, our doctor friend Askanas sent my husband to recover in this health resort near Warsaw, owned by the government, for we were still allowed to use it. Then Marysia, my husband’s sister-in-law, called that she had a translation lined up for him. She worked for ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza’ [a publishing house established in 1948 in Warsaw] and she’d recommended him there. So my husband started translating from Russian; all those beautiful volumes: Lenin and such… Then he did German as well: Marx’s correspondence and legal texts. From then on he was a translator. He died of a heart attack in July 1980, when he was vacationing in Jadwisin [a government holiday complex near Warsaw]. He was buried in the military cemetery in Warsaw. And that’s how a life ends. He lost his mother, father, wife, then he lived through that terrible war in the Soviet Union where he suffered a lot, not being very enterprising and unable to find a job… And then they ended his life with that worthless accusation, a foul and evil thing to do [the accusation of mismanagement of human resources and his consequent firing, in 1968, led to her husband’s health deteriorating].

My son then started working for PAP [the Polish Press Agency]. The third husband of my friend the hag, Marysia, called him because he speaks very fluent English, and asked him if he wouldn’t like the job. He’s been working there for 20-25 years now. He is a translator in what may still be called ‘the English office.’

We don’t observe any Jewish traditions in our home, except my son buys matzah in this store at Twarda [the Synagogue and Jewish Theater are also on that street]. I don’t eat it, because it’s not what matzah used to be. But my son eats it for dessert after supper.

For me, it never mattered one bit what my friends’ background was. I had friends among both Jews and Poles. After the war I helped Zaba–my husband had connections, so he arranged for an apartment in Warsaw and a job at the hospital for Zaba’s daughter. After Zaba died, in 1973, her husband wanted me to help him get into the veterans’ union. How could I? I didn’t have any connections there. So I told him there was this tree campaign going on.30 And he got the title of ‘Righteous Among the Nations.’ He accepted it in his and Zaba’s name. He died last year.

Several years ago my husband’s sister-in-law Marysia died. Her son stayed in Poland, but her daughter went to Sweden with her husband in 1968. And so there are no Jews left around me except for Alina Winawer. I have known her for over 50 years. My husband got her husband a job in the army: bought him for two barrels of gasoline. Years later we found out that her mother got married in Israel to Mr. Rowinski, who owned the Leszno house before the war. His [first] wife and his daughter committed suicide in Israel, I don’t know why. In the house where I live now I don’t know any other Jewish families, it’s all Catholics around me. Who knows what they think about me. I don’t go to all those events at TSKZ 31. It used to be that I was able to go, but I only went twice. They meet at a bad time, when I’m having dinner at home. Now there is no way I could go [because of having a broken arm]. Too bad.

Everything bad that I could have experienced I already did. I don’t know if anything changed for the better in my life after 1989 32. When I hear which parties are winning [currently the left is in power, but in the upcoming parliamentary and presidential elections in fall 2005, both right-wing parties and right-wing individual politicians are likely to win]–what is left to believe in? I know we shouldn’t have stayed here. I’ve known that for a long time. Every little anti-Semitic gesture or remark drives me up the wall. At moments like that I can’t forgive myself for having stayed here. It’s no good to live a lie. But what else can I do?…

Glossary

Nikhama Peisakhovna Frumkina
Bryansk
Russia
Interviewer: Eugeny Udler
Date of interview: February 2002

Nikhama Peisakhovna gives the impression of a very cultured person,

she speaks slowly, carefully choosing her words.

Apparently, she enjoys talking about her ancestors and in particular about her father.

• My family background
• Growing up
• During and after the war
• Glossary

• My family background

I, Nikhama Pavlovna Frumkina, was born in Bryansk in 1929. I have no family of my own, and now I live alone in the city of Bryansk. I was the single child in the family, and Mum became a housewife after my birth. My real Jewish name is Nikhama, but in the family I was called in the Russian manner, Nina 1.

My paternal grandfather was Elimelekh Frumkin. He came from the small city of Pogar in Chernigov province [today Bryansk region]. He was born approximately in 1860, had religious education, and all his life was a melamed. But because there were other melamedim in Pogar’s cheder, he wandered around various villages and settlements and taught children traditions.

He was a deeply religious man, studied the Torah and Talmud all the time and knew the Hebrew language perfectly. His first wife, whose name I don’t know, died early from some illness, leaving him with a daughter, Hana. Unfortunately, my granddad died when I was four years old and I can hardly remember him. All I know about him are the few things that my father and mother told me.

His second wife, my grandmother Dveira Chaimovna [1870s-1935] was 17 years younger than Grandfather and, being a housewife, brought up nine children: eight of her own and her stepdaughter Hana. For the most part of their life they lived in Pogar, but after the revolution in October 1917 2 they moved to Bryansk and until 1929 rented a separate apartment.

At the beginning of the 1930s Elimelekh had a serious leg injury, but refused to be treated in the hospital for religious reasons [since he considered an illness a manifestation of the will of God, with which one cannot interfere].
He died of gangrene in 1933.

• Growing up

I remember Grandma much better than Granddad. She always brought us some ‘gribenеts’ – goose cracklings – and treated me. In her last years she lived with some of her elder children in Bryansk and died in 1935. I was six years old then. I remember that I wasn’t permitted to fully participate in the funeral ceremony, but I well remember the special stretcher, on which Grandmother was lying wrapped in a shroud. She was certainly buried in accordance with religious customs.

My grandfather Elimelekh had a brother named Alter Raikhinshtein. Daddy told me, that earlier Grandfather also had the surname Raikhinshtein, but in his youth he changed it to Frumkin, ostensibly with the purpose to be exempted from the army service 3. This uncle, unlike Elimelekh, led a secular life. Until 1941 he lived with us, and before the war he left for Kiev [today Ukraine] and perished there. Most likely, he died there during the fascist occupation.

My maternal grandfather, Moisei Goz, came from Radul, near Kiev. He was a pharmacist and died under unknown circumstances in 1918. The history of his death was always concealed in our family [An educated and rich man he had probably become a victim of Red terror or a gangster attack.]

His wife, my grandmother Ita Markovna Goz, nee Faibusovich, was born in 1861 in Radul, Kiev province, and after the death of her husband was compelled to flee with her four children from Radul to escape from Galaka’s 4 gang to the district center of Mglin in Chernigov province, nowadays Bryansk district. Later she moved from Mglin to Bryansk, and in her last years lived in the house of her elder son Semen.

I often disputed the existence of God with her. Being a young pioneer 5 I was telling her – a religious woman – that actually God didn’t exist, and she was nervous and tried to prove the opposite. Grandmother had an old prayer book that she used for praying every day. When I think of her, I imagine her portrait from the photo I have: an old woman in a dress that she seemed to have been wearing forever. Ita Markovna died in Bryansk in 1937 at the age of 76.

My grandmother’s sister, Feiga Markovna, had no children of her own and was occupied with the education of one of Grandmother’s sons, Aron. During the war she didn’t want to be evacuated and stayed in Bryansk. When the city was occupied, three Germans settled in her house, who, knowing that their landlady was Jewish, didn’t touch her. Probably, those were respectable and well-bred Germans. But later two Russian sisters, the Chebotarevs, Komsomol 6 members, who lived in the neighborhood, betrayed her. They complained to the German authorities about a Jewish person staying in town. The fascists rushed into the house, seized Feiga and stabbed her with their bayonets in a nearby ravine. After the war the Soviet authorities sentenced the Chebotarev sisters to ten years in prison.

My father, Pavel Markovich [Peisakh ben Elimelekh] Frumkin, was born in Pogar in 1902, though 1903 is written down in his birth certificate. From the age of three he studied in a cheder in Pogar, upon the termination of which he was sent to study in a yeshivah in another town, and he became a yeshivah bocher. Father told me, how with other yeshivah bocherim they went to have dinner in ‘makhuntek,’ that is in various Jewish families. [This is an old Jewish tradition according to which the poor yeshivah bocherim dined in Jewish families, because the yeshivah couldn’t really feed them. Besides, it was considered an important religious commandment for any Jew to feed a poor yeshivah boy – who would probably be a rabbi in the future.] It was in accordance with an important precept called tsdaki, but in different families it was followed with different degrees of generosity: some people invited them to their own table, others let them eat with the servants

It was the time when Jewish youth was eager to educate their peers. One high school girl started to study arithmetic with Daddy and as a result he left the yeshivah, causing a great scandal in his religious family. Father also undertook serious studies of the Russian language, because he had a very poor command of it from childhood – he spoke Yiddish – with the help of private tutors. Later he took lessons of Mathematics from the well-known teacher Grabovsky in Bryansk. Father didn’t go to school.

Granddad, having learnt of his son’s studies, was very upset and sent him to get ‘a real education’ to their very distant relative in the borough of Seredina Buda, telling him, ‘Take this goy and make something good out of him!’ I think Father was separated from his family for quite a while and then, after some time, came back.

To punish the young man, his father took him to one forestry enterprise in the small town of Seredina Buda, where he forced him to work as a contractor. Father lived there for a rather long time until pogroms began in the city. The rich owner left town with his family leaving the workers to the mercy of fate. Father recollected how he was chased by the Black Hundreds 7, one of the anti-Semitic gangs making Jewish pogroms in the territories of today’s Eastern Ukraine and pre-border Russia, shooting at him, but missing, and Father was saved.

• During and after the war

After the revolution he moved to Bryansk, studied hard and entered accounting courses, after finishing which he continued studying in the All-Union Correspondence Finance and Economics Institute of Narkomfin of the USSR [Narkomfin: People’s Commissariat of Finance] with a major in ‘Finance and Crediting’ from 1935 to 1938, acquiring a diploma as economist and financier. Simultaneously Father worked as a bookkeeper in various organizations.

In the 1920s Daddy took an active part in the Zionist organization ‘Poalei Zion’ [Hebrew: ‘Workers of Zion’] in Bryansk, headed by a well-known Zionist, Abba Medvedev. For that activity Father had to serve a one-year term in prison, and Abba Medvedev was exiled to Palestine. There he tragically died at one of the construction sites of the Jewish settlements.

Studying at the accounting courses Daddy got acquainted with Mum, courted her for five years, and in 1927 they got married. My parents had a real chuppah, according to all rules of a religious Jewish wedding, organized in Feiga’s apartment, the sister of Grandmother Ita Markovna. Feiga and her husband Neukh were well-off people, they had no children. Neukh offered his help regarding chuppah arrangements in his home and paid all the bills. He died one year after my parents’ wedding, before I was born.

A few days before my birth Mother had a dream: the deceased Uncle Neukh was complaining, ‘Now, when I’m dead, no one even thinks of remembering me…’ Having woken up, Mother decided to name her future baby in honor of her uncle. A girl was born – and was given the name Nikhama. Another thing I remember from my mother’s words is that when the bride was supposed to weep at a certain moment under the chuppah, showing her grief due to parting with her parents’ home, Mother couldn’t help bursting out laughing…

After their marriage my parents lived with my paternal grandfather and grandmother, and in 1929 they received a room in the apartment with a shared kitchen 8, in an old wooden two-storied house which has survived until now. It is there that I was born.

From 1941 to 1945 Daddy was at war 9. He served in the engineering troops and finished the war in the rank of captain in Vienna. Daddy frequently told me, that he was amazed by the internationalism of soldiers and officers at war, there was not a trace of anti-Semitism there. He served with the 50th Army, formed in Bryansk, which freed the city of Bryansk in September 1943.

After the end of the war he began to work as the chief accountant of a regional trade department. Later he got a job in the State Bank: the post of head of the crediting department for the local industries in Bryansk. In 1963 he retired. Father possessed a good knowledge of Hebrew and being retired frequently read old religious books, visited the prayer house, and tried to observe Saturday and celebrate the Jewish holidays. He died in Bryansk in 1986.

All of them, all of my father’s siblings, certainly, were brought up in a religious atmosphere in their families, but further on, had a poor connection with the tradition. Daddy’s elder sister Hana was Grandfather’s daughter from the first marriage. She lived somewhere in Bryansk district and traded various small articles in her booth. Her granddaughter’s family now lives in Israel, but we, unfortunately, don’t keep in touch.

Father’s elder brother’s name was Eine. He made hats and caps all his life and helped to support all our family with his earnings. His two sons, Veniamin and Faivel, have always lived in Bryansk. Faivel died about ten years ago, and Veniamin is in advanced years now and lives with his children and grandchildren in Bryansk.

Father’s sister Sora-Mere had a most interesting destiny. She married her cousin named Isaak and for some reason left to live in Kharbin [Far East, today China]. I remember, how Aunt Sora-Mere sent me a dress of unusual beauty, which fit me perfectly, though she didn’t know my size. In the 1930s, together with her husband and son Mosya, she immigrated to Australia. They regularly wrote us from Australia after the war and even sent us parcels, although via Czechoslovakia.

I know that Mosya kept a bookshop there in the 1950s-1960s, and they lived in a large two-storied house. In 1952 a son, Philip, was born to Mosya, whose bar mitzvah they widely celebrated in 1965 in one of the Australian synagogues. They even sent us a photo of that event. Now, unfortunately, I don’t correspond with them, but I don’t think my Aunt Sora-Mere or Uncle Isaak are still alive. Someone from my relatives informed me, that one of Philip’s sons is now studying in Israel, at the Tel Aviv University.

Father’s brother Iosif was always seriously ill. I don’t remember what his occupation was. His wife’s name was Haya-Dveira. He was unable to return from evacuation, and Haya-Dveira married a Zhytomyr [today Ukraine] Jew after the war. Father’s sister Pesya was always single and was involved in trade in Bryansk. As far as I remember she lived together with her sister Genya and that sister’s husband Samuil Kats. Another sister, Chasya, lived in Moscow for a long time before the war and was the secretary to Lazar Kaganovich 10. There she married Abram Iosifovich Khazanov, who was killed at the front.

Their son Mark Khazanov lives in Bryansk now with his sons and grandchildren. Father’s sister Fruma-Riva died in the course of a pogrom soon after the revolution, but her husband Mark Getmansky managed to escape and rescued their two daughters, Zhenya [Eugenia] and Chasya. Zhenya later married a Russian boy, and they had a son. But in the 1970s she died soon after the death of her son. Chasya Markovna lives in Bryansk with her children and grandsons.

My mum, Gita Moiseevna Goz, was born in Radul, Kiev province, in 1903. She was one of four children in the family [Gita, Semen, Zalman, Aron]. Having moved to Bryansk with her parents after the revolution, she finished accounting courses, and worked as a bookkeeper in one company, but after my birth in 1929, Mother became a housewife and was taking care of my education. In my childhood I somehow made friends only with non-Jewish children, and I’ve never felt any anti-Semitism. My acquaintance with the Jewish traditions was going on indirectly, only through communication with my grandfathers and grandmothers. I heard nothing of Zionism when I was a girl: my father’s Zionist past had always been thoroughly concealed from me. I spent the biggest part of my childhood in evacuation and it is of this period that I mostly have recollections.

During the war Mum and I were evacuated first to Stalingrad, then to Ust-Katav in Chelyabinsk region. We sailed down the Volga from Stalingrad to Ust-Katav for a whole month. We headed for this town because it was there that Father’s elder brother Eine lived with his family. I can clearly remember that his son Pavel [Faivel] was involved in very exhausting physical labor at the local military plant. He used to come home early in the morning, very pale, went to sleep, and in a few hours he was picked up by his co-workers to go to work again.

Later we moved to the town of Yutazy, Tartar Soviet Republic. Being in evacuation, Mum worked in a state farm 11 organized by the wives of officers who were at the front. I remember the Tartar family, with who we lived. For many years after that I retained the opinion, that all Tartars were terrible anti-Semitists.

The situation was very tense there and in fall 1943, immediately after the liberation of Bryansk we returned home. Our house was in the city center and remained intact, since it accommodated some German establishment during the occupation. Our apartment, too, didn’t suffer, although neither our furniture, nor home utensils survived. Nearby our home there was the central cemetery, and after the war they set up a park and a stadium there. Soon I resumed going to school, which I finished in 1948.

In 1948 I entered the Moscow Regional Pedagogical Institute named after Krupskaya, the French language department, and graduated from it in 1952. In 1953 I continued training in the same institute, but in the correspondence department of German language. At the same time I was teaching French at School № 2 12 in Bryansk. In 1965 I was invited to teach German and French to the students of Bryansk Institute of Transportation and Mechanical Engineering. In that institute I worked up until my retirement in 1984.

Mum was always saying, ‘Everyone in the Goz family dies at the age of 76.’ And indeed, Grandma Ita Markovna and all her children, except for her son, who perished at the front, died at 76. Mum was not an exception: she died in Bryansk in 1979, when she was 76.

My mother’s elder brother, Semen Moiseevich Goz, lived with his family in Radul before the war and worked as a pharmacist. In his youth he was a soldier in the Imperial Army, but during the revolution his regiment took the Bolshevik side 13, and Semen with his unit took part in the storm of the Winter Palace [residence of the Russian tsars]. After the war he moved to Bryansk and worked as the manager of the central drugstore in town. He had no family. Semen Moiseevich died in Bryansk in the 1970s at the age of 76.

Mother’s brother Zalman also lived in Radul before the war and worked in a drugstore. During the war he died at the front. His son [Abram] moved to Bryansk after the war, and in the middle of 1990s he left for the USA, Manhattan, with his family.

Another brother of my mum, Aron Goz-Livshits, was brought up by the childless sister of my grandmother, Feiga, who gave him her surname.

Since 1996 I began to attend to the Bryansk Jewish Charitable Centre ‘Hesed Tikva’ 14 and soon became a volunteer. I’m still doing volunteer work.

• Glossary:

Halina Najduchowska
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Joanna Fikus
Date of Interview: June 2005

Mrs. Halina Najduchowska is 80 years old; she is a retired sociologist. She comes from a family of assimilated Jews from Lodz.

Our conversation took place in Mrs. Najduchowska’s apartment, which is situated in a pre-war building in the Warsaw district of Mokotow. The place of honor among her many books is reserved for two family photographs. 

Mrs. Najduchowska remembers her childhood in detail, and enjoys talking about it.

As she said herself, our interview was quite an emotional experience for her – many memories came back, both good ones and bad ones.

• My family background
• My siblings
• Growing up
• In the ghetto
• In concentration and labor camps
• After the war
• Later life
• Glossary

• My family background

I know nothing about my grandparents and great-grandparents. Unfortunately, none of my grandparents, either from my mother’s or from my father’s side, were alive by the time I was born. I do know that one of my grandfathers was named Daniel, and I suspect it must have been my mother’s father, because there was a tradition of naming boys Daniel in that family.

My mother’s family comes from Lodz. Mother’s name was Maria Biber. She was born on 25th March 1899 in Lodz. She had lots of siblings: three sisters and two brothers: Sala, Hela, Ruta, Leon and Motek. There were six children altogether. I knew all my aunts, except Ruta, and uncles. My mother’s father died young and her mother died in 1919. The children were left on their own.

The oldest sister [of my mother] was already a married woman at that time. I don’t know her full name, we called her Auntie Sala. She lived in Lask. Her husband’s name was Lajb Borensztajn. After Grandma’s death, she took the youngest sister, Hela, to live with her, and my mother was left with the two younger brothers, Leon and Motek, and with Ruta. My mother was taking care of them, but it did not last too long. She soon got married.

My mother supported herself and her brothers by giving private lessons, they were probably Polish lessons. She would go to her pupils’ homes. By the standards of those days, my mother was quite an educated person – she had completed the equivalent of today’s gymnasium. She had graduated from a school in Lodz. She did the ‘small finals’ [semi-final exams held in the middle high-school years]. She knew Polish, Russian and German – she had probably studied these languages at school.

In the United States there lived an aunt of my mother’s, who had several children. She decided that since there were all these orphans left behind, she would take one of the children to live with her. And my mother was supposed to be the one to go. But she wrote to her aunt saying that she couldn’t go to the States, because she had already given her word to a man [her future husband] and so she couldn’t do it. As a result, it was my mother’s younger sister Ruta who went to the USA in 1919.

My mother’s brother Motek was crippled. As far as I know, when he was just a baby, less than a year old, he fell, during a bath I think, and so one of his legs was shorter than the other. I don’t know exactly what the problem was, but in any case he was crippled and it was very visible.

Motek got married at the beginning of the 1930s. His wife’s name was Helena, and their daughter was called Anulka. Helena was a seamstress, she adjusted dresses for people, and he was a caretaker. They lived in a basement room opposite the park in the area close to the university.

My father’s family came from a small town whose name I don’t remember, somewhere in the German sector. [Editor’s note: After 1795 the Polish state ceased to exist, and was split among three neighbors: Russia, Austria and Prussia. Prussia took over the western and northern part of Poland which was henceforth known as the Prussian or German sector. Poland regained its independence in 1918.]

My father’s name was Beniamin Szwarc and he was 13 years older than my mother, which means he was born in 1886. However, I don’t know the day or the month. Papa was a small child when his family moved to Lodz. My grandpa died when I was just a few months old [1926] and Grandma had died before then.

My father had siblings: two sisters, who were much older than he, then a younger sister, and a brother; their names were Hasura, which might have been short for Hanna Sura, Ita and Lola. I don’t remember the brother’s name. I believe my father was the youngest. I don’t know anything about the brother; he might have been around the same age as my father.

My father completed three or four classes of elementary school. When he was nine or ten years old his parents sent him off to learn to be a shoemaker. But after two to four days Father came home and said he would not go back there. He said one could learn to repair shoes in just a few days, and this was not for him. Then they tried to make him into a tailor but that didn’t work out either. Finally, he discovered electro-technology. He studied it as someone’s apprentice. This is how people learned their trades in those days.

As far back as I can remember, my father was always working as an electrician. This was quite an exclusive profession in those days, when electric light was only being developed. When someone’s lighting broke down, they would call my father and he would repair it. His entire workshop fit into a single briefcase – inside it, he had an inductor, a few screwdrivers, and some other small things. My father went to work in the same clothes he wore all day long

He didn’t make much money, we were quite poor. He would be gone all day, but he always came home for lunch at 2pm. We would all sit at the table, each person at their own place [at the table] and we would all have lunch together.

Papa did not serve in the military. In order to avoid being recruited into the Russian army, he had cut off two of his toes. [Editor’s note: men recruited into the tsarist army would spend 25 years in service – hence common cases of self-mutilation, a method of avoiding military service.] This was not a serious disability, he could walk normally, and you didn’t see it when he was walking. Quite simply, I knew about this because I saw it many times, and generally, it was a well known fact in the family.

My father’s oldest sister, Hasura, had two sons and a daughter. They were much older than me. I am not even sure if I addressed them by their first names, or more formally, as ‘cousin.’ Hasura lived in Lodz. I do not remember her husband’s name. Their sons survived in the Soviet Union. And the daughter, along with her husband, were both in Warsaw. They paid a very high price to get into Polski Hotel 1 and then they were killed.

The other sister’s name was Ita. My parents were good friends with her daughter, Sala, and the husband, whose name escapes me. They had two daughters and two sons: Hanka, Halinka, Romek and Izio. Halinka, was my age [she was born in 1925], while her sister Hanka was my sister’s age [born in 1923]. The children were also good friends with one another. The generations had gotten mixed up a bit. They were all killed in Lodz.

My father’s youngest sister was called Lola. I don’t know her last name. She lived in Berlin. When Hitler came to power 2, she emigrated to Palestine and settled in Haifa.

In 1936 or 1937 my father’s younger brother, whose name I don’t remember, took his wife and his daughter Dorka to Palestine, but after two years they came back. They probably did not like it there. Dorka was the same age as me. She died in Lodz Ghetto 3, her parents were killed in Auschwitz.

My mother and her siblings lived in a single room at 33 Wschodnia Street in Lodz. It was the second floor. Right on the other side of one of the walls of this room there was a restaurant. And on the day of my grandma’s [Mrs. Biber’s] death, my future father happened to be sitting in this restaurant, having his lunch. And he heard the terrible crying of children. He went over to the apartment to see what was going on. And he fell in love with my mother.

• My siblings

My parents’ wedding was on 11th November 1920 – they chose this date to celebrate the anniversary of Poland’s independence 4. My parents were also living at 33 Wschodnia Street, in the same building where my mother lived with her siblings. Except that their place was a floor below, on the first floor.

Wschodnia Street was inhabited by Jews. Not exclusively, of course, but it was a sort of Jewish quarter. There were some orthodox Jews living there as well. And of course you would hear Jewish [Yiddish] spoken in the street.

After my parents got married, my mother’s brothers moved in with them. At the age of 13 one of the brothers, Leon, took offence at my father. I will tell you how this happened. It was 1920 or 1921. My father was an electrician, and he wanted to teach Leon the trade. He took him as an apprentice, but Leon did not like the arrangement.

What he especially did not like was that my father would make him carry his briefcase when the two of them went over to people’s homes to repair the lighting. He was insulted by this; he told me so himself, over 40 years later. And he ran away from home.

There was no news from him until 1938. That’s when a telegram came to our house, from Spain. My mother took this telegram, read the word ‘Leon’ but then she couldn’t read any further. She asked the postman to read it to her. It turned out the telegram was in Spanish. But the postman misunderstood one word in it.

He though it said ‘dead.’ My mother fainted. And I ran downstairs to our neighbor, Rozia Bekier, a very close friend of my mother’s. She saw that it was in Spanish and told me where to go, who would translate it for me. It turned out that the telegram said: ‘Everything is fine. Leon.’

In any case, I can feel it even today – my heart pounding, as I ran over to Zawadzka Street, because that’s where this person lived who knew Spanish. And I could find this apartment even today. This is how strongly I felt about it. Soon afterwards, a letter from Leon arrived, and it turned out that he had taken part in the war in Spain 5. He needed some documents, such as his birth certificate. This is why he suddenly remembered that he had a family.

My mother was my father’s second wife. The first wife had died. I don’t know anything about her. My father had three children from that first marriage: Sala, Fela and Hersz. These children were all placed in an orphanage in Lodz – apparently, my father just couldn’t manage on his own with three children.

It wasn’t until after my parents got married that these kids returned home. And I was raised together with them. All three completed elementary school. These were schools for Jewish children, and the only difference from Polish schools was that Saturdays were free, and that Judaism was the religion taught at school.

My older stepsister was named Sala, and the younger one was Fela, and the step-brother’s name was Hersz. We were step-siblings, but this did not make any difference, we didn’t feel it that way. They addressed my mother as ‘auntie.’

The oldest sister was 14 or 15 years older than me, it must have been 1931 or 1932 when she got married. But we stayed in close touch with one another after that. She lived in Baluty [poor, working-class section of Lodz, in the northern part of the city, inhabited mostly by Jews], at 48 Limanowskiego Street, in a single room with her husband, Pinkus Wyszegrod, their son Bronek, and her husband’s mother.

I remember this room in Baluty quite well, because later [during the war] I lived there myself, with my parents. During the war, as you know, the Baluty area was the ghetto. I remember what this room looked like before the war: the door was in the middle of the wall, and on the left there was a tile stove.

Behind the stove there were two beds, where Sala and Pinkus and their small son all slept. To the right of the door there was a curtain which separated off the space used by my sister’s mother-in-law. And in the middle there was a table and some chairs. It was a sunny room. The water and the toilet were both outside, in the yard, but they did have electric light.

When I was seven years old, I was already an aunt [Bronek was born in 1932]. Sala and Pinkus had a small ice-cream shop. It was almost exactly opposite their apartment – on the other side of the road. Sala used to help her husband run this shop. An ice-cream cost 5 groszy [unit of currency, 1/100 of 1 zloty]. It was scooped up with a spoon into a wafer.

In the summer they were quite busy, but in the wintertime it all came to a standstill, maybe they managed to sell some wafers and some chocolate, but it was not a good business then. Pinkus had more free time then so he studied various languages, for instance English and Esperanto. He was very intelligent, and he just taught himself – out of books.

My other step-sister, Fela, was twelve years older than me. She was a seamstress. Before the war she fell in love with Henryk Szmulewicz, but she left him and married a Jew from an aristocratic family [meaning that they were educated and wealthy]. His name was Pawel Merenlender. People called him ‘Polek.’ I suspect that she did it partly out of snobbery. Pawel’s brother was a lawyer, and there were a few doctors in the family, too. Pawel worked in an office.

Fela gave birth to a child, but from the very beginning it suffered from epilepsy. This child died in the ghetto in 1940, when it was less than two years old. Fela stayed with her husband for another year or two after that, but she’d had enough. She left him, and went back to her first love, to Heniek. And she was with him until his death [Henryk Szmulewicz died in 2001 or 2002].

I don’t recall the date of Hersz’s birth – he is the last of my step-siblings. I know very little about him. For three years he was in the military – until 1938 or 1939. Before the war he was engaged to Guta Samsonowicz. Hersz died in Auschwitz. Guta survived, and after the war she went to Israel.

I also have a biological sister – Renata. She is two years older than me [born in 1923]. Before the war we both went to the same elementary school. She completed this school and went on to a Polish public vocational school on Narutowicza Street. She was studying book-binding. In 1939 she finished this three-year vocational school.

On Wschodnia Street we lived in a one-room apartment with a kitchen. My parents gave up renting the apartment that was left when Grandma died, because that was just one room without a kitchen.

Today I can hardly understand how we could live there. One large room and a large kitchen! I guess the size of this room must have been about 20 square meters. The view was onto the street. I think there was some wallpaper on the walls. When you entered the room, you had a stove on your left, two beds, and a laundry basket to the side of my father’s bed. Between the stove and the wall was where my father kept his tools, he had some shelves built in there.

There was a table – seven persons could sit there comfortably, so it must have been big. Around the table there were seven chairs and an arm-chair for Papa. And behind his arm-chair there was a large mirror. Opposite the door – two wardrobes. And two beautiful, huge portraits of my father and my mother were hung on the opposite wall.

In the kitchen my father made this partition – he made the kitchen smaller so that my sister Fela could have her sewing workshop. It was called ‘the little room.’ My sisters slept there, and there was a folding bed for my brother as well. The little room had a window.

So  altogether we were eight persons living in this one-room apartment: five kids, mother, father and a woman who helped run the household, before the war you would call her ‘servant girl.’ Her name was Frania, she was Polish, she stayed with us for many years, until 1935 or 1936. After that she got married.

Then there were also customers coming to see Fela. They would come into the room, of course, there was a screen, and they would get behind it to try on their dresses. I can hardly reconstruct it all today – how it was all possible.

We had to light up the tile stove and then the kitchen stove, too. It was in my lifetime, in my living memory, that a sink was installed in the kitchen. I must have been about five years old at the time. And a year or two later we had a tap. So that means that until then we didn’t even have running water in the kitchen. It’s hard to imagine today, a life like this.

Once a month my mother and Frania would spend three days washing the dirty laundry. Nobody had a separate bed just to themselves, except for my brother, and he slept in a small folding bed. I slept with Papa, my sister Renata slept with our mother, and the two older sisters shared a bed with each other. The servant girl slept on a folding bed. The kids would go to sleep before the parents. Frania used to put me to sleep by telling me stories and singing lullabies.

• Growing up

My mother took care of the household. She also read a lot – mostly literature, she read the same novels as the whole family. My father also did some reading, but he was more interested in the press. He read some Jewish paper, I think it was in Yiddish. I know for sure that my parents both knew Yiddish, but they spoke Polish with each other. I remember also that they spoke Polish with their siblings.

As for me, I don’t know Yiddish. I didn’t even understand it. I would always play with other kids in Polish. My step-sisters and step-brother did know Yiddish, I remember hearing them speak it.

In my family home we didn’t celebrate any Jewish holidays. And we never went to the temple. My mother did not have any political views. And Papa had leftist sympathies, but he didn’t have any strong political commitments either. I know that he was a sort of militant atheist, and my mother didn’t like this at all. What she resented was the militant part, the fact he would demonstrate his views openly. She thought you should not be too provocative, she wanted to avoid irritating the relatives, the aunts and uncles who would come visit us.

It was also a matter of food: my mother did not want guests to refuse to eat at our house. And my father used to say: if they don’t want to eat, they don’t need to eat. So there would not be a problem whether one can eat at our house or not because we did not keep kosher.

Thanks to Frania my mother cooked Jewish dishes. Because, to tell you the truth, it was Frania, a Polish woman, who taught my mother to cook such typical Jewish specialties as, for instance, chulent. On Fridays either my mother or Frania would take it to the bakery, where bread was baked, and on Saturday you would pick it up. Except that it wasn’t kosher. Before the war my mother did not buy kosher meat, because it was expensive, and the non-kosher type was cheaper, so she would buy that. And after the war she would even make chulent based on lard.

How do you make chulent? You take some fat, then the potatoes, barley and the meat. You bring it all to a boil, and cook it. The pot needs to be covered with paper, so the steam does not escape. Chulent has to sit in the stove for at least twelve hours.

On Friday night we often had fish, cooked the Jewish way. Carp. I can make Jewish carp, too. You slice the fish, and sprinkle salt on it. The fish has to remain in the salt for a while. Then you put it in sweetened water with sliced carrot in it, and you cook it for two hours.

Another dish was chopped liver. You slice some onions, and fry it. Then you add the liver and you grind it all. You add garlic, salt and pepper to taste. I did not know this was called Jewish caviar. At home we did not call it that. I don’t think we even knew that such a thing as caviar exists. We just said: liver paté. I don’t know any other Jewish specialties.

We had a Christmas tree every year, because Papa liked them so much. I am like that till this very day -– I can’t get rid of a Christmas tree, not until my son Piotr throws it out almost by force, after two months. Papa always bought and decorated the tree. There was no special meal on Christmas Eve. We just had the tree standing there, because it was so pretty. Before the war almost all the Christmas tree decorations were edible – little wafer houses, pieces of candy, toys, you’d eat it all afterwards. The tree was all the way to the ceiling.

I also remember goose-Monday [Christian custom which consists in pouring water on each other on Easter Monday]. But there was nothing Christian about this – it was just great fun for both kids and adults, this splashing of water in the street. So this is the sort of household we had.

My closest family was not religious. In fact, I don’t remember anyone who would really be religious. But I remember this cousin of my mother’s, Mala Bajgielman – her mother, who was very much a believer, used to come visit her from another city, and when she came, Mala would come over to borrow some plates, with a pattern different from her plates. Then she would tell her mother that one set was for meat, and the other for dairy products. As soon as her mother left, she would return the dishes to us.

I remember she did this two or three times. The point was to reassure her mother. Mala lived on Piotrkowska Street, near Zawadzka Street. She took care of the house, and her husband ran an applications-writing service.

I remember my father and my mother’s younger brother talking politics. But at the time I was too young to understand. They were basically indifferent to Zionism. The idea of leaving was simply not there. I don’t remember my parents mentioning anti-Semitism. Anyway, before the war I never experienced any of that [anti-Semitism].

My parents’ social life was with their relatives. There were almost no friends from outside of the family. Perhaps this one neighbor, Rozia Bekier, the one I told you about – my mother sent me over to her to have that telegram translated. This was a very close friend of my mother’s. And I was close with her daughter.

I think my mother and Rozia got to know each other when Rozia was living on Wschodnia Street, in her husband’s apartment. Her husband’s sister also lived there, along with her family. They took up the whole ground floor, on the right.

I was born on 30th October 1925. I can’t say what my nicest childhood memory is. It was a childhood lived in poverty. I remember that when they were collecting contributions to LOP [Air Defense League – pre-war organization which collected funds for the development of Poland’s air force], or some other cause – 5 or 10 groszy per month – then I would apologize and say I had forgotten to tell my mommy to give me the 5 or 10 groszy. This was not true, but I did not want to tell them my mother had no money.

I remember that in those days a 2 kg loaf of bread cost 50 groszy. A kilogram of sugar cost 1 zloty. It was very rarely that my mother sent me shopping, but I do remember those prices.

I don’t think it was an extraordinary childhood, but I guess it was a good one. I lived in a loving family. My father really adored my mother. I remember, one day in the ghetto, my sister and I were reading books, and Mother took a brush and started sweeping the floor. Papa got very angry with us: how can you sit around reading and let your mother do the cleaning! My mother was treated like a saint in the house. There were no riches, no special attractions, but it was a good childhood.

I remember my favorite toy – when you have just one doll then you remember it well. I think that today’s kids will not remember anything. In the USA, in the house of my cousin’s children, you could hardly enter the room of their kids, the whole place was so cluttered with toys. If I could draw, I could draw my doll perfectly even today.

My father’s sister, Lola, she lived in Berlin. Once she came to Poland, she took me to this store on Pomorska Street, and there she bought me this doll. I don’t remember how I named it. All the dolls had crooked legs, but mine had straight ones and she could stand up. She had a dress and hair made out of plastic. Sometimes, too, I would get a balloon. The balloons were filled with gas, and you had to hold on, or they would fly away.

I attended a school which seemed quite ordinary to me at the time, but now it seems strange. In Lodz, at 11 Sienkiewicza Street. I remember it very well, it was school number 131. A school for Jewish children, but it did not have only Jewish teachers. You could say that the Jewishness of this school was limited to two things:

no classes on Saturdays, and Jewish religion lessons, but nobody studied for those, because we all knew that you had a guaranteed 5 [highest grade] for behavior and for religion. I don’t remember anything from religion lessons I attended in this period.

We were being educated in the spirit of patriotism, and this really spoke to me. You had to stand up at attention in front of the eagle [White Eagle – Poland’s national symbol], and of course I remember till this day all the legion songs 6 and the Polish national anthem. We were taught all the patriotic, military and folk songs.

Pilsudski’s 7 funeral – this must have been the one pre-war event that made the strongest impression on me! The mourning was just terrible! I have no doubts that my parents felt very deeply about it as well. At school we all wore 4 stars on our berets, it was the school’s symbol. So you had to sew black crepe around the stars, and all year long we wore mourning ribbons.

They showed the film from Pilsudski’s funeral, and we would go to see it, the whole class would go to the theater to see it. I also remember the little poems I recited on Pilsudski’s name-day:

            We are both called Jozio - you and I.

            All of Poland knows you well,

            But nobody knows me yet,

            ‘Cause I am just a little kid.

But when I grow up big and strong,

            In the army with you I’ll go

We always celebrated Pilsudski’s name-day [19th March], and all these anniversaries, the Polish uprisings [In the 123 year period of Poland’s occupation there were three uprisings for independence, all failed: the Kosciuszko Uprising in 1794, the November Uprising in 1830 and the January Uprising in 1863].

My year was not yet co-educational. I believe co-education was introduced about two or three years before the war. By 1939, when I had completed seven years of elementary school, the first three classes were, I think, mixed. It sometimes happened at school that the boys would talk in Yiddish during the break – it never happened before that, with only girls around. And they would be punished for it. They would sit in ‘jail’ – it meant they were made to stay after school for an extra hour or more. This was a rule made by the school principal, a Jewish woman.

I don’t know how it worked in other schools. [Editor’s note: We have not been able to establish whether a similar ban, and punishments for its breaking, existed in other Jewish schools. In general, Jewish teachers did attach enormous importance to their students’ ability to speak proper Polish. Nonetheless, it appears that the strict ban on Yiddish was an individual idea of the principal of the school attended by Mrs. Najduchowska]. On Saturdays we had no school, instead we went on Sundays.

I can’t say which subjects I liked. I could tell you which teachers I liked. I did not enjoy school. I mean, I did not like studying, but I did like my school friends a lot. I was close with many girls. In my class there were 50 girls; four of them survived. Ewa Parzeczewska lives in Canada; Jadzia Rubinstein and Hanka Fiszman live in Israel, and I am the fourth.

My sister and I – neither of us was a good student. I always judged myself like this: that I was dull,  stupid... But now I sometimes think it was not so much a question of my stupidity, but rather of those conditions.

There was no place to do homework. I asked my sister: how did we do our homework? At this time the older sister [Fela] was still living with us, running that dress-making business. Renata told me that we often did our homework on the window sill. The clients would come, and they would sit at the table. If I sat at the table with strangers, who were all talking, there was simply no way to do homework properly, [though] mother did make sure we finished all our lessons.

The worst nightmare of my childhood were the dictations, that my mother did for us. I made terrible spelling errors. Perhaps today this would be accepted as dyslexia. For three months, from October till December, I studied German at Jaszynska’s Gymnasium. They taught us to write in gothic script, but I would go to my mother, asking her to read what I myself had written, because I couldn’t make it out.

So after school we had to do our homework, and later I would see my girl-friends. These were very close friendships, we were always visiting each other, and there was no need to call beforehand, because there were no phones. I would walk over to their homes on my own; we lived very close to each other. I did not play outside the building with kids from my block. I don’t know why. Maybe because for such a long time there had been a sewer there?

I was good friends with my cousin Halinka. And with Dorka, the daughter of my father’s younger brother, who had been to Palestine and then came back. And in our house there was this girl named Felunia, she was my age, a class above me. And our neighbor from the same floor, Stas Fajflowicz. His father was a doctor.

Stas and I used to draw and paint together, and we tried to write. His family later moved to a better house in a better part of the city. I was invited to his birthday and this was the first time I’d ever seen a radio, which talked real loud all by itself. I was very impressed

Then, on the second floor there lived this boy; I was friendly with. His father was a traveling salesman. They lived in a single room, like us, and later they moved to Koscielny Square. These were all kids from assimilated families. [According to Mrs. Najduchowska, assimilation meant departing from visible attributes of Jewishness, such as traditional clothing, kosher cooking, celebrating Jewish holidays.

In fact, assimilation is the emancipation of Jews, their opening up to external influence and their participation in non-Jewish social life. It appears that the difference between the two definitions pertains to the level of integration into Polish society. The fact of abandoning the Jewish way of life did not, in many cases, lead to a tighter bond with the Polish world].

I did not play with Polish children. I had Jewish friends, we visited each other in our homes. With the girls we mostly played with our dolls. We would also play ball, and if someone had a bicycle, they would lend it to the others. A bicycle was the great dream of my childhood.

On Sunday afternoons I went to church with [our housekeeper] Frania. I did everything that the others did. I don’t know whether I liked going there. I think it was all the same to me. I went because Frania wanted to take part in mass. After church Frania used to take me over to my friend’s house, on Koscielny Square.

From time to time school outings were organized to the cinema. And sometimes I would get 25 groszy for a movie. I don’t know how many times I went on my own. I did go a few times with school. I even remember some of the movies. But I also went with my girl-friends a few times, to different cinemas. I did not have any favorite film stars. You would have to go to the movies more often than I did, to have your own favorites.

Once I went to a play, to a children’s theater. My sister, the seamstress, must have gotten tickets from one of her clients. I don’t remember where the theater was located. I remember that all the children were supposed to point at something with their fingers and repeat some words.

My two aunts lived in Lask [town located 35 km south-west of Lodz]. I spent many Spring breaks, I mean Easter breaks, at my older aunt’s place there. I would stay for two weeks each time. I think once I went with Renata, but a few times I went on my own. My parents would put me on the train, and then my aunt, Sala, would pick me up in Lask. They lived right opposite her husband’s mother, at Tylna Street 9.

The seder table was always set and Uncle Leib’s mother came over and then supper would begin. My uncle read some things, or said some things. After half an hour they would tell his mother she was old now and had better go lie down. As soon as she was gone, the seder was over. They only did it [the seder] for her sake.

I don’t know whether they celebrated any other holidays. It was a small town and you could not really make it known to outsiders that you were not a believer. I know that my uncle used to go to the synagogue on Fridays, I remember this, but I don’t know if they were religious.

Sala had a bedroom, a dining-room and a kitchen. There were two beds in the bedroom, on the left there was their son’s bed.

The other aunt’s name was Hela. They married her off using some matchmakers. Her husband made men’s shirts, or maybe it was long underwear. On Fridays he would go to the market and sell what he had made during the week. They had a daughter named Anulka, born two or three years before the war. I used to go to their apartment in Lask, they lived in the main square. You walked through a small kitchen into the room. There were two beds to the sides, and as you entered the room you faced the table.

Beside these periods spent in Lask, at Aunt Sala’s, we also went for vacation to Teodory, 7 kilometers from Lask [village located 40 km from Lodz]. The last year there was no money at all for vacation. Three years in a row we went to Wisniowa Gora [summer resort, 10 km east of Lodz, popular with Jews in the inter-war period], because they built a swimming pool there and a dance hall, and they organized parties and dances there.

Today you would call it a club. My father worked at setting up electricity there. And we received – I think it was free of charge – an apartment to stay in, from the owners who were building it. And we lived there [through the vacations] in two or three consecutive years. My mother, my sister and myself – whereas my father only came for the weekends.

The next two or three summers we also spent in Wisniowa Gora but in a different house, these were summer rentals. My mother cooked and we ate at home. We played with other girls, the daughters of people who came there for vacations. We played ball, volleyball. These girls had a bicycle, so I rode a bicycle, too. I was never bored.

There is no river in Wisniowa Gora. It was a typical Jewish summer resort. I suspect that it was only Jews that went there, to spend two or three months each summer. There were no real peasants there, working in the fields, the sort you might see in Teodory. That was a real village.

The [financial] situation [of our family] deteriorated during the last two years before the war. My father’s relatives talked him into setting up a shop with electro-technical goods. A lot of money was spent on this – money we did not have. It was borrowed money, and it had to be paid back. The shop was on 11 Listopada Street. My mother helped Papa in the shop. Papa prepared the goods, such as lamps, and my mother sold them. By then, of course, we no longer had any domestic help.

I completed elementary school in 1939. After the summer vacation I was supposed to go over to that sister who was a seamstress [to learn the trade]. I was supposed to learn dressmaking. But war was coming. My parents didn’t believe it would break out; they did not want to leave. I think in Lodz there was really no chance to hide. Besides, nobody knew that the ghetto would be as closed as it later was.

I remember these conversations from the beginning of the war. People would suggest that we all go to the Soviet Union. My father would always say to this: here are my beds, here is my house, I’m not going anywhere. The idea of leaving was just never considered.

• In the ghetto

In February 1940 we moved to the ghetto with my parents and my sister. We took what we were able to pack. There was no way to take the shop with us. You moved things on sleighs, in suitcases, in bags. Over and over again we walked to my older step-sister Sala’s place [to Baluty]. Her mother-in-law was no longer alive by then. My sister Fela and her husband Pawel and their son took over the other room.

Also, by that time Sala and Pinkus did not have the ice-cream shop any more. Nobody made ice-cream, there was nothing to make it from. Later they moved away from Limanowskiego Street, because Pinkus got the position of a caretaker in another building.

My father didn’t have his shop any more. It functioned for another two or three months after the Germans came, but it had to be closed down before we moved to the ghetto. Papa worked in a ‘resort’ [German workshop with forced labor in Lodz ghetto] as an electrician. Mother didn’t work as long as she could avoid it, but later she too worked in one of the resorts. You had to work – maybe it was because this is how you got the food stamps?

The ghetto streets did not look the way they did in the Warsaw ghetto8 – you can see in the films that they had dead bodies lying in the streets. I think that [in the Lodz ghetto] the organization was better. Everyone had to work, and everyone got stamps for food rations. A lot of people did die of hunger, but you could also survive. I suppose it depends on one’s condition.

I did not feel fear. Only once, during the ‘great szpera’ 9. I was in the hospital then, I had jaundice. Suddenly, one morning, we heard they were removing people from two hospitals on Lagiewnicka Street. It was clear they were taking people away. A panic broke out. I was a person who calmed others down. It wasn’t clear where they were taking people, but in any case it meant parting with your family.

My mother, my father and my sister were standing in the street, like many other families of people who were in the hospital. I managed to jump out of a window on the ground floor. I wasn’t the only one, many others did the same thing. We knew by then that one hospital was already being emptied out, and that they would do the same with ours, so all those who could were running away. My parents caught me and we were walking home.

I remember precisely that before the bridge on Limanowskiego Street, we were stopped by the doctor, the one who was treating me, Doctor Nekricz. He took my mother aside and said something to her. It turned out that the Germans were doing a head-count at the hospital. Whenever they found a patient was missing, they went to their home and dragged this person out. So the doctor told my mother not to take me home, but to leave me with some friends or relatives.

We went to the family of the sister of our uncle from Lask. She also had a daughter my age, I played with her whenever we were in Lask. So my mother asked them to please keep me at their place for just a few days. She hoped that in a few days it would blow over. But they refused. Quite simply, they were afraid. I always remember this when people speak critically about those Polish families that refused to give shelter to Jews. Here we had a Jewish family, close relatives, and they didn’t want to give me shelter.

Then my sister took me over to her friend and I spent a week there. It turned out that nobody [no Germans] had come to get me [at our place]. Later the whole thing became clear. What happened was that at the same hospital, in the very next room, there was another Halina Szwarc, the daughter of one of the nurses. The nurse signed her out of the hospital with the false date before the ‘szpera.’ But by mistake, she signed me out instead of her daughter.

The Germans came to get her [this other Halina Szwarc] in her home, and they took her away. People told us later that she was screaming – instead of the right Halina, they are taking the wrong one! But she managed to get the daughter out of the bus they had put her on. I remember that the buses were used to take sick people to the train station.

When the war ended, I was in Mauthausen 10 and I heard there the name Halina Szwarc. I hope she survived. I don’t know how I could manage in life, knowing that someone else was killed in my place.

The ‘szpera’ went on for at least two weeks. People were taken into the yard, and they checked if all the rooms are empty. Germans stood there together with Jewish policemen, saying, ‘rechts’ and ‘links.’ I had jaundice, which I had caught in the hospital. I remember my father painting me. He would paint my cheeks red, so they would not see how yellow I was. But it didn’t help.

They made me go to the bad side [of people who were designated for the transport]. At some point my mother caught on to what was going on and she signaled to me that there was a way at the back, behind the Germans, where you could slip over to the good side. So it was the second time I had saved my life.

A great number of people were taken out of the ghetto that day. Mostly [they were taking] children, almost all of them. After such an intense experience, people would react by eating up all they had stored up at home. My mother watched carefully that we didn’t eat on one day what we had put away for the next. I remember our neighbors, who somehow managed to save their child that day, because they hid it somewhere. A few hours later they told us they had eaten all the food they had stored for the following week.

My step-brother Hersz was on the battlefront in 1939, and he ended up in a prisoner-of-war camp. I don’t know where this camp was. I believe he came to the ghetto in 1940, but I don’t know how he managed to get in. In 1941 he married this girl, Guta Samsonowicz, they were in love before the war. I remember that the wedding took place in the rabbi’s home. There were chairs, but no chuppah. [Mrs. Najduchowska cannot not remember any more details].

Frania was not able to stay in touch with us. The ghetto was very tightly closed. You couldn’t enter and you couldn’t leave. Till this day I sometimes wonder how my brother managed to get into the ghetto [after he escaped from the camp, when the ghetto was already closed]. But it must have been 1940 and maybe in this period it was still possible to get through.

During the war both my sister and I belonged to the Young Leftist Organization 11 in the Lodz ghetto. Even today I can’t tell exactly how I got involved in it. The organization reached me somehow, through friends. They had so called ‘loose fives,’ for candidates who wanted to join, and after that you were a full member. I belonged to the youth section.

Our meetings were held in private apartments. We studied Marxism-Leninism, and besides we had a very well-stocked library. We copied the books in longhand. Many large volumes were copied in this way, so there would be enough for everyone. Thanks to this there were many books. So I did not waste my time.

What did I learn from Marxism-Leninism? – I might have different views about it today, but it was certainly a very meaningful and important thing – the very fact that we studied, that we did all this reading and thinking. There were debates on various scientific topics. The [Marxist] interpretation was always provided – I suspect that I would disagree with many things today, nonetheless I still value that whole experience very highly.

We talked exclusively in Polish. The young people met in their fives, but there were also broader meetings. There was one more beautiful thing about this organization: we all had those tiny food rations, but each of us gave a spoon of sugar and a teaspoon of flour for those in greater need, and for the ill. It was literally taking food away from your mouth.

[In the organization] we all followed the slogan ‘WS - work slowly’ [Polish: ‘PP – Pracuj powoli’]. You were working for the Germans, so it made sense to work slowly. I worked at a sewing resort – my sister also worked there – and I was miserable. I know it’s a sin to talk like that – but if it were not for the war, I would be a seamstress today. I feel sick at the very sight of a needle, even today.

Later I worked in a metals factory, it was named the ‘metal resort.’ My first job was at a milling machine, then I operated a turning machine. This was quite unusual in those days, for a girl to be working in such a place, so I could afford to play games – I would show the men who were working there what I have made, I would boast to them what good job it was.

And then I’d put it under the cutter again, take off another millimeter, and it was ruined. Of course, they forgave me as a girl, how could a girl know how to do such things? I also tried to communicate with my co-workers in Yiddish, but that didn’t work. They began to laugh at me and I had to back out of it.

The population of the part of the ghetto where we lived was being displaced [the ghettos were being made smaller]. We moved into the factory – my father, my mother, Felka, Renata, and myself. We stayed in the ghetto until the very end, the last day. Until 1944 [the last transports from the Lodz ghetto took place in late August 1944].

I remember that people had these little plots of land where they grew something [vegetables] to eat. Papa and I crossed over to the other side illegally. If we had been caught at that point, immediately [we would have been sent] to hell [to the camp]. We picked some beets.

• In concentration and work camps

Then there was the transport to Auschwitz. We were all taken with the last transport [August 1944]. We were all taken to Auschwitz: Mother, Papa, Renata, Felka along with her husband and her son, Sala and her family. Once we got there, we were all separated. All the men go to one side, then go the children. My sister went with Bronek; she didn’t want to leave the child. Papa, as far as I know, went straight to the gas.

I was left with Mother, Renia and Felka. We survived the war together – it was a completely exceptional situation that we were not separated and that we survived. We only spent one day in Auschwitz. They took us off to Freiberg [the Freiberg camp was located in Chemnitz Kreis in Saxony, Germany]. There was a metals factory there and this is where we worked.

They had an exceptionally decent ‘Unterscharführer,’ that is camp commander. Unfortunately, the Americans killed him. On 14th April 1945 they evacuated us from Freiberg to Mauthausen and unfortunately the camp commander was killed. During the wartime I thought of him as a terrible bastard. But after the war, when I found out how things were in other camps, I thought that he was an exceptionally decent man. This was in 1944-45, I don’t know how he behaved in 1941 or 1942 or 1943.

In any case, he saved three pregnant women. He was supposed to send pregnant women to Auschwitz, but he hid them when there was some sort of inspection. These three children were born, and they all survived the war. I knew about it all the time, but we were living in dreadful conditions, eating in dreadful conditions. I didn’t know at the time that this [his hiding these women and thus saving their lives] was something extraordinary.

The Americans came to Mauthausen on 5th May, but we were not released until July. People did not return home from Mauthausen right away, because the Americans wouldn’t allow it. My mother, Felka and I returned in the first Polish transport, early in July [1945]. My sister [Renata] returned earlier, she was smuggled out of the camp by some Czechs. The Czechs stole away over a dozen people, because they were allowed to go home.

• After the war

We were kept locked up in there for another month. I was in a hospital then. I was very weak, there were problems with my heart. I was not allowed to leave the camp site. I would like to know myself why they forbade us to go outside the camp.

The Americans were spreading propaganda through the radio, claiming that they had sent messengers to Poland, to find out what was going on there. And that nobody is coming back. So they suppose that war is still going on over there, and that is why they won’t let us go.

Of course all of this was pure lies, they knew very well what was going on in Poland. They were creating a Polish Army somewhere in the west of Germany. They were encouraging men to go there. We were there as Jews, but they wouldn’t let anybody out – neither Jews, nor Poles.

It never occurred to us that we might not return to Poland. This was my homeland! I had been brought up to think in this way. I never heard at home that I was Jewish. Even today I find it hard to say that about myself. I always knew that I was a Polish-woman whose creed happens to be Judaism, except that my family were not believers.

My sister – the one who returned home a month before we did – went to the Lodz party committee. They had lots of empty apartments and she got one. Apparently, she had several to choose from, but all of the apartments were empty, without furniture. But on Strzelcow Kaniowskich Street, near the Kaliski train station, there was this one room. It wasn’t large, but there was furniture, sheets, towels, dishes, everything you need.

Olga Baden had lived there during the war. She left behind an album with photos of various SS-men. So my sister chose this one room and this is where we lived for a while.

The keys were always left with the caretaker, so when someone returned from camp and asked about us, the caretaker knew he should give them the keys. We would come home and find people there, waiting. This was my ‘largest’ apartment ever – in the sense that there was room for everyone there.

The whole floor was covered with bedding, anyone who needed to stay, was welcome. Friends from the wartime, and from before the war, they would return, ask around, find out we were living there and come over. They could stay until they got something of their own.

After the war we found out that my mother’s two sisters, and their entire families, were killed in Lask. Apparently, they took all the Jews to the cemetery, and shot them. [In 1942 4,000 Jews were taken out of the Lask ghetto: 3,500 were taken to the camp in Chelm on the Ner River, and 760 persons were taken to the Lodz ghetto]. Their children were also killed: nephew Daniel, Sala’s son and Anka, Hela’s daughter.

My mother’s brother, Motek, was killed during the war, along with his wife Hela, and their daughter, Anulka. They were taken out of the Lodz ghetto. My step-sister, Sala, died in Auschwitz with her child. They separated the children. The mothers went with their children. Her husband Pinkus survived Auschwitz, I saw him in 1964 in the United States.

My step-brother Hersz was taken to Auschwitz and died in one of the camps after Auschwitz was evacuated. His wife Guta survived, and after the war she emigrated to Israel. She completely cut her ties with our family. Evidently, she wanted to free herself of the past.

The other step-sister, Fela, survived the war. After the war, she married Henryk, when she was already pregnant. She gave birth to two children and in 1957 she left for Israel. Her son Teodor is in Australia, and her daughter lives in Israel. In Poland her name was Ryszarda, but in Israel she is called Ruth. Both the son and the daughter have their own families. Fela is no longer alive.

My mother’s brother, Leon, went to England, leaving Spain after the civil war, and he was in the Polish army 12. He married an Irishwoman, Minnie, and they had a son, another Daniel. After the war they settled in the USA, in California, in Los Angeles. He worked as a salesman in a shoe-store. He was 55 when he quit that job due to the conflict with the shop owner.

I remember that Aunt Ruth thought he had gone mad, because at his age he would never find another job. I remember that Mother told this story when she returned to Poland, and nobody could understand. He never came back to Poland again. They were not doing very well. And besides, Los Angeles is a bit further [from Poland] than New Jersey, [which is where Ruta lived]. After his wife’s death he moved to Israel and he died over there in the 1980s.

My mother’s third sister, Ruta, also survived the war, because in 1919 she had gone off to the United States. There she married Aba Fejtlowitz. They had two sons, Daniel and Harvey. My mother went to the States in 1959 – she saw her sister Ruta for the first time in 40 years then.

After that Aunt Ruta came to visit us a few times. She liked it in Poland very much. She especially enjoyed taking trams – she was very pleased that when she got on a tram, people would give up their seats for her. She did not know this custom from the States. She used to bring toilet paper with her [she probably thought Poland was terribly backwards and there isn’t enough toilet paper]. Aunt Ruta died in 1981, during martial law 13.

In 1959 my mother also met with her brother, Leon. In 1964 I had a scholarship to the States and I got to know them then. Our relations were very warm. I stayed with Aunt Ruta’s son [in New Jersey] for four and a half months. I didn’t notice them celebrating any Jewish holidays. Uncle Leon also did not know Jewish religion or Jewish customs.

When I was in the States, his son, Daniel, was 18 years old and graduating from high school. He became very religious. I was in their home for Passover and Daniel was making sure that everything was kosher, he did the whole seder celebration, because his father wouldn’t know how. His mother was getting very upset that he kept controlling her.

Later Daniel married a minister’s daughter. They brought their children up in such a way, that they could all decide on their own what they want to be: Jewish or Protestant. They celebrate the holidays of both traditions.

The first thing I did after the war was to join ZWM [Fighting Youth Union] 14 and to sign up for school. I went to school half-legally. I wanted to join straight away the fourth year of gymnasium, although I had only completed elementary school. I thought there was no point for me, at my age, to start with first year students.

One of my friends told me about this teacher who had taught in a gymnasium before the war, and whose ambition it was to be able to recognize all her former students. I went to see her. She pretended to recognize me immediately, claimed to remember me, she said I sat at the third table by the window. Of course, I confirmed that indeed this is where I used to sit and I got the permit.

I went to school, the fourth year, and for half a year I couldn’t work because I was catching up all those missing years. I did complete that fourth year of gymnasium then, and without any 3s [C’s]. For that matter, I didn’t have that many 5s [A’s] either. But I decided that this school does not satisfy my ambitions, and I went to one that did. Before the war this was a boy’s school named after Pilsudski, and after the war they turned it into the 3rd City Gymnasium on Sienkiewicza Street. This is where I completed two years of high school, while working full time at the ZWM.

I passed my final exams and enrolled in the university, the physics faculty. I wanted to study electricity, but it turned out to be too difficult, after all, to both work and study electrical engineering, so I finally opted for physics, because I thought it would be easier. But after the first semester, I found I couldn’t manage that either, even though my friends were helping me.

In Lodz there was a faculty of social pedagogy, and I began to study there. I kept at it for a year and a half, and then I moved to Warsaw, to take a position in the main headquarters of ZMP [Union of Polish Youth] 15. I moved to Warsaw on 1st March 1949. I lived at Unii Lubelskiej Square.

It took me until 1953 to bring my mother from Lodz, I only did that when I got a decent apartment, in Muranow district, on Nowolipie Street. That was also when I took [from Lodz] the remaining books and a few pieces of furniture. In Warsaw there was no pedagogy faculty, so I switched to sociology. For one month, this was in October 1955, I worked in the Department of Party History, but I quickly quit this job.

[After our return from the camp] my mother did not work. She had a job from 1954 to 1957 at ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza’ [‘Book and Knowledge’ publishing house] as a proofreader. After the political changes of 1956 16 they reduced the staff. My mother could have tried to struggle against this, she was close to retirement age, but we didn’t want it to seem like we cared so much about her getting her pension. She just stopped working and began taking care of the house.

In 1955 sociology was reactivated. I got a job at the Institute of Philosophy and Sociology, at the Polish Academy of Science. The head of my section was Julian Hochfeld [1911 – 1966, sociologist, socialist activist]. I did research on the process of disintegration of the ZMP structure. Later I did studies in the sociology of industry.

In 1956 we were doing our research in Zeran. I was a participant of all the changes taking place in Zeran at the time. Leszek Gozdzik [b. 1931, political activist at the Zeran car factory in Warsaw; leader of Zeran’s workers during the anticommunist protests of 1956], the leader of the workers, was in constant touch with us.

I was supposed to go to Zeran in the evening on the day of the famous Plenum of the Central Committee. [In October 1956 the Plenum session of the Central Committee (KC) of the communist party (PZPR) was held under pressure of workers’ protests, and with the threat of Soviet military intervention looming in the background. Wladyslaw Gomulka was elected for the position of the First Secretary of the Central Committee]. I stood in the hallway of our apartment, all dressed and ready to go, when my husband got a call – they said, if you want your wife to stay alive, you’d better keep her safe at home. I did not take this to heart and I went to Zeran anyway.

Later I went to work at SGPiS [Main School of Planning and Statistics – school of economics in Warsaw]. I really enjoyed teaching students. I gave lectures in sociology. In 1968 they decided I was unfit for academic work. The secret services sent in this list of people who were to be kicked out from work at SGPiS. But they had to motivate it somehow.

So they wrote that I do not seem promising in terms of my scientific research. Despite the fact that two or three months earlier I had received a post-doc scholarship, because I was finishing up my post-doctoral project. Over 60 persons were fired from SGPiS then.

It was a great tragedy for me, but my students behaved beautifully. I had a group in my MA seminar, twelve students, who sometimes visited me at home. When I told them I had been let go, one of them called to ask if he can come over. I said yes. That afternoon the bell rings, I open the door and there is line of twelve students, each of them holding flowers. This spontaneous gesture of solidarity coming from them really helped me live through the tragedy [of being fired due to Jewish roots].

Fortunately, I had good friends, who found me a job at the Institute of Politics and Scientific Research and Higher Education. But I kept up my fight to return to SGPiS, [despite the fact that] the Party organization accused me of organizing an illegal student demonstration, which was not true. A colleague warned me, however, that they might hire me again at SGPiS, and then throw me out [due to changing political atmosphere]. So I arranged to be [officially] hired again, [but did not return to work] and then resigned of my own free will.

I worked at the Institute until it was dissolved, which was in 1991 I believe. I mean it wasn’t totally dissolved, because it still exists, but there used to be 100 persons employed there, and now there are only ten left. Since I was past retirement age at the time, the new director said I might take some contracts from them, but I should not hold up a full time position. So I retired.

For a short period of time after the war, my sister worked at a post-office in Lodz. She cheated about her school years the way I did, except that in her case it was a lie of greater scope. She had finished only a vocational school. And she enrolled at the university without ever admitting that she was not a high school graduate. She told them her school documents were lost. They said she must take the finals. She would have passed them in the humanities, no problem. I don’t know, however, how it would have been with math and science.

When she was in her second year of studies she became an assistant of Ossowski, who valued her very highly, and she confessed to him that she did not have the finals. [Stanislaw Ossowski (1897–1963): great Polish sociologist and activist of the democratic opposition; enjoyed great respect and authority among the intelligentsia] When she went to take the exams it turned out there was a document from Ossowski, which said that there is no need for her to take the exam, because she is an excellent student. This way she avoided taking the finals!

Later she worked at Lodz University, then at the INS [Institute of Social Science] in Warsaw, and finally, until her retirement, she worked at the Institute of Sociology and Philosophy, Polish Academy of Science.

She married an Italian. She had studied Italian before the war. Someone had talked her into joining a course. After the war there was a trip to Italy, she was sent as translator, and this is how she met Vico. He fell in love with her and wanted her to move to Italy. She said this was out of the question, so he came here and they got married. And he stayed. They have a daughter who is a writer, her name is Magdalena Tulli.

• Later life

My husband’s name was Roman Franciszek Najduchowski. He was born on 21st January 1926, near Cracow. There was terrible poverty in that home. He lived in very bad conditions. This is probably why he got this bone disease, osteonecrosis. He had bone surgery 21 times. They amputated one of his legs. The disease attacked his kidneys.

We met during those two years when I was working at a ZMP school in Otwock, teaching history. My future husband was working at the economics department. Whether or not he knew much about economics then, I do not know. He had graduated from high school.

We got married in 1954 and we moved to Warsaw. My husband decided to continue studying – he graduated in economics at SGPiS. When we were about to get married I asked my mother if she would mind if my husband was not a Jew. She was surprised I would ask – of course she did not mind! She loved my husband.

In 1959 we had our son, Piotr Tomasz. When the child was born, my mother started taking care of him. She did absolutely everything about the house. She wouldn’t let me touch the kitchen: she thought that since I am working and my husband is working, it is her duty to do all the domestic chores. I appreciated this very much.

My son sometimes gets up at two in the morning every Friday, and puts the chulent in the oven, so that it’s ready for 2pm on Saturday. Then the guests can come. One does not eat chulent alone – so much work, all this getting up in the middle of the night – just to eat alone? But I don’t think he is especially attracted to Jewishness. At one point we used to make chulent for Sundays, because we worked on Saturdays. We treat it simply as a dish we make for our friends.

My mother died in 1978. Till the very end she was incredibly fit and active. She is buried in Warsaw in the Northern Cemetery. This is also where my husband’s grave is, and those of my mother’s cousins.

I was in Israel with my husband, for treatment for his disease, at the turn of 1977 and 1978. I managed to arrange for a certain sum of money from the bank. My sister Felka had left for Israel and was living there at the time, so we had a place to stay. For four months we lived in Bat Yam near Tel Aviv. We experienced great warmth from the people there.

We did lots of sight-seeing. Whenever my husband was not in the hospital, he would join me in my excursions. We were trying to see as much as possible. This was the best thing that could have happened to him before he died. He loved Israel. Unfortunately, there was nothing one could do for him, and my husband died in 1979.

I was in Israel once more, this time with my sister, at the beginning of the 1990s. We stayed with the husband of my sister Felka, but she was no longer alive by that time. Felka had died in the mid-1980s. We did a lot of sight-seeing, going from north to south. I have friends there, people I know from the organization in the Lodz ghetto. They often visit Poland. I also have a good friend from elementary school, Jadzia Rubinstein; we are in touch with each other on a regular basis.

Today I don’t work anymore, I live with my son. I miss work a lot. Life without it seems empty. Just three or four years ago I was still working. Now I read a lot. Sometimes I go to the cinema, to the theater or to a museum. Fortunately, I have many good, loving friends. I am happy as long as I have them.

• Glossary:

1 Hotel Polski: A well known German provocation. In 1943 the Germans announced that they would enable all Jews – citizens of neutral countries and territories incorporated into the Reich – to legally emigrate from Poland. They were supposed to be exchanged for German citizens who were being detained by the Allies.

Volunteers were supposed to come to Hotel Polski, which was located at Dluga Street 29, and to Hotel Royal on Chmielna Street in Warsaw. Many Jews considered this to be a possibility for saving their lives. They purchased documents of deceased persons or fake documents for huge sums of money.

In 1943 the first transport of Jews left Hotel Polski for a camp in Vittel in France. 4-5,000 people passed through Hotel Polski. Some were shot to death in the Pawiak prison in Warsaw. Most were taken to France and then to death camps in Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Approx. 10% survived.

2 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 30th January 1933 the German president swore in Adolf Hitler, the party's leader, as chancellor. On 27th 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.

3 Lodz Ghetto: It was set up in February 1940 in the former Jewish quarter on the northern outskirts of the city. 164,000 Jews from Lodz were packed together in a 4 sq. km. area. In 1941 and 1942, 38,500 more Jews were deported to the ghetto. In November 1941, 5,000 Roma were also deported to the ghetto from Burgenland province, Austria.

The Jewish self-government, led by Mordechai Rumkowsky, sought to make the ghetto as productive as possible and to put as many inmates to work as he could. But not even this could prevent overcrowding and hunger or improve the inhuman living conditions.

As a result of epidemics, shortages of fuel and food and insufficient sanitary conditions, about 43,500 people (21% of all the residents of the ghetto) died of undernourishment, cold and illness. The others were transported to death camps; only a very small number of them survived.

4 Poland’s independence, 1918: In 1918 Poland regained its independence after over 100 years under the partitions, when it was divided up between Russia, Austria and Prussia. World War I ended with the defeat of all three partitioning powers, which made the liberation of Poland possible.

On 8 January 1918 the president of the USA, Woodrow Wilson, declaimed his 14 points, the 13th of which dealt with Poland's independence. In the spring of the same year, the Triple Entente was in secret negotiations with Austria-Hungary, offering them integrity and some of Poland in exchange for parting company with their German ally, but the talks were a fiasco and in June the Entente reverted to its original demands of full independence for Poland.

In the face of the defeat of the Central Powers, on 7 October 1918 the Regency Council issued a statement to the Polish nation proclaiming its independence and the reunion of Poland. Institutions representing the Polish nation on the international arena began to spring up, as did units disarming the partitioning powers' armed forces and others organizing a system of authority for the needs of the future state. In the night of 6-7 November 1918, in Lublin, a Provisional Government of the Republic of Poland was formed under Ignacy Daszynski.

Its core comprised supporters of Pilsudski. On 11 November 1918 the armistice was signed on the western front, and the Regency Council entrusted Pilsudski with the supreme command of the nascent army. On 14 November the Regency Council dissolved, handing all civilian power to Pilsudski; the Lublin government also submitted to his rule.

On 17 November Pilsudski appointed a government, which on 21 November issued a manifesto promising agricultural reforms and the nationalization of certain branches of industry. It also introduced labor legislation that strongly favored the workers, and announced parliamentary elections.

On 22 November Pilsudski announced himself Head of State and signed a decree on the provisional authorities in the Republic of Poland.

The revolutionary left, from December 1918 united in the Communist Workers' Party of Poland, came out against the government and independence, but the program of Pilsudski's government satisfied the expectations of the majority of society and emboldened it to fight for its goals within the parliamentary democracy of the independent Polish state. In January and June 1919 the first elections to the Legislative Sejm were held.

On 20 February 1919 the Legislative Sejm passed the 'small constitution'; Pilsudski remained Head of State. The first stage of establishing statehood was completed, despite the fact that the issue of Poland's borders had not yet been resolved.

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

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

6 Polish Legions: A military formation operating in the period 1914-17, formally subordinate to the Austro-Hungarian army but fighting for Polish independence. Commanded by Jozef Pilsudski. From 1915 the Legions came under German command, but some of the Legionnaires refused, which led to the collapse of the organization.

7 Pilsudski, Jozef (1867-1935): Polish activist in the independence cause, politician, statesman, marshal. With regard to the cause of Polish independence he represented the pro-Austrian current, which believed that the Polish state would be reconstructed with the assistance of Austria-Hungary.

When Poland regained its independence in January 1919, he was elected Head of State by the Legislative Sejm. In March 1920 he was nominated marshal, and until December 1922 he held the positions of Head of State and Commander-in-Chief of the Polish Army. After the murder of the president, Gabriel Narutowicz, he resigned from all his posts and withdrew from politics.

He returned in 1926 in a political coup. He refused the presidency offered to him, and in the new government held the posts of war minister and general inspector of the armed forces. He was prime minister twice, from 1926-1928 and in 1930.

He worked to create a system of national security by concluding bilateral non-aggression pacts with the USSR (1932) and Germany (1934). He sought opportunities to conclude firm alliances with France and Britain. In 1932, owing to his deteriorating health, Pilsudski resigned from his functions. He was buried in the Crypt of Honor in the Wawel Cathedral of the Royal Castle in Cracow.

8 Warsaw Ghetto: A separate residential district for Jews in Warsaw created over several months in 1940. On 16th November 1940 138,000 people were enclosed behind its walls. Over the following months the population of the ghetto increased as more people were relocated from the small towns surrounding the city. By March 1941 445,000 people were living in the ghetto.

Subsequently, the number of the ghetto's inhabitants began to fall sharply as a result of disease, hunger, deportation, persecution and liquidation. The ghetto was also systematically reduced in size. The internal administrative body was the Jewish Council (Judenrat). The Warsaw ghetto ceased to exist on 15th May 1943, when the Germans pronounced the failure of the uprising, staged by the Jewish soldiers, and razed the area to the ground.

9 Wielka szpera ('Great Curfew'): On 4th September 1942 the residents of the Lodz ghetto learned that according to an ordinance of the German authorities, all elders above 65 years of age and children below ten years of age would be deported from the ghetto.

Chaim Mordechai Rumkowski, head of the Council of Elders of the Lodz Ghetto, made his most famous speech then: '(…) In my old age I have to hold out my hands and beg: Brothers and Sisters, give them away! Fathers and Mothers, give me your children!' On 5th September 1942 Rumkowski implemented a curfew (German Sperre - closing, blockade, curfew).

The resettling committee began its work of preparing elders and children for deportation. The Jewish police, whose members were assured their children would not be deported, also participated in the action. Policemen with lists of names dragged children and old people out of their homes.

Sick people were also searched for by teams of Jewish physicians and nurses. Small children were torn from the hands of desperate mothers, sick people were dragged out of their beds. At the time everyone was conscious that the fate of the deported would find its end in the death camp in Chelmno upon Ner.  

10 Mauthausen: Concentration camp located in Upper Austria. Mauthausen was opened in August 1938. The first prisoners to arrive were forced to build the camp and work in the quarry. On 5th May 5, 1945 American troops arrived and liberated the camp. Altogether, 199,404 prisoners passed through Mauthausen.

Approximately 119,000 of them, including 38,120 Jews, were killed or died from the harsh conditions, exhaustion, malnourishment, and overwork. (Source: Rozett R. – Spector S.: Encyclopedia of the Holocaust, Facts on File, G.G. The Jerusalem Publishing House Ltd. 2000, pg. 314 – 315)

11 Leftist Organization in the Lodz Ghetto: Anti-Fascist Organization - Lewica Zwiazkowa (Union Left). - The name 'lewica' (left) began to be used in the 1930s, because the communist party was illegal. Lewica consisted mostly of young people, organized in so-called fives (five-person groups). Zula Pacanowska directed Lewica until 1942, later Hinda Barbara Beatus took over. Other well known members include Samuel Erlich (Stefan Krakowski), Natan Radzyner, Arnold Mostowicz. Their actions consisted mostly of sabotaging labor for the occupant.

12 Polish Armed Forces in the West (PSZ): Military formations of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland, organized outside of the country’s borders after the defeat in September 1939. At first PSZ forces were stationed in France, but due to the German attack on France, they were evacuated to Great Britain. The soldiers took part in the Battle for England (August 8October 31, 1940).

In 1944 PSZ, alongside the Allied forces, participated in the Normandy landing, where the Poles fought until the surrender of Germany. In 1945 the Polish Armed Forces in the West consisted of approx. 200,000 soldiers. They were dissolved in 1946-1947. Some soldiers returned to Poland, some remained abroad, disagreeing with the new pro-soviet Poland.

13 Martial law in Poland in 1981: Extraordinary legal measures introduced by a State Council decree on 13th December 1981 in an attempt to defend 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, gave the authorities the right to arrest opposition activists, search private premises, and conduct body searches, ban 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 armed forces supreme commander. Over 5,900 persons were arrested during the martial law, chiefly Solidarity activists. Local Solidarity branches 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 gradually being eased, by December 1982, for instance, all interned opposition activists were released. On 31st December 1982, the martial law was suspended, and on 21st July 1983, it was revoked.

14 Fighting Youth Union (ZWM): Communist youth organization founded in 1943. The ZWM was subordinate to the Polish Workers' Party (PPR). In 1943-44 it participated in battles against the Germans, and hit squads carried out diversion and retaliation campaigns, mainly in Warsaw, one of which was the attack on the Café Club in October 1943. In 1944 the ZWM was involved in the creation and defense of a system of authority organized by the PPR; the battle against the underground independence movement; the rebuilding of the economy from the ravages of war; and social and economic transformations. The ZWM also organized sports, cultural and educational clubs. The main ZWM paper was 'Walka Mlodych.' In July 1944 ZWM had a few hundred members, but by 1948 it counted some 250,000. Leading activists: H. Szapiro ('Hanka Sawicka'), J. Krasicki, Z. Jaworska and A. Kowalski. In July 1948 it merged with three other youth organizations to become the Polish Youth Union.

15 Union of Polish Youth (ZMP): Polish youth organization founded in July 1948 as a result of the fusion of the Youth Organization, the Society of the Workers' University, the Union of Democratic Youth, the Union of Fighting Youth, and the Union of Rural Youth ("Call to Arms"). The ZMP was politically and organizationally subordinate to the PPR and subsequently to the PZPR.

It was responsible for putting into practice the communist party's youth policy, and for ideological indoctrination designed to mould the consciousness of young people and set them against older generations. It mobilized young people to work on vast industrial construction sites, organized rivalry at work, controlled discipline at work among young people, participated in the collectivization of the countryside, monitored school curricula from the ideological standpoint, and kept strict control of the work of teachers in secondary schools and at universities.

In 1948 it had some 0.5 million members, in 1951 over a million, and in 1955 around 2 million. During the October political power struggle in 1956 the ZMP collapsed, and it was disbanded in January 1957.

16 Polish October 1956: The culmination of the political, social and economic transformations that brought about the collapse of the dictatorial regime after the death of Stalin (1953).

From 1954 the political system in Poland gradually thawed (censorship was scaled down, for instance, and political prisoners were slowly released - in April and May 1956 some 35,000 people were let out of prison). But the economic situation was deteriorating and the social and political crisis mounting.

On 28th June a strike and demonstration on the streets of Poznan escalated into an armed revolt, which was suppressed by police and army units.

From 19th to 21st October 1956 a political breakthrough occurred, the 8th Plenum of the PZPR Central Committee met under social pressure (rallies in factories and universities), and there was the threat of intervention by Soviet troops. Gomulka was appointed First Secretary of the PZPR Central Committee, and won the support of many groups, including a rally numbering hundreds of thousands of people in Warsaw on 24th October.

From 15th to 18th November the terms on which Soviet troops were stationed in Poland were agreed, a proportion of Poland's debt was annulled, the resettlement of Poles back from the USSR was resumed, and by the end of 1956 a large number of people found guilty in political trials were rehabilitated. There were changes at the top in the Polish Army: Marshal Rokossowski and the Soviet generals went back to the USSR, and changes also to the civilian authorities and the programs of political factions.

In November 1956 permission was granted for the creation of workers' councils in state enterprises, and the management of the economy was improved somewhat. In subsequent months, however, the process of partial democratization was halted, and supporters of continuing change ('revisionists') were censured.

17 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.

Eugenia Berger
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Zuzanna Solakiewicz
Date of interview: January-February 2004

Eugenia Berger has been working at ‘Dos Yidishe Wort’ 1 for 35 years. She proofs articles written in Yiddish. She is a very elegant woman.

Our subject often seemed trivial to her – ‘Who is going to be interested in my family?’, she would ask. But in the course of our conversation memories slowly began to come back to her, and new stories cropped up.

We met twice in her apartment in a beautiful part of Warsaw not far from the city center. She lives alone; none of her closest relations are alive any more.

I also visited her at work, at the headquarters of ‘Dos Yidishe Wort.’

• My family background
• Growing up
• During the war
• ​After the war and later years

• Glossary

• My family background

My family is Jewish through and through; my father’s side of the family came from Wilno and my mother’s side from Latvia. I don’t remember either of my grandfathers or my grandmother on my father’s side. They died before I was born. All I know about my grandmother on my father’s side is that I was named after her – Eugenia.

But I remember my maternal Grandma Weiner well. She brought us up; she lived with us. She was a truly fantastic grandmother! We all loved our grandma to pieces. It may sound strange, but I can’t remember her name. We always called her ‘Grandma’; we never used her name.

Grandma was from Dzwinsk. I never went there because by the time I was born Dzwinsk was abroad [Latvia]. Grandma was very energetic and cheerful. My sister used to say that it was Grandma that I inherited my energy from, not Mama.

It was Grandma who looked after us. She washed our hair, she dressed us and changed us, because Mama couldn’t manage on her own – there were eight of us children at home. Nothing was impossible for Grandma. In her view there was a remedy for everything. Often, when Father needed something sorted out at the bank or at a government office, he would ask Grandma to go and do it for him. Everyone knew her. She knew how to deal with people.

Grandma came from a very rich family. She was very rich herself, too. Back before World War I, she had a shop selling furs in Dzwinsk. But then she had to escape. At home we had a beautiful silver samovar and an accounts ledger that had survived from that time.

The story about that ledger went that it contained the names of everyone who had ever taken goods from the shop on credit. It used to be said that if Grandma could recoup all those debts she would probably be a multi-billionaire.

Was Grandma religious? At home it was Mama who kept kosher. I have the feeling that my grandmother was worldlier but Mama was very religious. Grandma did go to the synagogue, of course, at Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah – the high holidays, and on Saturdays. But like some people used to: always sitting around in the synagogue – there was none of that!

Grandma lived to a very old age; she died just before the war, in 1939 – she was 90-something. I was not at home then. I was probably on vacation. When I came back, they told me that Grandma had died. Her funeral was very solemn. An awful lot of people came, because everyone had known her. She was buried in Wilno Jewish cemetery.

There were ten people in our family – father, mother, five daughters and three sons. It doesn’t seem necessary to me to describe them all here. What can I say about them? Well, all right.

My father was called Herzl Chanion. He was born in Wilno in 1895. What did he do? My father was a true expert. He had a huge, huge workshop. After all, he had to earn enough to keep such a big family. He was a men’s tailor. He had very good employees and he was a master tailor.

Father’s firm was in the house opposite our apartment. About 20 people worked there. It has to be said, though, that it wasn’t a tailor’s for everyone – the people who came to my father were the very, very best people. Father made gala dress for generals, army officers, and for the rich and wealthy. He had a lot of regular customers, not just from Wilno. A few very rich people came to his shop every year from Warsaw.

My father was blond. All my brothers and sisters and I inherited his light hair and fair complexion. And for that reason nobody believed that we were Jewish. My father had a beautifully groomed moustache. He was very elegant. He could not but be elegant – he was one of the best tailors. Indeed, to this day my friends say of me, ‘Ah yes, she is her father’s daughter,’ because I like to dress very smartly, too.

My mama was called Sonia. She was born in Dzwinsk in 1896. She was an only child. Her maiden name was Weiner. As I mentioned, she was from Latvia. She was very religious. Mama didn’t wear a wig; she had beautiful hair. She would fasten it up in a bun. She was not from a Hasidic family 2.

She was just devout, she observed the rules, kept up traditions, but she didn’t wear a wig. [Editor’s note: At that time wigs were worn not only by Hasidic women, but also by many women belonging to other Orthodox Jewish traditions.]

She dressed very elegantly. Well, no low necklines, of course, because that was not the done thing then, but my Mama was a very smart, very beautiful woman. She kept house. There were eight of us, so keeping such a house was really very hard work. I should also say that my Mama was a socialist. She didn’t belong to any party, but I remember her singing Jewish revolutionary songs in Yiddish.

I don’t even know how my parents met. If I’d been an only child I’m sure I would have asked about all things like that. But there were so many of us that there wasn’t even time to ask. All I know is that my father was a very handsome man and Mama a very smart woman. I’m sure they met somewhere and fell in love. When they got married Mama was 17 and Father 18.

My eldest sister, Cyla – her married surname was Kopsztel – held right-wing views. She belonged to Betar 3, and was a Zionist. She was a leader in her organization. They sent her on hakhsharah 4. In 1930 she immigrated to Palestine. She was 19 then. She ended up in a right-wing kibbutz. She lives in Israel to this day. She is 90 now. Only she and I survived; all the rest of the family died in the [Wilno] ghetto 5.

The first boy in our family was Mordechaj. He was four years younger than me. There were already four girls, and still no boy. God, what joy there was when he was born. And after that, there might not be enough for us, but there was always enough for him. He was very clever, and liked studying. First he went to cheder, and later to a yeshivah.

When he got a bit older, he would never let me forget one particular story. Well, he would always get chocolate and I never did... He was very small at the time – he couldn’t read or write yet. He would always come to me and ask me to read him stories. I would take him to my room – so that nobody would see – and say: ‘Give me some chocolate and I’ll read to you.’ And he would give it to me; he really loved being read to. And later on he would never let me forget that I used to take that chocolate off him.

I remember his bar mitzvah, too. Lord... the goings-on, the goings-on! Mordechaj dressed in the tallit, in the tefillin, stood in the synagogue and read from the Torah and gave a speech. He was a very good student, so it was beautiful. And then we came home, and at home the table was already laid with all the good things in the world. And so many guests, and so many of us.

Mordechaj was given a lot of presents. Most importantly, he got a bicycle from Father. That was his dream, you see. From other people he got mostly money. Some people, such as our neighbors, brought homemade cakes with them. One neighbor brought spice cake. How tasty it was! To this day I remember the smell and the taste!

The rest of our brothers and sisters were small children. I’m not going to describe them here. I don’t want to talk about it any more.

• Growing up

I was born in Wilno in 1918, the third child in our family. I was a member of Hashomer Hatzair 6. In our organization we often had lectures about Israel [then still Palestine]. All the young people were preparing to immigrate to Palestine. We would go on hakhsharah, too. We were very involved young people. We all wore uniforms: gray blouses and navy blue skirts and gray panama hats. Our group was co-educational. Both students and grammar-school children belonged to it.

I went to a Jewish school, where the language of instruction was Yiddish, and after that to a training college run by YIVO 7. I often performed at school – I recited poems. When I was in the third grade we held a celebration in honor of Sholem Aleichem 8, Peretz 9 and An-ski 10, our Jewish writers. I was very fond of poetry, so if ever there was anything to be recited the teachers always came to me.

When I was still in third grade they invited the sixth-graders in to see me reciting. I’ll never forget that. I got so many ovations, and my teacher came up to me and kissed me on the forehead. Then she went to my parents and praised me. She said that I was bound to become an actress.

As regards religious education, all my brothers went to cheder, and then to yeshivah, and we girls went to the Tanach elementary school. We even had special Hebrew-Yiddish dictionaries so that we would understand everything fully.

I remember, too, that we were always having discussions among ourselves. Of the eight of us, you see, four of us belonged to different organizations. Cyla was in Betar, I belonged to Hashomer Hatzair, another of my sisters was in the Bund 11, and Mordechaj went to yeshivah and was very religious. We were always arguing, especially during the elections to the various organizations. We would even come to blows over whom to vote for in elections to various councils and youth organizations.

We all had our own affairs. We rarely sat around at home. We all had our friends. We would come home after school, do our homework and then off we would go to a friend’s house, for walks, to parties; we would go to the woods and down to the river. Whenever anyone came to our house, they were always surprised: ‘Such a big family – where are all the people?’

When we were little we never went to bed without a story. Mama told us the most stories – about gnomes, about Little Red Riding Hood, and other children’s stories. Sometimes Grandma told us stories, too, but Grandma mostly sang us songs in Yiddish. Many of them I remember to this day.

At home we only spoke Yiddish. The exception was Cyla, who did first grade in Polish, so she knew the language. But all of us, all the rest of us went to the Jewish school and only spoke Yiddish.

We were considered a rich family. And now I always say, ‘Yes, eight children is a great wealth.’ Our apartment was in a burgher house, and we had a yard, too. There was lots of greenery all around. The house was fenced off, and at night we closed the gate. In the house opposite, where my father’s workshop was, there was even a night watchman with his family. There was so much material there that it had to be guarded.

We had a huge apartment in a house in the center of Wilno. Five large rooms, a big bathroom and lavatory, a spacious dining room – we needed it. All of us sisters slept in one room; we each had our own bed. The boys had their own room, too. We had running water. As for electricity, I don’t remember how it was exactly. We burned candles and lamps. I know that when electric light came in it was like a new era – a new life.

In our apartment there were a lot of books; all of us collected something. Cyla had a whole library in Polish. I used to go to the Jewish library almost every day and borrow something to read. What interested me most were the Yiddish classics I mentioned before– Sholem Aleichem, Peretz and An-ski.

We had a kosher household. Always, right up until the outbreak of war. God forbid that something not kosher should turn up – I don’t even know what would have happened then. If they found out then they wouldn’t even have let us in the synagogue. My mother was particularly careful in that respect.

Once we were older we didn’t have to be so careful. But our household remained kosher to the last minute. We would have shuddered if we’d had to go and buy sausage, for example, from a Christian. There were special Jewish shops where the tastiest sausages were sold.

There were two cupboards in the kitchen. One was painted white and the other brown. The first was for dairy crockery, and the other for meat. And God forbid that anyone mix them up. If Mama saw someone putting a meat plate into the dairy cupboard, she would throw the plate away at once.

I have to admit that I was always a ‘naughty’ girl. I really didn’t like potatoes. If I even saw a potato in my soup that was it – I couldn’t eat it. One day I knew that it was going to be vegetable soup with potatoes for lunch. When I was setting the table I took one plate from the dairy cupboard on purpose and put it in front of my chair. Mama didn’t notice until she had served us all with soup. At once she took the plate, poured my portion away, smashed the plate and threw it in the garbage.

Of course, I had to be punished: I didn’t get another portion of soup. I must say that I was very pleased with that punishment, because I couldn’t look at that soup. That’s what a rogue I was. It was unthinkable that anyone should play such pranks on Mama in our house. They were more traditional and obedient than me.

We had help at home, too. She was a young girl, a Pole. Her name was Stanislawa. There is a whole story connected with her. We had a neighbor who had a daughter. The little girl’s father died when she was still very small. When she was 16, her mother died, too.

Then it transpired that before her death, the mother had come to my father – Father was known for his goodness – and said that she was very ill. She already knew that she would die soon; she was very poor and probably didn’t have any money to get treatment.

So she came to Father and asked him, if after her death he would take care of her daughter. She said, ‘You have eight children, take her in. She will help.’ Then my father said, ‘May you live even to 100; what you ask I will certainly do.’ The woman died shortly afterwards and my father kept his promise and one day brought the girl to our house and said, ‘She is going to live with us, she will go to school; I will take care of everything.’ And that was Stanislawa. She lived with us as if we were one family.

When the war broke out the Germans came and threw us all out of the house and took us to the ghetto. Then she resolved to go with us. There were some Lithuanians there [Lithuanian members of divisions collaborating with the Nazis], and they said to her, ‘What nonsense are you talking; we know you are a Christian, get out of here!’ But she said, ‘No,’ and went with us. I was told that she died along with my family in the ghetto.

On Friday evenings before we went to the synagogue, Mama would light the candles. Mama had a beautiful shawl wrapped around her head and we were all dressed in our best clothes, too. We prayed with the candles lit. Then Father went with my brothers to the synagogue, and we girls went with Mama.

When we were very small, we all went in a line, holding hands. We went to a synagogue that was in our neighborhood, on Zawalna Street. It was a very large synagogue. Afterwards, at home, we all stood around the table and when the blessing over the challah was said, we all said, ‘Amen.’

When we came back from the synagogue in the evening the table was already set with dishes that had been prepared earlier. There always had to be gefilte fish. At home the challot were always baked beforehand as well, and then they lay on the table covered with a white napkin.

We always ate chicken noodle soup and then for the second course there was always meat, but cooked so well, so aromatic, and various side dishes, and tsimes, there had to be. Tsimes is made of carrot to which raisins, prunes and sugar are added. It is all stewed together in the oven until it browns and goes very tasty.

The next day, Saturday, there was also a feast. Father prayed over the challot and we all stood around and at the end we would say, ‘Amen.’ Later on, when my brother was a little older, ten years old, he started saying the prayers over the challah, and when he was 13, he said all the prayers. Then we would sit down to eat.

Because cooking wasn’t permitted on Saturday, everything was prepared on Friday and kept warm. How they did it, so that it stayed warm, didn’t interest me, I was still young and I didn’t care, as long as the food was tasty.

On Saturdays we ate chulent and kigl [kugel]. Chulent I know how to make myself, but what Mama made kigl from I don’t remember exactly. There were eight of us – there would have been a to-do if we had all gone into the kitchen to watch Mama cooking. In any case, we children waited for those Fridays and Saturdays as if for the Lord’s coming. That food was exceptional. I was simply in raptures; it was all so tasty.

The greatest holiday for us children was Pesach. When the holiday was drawing near, Father would take us all to the shoe shop. As Father commanded great respect, so as soon as we all entered the shop, the owner came over at once and called, ‘Please put chairs, armchairs, out for these folk!’ And no wonder, really – after all, Father was buying eight pairs of shoes at once. So we would all sit down on the chairs and armchairs and the fitting would begin: slippers for some, boots for others.

Afterward, all the rest had to be bought: new dresses and stockings. We would go from shop to shop, holding each other by the hands. We were kitted out from top to toe after that shopping trip.

Then the owners of the food shops would come to see Father – the Jewish ones, of course. They pleaded and begged him to buy from them. After all, he had to buy food for eight days. Everything had to be kosher – and how kosher – extra-kosher! The Pesach dishes were brought down from the attic; they were kept there all year in a special trunk. Can there be any more beautiful memory – all those silver cups and the cutlery silver, too.

I was very fussy – one day Grandma had gone out and bought a beautiful teaspoon especially for me. Silver underneath and gold on top, and it had had a rose engraved on it for her. Nobody other than me had the right to use that spoon. Pesach was the most beautiful holiday, ah, how I used to love it.

At Sukkot a shelter [sukkah] was set up in our yard. We had to call the workers in and they would knock up this shack from planks of wood. It was covered with fir and spruce branches on top, and inside it was light and there were candles burning. But not everybody was allowed to go into that shelter: only Father and the boys. Supper was prepared for them in there. And we were only allowed to go and see it during the day.

What I remember most about Chanukkah are the presents and the lighting of the candles. To this day I have beautiful Chanukkah lamps at home. It was like this: every evening of Chanukkah we would stand by the window and every day another light was lit – eight candles, for eight days, and one was lit all the time – the shammash. It was used to light all the others.

As for vacations, yes, we did go away, but never all the family together. Firstly there were too many of us; it would have been very expensive, and secondly Father had his business, so he couldn’t go with us. Sometimes I went with Mama, but usually we children went away on school camps, and even more often than that on trips out of town.

Wilno, what can I say about Wilno? They always used to say that it was the second Jerusalem; an awful lot of Jews lived there. You could walk the streets without worry; everybody spoke Yiddish without lowering their voices, without embarrassment. The signs on the shops were in Yiddish at the top and in Polish underneath. There were a lot of synagogues there, and a yeshivah on every street. There were theaters, concert halls and libraries.

The headquarters of YIVO was also in Wilno. There were a lot of different political organizations, too. The intelligentsia mostly belonged to Hashomer Hatzair. There was the Bund, too; they propagated Yiddish and were against Hebrew. And there was the right-wing Betar. I couldn’t possibly list all the organizations.

As for Polish-Jewish relations, I have to say that until 1936 I really experienced no anti-Semitism. Our neighbors were Polish, and we never knew any nastiness from them. I had one good friend, who was Polish, and my sister Cyla, as I said, went to a Polish school – she even won a medal for her studies – and all her friends were Polish.

It was only after the death of Pilsudski 12, in 1936, that it all started at the university. ‘Right side for Poles, left side for Jews’ [see Anti-Jewish Legislation in Poland] 13. Poles could sit down during lectures, but Jews had to stand. Students beat up young Jews on the street. It was awful.

• During the war

Then the boycotts of Jewish shops started. Poles would stand at the doors and watch to make sure that other goyim didn’t go into those shops. One day I even got beaten up for going into a Jewish store. Mama asked me to go and buy something for her. So I’m going into the shop and they start to hit me with this stick. ‘You Jewish flunky!’ they shouted at me. I burst into tears, because it really hurt. And all because I was blonde and didn’t look like most Jewish girls, and they took me for a goy.

In fact, I have to say that anti-Semitism has always been around, as long as Poland has been Poland: a millennium of anti-Semitism. They used to say, in small towns, in villages and everywhere, that the Jew must be beaten, because they slaughter Christian babies and take the blood for matzah [blood libel]. What more do you need?

And then just after the war there was that pogrom [the Kielce Pogrom] 14. There too, it all started with a little boy being hidden, and immediately the rumor went round that the Jews had kidnapped him for matzah.

In 1939 the Russians came and then the Germans. We were taken to the ghetto. Of the whole family, only I and my sister Cyla, who was already in Palestine by then, survived. The rest of the family was shot in Ponary 15.

I escaped on the fourth day after they put us in the ghetto. I was very lucky I was young. A whole group of us, young people, left the ghetto. Then, sleeping in the woods, we walked east. That was right at the beginning of the war. If they’d caught us, it would have been back to the ghetto and we’d have been sent to our deaths.

In the end we made it over onto the Soviet Union side. And there it all started. We found it very hard. We were searched, they started interrogating us, but they didn’t lock us up in prison. We went to work in a kolkhoz 16. Then I escaped from the kolkhoz and got to Smolensk. I don’t want to talk about that any more.

In Smolensk – I will be honest – I netted a very high-ranking Russian. He was a general, and a senior military prosecutor. He was 16 years older than me. I was 22 at the time, and what did I have? I was poor, I had nobody in the world, nothing to live on, but I must admit that I was pretty. He was attractive, too – handsome, elegant.

The Russian women were crazy about him, and he would call me ‘child,’ ‘child’ – I was a child to him. Times were different then. I married him and we lived together in Smolensk. I have no more to say on the subject.

Then in 1949 the men from the NKVD 17 came and took me away. They threw my husband out of the Party. They accused him of marrying a woman with anti-Soviet views. They were carrying out these purges in the army at that time, and the same thing happened to everyone who had a Jewish wife.

They accused me of spying for Hitler. They wanted to give me 25 years, but they didn’t have any evidence that I was a spy. So they changed the charge. They said I was a cosmopolitan 18. They sentenced me to ten years. I was sent to a camp, to Kolyma 19.

My husband did what he could to stop them sending me there; he knew that I was an innocent child. He knew what was behind it all. When the sentence was passed on me he went home and shot himself because he hadn’t been able to save me. That’s it, there’s nothing more to say about it.

The NKVD officials took everything I had, even the family photographs that I’d managed to take with me and then smuggle out of the ghetto. Not to mention my gold rings and things like that. They never gave anything back. They deported me to a camp deep in Siberia, in Kolyma. There is only sky and tundra there. Nothing grows there. In winter only mountains and ice: to have water to boil you have to chop up blocks of ice.

Our camp was just for women. We worked, in very harsh conditions. If anyone has read Solzhenitsyn 20, they know what it was like there. Our camp was 30 kilometers away from the one where Solzhenitsyn was. We were there at more or less the same time.

There were not only Jews there. We were from different places: from cities, small towns, even from the country. There were German women there, too, and one Englishwoman. I remember that Englishwoman well. She had been a language teacher in Moscow. A Russian, an old general, had taken a fancy to her. She didn’t want to get involved with him, so he dealt with her by having her sent to Kolyma. She was so fragile and delicate; she was perhaps 19. My God, how sorry I felt for her.

I was supposed to sit out my ten years there, but they let me out after seven. That was after Stalin died. Khrushchev 21 said then that those eight million innocent people sentenced to Kolyma had to be released. I was released after seven years’ work in hunger and cold, in the most terrible conditions.

That was in 1955. I was put on a train. Twelve days later I arrived in Moscow. They wanted to send me to a kolkhoz in some village in Belarus. They thought that all we people liberated from the camps were anti-Soviet. They didn’t want us spreading propaganda, talking about the conditions in the camps.

I didn’t want to go to a kolkhoz for anything in the world. So I got out in Moscow and went straight to the NKVD. How did I look then? Like I was straight out of a camp: I was hungry, I dreamed of just a slice of bread, I had no money, no food, no home, but I was young, pretty and audacious. I thought, ‘What can I lose, when I’ve already lost everything? I have no-one, I have nothing.’

So I went to the commissariat and told the NKVD officer on duty that I was there on a very important matter, and that I had to speak to the chief of chiefs, and nobody else. The duty officer looked at me dubiously and said, ‘Sir, there is a citizen here to see you, she’s got some important matter to speak to you about, she can’t reveal what, can you see her?’

[Editor’s note: Instead of ‘Sir’ probably ‘Comrade’ was used in the conversation according to the contemporary communist jargon.] And his door was open, he looked at me like so and said, ‘Let her in.’

• After the war and later years

And there and then I said to him that I had come to him as to my own father, that I had nobody, that I had come out of a camp, that I had been rehabilitated [see Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union] 22. And at the end I said, ‘I have come to ask for help.

I have no work, nowhere to live. Look, I’m young and healthy, how can I go and live under a bridge? Sir, can you imagine that for 24 hours now not a thing has passed my lips, because I haven’t got any money to buy food with and I have no-one.’ That moved him; he stroked my head and said, ‘I was just on my way to a restaurant for lunch, come with me, child.’ So I went.

When we walked into the restaurant we were shown straight to a special table for people in superior positions. And he said to the waitress, ‘Please bring this young lady food that will make her remember you well,’ and the waitress looked at me and probably thought ‘Well, a fine ‘lady’ she is!’ I looked half-dead, I had only just come out of the camp. But I didn’t care, and all I thought was, ‘Let her talk, let her not talk, just let them give me something.’

I would have happily eaten his lunch, too. When I felt that full feeling in my stomach I blushed with happiness. And he said, ‘And now we shall go to the militia.’ So we went. We went in, he picked up the phone and called this factory director and asked me if I could sew. Sewing was one thing I could do. So he said to this factory director that tomorrow he would be sending a girl, a young woman, and told him to give me a job and a room to live in.

And then I said, ‘That’s all very well, but where am I going to stay tonight? I haven’t got anywhere to sleep.’ He said, ‘Today you shall go with me to my house, my wife will give you bed linen and everything.’ He was a man of his word. He took me to his house and introduced me to his wife. And I could see that it was a decent household.

His wife gave me tea and made some sandwiches. When I had eaten she took me to the bathroom. They even had warm water, but I washed in cold water and fell asleep... I’m sure that if they hadn’t woken me up I would have slept there for a month.

The next day he and his wife went with me to the factory. I got a room as well. And that’s how it was, that’s how I found work and a place to live in Moscow. Only that was no way out for me. I didn’t want to stay in Moscow.

I wanted to go to Israel. I wrote to my sister Cyla, who lived in Israel, and asked her to send me an invitation. I took the invitation to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I walked in and saw this real looker, a young Russian, sitting behind the desk. I told him, ‘It’s like this.’ He asked me why I wanted to leave the Soviet Union? I said, ‘I have no one here. I am alone. And there I have a sister.’

Then he said to me, ‘So you want to go to those Jews, those speculators?’ – I guess he didn’t realize that I was Jewish; I’ve always had light hair – and he went on, ‘That’s no nation. They’re speculators, swindlers, and you, you’re a young, pretty woman – what, you can’t find a husband here? You won’t be alone; you’ll have children yet. And where will you have it as good as here in our Soviet Union?’

I couldn’t tell him them that I had been in the camps. I couldn’t admit to that. They’d said to me that if I ever told anyone about that, they would come and take me away again. Anyway, it would probably only have made matters worse. In the end, he sent me away and told me to come back in two months. But I’d already realized that it was not going to work, that they wouldn’t let me out of the Soviet Union.

I worked in that factory sewing clothes for three years, and then I wrote my sister another letter. I asked her to help me get to Poland somehow. It turned out that a distant cousin of ours had a husband who was a Polish diplomat. He helped me to get to Poland. I came back in 1958.

Unfortunately there was no way of getting to Israel from Poland, either, because Khrushchev had said that Poland was not to become a stopping-off point, and that they weren’t to let people go who had returned from the Soviet Union. So I stayed in Warsaw.

In Warsaw I moved in with that diplomat and his wife – after all, they were family. As soon as I arrived I went to the editorial office of the ‘Jewish Word,’ which was called ‘Folksshtimme’ at the time. I walked into the editorial office, and there I saw a whole group of people I knew from Wilno.

As soon as they saw me, they said, ‘What a good job you’re here – tomorrow you can come to work.’ One of my friends from back in Wilno took me to the editor-in-chief and said ‘This girl knows Yiddish well.’ And that’s how I started work with the paper.

At first I was a typist – it was a huge editorial office; there must have been about 100 people working there: editors, proofreaders. Not like it is now. Then, 98 percent of the issue was in Yiddish and only 2 percent in Polish. And now it’s the other way round: 90 percent is Polish and 10 percent Yiddish.

Not long after I arrived in Warsaw I married for the second time. I must admit I was pretty and men liked me. My husband was Jewish. He was called Meir Berger. He was handsome and knew Yiddish ‘perfekt.’ He was from Volhynia; I can’t remember where from exactly.

When he was seven his father died and his mother was left alone with three children. They didn’t have anything to live on, so Meir went to learn to be a carpenter, to be able to keep the family. Meir didn’t have any higher education. He was self-taught, but he had more knowledge than many a university graduate. There was no subject he couldn’t talk about.

We met at the home of my distant cousin and her husband, where I was living. He was a friend of theirs. He was single and I was single and they very much liked him and talked well of him. Very soon, after just one week, we got married in a registry office. I didn’t want to be a lover and I was sick of living alone. He too wanted to have the security that I would be with him. And so we proposed to each other.

We didn’t have children; I didn’t want them. I had not yet recovered, and then to have a baby at once... no, no. All the more so that frankly we weren’t very well off.

Meir was a communist, an idealist. Before the war he had even been in prison for his communist activities. After the war he moved to Wroclaw and worked for the party. When the anti-Semitic purges in the party began, he applied to be moved to Warsaw. That was about 1955, 1956.

Before he left Wroclaw he was offered a move to officers’ school and a high-up post in the UB [see Office for Public Security] 23 But at that Meir said, ‘I’m not cut out for that kind of work.’ And that was the end of his party career. When he came to Warsaw he still belonged to the Party but was just a rank-and-file member.

Then he remembered that as a young boy he had done a carpentry apprenticeship, and step-by-step with his friends he organized an artisan co-operative. Its members were carpenters, furriers, cobblers and others. Meir was a carpenter, then a cabinetmaker, and ultimately he was the head of the carpentry section. As I said, we weren’t very well off; he earned very, very little, and I went out to work then, too [in ‘Folksshtimme’].

Our house was always full of guests. On Fridays sometimes even 20 people would come round, and I would make chulent. And as I already told you, chulent was something I could do. In fact we often had guests round, and we went out a lot to other people’s houses. Our house was full of people, all Jews. It didn’t matter whether they were ministers, or held other important functions, all that was important was that we were united by the fact that we felt Jewish.

Meir remained a communist to the end. He wouldn’t hear of our going to Israel. I even tried to apply for documents to go, but he didn’t want to let me. And so we stayed.

In the 1960s there were still a lot of Jews in Poland. Our editorial office [‘Folksshtimme’] was in the same building as the headquarters of the Jewish Social and Cultural Society 24. I remember how once I took part in a recital competition organized by the JSCS. I prepared a poem by Norwid, ‘To a German poet.’ I won the first prize. [Norwid, Cyprian Kamil (1821-1883): famous Polish poet, dramatist and painter]

I also read Russian and Jewish poetry many times at festivals and on other occasions at the JSCS. Once I was offered a position as an actress in the Jewish Theater, but I refused – I preferred to stay with the editorial office.

In 1968 my husband and I lived in Warsaw. He wasn’t thrown out of the Party; he was just a normal rank-and-file member. But I do remember that Meir was very distressed by those events [see Gomulka Campaign] 25. He couldn’t get over the fact that the communists had hounded out their own comrades, their own people... From then on he withdrew into himself more and more.

Then he fell ill and couldn’t work any longer. He was awarded special benefit for having been imprisoned as a communist before the war [World War II]. I was working then to keep us. I would have preferred him never to have worked if it had meant that he could have lived longer. I would have worked a thousand times harder just to have him with me.

Meir was an exceptional man. Exceptional! Everyone envied me him. He wouldn’t eat anything until I came home from work. He always had a meal ready for me. He read an awful lot, and was very knowledgeable. Everyone called him ‘professor.’

Meir died in the 1970s from leukemia. That was after the Jewish doctors had been thrown out of the hospitals, all the best doctors, so who could have treated him? [Editor’s note: Mrs. Berger probably means by this the consequences of the events of March 1968]. In hospital they only made him feel worse. The anti-Semitism in the hospital was terrible.

All the Jewish life came to an end after 1968. Now there are really no Jews in Poland, and those that are still here are assimilated. They don’t know much about Judaism. They are married to Poles – they’re more likely to go to church than to the synagogue. They’re not Jews, to me they’re just rotten people.

As for the changes since 1989 26, I’d rather not express my views. I have to say, looking at our own Jewish backyard – the community organization and so on – that I don’t even want to have any contact with them.

A few years ago I went to Germany with some other Jewish combatants. I experienced great disappointment then. We went into a church, and they’re all on their knees. And I thought, ‘Bloody hell, back there, in your own backyard, you’re all Jews, but here you’re Christians – so exactly who are you, then?’ And so that’s why I don’t like associating with them.

I have some very good friends, well-educated people, but they are Poles. I don’t really have any Jewish friends. The exception is one lady, who’s a Jewish historian. She comes from Wilno, too. We often talk.

And that’s my life and all about it… I’ve told you everything now.

• Glossary:

1 Dos Yidishe Wort/Folksztyme: Bilingual Jewish magazine that has been published in Warsaw every other week since 1992. The articles deal with the activities of the Jewish community in Poland as well as with current affairs. In addition there are reprints of articles from the Jewish press abroad.

2 Hasidism (Hasidic): Jewish mystic movement founded in the 18th century that reacted against Talmudic learning and maintained that God's presence was in all of one's surroundings and that one should serve God in one's every deed and word.

The movement provided spiritual hope and uplifted the common people. There were large branches of Hasidic movements and schools throughout Eastern Europe before World War II, each following the teachings of famous scholars and thinkers. Most had their own customs, rituals and life styles. Today there are substantial Hasidic communities in New York, London, Israel and Antwerp.  

3 Betar: Brith Trumpledor (Hebrew) meaning Trumpledor Society; right-wing Revisionist Jewish youth movement. It was founded in 1923 in Riga by Vladimir Jabotinsky, in memory of J. Trumpledor, one of the first fighters to be killed in Palestine, and the fortress Betar, which was heroically defended for many months during the Bar Kohba uprising.

Its aim was to propagate the program of the revisionists and prepare young people to fight and live in Palestine. It organized emigration through both legal and illegal channels. It was a paramilitary organization; its members wore uniforms. They supported the idea to create a Jewish legion in order to liberate Palestine. From 1936-39 the popularity of Betar diminished. During WWII many of its members formed guerrilla groups.         

4 Hakhsharah: Training camps organized by the Zionists, in which Jewish youth in the Diaspora received intellectual and physical training, especially in agricultural work, in preparation for settling in Palestine.

5 Vilnius Ghetto: 95 percent of the estimated 265,000 Lithuanian Jews (254,000 people) were murdered during the Nazi occupation; no other communities were so comprehensively destroyed during WWII. Vilnius was occupied by the Germans on 26th June 1941 and two ghettos were built in the city afterwards, separated by Niemiecka Street, which lay outside both of them. On 6th September all Jews were taken to the ghettoes, at first randomly to either Ghetto 1 or Ghetto 2.

During September they were continuously slaughtered by Einsatzkommando units. Later craftsmen were moved to Ghetto 1 with their families and all others to Ghetto 2. During the 'Yom Kippur Action' on 1st October 3,000 Jews were killed. In three additional actions in October the entire Ghetto 2 was liquidated and later another 9,000 of the survivors were killed. In late 1941 the official population of the ghetto was 12,000 people and it rose to 20,000 by 1943 as a result of further transports.

In August 1943 over 7,000 people were sent to various labor camps in Lithuania and Estonia. The Vilnius ghetto was liquidated under the supervision of Bruno Kittel on 23rd and 24th September 1943. On Rossa Square a selection took place: those able to work were sent to labor camps in Latvia and Estonia and the rest to different death camps in Poland.

By 25th September 1943 only 2,000 Jews officially remained in Vilnius in small labor camps and more than 1,000 were hiding outside and were gradually hunted down. Those permitted to live continued to work at the Kailis and HKP factories until 2nd June 1944 when 1,800 of them were shot and less than 200 remained in hiding until the Red Army liberated Vilnius on 13th July 1944.  (Source:http://www.deathcamps.org/occupation/vilnius%20ghetto.html)

6 Hashomer Hatzair in Poland: From 1918 Hashomer Hatzair operated throughout Poland, with its headquarters in Warsaw. It emphasized the ideological and vocational training of future settlers in Palestine and personal development in groups. Its main aim was the creation of a socialist Jewish state in Palestine.

Initially it was under the influence of the Zionist Organization in Poland, of which it was an autonomous part. In the mid-1920s it broke away and joined the newly established World Scouting Union, Hashomer Hatzair. In 1931 it had 22,000 members in Poland organized in 262 'nests' (Heb. 'ken'). During the occupation it conducted clandestine operations in most ghettos.

One of its members was Mordechaj Anielewicz, who led the rising in the Warsaw ghetto. After the war it operated legally in Poland as a party, part of the He Halutz. It was disbanded by the communist authorities in 1949.

7 YIVO: Yidisher Visenshaftlikher Institut, an Institute for Jewish Research, initially the Yiddish Scientific Institute . The first secular Yiddish academic institute, founded in 1925 at a conference of Jewish scholars in Berlin. The institute's headquarters were in Wilno. Its primary aim were the studies of the Jewish population, with particular emphasis on the Jews of Central Europe. It had 4 sections: history, philology, economics and statistics, and psychology and education.

The institute's greatest achievements include the formalization of a literary form in the Yiddish language, the inventory of archival materials and historical relics of Jewish culture, and sociological studies of the Jewish youth. In the 1930s a training program was developed enabling students with an interest in Jewish matters to gain a specialist education not offered by Polish universities. Leading figures involved in the institute's work included Simon Dubnow, Jacob Shatzky and Noah Prylucki. After the outbreak of World War II the New York branch of YIVO assumed the central direction, and still operates to this day.

8 Sholem Aleichem (pen name of Shalom Rabinovich) (1859-1916): Yiddish author and humorist, a prolific writer of novels, stories, feuilletons, critical reviews, and poem in Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian. He also contributed regularly to Yiddish dailies and weeklies. In his writings he described the life of Jews in Russia, creating a gallery of bright characters. His creative work is an alloy of humor and lyricism, accurate psychological and details of everyday life. He founded a literary Yiddish annual called Di Yidishe Folksbibliotek (The Popular Jewish Library), with which he wanted to raise the despised Yiddish literature from its mean status and at the same time to fight authors of trash literature, who dragged Yiddish literature to the lowest popular level. The first volume was a turning point in the history of modern Yiddish literature. Sholem Aleichem died in New York in 1916. His popularity increased beyond the Yiddish-speaking public after his death. Some of his writings have been translated into most European languages and his plays and dramatic versions of his stories have been performed in many countries. The dramatic version of Tevye the Dairyman became an international hit as a musical (Fiddler on the Roof) in the 1960s.

9 Peretz, Isaac Leib (1852-1915): Author and poet writing in Yiddish, one of the fathers and central figures of modern Yiddish literature, researcher of Jewish folklore. Born in Zamosc, he had both a religious and a secular education (he took courses in bookkeeping and studied law in Warsaw). Initially he wrote in Polish and Hebrew. His debut [in Yiddish] is considered to be the poem Monish, (1888, Di yidishe Folksbibliotek). From 1890 he lived in Warsaw. Peretz was an advocate of Yiddishism, and attended a conference on the subject of the Yiddish language in Jewish culture held in Czernowitz (1908). His most widely read works are his novellas, which he wrote at first in the positivist style and later in the modernist vein. In his work he often used folk motifs from the culture of Eastern European Jews (Khasidish, 1908). His best known works include Hurban beit tzaddik (The Ruin of the Tzaddik's House, 1903), Di Goldene Keyt (The Golden Chain, 1906). During World War I he was involved in bringing help to the victims of war. He died of a heart attack.

10 An-ski, Szymon (pen name of Szlojme Zajnwel Rapaport) (1863-1920): Writer, ethnographer, socialist activist. Born in a village near Vitebsk. In his youth he was an advocate of haskalah, but later joined the radical movement Narodnaya Vola. Under threat of arrest he left Russia in 1892 but returned there in 1905. From 1911-14 he led an ethnographic expedition researching the folklore of the Jews of Podolye and Volhynia. During the war he organized committees bringing aid to Jewish victims of the conflict and pogroms. In 1918 he became involved in organizing cultural life in Vilnius, as a co-founder of the Union of Jewish Writers and Journalists and the Jewish Ethnographic Society. Two years before his death he moved to Warsaw. He is the author of the Bund party's anthem, 'Di shvue' (Yid. oath). The participation of the Bund in the Revolution of 1905 influenced An-ski's decision to write in Yiddish. In his later work he used elements of Jewish legends collected during his ethnographic expedition and his experiences from WWI. His most famous work is The Dybbuk (which to this day remains one of the most popular Yiddish works for the stage). An-ski's entire literary and scientific oeuvre was published in Warsaw in 1920-25 as a 15-volume edition.

11 Bund: The short name of the General Jewish Union of Working People in Lithuania, Poland and Russia, Bund means Union in Yiddish. The Bund was a social democratic organization representing Jewish craftsmen from the Western areas of the Russian Empire. It was founded in Vilnius in 1897. In 1906 it joined the autonomous fraction of the Russian Social Democratic Working Party and took up a Menshevist position. After the Revolution of 1917 the organization split: one part was anti-Soviet power, while the other remained in the Bolsheviks' Russian Communist Party. In 1921 the Bund dissolved itself in the USSR, but continued to exist in other countries.

12 Pilsudski, Jozef (1867-1935): Polish activist in the independence cause, politician, statesman, marshal. With regard to the cause of Polish independence he represented the pro-Austrian current, which believed that the Polish state would be reconstructed with the assistance of Austria-Hungary. When Poland regained its independence in January 1919, he was elected Head of State by the Legislative Sejm. In March 1920 he was nominated marshal, and until December 1922 he held the positions of Head of State and Commander-in-Chief of the Polish Army. After the murder of the president, Gabriel Narutowicz, he resigned from all his posts and withdrew from politics. He returned in 1926 in a political coup. He refused the presidency offered to him, and in the new government held the posts of war minister and general inspector of the armed forces. He was prime minister twice, from 1926-1928 and in 1930. He worked to create a system of national security by concluding bilateral non-aggression pacts with the USSR (1932) and Germany (1934). He sought opportunities to conclude firm alliances with France and Britain. In 1932, owing to his deteriorating health, Pilsudski resigned from his functions. He was buried in the Crypt of Honor in the Wawel Cathedral of the Royal Castle in Cracow.

13 Anti-Jewish Legislation in Poland: After World War I nationalist groupings in Poland lobbied for the introduction of the numerus clausus (Lat. closed number - a limit on the number of people admitted to the practice of a given profession or to an institution - a university, government office or association) in relation to Jews and other ethnic minorities. The most radical groupings demanded the introduction of the numerus nullus principle, i.e. a total ban on admittance to universities and certain professions. The numerus nullus principle was violated by the Polish constitution. The battle for its introduction continued throughout the interwar period. In practice the numerus clausus was applied informally. In 1938 it was indirectly introduced at the Bar.

14 Kielce Pogrom: On 4th July 1946 the alleged kidnapping of a Polish boy led to a pogrom in which 42 people were killed and over 40 wounded. The pogrom also prompted other anti-Jewish incidents in Kielce region. These events caused mass emigrations of Jews to Israel and other countries.

15 Ponary: Forest near Vilnius that became the killing field for the majority of Jews from Vilnius. The victims were shot to death by the SS and the German police assisted by Lithuanian collaborators. In September-October 1941 alone over 12,000 Jews from Vilnius and the vicinity were killed there. In total 70,000 to 100,000 people, the majority of them Jews were killed in Ponary.

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

17 NKVD: (Russ.: Narodnyi Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del), People's Committee of Internal Affairs, the supreme security authority in the USSR - the secret police. Founded by Lenin in 1917, it nevertheless played an insignificant role until 1934, when it took over the GPU (the State Political Administration), the political police.

The NKVD had its own police and military formations, and also possessed the powers to pass sentence on political matters, and as such in practice had total control over society.

Under Stalin's rule the NKVD was the key instrument used to terrorize the civilian population. The NKVD ran a network of labor camps for millions of prisoners, the Gulag.

The heads of the NKVD were as follows: Genrikh Yagoda (to 1936), Nikolai Yezhov (to 1938) and Lavrenti Beria.

During the war against Germany the political police, the KGB, was spun off from the NKVD. After the war it also operated on USSR-occupied territories, including in Poland, where it assisted the nascent communist authorities in suppressing opposition. In 1946 the NKVD was renamed the Ministry of the Interior.

18 Campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’: The campaign against 'cosmopolitans', i.e. Jews, was initiated in articles in the central organs of the Communist Party in 1949. The campaign was directed primarily at the Jewish intelligentsia and it was the first public attack on Soviet Jews as Jews. 'Cosmopolitans' writers were accused of hating the Russian people, of supporting Zionism, etc.

Many Yiddish writers as well as the leaders of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee were arrested in November 1948 on charges that they maintained ties with Zionism and with American 'imperialism'. They were executed secretly in 1952. The anti-Semitic Doctors' Plot was launched in January 1953.

A wave of anti-Semitism spread through the USSR. Jews were removed from their positions, and rumors of an imminent mass deportation of Jews to the eastern part of the USSR began to spread. Stalin's death in March 1953 put an end to the campaign against 'cosmopolitans.'

19 Kolyma: River in north-east Siberia; the Kolyma basin is best known for its Gulag camps and gold mining. Between 1922 and 1956 there were hundreds of camps along the banks of the river, where both criminals and political prisoners were transferred. They were mainly working in the gold mines, but there were other industrial plants built there too. Over 3 million people were taken to the Kolyma camps.

20 Solzhenitsyn, Alexander (1918-2008): Russian novelist and publicist. He spent eight years in prisons and labor camps, and three more years in enforced exile. After the publication of a collection of his short stories in 1963, he was denied further official publication of his work, and so he circulated them clandestinely, in samizdat publications, and published them abroad. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1970 and was exiled from the Soviet Union in 1974 after publishing his famous book, The Gulag Archipelago, in which he describes Soviet labor camps.

21 Khrushchev, Nikita (1894-1971): Soviet communist leader. After Stalin's death in 1953, he became first secretary of the Central Committee, in effect the head of the Communist Party of the USSR. In 1956, during the 20th Party Congress, Khrushchev took an unprecedented step and denounced Stalin and his methods. He was deposed as premier and party head in October 1964. In 1966 he was dropped from the Party's Central Committee

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

23 Office for Public Security, UBP: Popularly known as the UB, officially established to protect the interests of national security, but in fact served as a body whose function was to stamp out all forms of resistance during the establishment and entrenchment of communist power in Poland.

The UB was founded in 1944. Branches of the UBP were set up immediately after the occupation by the Red Army of the Polish lands west of the Bug. The first UBP functionaries were communist activists trained by the NKVD, and former soldiers of the People's Army and members of the Polish Workers' Party (PPR). In many cases they were also collaborationists from the period of German occupation and criminals.

The senior officials were NKVD officers. The primary tasks of the UBP were to crush all underground organizations with a western orientation. In 1956 the Security Service was formed and many former officers of the UBP were transferred.

24 Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews (TSKZ): Founded in 1950 when the Central Committee of Polish Jews merged with the Jewish Society of Culture. From 1950-1991 it was the sole body representing Jews in Poland. Its statutory aim was to develop, preserve and propagate Jewish culture. During the socialist period this aim was subordinated to communist ideology.

Post-1989 most young activists gravitated towards other Jewish organizations. However, the SCSPJ continues to organize a range of cultural events and has its own magazine - The Jewish Word. It is primarily an organization of older people, who, however, have been involved with it for years.

25 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.

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

On 13th December 1981 the PZPR had introduced martial law (lifted on 22nd June 1983). Growing economic difficulties, social moods and the strength of the opposition persuaded the national authorities to begin gradually liberalizing the political system. Changes in the USSR also influenced the policy of the PZPR.

A series of strikes in April-May and August 1988, and demonstrations in many towns and cities forced the authorities to seek a compromise with the opposition.

After a few months of meetings and consultations the Round Table negotiations took place (6th Feb.-5th April 1989) with the participation of Solidarity activists (Lech Walesa) and the democratic opposition (Bronislaw Geremek, Jacek Kuron, Tadeusz Mazowiecki).

The resolutions it passed signaled the end of the PZPR's monopoly on power and cleared the way for the overthrow of the system. In parliamentary elections (4th June 1989) the PZPR and its subordinate political groups suffered defeat. In fall 1989 a program of fundamental economic, social and ownership transformations was drawn up and in January 1990 the PZPR dissolved.

Icchok Grynberg
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Agata Gajewska
Date of interview: September-December 2004

A certain anecdote is passed around in Mr Icchok Grynberg’s family. Apparently, his wife Krystyna has long stopped writing down addresses and telephone numbers in an addressbook. Whenever she cannot remember her friend’s phone number, she asks her husband. ‘It’s faster and more effective this way’ – she explains. Indeed, Mr. Grynberg has an incredible memory. When talking about his childhood, he can replicate a detailed map of his hometown, place individual buildings, and then list first and last names of their owners. His story consists really of various digressions, which makes it colorful, however, at times seemingly incoherent. Questions bring up new associations, which he would like to share. In result, after each interview I stay for over an hour to listen about various trips he undertook, watch videotapes of his Canadian cousins’ weddings, or learn the news from a meeting of his building’s committee.

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

My family background

I don’t know my great-grandparents. Unfortunately, I also didn’t know my grandparents very well. The only person of their generation who was still alive during my times was my grandmother – my father’s mother. She had two names – Shejna Gitl. She was always coughing. This I remember. My paternal grandfather was born and lived in Goworowo, that’s between Rozan and Ostroleka. Ha was a baker. He was very religious and considered a wise man. His name was Gerer Chusyd [he was a follower of the tzaddik dynasty from Gora Kalwaria, the Alters, called ‘Gerer rebe’ in Yiddish 1.

I was born after he died, and because there is a tradition among Jews to name a child after a grandfather or father when he dies, I was given my grandfather’s name: Icchok Ajzik. His last name was Grynberg. My father, Gedala Grynberg, was born in 1889. He had two brothers and a sister. Their names were: Chajim, Calel and Rywka, whom we used to call Riwke.

Grandfather Szmilke and Grandmother Matla from my mother’s side lived in Mlawa. Their last name was Kuperman. I didn’t know them at all since they died long before the war. Reportedly, Grandfather was a melamed in Mlawa. My mother came from a very poor, religious family. They used to say that her parents would die from starvation, but if something wasn’t kosher, they would never eat it. Mother’s name was Hana. She had 3 siblings, 2 sisters and 1 brother: Aron, Jidke and Rachel. She was 2 years older than Father, she was born in 1887.

Father and Mother never saw each other before the wedding. It was an arranged marriage. Mother’s parents hired an official shadkhan, that is a matchmaker. He used to go from town to town and say ‘Listen, your daughter is 18 years old? If you want to, I’ll start looking for a bachelor for her.’ And he sent word to another religious man, and that’s how it was arranged. They settled the conditions, how long they’d support the marriage, give them money for food, provide a dowry, and so on. So, Dad and Mom saw each other just to tie the knot, under the chuppah. Mom moved in with Dad, to Goworowo. Mother was very small – one of those teeny, tiny people. She was very religious and behaved religiously. She used to wear a sheitl, which is a wig. She also had a very long nose – Dad, whenever he gave her something to drink, always said ‘Don’t put your nose in the glass!’. I remember as if it was today. But there was a huge love between my parents. They loved each other very much. Religious people, they always respected each other and spoke to each other elegantly.

My father used to bake. He came from a family of bakers. He inherited a wooden bakery from Grandfather. It was on the main street in Goworowo, Ostrolecka Street. My dad also inherited the recipe for the dough. I remember when I was 4-5 years old, my dad built a new, brick, modern bakery. Although he had an apprentice, Father was always getting up at 4am and baking buns in the ovens. Father was calm, I remember as if it was today. He couldn’t overwork himself, because he had a hernia. He was a very busy man. He didn’t have time to study the writings. He prayed rigorously three times a day. He was going to synagogue, traditionally, Friday and Saturday evenings. On Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah he prayed all day long.

In our family Mother gave birth twelve times. Because, among religious Jews, [there is a saying] ‘every year comes a prophet’, which means that each child which comes into this world is never a problem, but brings happiness. That’s the way it is with religious Jews. Four infants died right after birth. They came down sick with some ordinary illness, but quickly died. Eight of us were left. Later, one brother and one sister died in an epidemic, so there were six of us left until the war. And so: Abram Lejb was the oldest one. He was born in 1910. Then my sister, whose original Jewish name was Rywka, Rywka Rutl. She was born in 1913. Then one more sister – Sara. After Sara, in 1921, I was born. Then, a year later, my younger brother came into this world. His name was Srul Motl. Then there was a break and one more sister came – Malka, born in 1927. All names I’m giving are Jewish, original, as they were used every day.

Growing up

At the front of our house there was a store, a bakery at the back, above the bakery a small apartment, near the bakery a kitchen in which Mom used to cook. Upstairs there was a bedroom. One for everyone. For the parents and for the children. The parents had their bed in there, and the kids slept on the floor. There were straw mattresses, replaced every half year, and that’s how we slept. There was a partition in that room, but without a window, without anything. Girls slept behind the partition, boys slept in the part with windows. Only Grandma Gitl didn’t sleep with us. When the store was closed, she put her bed in there and slept there. Bathroom? We had to go about a 100 meters behind the house, because there was no bathroom. There was no running water, we had to bring water. Sometimes the town administrator Zaluski came to inspect the house. Then the baits [houses] had to be scrubbed in order to pass the commune inspection.

My mom was very busy with such a big family. She was taking care of the children, she had to raise them. Mom worked very hard. We hired a Polish woman to do laundry. All dirty clothes were gathered and she took them to a river to wash them. They were left to dry in the attic. Sisters were helping Mom a little. That was it. Mother was also selling in the store. The biggest rush was in the morning. They were coming to get bread, buns. Later, Mom would spend most of her time in the kitchen, cooking. She had to be very careful to have everything kosher. If not, we didn’t eat. It was out of the question.

On weekdays we ate very little. There was something for breakfast – I usually had rye bread with some butter and drank ground chicory, instead of coffee which we didn’t have. If  I got a bun, that was good. I usually took rye bread with butter to cheder with me and ate it there. If I was very hungry, I used to make scrambled eggs – it was called feinkochen in Jewish [Yiddish: delicacy]. I would take two eggs, put them in the oven where bread was baked, and when they were ready, I ate them. And in the evening there was ‘vyecherya’ [Byelorussian: supper], that’s how we called that meal. Mom cooked for everyone then. Often there was joich – broth, meat cooked with bones, with potatoes, and that was everything. I liked gefilte fish and challah, which we baked ourselves, best. But, I liked everything! There was nothing I didn’t like. If there wasn’t enough food for me at home, I used to go to my friend’s house – his name was Josel. His family were butchers, they cut and sold meat. They had a larger supper than us. They prepared Jewish meals. Various guests used to go there, and if they came, then there was traditional food. If  I wanted to eat better, I used to go – although Mom never allowed me – and I stood by their door. When they ate, Josel’s mom would give me something, too.

I also remember what it was like on Saturday. We were six children – four little ones, including me. We would sit at the table, which stood in the store and was used to sell bread from. Girls separately and boys separately. Dad took a baked challah, hot water from the stove – no cooking during Sabbath – and poured that hot water over the challah, and then sprinkled some sugar on it. Saturday morning, for breakfast, he fed all children with this challah. The four of us were sitting and he was giving us a spoonful of that challah with water. That was the kids’ breakfast. If I didn’t want to eat it, he would make me. Children were arguing if their challah wasn’t mixed well with water and sugar. I remember my sister yelling: ‘He got more sugar, I got more bread!’. When Mom was dividing it, everyone was making sure nobody got a bigger portion. This I remember as if it was today.

I also remember on Saturdays, in the synagogue after the prayers, Father would brag about what a smart kid I was (I had an excellent memory and whatever I learned in the cheder, I remembered). He would put me up on a table, and I talked about various Jewish religious matters I learned at school. My father had a friend who also had a bakery. His name was Srul Kusze. And they used to visit each other. If there was time on Saturday night, they used to talk. And I used to overhear their conversations: how business is going, how this is going, and that.

I was the worst child of all. I was a rather unsettled child, very lively, very energetic – a little rascal. The oldest brother often used to beat me up, with his fists, whenever I got into trouble. I was very bored. I was going to cheder since I was 4. It was an unpleasant time. All day long I was sitting at school, and had no time to play.  Through the window we saw children who were walking around, playing with their toys. Whenever we wanted to play ball or something, we would sneak out of the cheder. We would leave when the melamed was busy with other children. When the river was frozen, we liked to slide. A kid always wants to move a little – we went out on ice, there was no one around, sometimes the ice gave in. I remember after one Pesach we all started attending a different cheder. I didn’t like going there. I was a bit older then.  I remember how they chased me on a street because I didn’t want to go to the cheder. A teacher and Father came and were yelling: ‘You go to the cheder!’. I really didn’t want to go, because it was unpleasant. But in the end I got used to it and I studied.

My melamed, I mean  teacher, was called Aaron Weinstein and was one of the three melamedim at the cheder. All day long he was at school teaching children religion. I was also going to a private teacher to learn how to write and read in Jewish – Yiddish. That Jewish alphabet I ‘hob gelernt’ [Yiddish: learned] and until this day I can write beautifully. I had to learn it because in the cheder they didn’t teach Yiddish. They taught loshn-koidesh  [Yiddish: holy language], that is Hebrew... and to pray.

I attended  cheder until I was 9. Then I went to yeshivah in Lomza. Dad and Mom sent me there. It wasn’t even a big expense for the family. I lived at my cousin’s, who let me stay there. My parents sent me an allowance. The yeshivah was called ‘Lomzer Jesziwe’ [Yeshivah in Lomza]. It’s a well known school. It was the only yeshivah in Lomza. Not a big building, quite a small house really, right next to  the synagogue (there was a pretty synagogue in Lomza). I think there were ten or fifteen students at school. We studied all day long. We had a younger teacher (in cheder only older people could teach, but in a yeshivah teachers were mostly young rabbis ). His name was Aaron, I don’t remember his last name. He lived with his wife in the same building. I remember his wife well, because she used to bake latkes, a kind of potato pancakes.  Once when we were hungry we ran away at night and stole those latkes and ate them. She was yelling at us ‘Kids, what are you doing!’ but she didn’t do anything to us. I had a few good friends there. One, whose name was Nachmen Szafran, was very skinny and had such big ears. The second one was Mates Rozencwajg. These friends were also wealthier, because they had a sawmill. I wasn’t allowed to stay at school for long. I was 10 at the time and stayed at this school for over two years. Then I started to work.

Goworowo didn’t have city rights, it was just a village. Eight  kilometers by a forest road to Rozan and 18 km by road to Ostroleka. Three hundred and something Jewish families lived there. The city had mostly wooden buildings, but there were a few brick ones or ones with a brick foundation. There was no sewer system or running water. Near the synagogue there was a ‘plimp’ – a pump. I think Polish engineers from Ostroleka or Warsaw built it in 1927. Before that water was carried from the river. Entire Goworowo was like one long street. It was called Ostrolecka Street. It was maybe 100 or 200 meters long, no more than that. There was another street connecting to it from the right – it was called Bankowa Street [Polish: Bank Street], because they built a city bank there, a sort of credit bank. The other street, to the right of Ostrolecka Street, was going to Szczawin. There was a huge historic church, which is still there until this day. Further there was nothing, only fields. At the very end of Ostrolecka Street there was a market. On  both sides of the market there were sidewalks, and behind  the sidewalk there was  the River Usz (it was called Usz in Polish, Irsh in Yiddish). There was a small island on the river, where we used to play in the summertime. On the market,  more or less opposite the island, there was a mikveh (a Jewish town cannot be without a mikveh. Everyone always went there Friday morning. Women went there in the morning, men at around 1pm, 3pm… because later Sabbath began.

During Sabbath everything was as if dead. God forbid someone would dare to ride a bicycle. No, it was a traditional, religious, Jewish town. When, for example, some kids organized a soccer match on the market during Sabbath (they were kids of butchers and deliverers, who weren’t deeply religious; kids that didn’t go to a Jewish school), then religious kids came and there was a fight. They chased them away yelling ‘You mustn’t!’. It was a small, closely knit community. We all knew each other. Everyone knew what the others were having for dinner.

When there was a wedding, the entire town would celebrate. A wedding would take place in the synagogue, of course. On a square in front of the synagogue there were four chuppahs under which there was food, and everyone could have some. There were also special musicians who came from Wyszkow. They were Jews who played violins. As far as I remember, they were always the same musicians, until the end of the war. That was a tradition. When the newlyweds came out of the synagogue, there was an orchestra out on the entire street. They played various Jewish songs, and people were walking around and celebrating. And there was a special butcher, his name was Ajzik Rozen. He had a hall built, a nice one, which he was renting out for weddings. It never happened that you couldn’t borrow something from someone. When someone came and said ‘Lend me this’ – you always lent it to him. And there, in  Ajzik Rozen’s hall, there were traditional Jewish dances, but also Strausses, various foxtrots – traditional dances from before the war. That’s the way it was.

There were two synagogues. [There were two synagogues in Goworowo, a wooden and a brick one. The wooden one was built before  WW I, the brick one was built in the 1930s. They both burnt down during WWII.]  There was a wooden synagogue on the square, then a new brick one was built. The old one stayed there, and this is where ‘achnusat orchim’, a reception for guests, was given. There was a tradition among Jews that poor people from other towns and villages would come [to town] on Sabbath. They would come on Friday, walk around the town, and look inside every store. In our bakery there was some money prepared, and each beggar would get a pre-war grosz [a very small unit of currency, equivalent to a penny] or two.  After the prayer those hungry Jews stayed around, and everyone would take one home for the Sabbath supper. And since they couldn’t travel back home on Saturdays, they slept in that room in the synagogue. A special shelter for poor people. They could sleep there.

The new synagogue was quite nice. Everyone went there, because it was the only one operating , and there were 300 families in the town. Inside the synagogue there was an ument and everyone  would stand and pray there. Women were upstairs, men downstairs. I can’t recall how the synagogue was painted. I know that there were two tiled stoves, heated with coal or wood.

I remember the rabbi. His last name was Rabinowicz. We met him once in a Jewish bath, in the mikveh. He was short, since Jews weren’t tall. (If a Jew was 1.7m tall, he was considered extremely tall. Usually Jews were 1.58m. If someone was 1.56m, then he was short.) That rabbi, Rabinowicz, had one son, Fajwel, and three daughters. Among Jews, if for example milk was spilled on meat pots – there were pots for meat dishes and pots for milk dishes – then you had to go to the rabbi ask a shayle. ‘Fregn a shayle’ [Yiddish: ask a question], that’s what it was called. That meant you had to go ask the rabbi what to do with that pot. Whether to throw it out, or how to fix it, things like that. I remember that rabbi came to have dinner with us once.

My dad, when he had a drink, would get a red spot on his forehead. Mom would know that he’d been to the synagogue and would say ‘Gedal, you had a drink, didn’t you?’. In the synagogue, after the prayers, there was often this type of ‘lechajim’ [Yiddish: L’Chaim, literally ‘Cheers!’, ‘To Life!”, here used to signify drinking and being merry]. There was kosher vodka and something to eat – and everyone had a bit of vodka. (This is how my bar mitzvah was celebrated, because there was no money to celebrate it differently. I remember I got a tefillin and a tallit.) However, I never drank vodka at all. I used to drink wine, which was made from raisins; on Havdalah, Kabalat Sabbath I drank, but little. But I never drank vodka, under no circumstances.

Goworowo was a town of shoemakers, tailors, carpenters and ‘balagule’, that is horse drivers … Most people in the town made a living from what they produced: assorted pants, suits, shoes (unlike in Warsaw or Lodz, where you could work in various places). Things were produced and then taken to a market in Jedwabne, Lachow, Rozan, Dlugosiodlo, Wyszkow. Everyone had horses, so they would go there and open a stall. In our town, for example, market day was on Thursdays. Everyone would bring their goods – whatever they had, usually clothes or shoes made by poor shoemakers. There were butchers selling parts of meat. Because Jews eat only the front part of a cow, the rear end isn’t kosher. Certain veins had to be taken out for it to be kosher. And in the rear end parts of a cow or a calf these veins couldn’t be found, so those parts were not eaten. Poles from villages would come to our town and buy that meat. Or Polish butchers, who made kielbasa [Polish sausage], they also bought that meat. They mixed pork, a bit of beef and that’s how they made kielbasa. And that non-kosher part was sold to Poles.

Everyone was very poor. If someone had a bicycle, that was a big luxury. Whenever anyone needed a loan, they would go to the credit bank  ran by people who had better earnings. They were altogether six families, six respectable families in town. Father belonged to the committee, and also Aaron Szmelc and Juske Potasz (his name was Nusn, that was his real Jewish name). We were the bakers, so we were a bit better off, but some families were poor and lived only thanks to the loans. We used to sell to some families, that didn’t have money, on credit.  Women had their husbands in America, so before they got money from America, they would take things on credit. There was a book, and it would be written down: Golda or Salcia or Dwora – [owes] this and this much. We had to wait for a long time, because they had to change dollars to zloty (and zloty was very strong back then), then they would come to clear accounts with Father. Father was in the bakery – they cleared accounts, paid, and had more credit.

Only ten Polish families lived in Goworowo. Zaluski was the administrator of the village. Jagielinski was the baker. Wojtacki had a store with cold cuts. Duda had a bakery, on the way out of town. There was doctor Glinka. There was also a police station, on the way out of town. The chief of police was  Kurculak. (There was also ‘koza’ [Polish: colloquial term for detention house] – a small wooden house, in which, when someone deserved it [committed a crime], had to pay a ticket, then he had to stay in there.) There was Zaleski , a shoemaker – I used to play the violin with his children. Wyrzykowski had a textile store. There was Lewicki who cleaned the town. Nikodemski – he was a coachman. Niegowski worked at our bakery. Same as Golebiowski, who lived with us. On Sunday, when Poles went to church, Poles from other towns – Rembisze Dzialy, Rembisze, Zabin, Pokrzepnica, Gogorowek, Szawin, Danielowo - would ride through Goworowo. The church was at the end of the town. Whenever a priest would ride a horse-drawn cart and ring the bells, Poles would kneel down. Anyone, who came to that church on Sundays or other holidays, used to ride horse-drawn carts.

We were good neighbors with the Poles. We had no problems. Only in the years 1937-1938 other Poles would come from other towns – Ostroleka, usually – carrying signs ‘Nie kupuj u Zyda’ [‘Don’t buy from a Jew’]. It was when Hitler came to power [1933] 2 and they started sending Hitler’s agents to Poland. They instigated Poles against Jews. But I can’t complain. I had a lot of Polish friends. Edzio Golebiewski, Jan Lewicki, Wieslaw Nikodemski… I liked them very much. There was also Jarek’s family – they used to come to clean the town after market day. (Everyone usually came with horses. There were no cars, just horse-drawn carts. Those horses soiled, and Jarek’s family would pick it up and take it out  to the fields, as  fertilizer.) I liked them so much that when they came to clean up, I stole a bun from the bakery, put it in the pocket and took it to those Poles. Wladek Golebiewski and Jan Niegowski worked in our bakery. Wood was needed for the ovens, and they used to cut that wood for us in the forest, and stack it away from the bakery. It was very good for us with them, very good. . We used to stick together. Among Jews it was forbidden to do anything on Saturdays, turn off lights or carry money. Jews used to do shtar mechirah [Yiddish: literally ‘bill of sale’ – customary, in a sense symbolic, sale of estate for the period of Jewish holidays, so that it could be run by non-Jews] – sold it to the Poles for Saturdays. We would go to a rabbi, and the rabbi would sign a document saying that the bakery is sold to Jan Niegowski, but for Saturdays only. And he would do whatever needed to be done on Saturdays, opened, turned everything on. In the bakery also, after a fair, they’d prepare a table and the Poles would come to bargain. I don’t remember any incidents. I just recall one fact. There was an alcoholic. When he got drunk and there were porters (whenever something heavy was brought, like flour from a mill, then it had to be carried), he beat up one Jewish porter. This incident I remember, but other than that there were no problems with the Poles.

Our town was very rooted in Jewish traditions. Everybody belonged to some organization. There were organizations: Poalei Zion 3 , an orthodox religious organization Agudat Israel 4 and Bund 5 – a modern Jewish organization saying ‘We were born in Poland and have to make a life for ourselves in Poland’. Youth organizations were also very active: there was Beitar 6, there  was Hahalutz 7, which prepared kibbutzim in Poland. They exercised, went to farmers to learn farming, and they all got together and went to Israel (if they got a certificate, permit from the English 8). First wave of youth left in 1929 – 1930. My cousin Ester,  Necha Szachter, Natan ‘Nuske’ Szron, Lejbcze Gewura, Idel Rudka were among them… I remember till today when they went to Israel. The arrived in Palestine long before the war. And I remember, if some of them were earning money, they used to send some home. My siblings had rather Zionist views. Parents were traditional people. They only had to fight with us so that we’d be religious. Only that, there were no world view discussions.

My eldest brother, Abram Lejbl, was a baker. In 1939 he served in the Polish Army in the 72nd  Infantry Regiment in Grodno. He wasn’t as religious as parents. Even before the army he belonged to Poalei Zion. When he came back from the army, he immediately went to Brazil. Mother had a brother there, Aaron Kuperman. (He came from Rozan and in the mid 1920s went to Brazil with his family. He had two girls and one boy.) They invited my brother. It was an obvious thing that when he arrived there, he couldn’t work as a baker. In Brazil, whenever someone was hired, that was a big deal. Jews who came as immigrants usually ended up being salesmen – ambulants [from Spanish ‘wandering’, that is a door-to-door salesmen]. They went to villages and towns to sell various goods: clothes, dress fabric… They used to sell on credit. (They had a piece of paper called ‘klaper’ [Yiddish: something worn on the lapel of a suit] where they would write their clients’ debts. Brazilians were very honest and reliable, so it was safe to sell to them on credit.) All immigrants started like that, because there was no other work. And later, once they made enough money doing this, they opened stores and usually became merchants. In 1946 my brother opened a furniture store. He didn’t live long. He died in 1952. He didn’t get married.

Among young Jews it was rare for someone to get an education. There was only one thought that occupied Jews: to emigrate. To leave and be able to make money. Whoever had arms and legs and could emigrate – left. First a man went, leaving wife and children. Later, when he was able to, he invited his entire family to come over. And from our town, Goworowo, many people emigrated. They usually went to America, Brazil, Uruguay, Mexico or Cuba. I really wanted to get an education. I wanted to study to become a doctor.  When I couldn’t go to high school but saw other children go there with books, I would hide under a tree and cry. It was a small town. To get an education you had to go to Warsaw or some other big city. But there you had to have a place to sleep, make a living, have money. For me it was impossible.

Among Jews, when a boy was 14, he had to have a profession. My father said to me then: ‘Zinele – my son – it’s time for you to get a profession’. First Father sent me to a tailor. It was in Goworowo, although the tailor was from Radzilow and everyone used to call that tailor ‘der Radzillowiczer’ or ‘Radzillower’. I was very energetic, so I worked with enthusiasm: I sewed, darned… But it wasn’t for me. I felt too strong, too muscular for a job like that. I was looking for a more physical kind of work. So Father decided I should learn to be a tinsmith and sent me to Warsaw. I was 15 or 16 at the time [1937]. Father had a friend who lived on Solna Street, near Twarda Street. His name was Sucher. He was a tinsmith – repaired pots, finished beds, filled holes, fixed windows. And Father decided with that friend that I would be there as a ‘learningl’ [apprentice]. His store wasn’t big, maybe 12 square meters. It was a shop at the same time. Everything was made by hand there, everything! At the back there was one room and a kitchen. Sucher lived there with his wife and two daughters. For me – out of some wooden boards that they hung over the shop - they made a mezzanine, a kind of attic separated with a curtain. I slept there. Sucher gave me food and something to drink. I worked as much as I could. From the very morning till evening. I didn’t know the words ‘work hours.’ I didn’t like this job too much. On top of that, I wasn’t a good boy. I kept on scaring those girls, Sucher’s daughters. I didn’t want to stay there.

One Pole, his name was Sobotka, used to come to the shop. He had a truck that he used to bring goods to Warsaw. At some point – after 2,3 months of working for Sucher – when I found out that Sobotka was going to Goworowo, I said nothing, but got on the truck, sat at the back with the goods, and went back home. I arrived at Goworowo at 6am. I went to the bakery where Father was working with an apprentice, and said: ‘I’m here.’ Father was surprised ‘How come, you’re here?’ I surprised Dad. But because a young man has to do something, Father said to me: ‘I see no other solution – you will be a baker!’ I wanted to be a baker, because I was strong and wanted to do physical work...  I was 16 or 17 and worked as a baker for two years. Father sent the apprentice away and I took his place. I remember as if it was today, there were no machines to knead the dough. It had to be done with hands, in flour. And I did all that. We worked nights only. So, as a child, I worked till 4am. I made whole wheat bread,  the original one, then rye bread, and in the end buns, and kaisers… And, I remember, if we were getting together for games and dances in the evening, I often slept in and the buns got burnt or overgrown! But I worked well.

When I was 17 I wanted to start earning money. I was an apprentice, which means I was a qualified baker. We usually worked since Pesach, which is Easter, till Rosh Hashanah. For that half a year I  was hired as an apprentice. During that time, the apprentice who used to work for us, found himself a job in Nasielsk, near Nowy Dwor. So I asked him to help me get a job there. He found me a job at one baker’s whose name was Rajczyk. So I left for Nasielsk on Easter 1939. Rajczyk had his own store. The bakery was in the basement, and he lived on the first floor with his wife. They only took care of the sales. I did the work – I took care of everything myself. They gave me board and clothing. I didn’t work on Sabbath.

The worst moment for me was Saturday night when I had to go back to work at night. As a young man I wanted to go have some fun somewhere with the other young  people, girls and boys. But instead of getting some sleep and rest – I had to go to work. That was the hardest night of the week, but I managed. I was making big money then, that is 18 zloty a week. That was a big amount. I was sending all the money to Father, thinking that when I go back, he’d return it to me. Besides, my sisters had to be married off [and that cost money as well].

During that time, I remember as if it was today, one girl used to come to the bakery. Her name was Lejba. She was 3 years my senior. Her parents sold vegetables on the market. She simply fell in love with me. She would come and sit in the store while I was working. But I wasn’t thinking about things like marriage at that time. Despite the fact that she was pretty, with black hair, a simple hairstyle, religious. I wasn’t mature enough back then.

The only sister who got married before the war was Rywke Rutl. She got married in 1934 when she was 21. Her husband came from Szczegowo, near Mlawa. He had a  timber warehouse. He would buy wood at a sawmill, cut it into boards, and later sell for construction. Sister had three boys. She stayed in Szczegowo during the war, and then they took her with her entire family to the Warsaw ghetto… She was lost without a trace and we never heard from her again. (Whenever I go by car to Mazury  and pass  Mlawa and Szczegowo, my heart always cries.)

The second sister, Sara, was studying and working, like me. Like all children in our family she was bahvutsinikh [Yiddish: enlightened] – well read, she had various interests. Sara was born in 1918 and completed 7 Polish grades [in a Polish public school]. Later she went to a religious school Beit Yaakov –  Bais Yaakov 9, if I were to speak in pure Jewish [Yiddish]. When she graduated from that school, she was 16. Then she went to Pultusk, to my father’s cousin who had a photographic shop. His name was Lis. She studied photography there for two years. She worked when she was 17-18. (She took all the pictures I have from before the war).

Some time later she came to Goworowo with a camera and started fending for herself. With time she opened her own shop and was taking pictures. She took pictures of us, of others. She had her own equipment, although very modest. The shop was in the backyard. She hung a blanket there, as background. She had a chair and her own retouching equipment. I remember when the photographs were lying in water, when they were taken to the darkroom in the vestibule of the house. When the war broke out she was 19.

I had a third sister, Malka. She was about 10 in 1939. She managed to go to school. (It was a Polish public coeducational school). I can’t say much about her. I was much older than she was, and we never spent much time before or during the war. I know that Malka was always very weak and sickly. Later, during the war, when she was in Russia with Mother, she  started having serious heart problems. They couldn’t save her. She died in Poland, in 1951. She was 24.

During the War

On September 1st, 1939, I was working. Poles who came to our bakery to buy bread for their stores told us about the war 10. They were buying at Rajczyk’s [the baker who employed Mr. Grynberg] and told us that Germans assaulted Poland, that the war had begun. Then I sent all the money I made to Father. I went to the postal office and sent a money order. I dressed nicely, gathered my belongings and said ‘I’m going home. I don’t want to be here any more’. Then the wife  and husband I worked for started to cry. I was their only apprentice who was baking bread, so they were left without any help. What happened to them next, I don’t know. I said I was going to Goworowo. I took some dry bread, picked up my belongings, and left. I went on foot. The distance was about 70 kilometers, from Nasielsk to Goworowo. First I went to Pultusk, then on foot to Wyszkow and then on foot to Dlugosiodlo… Before Dlugosiodlo I came upon a unit of the Polish army. They stopped me ‘What are you doing here?’ they asked. And I answered ‘I’m going home, to Goworowo’. They were suspicious. I had to open my parcels. ‘What’s in there?’ ‘What do you mean, what? – I said – things that I use for work as an apprentice.’ They inspected everything and then sent me onto a sideroad, because the main road was taken by the army. I finally got to Goworowo on foot, but it took about two days [about 60km]. When I arrived in Goworowo, the town was full of refugees. They were running away, because there were supposed to be fights with Germans near the River Narwia. There were people from Rozan, Przasnysz, Makow Mazowiecki, even Mlawa. Some people stayed at our house. Some of them slept downstairs, in the bakery.

A week later Germans came to the town. It was, I think… on 7th September 1939.  I remember it was Friday morning. I was working for Father again, and I was wearing a baker’s uniform – I was wearing  a white hat and a white apron. They took all men out into the marketplace. Only those very old ones they didn’t take. They didn’t take women and girls either. We, the men, were standing on the marketplace, waiting. The Germans were guarding us. And when we were rushed and began to march, the women started to scream and cry. I remember as if it was today. And so, without any belongings, we kept walking. They drove us about 4-5  kilometers into some cowshed or barn of some squire who lived near Goworowo. There were no animals there. We slept in that barn, on the floor, but only for one night. Some sick ones started to cry, scream. I didn’t. In the morning, when the Germans came and saw that I was wearing a baker’s uniform, they picked me out from the crowd and said ‘You go home.’ They sent me and four other people home. We went there on foot and once we got to Goworowo we saw huge flames, like one fire (and we were only 4 kilometers from the town). One older Jew, a tailor who they sent home because he had syphilis, said ‘Goworowo is on fire!’. We didn’t believe it.

We couldn’t go into the town. The German army was standing on the road to the town. It was the eastern road, the Germans were using it to go to Warsaw. What to do? We went around Goworowo. When the Germans spotted us, they put us in some barn, so that we were not on the army’s way. We slept through the night there, and in the morning that older man started yelling: ‘Warta, warta!’ [Guard, guard!] to let us know we could go. We were afraid to go out, since the barn was right by the road used by the Germans. Finally, we opened the door – there was nobody outside. The German army had left. When we got outside, we went straight to Goworowo. I could see people there lying down outside on the ground, on the other side of the river Usz. They had been driven out of Goworowo. They were all there. Dad, my mom, my sisters… everyone who stayed in that hell… I joined my family of course. I remember German Messerschmitts [fighter planes] flying above us. Everyone started to cry and scream. We thought they wanted to bomb us. We were just sitting there. There was nowhere to go. Everything was burnt down.

The story of the burning down of Goworowo  was such: in the town there was one German, his name was Jung. When the war was about to break out, Goworowo gave money [to the Polish authorities] to buy arms. When the Germans came in, that Jung said that the Jews were traitors. So the Germans spilled gasoline all over the town. A lot of people were shot then. The Germans were going from one house to another. In our house they shot everyone who slept downstairs [That means the refugees from other towns that Grynberg’s family took in. The owners who slept upstairs were not shot]. Those who slept upstairs were saved. When they were burning the town down, they moved all living Jews to the synagogue. They wanted to burn the synagogue down with everyone inside it. People were screaming. But one German officer arrived, came into the synagogue and said ‘Zuviel Blutvergiessung!’. That means: ‘too much bloodshed.’ And he ordered everyone who was supposed to be burnt, to leave. Later the Germans left Goworowo, because they were heading to Warsaw. The German army came also from Mlawa, Eastern Prussia, and they marched through the town.

At the same time there were rumors that the Russians made it to the [River] Bug 11. We decided to cross onto the Russian side. We had no other choice – we had no house, no work, nothing. We were sentenced to starve, and we didn’t want to go to the Germans. When the armies stopped marching, we left Goworowo. We walked on foot for a long time. We slept in  Brok and Malkinia. We slept out on streets, under the sky. Finally Father paid for  a horse-drawn cart, and we rode it from then on. And then we crossed the [River] Bug and went to Sniadowo near Lomza…. That took about three days. We stayed there for a longer period of time. We slept in public schools, or wherever we could.

We arrived in Sniadowo, and there was an invasion of refugees. Many Jews came from nearby towns: Ostroleka, Ostrow Mazowiecka, Rozan, Makow Mazowiecki, Ciechanow, Przasnysz, Mlawa… everyone was heading east [to the territories occupied by the Soviet Union]. Russians were already in Sniadowo [Sniadowo is on the northern side of the River Bug. Those territories became occupied by the Soviet Union on 17th September  1939]. The Russian army didn’t bother us. Everyone had to take care of themselves. The only thing they did – I remember as if it was today – they put up a huge screen on the marketplace in Sniadowo and they played a movie about the October Revolution. But they didn’t try to convince us to join the army, nothing. I had no political views at the time. My only thought was to be safe and to survive. So I was saving myself.

Father wanted to get hired as a baker in Sniadowo. He managed to get a job at a baker’s, but after about a week his intestines dropped from overexertion and he had to be taken  to a hospital. Religious Jews, like my dad, didn’t want to go to the army. They were afraid to eat non-kosher things from an army pot. In order to be relieved from army duty, they would cause  a hernia to appear. Father got himself a hernia some time ago already, when they wanted to draft him into the tsarist army. Every day he wore a special belt that held the hernia. It was called ‘bendl’ in Jewish [Yiddish]. But during the war he forgot that belt and was walking around without it. He would hold his belly with his hands and could somehow bend. But at work he strained himself and got a hernia. He spent about four days in the hospital in Lomza. I wasn’t with the family at the time, because I had a chance to go to Bialystok. Alone, without brothers, without anyone. I liked to roam, wander. So I went to see what was going on there. There was  gossip that trains were leaving from Bialystok  to Russia. When I came back, Father was in the hospital. ‘Dad, we’ll go to Russia. They’re saying they’ll take us to Russia’. And he said ‘Son, I won’t go with you. You all go without me’. Then Dad had  surgery and he died. He was buried on the Jewish cemetery in Lomza. Some Jews came there to hold  a small service for him.

After Father was buried, we went to Bialystok [Mr. Grynberg’s mother,  Mr. Grynberg and his siblings: Sara, Motl, Malka]. We got on a truck that was going in that direction. In Bialystok we stayed in a synagogue.  There were people from all over Poland in that synagogue, who were running away from the Germans, even from Warsaw. We met people from our town and other towns there. We met, for example, the Rozen family with eight children. We all slept wherever we could. I remember as if it was today, we slept on benches. There were old women lying beside us. Every night someone died. People were dying from sickness and hunger. Every morning there were dead bodies around. There was nowhere to bury them. That is the truth. I remember it, as if it was today. There was one kitchen that was giving out hot soup, so children ate it. Mother only had bread and water. She didn’t eat other things, because she didn’t know if it was kosher. That’s the way it was till 3rd January 1940.  During those four months since September 1st, we went through a real ordeal.

Then they announced that people could sign up  to go to Russia. The Russians provided trains with baggage cars. That was before the war [German-Soviet War 1941]  12. In front of these cars there was an office of the ‘politruk’ [political officer]. People were lined up there to sing up for  the departure to Russia. Hardly anyone had documents, so the Russians were asking for our data. They  wrote down whatever we told them: date of birth, profession. They gave everyone a piece of paper. They said we had to go with it to this and this car. And we went to Russia. Along the way, whenever the train stopped, everyone had to go out and get bread that they prepared for us. I got frostbite on my hands then. I cried terribly, curled up from  pain, my hands hurt so much. Sometimes the train stopped somewhere so that we could go out to relieve ourselves, and then it kept on going. There were about twenty people in one car. There were bunk beds. Obviously, it was no luxury. We didn’t know where we were going. That trip took about ten days. Finally we arrived in Magnitogorsk on the Ural River.

When we got to Magnitogorsk, some people, Russians, came up to us, and started asking again ‘What’s your profession? How old are you? What can you do?’. Some people were sent to Magnitogorsky Metallurgiechesky Zavod  [Russian: Magnitogorsk Metal Factory]. The main director of the factory was a Russian Jew from Moscow.  His name was Rymshitz . (We knew he was a Jew. He behaved like a Russian though. They didn’t draft him into the army, because they weren’t taking such qualified men, Russians, who were managers in factories). I was sent to the stroika [Russian: construction]. They were building 2- and 3-story brick buildings. On man was working as a bricklayer, another carried cement, everyone was doing whatever they could. If someone was a driver, they gave him a car, and he became a chauffeur. I was sent to dig foundations. I was a very strong man, and became a leading ‘stakhanovite’  [in the years 1930-1950 in the Soviet Union, a leading worker, production rationalizer from the name of a miner from Donetsk, Aleksei Stakhanov ]. Everybody worked, men and women, with no exceptions. Women pushed wheelbarrows, carried bricks. Brother Motl also worked on construction sites. Sara, when she said she was a photographer, got a job in a photograph shop with two other Russian friends. Mom didn’t work. She was already 52 then.

We worked twelve hours every day. Hunger was killing us. We were getting some money, but it wasn’t enough. I remember, once when I got paid, I immediately went to a market, bought milk, chocolate and bread. And I ate it right there. I didn’t even manage to bring it home.  There were some lessons organized, like before the war. I studied Russian there, and learned it quite fast. (I know this language until this day. Ia kak vstriechayu ruskih ludei, ia gavaryu: ‘Zdrastvuyte grazhdani federatsiy rasyskey. A zdrastvuyte. A shto-vy – Ruskyi chelovek? A pa chemu vy sprashyvaytie? Vy otlichno gavarite pa rusky…’ [Russian: When I meet Russians, I say ‘Hello, citizens of the Soviet Union.’ ‘Oh, hello. Are you Russian?’ ‘Why are you asking?’ ‘Your Russian is perfect…’]) I also went to flying club to become a pilot. They examined me, I was well suited to be  a pilot. But they didn’t accept me, because I was a foreigner. We also had political lectures. A ‘politruk’ used to come to lecture. But we weren’t interested in it.

Magnitogorsk was a very big city. It was divided into several utchyastecks [utchyasteck is a city district]. There were long barracks for us. Each family got one room. At first we all lived together: Mom, Sara, myself, Motl and Malka. We were five people in one room. Near the barracks, I remember, there were stacks of fine coal. We used that for heating. Everyone took some to warm up. Otherwise we would have frozen to death. Water had to be carried, since there was no running water. There were no bathrooms, nothing. We had to go outside, in freezing temperatures. There were no telephones, no communication,  it was even difficult to get letters . It lasted until Germans invaded Russia. That was on 22nd June 1941.

In mid 1942 they started drafting young people into the Russian army. They were mobilized to work. My brother Motl and I, as the ones belonging to stroitielni batalion [Russian: construction battalion], were taken to Ufaley, in the Ural Mountains. It was about 400 kilometers from Magnitogorsk.  Altogether we were about 80 people, usually young people, from Magnitogorsk. On the way to Ufaley, we were given medical exams on the train. It was organized like this: the train stopped, we went to one compartment, took everything off and that was disinfected with heat to kill lice and other bugs. Because we wore dirty clothes, there was no soap, nothing.

After we arrived they assigned me to work at the Ufaleyski Nikelevy Zavod [Russian: Ufaley Nickel Factory].This factory was producing nickel for the army, to make bullets and grenades. It was all:  ‘vsyo dlya voiny…’ [Russian: everything for the war]. Our job usually looked like that: cars with ore arrived, that is with the material used to make nickel,  and we unloaded them. We were usually unloading at night. The temperature was below 50 degrees Celsius. Awful! It was hard, physical work.

We were getting our paiok [Russian: food ration] – almost exclusively bread. Whoever worked, got 1 kilogram of bread, whoever didn’t only 400 grams. If we worked physically, we also got soup (we were always careful to get thicker soup, more nutritious). And at home, when we went back, we’d make ‘kipyatok’, that is boiling water. There was nothing! No sugar, no tea. Many  people got sick and died. Every once in a while we would get usilennyi paiok [Russian: strengthening ration]. We were also getting food coupons for meat. But they didn’t give us meat. Instead, we would get some herrings, butter and flour. We ate it quickly, on the same day we got the coupons. We didn’t celebrate any holidays. Nothing of the Jewish tradition was respected.

We lived at hozaykas, local housewives. Each hozayka that didn’t want to go to the army, and had her own house, had to take in some soldiers. In our house there were five, six men in a single room. We lived on 6 Tolstoj Street, a bit uptown when walking from the train tracks. Our hozayka took care of us – she did our laundry, made our beds. I wouldn’t be able to sleep on a bed like that today, but when you’re young, 19, 20, it’s obvious, you could even sleep on a rock. You’re healthy. I don’t remember ever getting sick. In that part of the world and with no vitamins…

We had a radio at home and we kept hearing those words: ‘Gavaritz Maskva, gavaritz maskva. Slushayte, slushayte.  Nashe voiska ostavili gorod Zhytomyr, nashe voiska ostavili gorod Sevastopol.. ‘ [Russian: This is Moscow, this is Moscow. Listen, listen. Our army surrounded the city of Zhytomyr, our army surrounded the town of Sevastopol…]. And so we kept hearing about successes of the Red Army. But when they were losing, they would say nothing. What was happening to Jews in Europe, they didn’t  say anything about that, so we knew nothing. We learnt about the Holocaust in Poland. Because in Russia we were listening to the radio very superficially. They were saying ‘German animals – that’s how they called them – murder Jews, then take them away…’. But we weren’t listening to the details and we didn’t quite understand. We were so tired, we didn’t feel like listening to it. We felt like doing nothing. We were poor, not properly clothed, had to fight for a piece of bread. I was hardly in touch with my family. Even though the distance wasn’t that big, one letter would travel even a month.

Sara stayed in Magnitogorsk with Mom and Sister Malka. Sara got married there. She met her husband at the end of 1943. His name was Sender Izrael. They didn’t take him to the army, just like us, because he was a tailor. And tailors were needed in Magnitogorsk. But his brother was with me in the stroibat [construction battalion, short for : stroitielni batalion], so Sara and Sender married under the chuppah. They didn’t have to hide it, but it wasn’t officially recognized. They also had a civil marriage. There were no celebrations, there was no money for it. (I wasn’t at the wedding, because I was already mobilized to work at that time). They lived in the 5th uchastka  [Russian: disctrict]. His parents were elderly and they lived with them. The were no rabbis in Magnitogorsk. There were also no synagogues.

When my brother and I went to Ufaley, my mom, who was very religious, got a room in one small building. For those who wanted to pray, Mom set up a shtibl [Yiddish: room, where religious services are performed, prayers recited] there. It was illegal, but nobody bothered them. Whenever a Jew died, Mom would wash him or her and prepare the body for burial. She always got some money for it. She herself had nothing. There was a terrible famine. It was then that my youngest sister Malka came down with heart disease.

During our stay in Ufaley rules were becoming more and more strict. If someone was 21 minutes late for work, then, without a sentence, without a court, he was sent to prison for six months. I remember, my brother, who worked with me, was late once and they put him in prison. He got a  six-month sentence. They put him in prison in a small town, about 60 kilometers from Ufaley.  It was winter. In prison Brother got frostbite on his legs. When those six months passed, he couldn’t come back because he couldn’t even stand up.  He was very weak. Whenever he got bread, someone who was stronger would take it away from him. Once I got a telegram from that prison. It said that Brother wasn’t able to come back by himself, and asked me to come and get him. I had to ask for time off. I asked them to give me a few days off, so that I could go get Brother. They gave me time off. I went to catch a train, but at that time only the army was using trains. I couldn’t get on it. I remember as if it was today, I was sitting at the train station and saying to myself: ‘I have very little time.’ I decided to walk. It was extremely cold. I took a backpack, bread, and a bottle of milk, and I was trying not to eat it all on the way. I walked on foot day and night, and finally got there, but couldn’t find the prison. I said to myself: ‘I’ll go to the train station, maybe I’ll ask there.’ I remember, I went to the train station, but found no one to talk to. There was only one handicapped man, a Russian, but he looked like a good man.  I asked him where the prison was. I got lucky because he said: ‘I live near the prison, if you want, you can follow me.’ I told him I came for my brother, he let me spend the night at his place, and in the morning I went to the prison. I had the telegram, but when I went closer to the gate, they told me to move away. I was standing in the frost outside the prison. Then I saw a smiling face and heard: ‘Have you come for your brother?’ It turned out it was that nurse, Jewish, from Kiev, who sent me the telegram. Motl was telling her he had a brother in Ufaley, and asked her to notify me. And she did. If it hadn’t been for her, nobody would have done anything for us. Brother would have died of exhaustion in that prison.

I waited for a while and she brought him out, holding him under his arms. He was so thin, his beard overgrown, and he couldn’t walk. He started to cry. I picked him up and took him to that Russian, who let me stay with him  the previous night. I gave Brother whatever I had – bread and milk. When he was eating, you could see how the food was going down his esophagus to his stomach. After he ate he felt sick. He couldn’t digest any more. He stayed in bed one day, and the next day I said: ‘We’ll go to my place, to Ufaley.’ We waited for the train, because I told myself: ‘I can’t walk, I can’t carry him.’ But the train that came was full of soldiers. Finally I picked him up, and got on between the cars. I was holding on to one car with one hand, and onto the other car with the other hand. I was standing stretched like that, and he was lying on my chest. That’s how we got to Ufaley. In Ufaley we had to walk quite a bit, too. We walked for a few hours, and finally got to my place, and I put him on my bed. From then on I slept on the floor and gave him my bed. In the morning we went to the factory nurse. They started wrapping the frostbite on his legs. Two of his toes fell off then, it started bleeding… I went to work and told the manager that my brother was there and that he had no shoes. He gave him the shoes under the condition that Brother would come to work. I took the shoes, but Brother couldn’t go to work yet. The manager was upset with me. But it took about two more weeks, and Brother went to work with me. He could move then, but he was very weak. He couldn’t keep up. I was helping him. With time, somehow he got better. He got healthy again.

Later in Ufaley I got certified as an ‘excavator machinist’, that is as an excavator operator. From then on I worked on the excavator. I met my first wife then. Her first name was Matl, last name Zilberson. Later she changed her name to Miriam. She came from Lodz. She was practically nusn [Yiddish: an orphan]. I know that her parents died before the war. Her father used to trade, even trade abroad. But it wasn’t going well for him, he got a heart attack on a train and died. When Miriam came to Ufaley, she was already married. She married her first husband before the war. Then they came to Russia. Then her husband was drafted into the army and no one heard from him since. He left her with a small child, a girl name Ania. She thought her husband would never come back. We met in 1944. And I was young… and I decided to be with that woman. These are all private matters, hard to talk about. It was simply love… We lived together, worked together in Ufaley. Till 1946.

After the War

In February 1946 my sister Sara gave birth to a girl, Szejla. And in the Spring that year, they organized  a train to Poland. It was one year after the war ended. Before that no one could go home. And, who would have had money for a ticket then?! So everyone went home – Sister with her husband and this small child, Mother, and Sister Malka. They went to Silesia 13 to the town of Swiebodzice near Swidnica. They got a house where  some Germans had lived earlier. My brother and I, we went to Poland two months later. I remember as if it was today, when the war ended, one ‘politruk’ came and asked if we wanted to go back to Poland. I said yes. All Jews from Ufaley – because I wasn’t the only one there – got on the train. There were a lot of Jews from Poland in the Ural region. They were coming from all surrounding towns. They added three or four cars and put together one huge train going to Poland. When we were passing through Moscow, some young people ran away. They wanted to stay in Moscow. There was a rumor saying that in Poland they kill the people who are on trains coming back from the Soviet Union. They were supposedly those military forces fighting against the development of socialism  in Poland.  This was mainly going on in Eastern Poland. I saw, by myself, when someone left the train to get some water, and got beaten up. It was near Lodz. They were asking ‘You, Jew, what are you doing here?’ Some were taken away and others got lost without a trace. I saw Jews taken away in an unknown direction. They were saying that Russia was sending its own Jews. But we were Polish Jews! We were born here… It was the truth. [In the after-war Poland Jews coming from the Soviet Union were often accused of collaborating with the Stalinist regime and conspiring against the Polish state. There were murders and pogroms.] We crossed the Polish border at the end of May 1946. We got off in Swiebodzice. But we didn’t know where Mother and the rest were. But it turned out that we were living in the same town.

The population of Swiebodzice was maybe 10,000 or 15,000. That’s my estimate. The town is near Swidnica, between Walbrzych and Wroclaw. Those were so-called regained territories [territories which used to belong to Germany, claimed by Poland after WWII]. When we arrived in Swiebodzice, there was already a Jewish Committee [specifically: a branch of the Central Committee of Polish Jews, political representation of Polish Jews, founded in 1944.] We came from Russia with no clothes or shoes. That committee was receiving various goods from America [specifically: JOINT – The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee] 14. They were getting chocolate, coffee, tea, flour, rice, canned meat – everything kosher. Those were parcels from UNRRA [United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration – an American aid organization helping  Europe after WWII]. They were also getting clothes. All clothes were put out on tables – there were dresses, pants, shoes, everything – and everyone could pick whatever suited them and take it. They were also giving out apartments. We got an apartment on  Ogrodowa Street 2, on the first floor. (Russian soldiers lived there as well, since Russian army headquarters was there in town. The Russian army stayed in Swiebodzice probably until 1948. Then they withdrew.)  The apartment I got used to belong to Germans. [Until 1945 Swiebodzice, in German Freiburg in Schlesien, was inhabited by Germans]. After the Germans ran away, I got that place. It was a big apartment – a living room, a room, another room, and a kitchen.

I married my first wife, Miriam, in Swiebodzice. (When we came to Poland, my wife decided to use the name Miriam in her documents, since she liked it better than Matl). That’s how it went. When I came to Swiebodzice, we registered as a married couple. During that time we found out that Miriam’s husband came back from the war. He came to us and took his and Miriam’s child, Ania, with him – supposedly for an hour – and he never gave the child back. We tried to get her back, but he pulled out a gun… and we had to accept it. But he gave Miriam a religious divorce. My brother, Motl, went for it to Lodz, found that man and got him to agree to a divorce. Those were very upsetting moments for me. I’d rather not talk about it any more. Soon after that I married Miriam at the rabbi’s. In 1948 our first daughter was born – Halina.

In truth, there was no real rabbi in Swiebodzice. But there was an older Jew who served as a rabbi. His name was Nusn Flejszer. He came from Wlodawa. It’s in the Lublin region. He was also in Russia during the war. He wasn’t a certified rabbi, but he performed services, so that everyone could pray. There was no synagogue in Swiebodzice. Religious Jews – and several of them came to Swiebodzice after the war –  turned one of the rooms of a building assigned for Jews into a synagogue. We could pray there, celebrate Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, Pesach. Authorities didn’t persecute it then. It wasn’t a problem. [After 1948 religious and public life of minorities in Poland was becoming more restricted by the politics of the communist authorities].

I was active only within Jewish circles at the time. There were young people and we used to spend time together. There was a place we used to get together, a Jewish club. When I had some free time (and there was a lot of free time since I worked only eight hours a day), I played ‘damka’ [checkers] or chess. We also celebrated the founding of the state of Israel there. I found out from newspapers about the UN vote [the vote on 29th November 1947 approved the division of Palestine and the creation of the independent state of Israel]. I was very happy then, excited. I was very proud. Because I am a Jew, flesh and blood. I could have all citizenships of the world, but firstly I am a Jew. It’s in my blood. I breathe it. I dreamt then about going to Israel one day.

There were about thirty Jewish families in Swiebodzice. There were two types of Jews. The first were Zionists. The second type belonged to UB 15 – just communists. I remember one meeting, as if it was today. I don’t remember exactly what it was about. Maybe we were discussing  what we would  organize in the town. There were those who wanted to leave, and those who wanted to stay. Discussions were very heated. The communists protested. I remember, there was one Jew whose name was Sztajn. He served in the Kosciuszko Army [The 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division] 16. It was a liberating army founded by Bierut 17 [editor’s note: Mr. Grynberg is mistaken. The 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division  was founded by ZPP, the Union of Polish Patriots]. … and all those communists. Sztajn was a representative of UB in the town. First I worked as an apprentice at one Polish baker’s. I remember once after I left work, there was a corpse of a Polish militiaman on the street. Some group of opponents of the new Polish government came to town and shot him. Next day I heard they also killed Sztajn. I went to their funeral. A government representative spoke. Both corpses were lying on one table. They buried the Pole on the Catholic cemetery, and Sztajn on the Jewish cemetery.  German Jews used to live in the town. And they had a small cemetery. This is where my sister’s Malka Perl grave is as well.

The majority of Zionist families went to Israel. Sara with her husband and child left in 1946. Then my brother Motl and Mother left. Neither my sister nor my brother had  permission to leave. It was illegal 18. Illegal emigration went like this: there was word among the Jews  that they could help whoever wanted to leave Poland. There was no fee for such help. People from the Jewish Committee would come and say: ‘Tonight you have to be here and here. We’re going to Klodzko where we’ll cross the Czech border…’ (I heard that there was this entire affair  in Czechoslovakia related to the escapes of Jews. People who were helping Jews cross the border illegally  were arrested). This was organized together with Polish authorities who were guarding the border with Czechoslovakia. Czechs would then let Jews go further, to Austria, and then they went from Austria to Italy. And there they stayed in camps until Israel would take them in.

At first I wanted to stay in Poland. But later I told myself I wouldn’t stay. I had no peace. I only wanted to go. At first I didn’t go because they wouldn’t let me go. By the end of 1948 I asked for  permission to leave, but I got a refusal. I pressed and pressed, but they didn’t want to let me go. For some time I worked as an ironer in  Swiebodzickie Zaklady Odziezowe [Swiebodzice Clothing Factory].  They didn’t want to let me go, because I was a very good worker. I was a ‘model worker’ [ in the Eastern Block countries someone who produced over the set norm]. I was getting financial awards. I was also awarded holidays in Szklarska Poreba [popular spa resort in the mountains]. (Syndicate, that is labor union, was in Walbrzych. I went there and was distinguished as an outstanding employee. I also got an invitation to a guesthouse in Szklarska Poreba where I spent two weeks). Half of the factory employees were party members 19. I didn’t join it. I used to go on May 1st demonstrations [demonstrations organized on International Labor Day], because they were mandatory. As a community service I used to put up posters about the production results of model workers. They kept trying to convince me to join PZPR. They were saying: ‘When you join the party, you may get a better job, not just ironing.’ But I paid no attention to it. I didn’t want to. Later, in 1950, I applied for permission to go to Israel. As I was walking home from work, two undercover militiamen came up to me – one of them was Jewish, the other one Polish, they worked for UB. I knew that Jew from Magnitogorsk. They came, took me to a militia station and started to ask why I wanted to leave. For what reason? Am I not happy in Poland? Do I need anything? I told them then that Brother was in Israel, Mother was in Israel, and I wanted to join them. I wanted to go to Israel and that was it. I couldn’t say too much… [During interrogations police often provoked  testimony that could be later used against the interrogated person.]

That lasted for another year – year and a half, and I received  notification saying I could leave. It was in 1951. I had to give up my Polish citizenship. When I got the permission, my brother was already in Israel. One of Jews in Swiebodzice told me about ships going to Israel. I went with my wife and daughter to Gdynia. There was a huge Italian ship ‘Lavosier.’ We took it directly from Gdynia to Israel. The ship was full. There were almost only Jews on it. The trip took about three weeks.

We got out in Haifa. There was terrible poverty there. We were to live in tents. There were food coupons. Some of my friends were drafted into the army straight from the ship. And they all died. There was a war in Israel then [Independence War, 1948 20. Well, the war is still going on  there. We got mobilized to a kibbutz , but I didn’t want to live like that. My brother had a  two-bedroom apartment in  the Arab Yafo, where he lived with Mom. He gave one room to me. It wasn’t in Yafo, but not far from it – in Bat Yam. Brother worked as a baker there. I started to do the same thing. It was in a big bakery near Tel Aviv – it was called Degania. Every day I cycled to work for about 12 kilometers.

One day a girl from America came to Yafo. I think it was in 1953. She was religious and she was looking for a husband. She came from a family of Eastern European Jews, who went to the United States. Her name was Miriam, but everyone called her Margy.  Mother set  her up with my brother Motl. They got married and got documents from a rabbi. When she went back to the United States, she was already pregnant. She gave birth to a daughter and invited my brother to Philadelphia. Brother spent  three-four years in Israel altogether. When Brother went to the States, he also worked in a bakery. Margy, Brother’s Wife, worked for the Ministry of Treasure. They had three daughters: Brenda, Sandra and Geraldine. Today they are all married and all live in Philadelphia. Brother, because of the illness he went through in Russia, came down with  Parkinson’s disease. Brother’s Wife died in 1991. She was constantly dieting and starved herself, they couldn’t save her. A year later Motl also died.

I lived in Israel for a year and a half. My wife didn’t want to stay there though. I was planning on going to Canada. My sister Sara, after she left Poland, lived in Montreal and sent me an invitation. The closest Canadian diplomatic post was in Paris, or in Belgium. I went to Paris from Israel and got a refusal. I was left with nothing. And then what? I had to work under illegally [without a work permit] at a baker’s. I had a cousin, very religious, who lived near Paris. Her name was Chaja Sara Lis. I had to have an official address, so she registered me in the local yeshivah. I got a temporary identity card, that they  renewed every once in a while. But I lived in a hotel near the Pere-la-chaise cemetery. I rented a room and lived there with my wife and daughter. I even wanted to stay in France, but when I said in the documents that I wanted to work, they told me to leave France. I waited then, wondering where I could go. There were Jewish committees then that were helping Jews leave [most likely HIAS committees] 21. I went to see them and asked for help. They took down my information and said: ‘You can only go to Brazil.’ So I went to the Brazilian consulate and got a visa. I left in 1954. That organization paid for my ticket. They couldn’t leave me in a situation like that, because I would have starved. I promised I would return the money. That was the agreement. And that’s what happened.

So I went to Brazil. I lived in Rio, in Copa Cabana. Back then in Brazil there were only rich or poor. There was no way to get a job. The earnings were very small. I was doing what all Jewish immigrants were doing. I was going from one village to another selling fabric for clothing. I went to each house and asked for double the price. I worked like that until I made enough. Then I was selling gold. Finally, I made a lot of money. Then I got a job in a hotel. I worked there as a cook and was making very good money. I wasn’t a cook, but I told them I knew how to cook. I was very clever. I was observing the chief cook… I learned fast and soon I became a master, a big master! Cooking became my profession and still is until this day. I made a fortune, but I worked very hard for it.

I subscribed to two Jewish newspapers in Brazil. There was also a Jewish radio, which broadcast in Yiddish  . My daughter and I used to go to the  ‘Hebraica’ club. It was a huge, three-story building. Jews used to hang out there, play cards, there were some performances  … just for the Jewish  community. I was always interested in what was going on there. There was one newspaper journalist, a Brazilian of Jewish origin. When the  Six Day War broke out [1967] 22, he was sent to Israel as a representative of the Hebraica club. He took photographs there and sent them all to us. A meeting was organized at the club then – we were all told about what was going on in Israel.

My daughter went to an English school. After she graduated, she went to a university in Columbia. She was studying to be a psychiatrist. She got married in 1968. Her husband’s name is Paulo. He was born in Brazil. He is a musician and plays the clarinet. She had a true Jewish wedding under the chuppah. After she married, she kept her maiden name – Grynberg. Afer a while my daughter started publishing. Because of her profession she got into ‘Canaglob’ in Rio de Janeiro. It’s a television channel. This is where she gave lectures in psychiatry – twice a week for an hour. Now she lectures at a Catholic university in Rio de Janeiro. She lives in a very luxurious city – San Colorado. She’s very well off. She had one son who is now 16. His name is Domingo Meir Grynberg. Meir is a Jewish name. My grandson is circumcised in a Jewish way, he had a bar mitzvah.

In 1972 my wife Miriam died. I couldn’t live  without her in Brazil. So I left the entire fortune to my daughter and left in 1973. I asked to be transferred to Germany. I worked for an American hotel concern, which had its hotels all over the world. They transferred me to Cologne, later to Dusseldorf. I prepared a hotel inauguration there and became the chief cook. When I came from Brazil, I missed my homeland, the place where I was born. I went to Poland for four days. At the time, everything was relatively expensive in Poland. The dollar exchange rate was unfavorable. So I couldn’t stay long. I went to Goworowo for a day and a half. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I knew everything had been burnt down in Goworowo. But some local Poles, who used to work at my father’s bakery, recognized me. ‘Oh, you are Gdaluk’s child!’ [changed version of Father’s name – Gedala]. There were two boys…’. They meant me and my brother. They helped me find Father’s birth certificate and they let me spend the night at their place. Then I went back to Germany.

In the hotel in Dusseldorf I met my current wife, Krystyna. She was working there. When I saw how good she was with her hands  I proposed. At first she didn’t want to marry me, but eventually we got married. Wife was born on 25th May  1933 in Wyszogrod on the River Vistula. She’s a Catholic. She has good memories of Jews in Wyszogrod. She used to go to them, and says that as a child she spoke Jewish [Yiddish] as well as Polish. My wife is very much in love with me. I am her entire world.

In 1976 we went to Spain for holidays. And I liked it there. I told myself: ‘I have a wife now, I won’t be an employee. I will be working for myself.’ I met my future partner, Edward, there. He had a restaurant, but had no cook. He said: ‘Let’s start a company. You will be a cook, I will be a waiter.’ That was our agreement, and all went very well. It was in Mata Lascania, by the Atlantic Ocean, near Portugal. A beautiful place. And I stayed there. I had some savings – 35,000 German marks. Based on this I received a permit for starting my own business. I worked with that Spaniard for a year, and then I told him I didn’t want to do that any more. I was a known specialist by then. I wanted him to rent the restaurant to me. I signed a lease for five years. When he saw how well everything was going, he didn’t want to renew it. He refused.

One day I saw three burnt restaurants between local hotels. They had been standing there for four years and nobody wanted to buy them. I told myself: ‘I’ll do it, I’ll buy them.’ I went to that Spaniard, the owner of the restaurants, and said: ‘Listen, I want to buy it.’ He looked at me as if I was a madman. But I knew what I knew. I took the walls down and made one big restaurant. I called it ‘Alfonso’, from the name of the Spanish king Alfonso. It was very popular. My previous partner, when my old clients were looking for me, would tell them that I had died. But they finally found me and came to me. I already had a good name. Everyone knew me. Usually there were no empty seats in the restaurant. You had to make a reservation. What was the house specialty? Everything was special! In the menu it said: ‘with one day notice, you can order anything you want’. There were Japanese meals, Chinese, Hungarian, Spanish… all! There was nothing I wouldn’t prepare. And so it grew… until I retired in 1987.

In 1981 my mom died in Israel. She lived to be 94 years old. She is buried in a very pretty place, on a cemetery in Bnei-Brak [a district in Tel Aviv, inhabited by ultra-orthodox Jews]. In the Jewish tradition there is a saying that after death everyone travels to Israel under the earth. Mother said that ‘she doesn’t want to travel under the earth’… so after my brother left, we tried to organize a life in Israel for Mom. We bought her a tiny  one-bedroom house in Bnei-Brak. She just sat there and talked with God. She read religious books. She had a can for ‘tsdoke’, charity. Money she was getting from her children she used to give away. It was a sort of mitzvah.

We always went to Poland for Christmas, to visit my wife’s family. We bought an apartment in Warsaw 24 years ago. So, whenever we came from Spain, we didn’t have to sleep at hotels. The rest of the year the apartment was locked. A neighbor had the key. We moved there for good in 1987. I could live anywhere, but stayed in Poland. My wife had  family here, and I didn’t want to move her away from her roots. I am happy here in Poland. I don’t feel any discrimination. There were no problems to regain the citizenship. Today, my homeland is Poland and Spain. When I left Poland, I forgot the Polish language. I remembered only a little. My wife kept correcting me, correcting, correcting. Now I speak better and better.

We celebrate all Jewish holidays at home. We invite our Jewish friends. I am a qualified cook, so I make challah, fish, purely Jewish food. They like it. On Sabbath my wife lights  candles, but she doesn’t pray because she doesn’t know how. When I go to the Nozyk Synagogue in Warsaw 23, my wife always accompanies me. My wife was born in a Catholic family, but, if I may say  - she’s as if Jewish flesh and blood . She is more concerned about Jewish affairs than I am. She doesn’t like it when someone, God forbid, attacks Jews. She immediately condemns it. When we were in Brazil, Canada, Budapest, New York, she always went to the synagogue. She would put a scarf on her head, take a prayer book in the given language and pray with me. I am very happy about it. She is an extraordinary woman with a Jewish heart, despite not being born a Jew. I wouldn’t tolerate another woman. But I don’t tell her she shouldn’t be a Catholic. When she wants to, she goes to church. But if we had a child together, I would like for it to be a Jew. I would never let my child be baptized. Never! My wife trusts me. If I didn’t want our child to be baptized, she would immediately agree.

I meet a lot of Jews who changed their last names to Polish. They are simply running away, they say that they ‘can smell anti-Semitism in Poland.’ I don’t really notice it. I feel well among Poles, I have a lot of Polish friends, but there are all types of people in every nation. I like Poles… but I like decent Poles. I don’t like anti-Semites, I don’t like those who act against Jews. Like that priest Jankowski [Rector of the Saint Brygida parish in Gdansk, known for  anti-Semitism in his sermons] or priest Jan Sikora in Wolomin… I wrote a letter to priest Sikora. I asked him: ‘Why aren’t you fulfilling the Pope’s teachings, that ask all peoples to reconcile? You don’t abide by it, but in your sermons you blame Jews for everything that’s wrong in Poland.’ I never got a response to this letter. I wrote the same to priest Jankowski.

I subscribe to two Jewish newspapers: ‘Slowo Zydowskie’ (‘Jewish Word’) [Jewish bi-weekly magazine, published in Polish and Yiddish, created in 1947 as ‘Folksssztyme’] and ‘Midrasz’ [Jewish social-cultural magazine, published since 1997]. I often go to the Jewish community. I am a member of the Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews 24. I am always very interested whenever there are some talks or performances. But I think that Jewish life doesn’t have a bright future in Warsaw. Recently I speak about it often in the Jewish club on  Grzybowski Square. I go there, but there are only gray-haired people there. There is no Jewish youth. It doesn’t seem they are interested in Judaism. I asked the editor of ‘Slowo Zydowskie’: ‘Where are your children?’ Because there are 70% of Poles and 30% of old Jews at those meetings. People of my generation, and maybe 5-10 years younger. But in a few years it will all disappear. There isn’t even minyan on Saturdays! I went to the Jewish community recently. I met three girls, typical Jews. I asked them if they were Jewish. And they say: ‘No, do I look like a Jew?’ And I say ‘All Jews look like you.’ I said so, because they had typical Jewish features. I lived in various parts of the world and I can recognize that. Why is it like this in Poland? I think it’s the only country in the world where people are afraid to say they are Jewish. My opinion is that in Poland there will be a Jewish community, Jewish culture… but will there be Jews? I am a pessimist when it comes to that…

Glossary

Szulim Rozenberg

Paris

France

Interviewer: Anna Szyba

Date of interview: March 2006

I met Szulim Rozenberg in his Paris apartment, a veritable haven of Yiddish culture. The walls are hung with paintings, most of them by Josel Bergner, a school friend of Mr. Rozenberg’s who now lives in Tel Aviv. The shelves are packed with Jewish books, and family photographs are displayed all around. Mr. Rozenberg is a wonderful man who becomes visibly moved as he reminisces about prewar times, when, he remembers, he “defied the poverty of his own family to discover the secrets of literature and science.” Our journey through his childhood often resembles a paean to his friends and the teachers from the Jewish school he attended before the war. Although Mr. Rozenberg left Poland just after the war, and his native tongue is Yiddish, we talk in Polish. Hence the errors in his speech, which at times was hard to understand. However, I have attempted to reproduce his style faithfully. 

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

My family background

I was born in Warsaw, on a street that was called Kupiecka, at no. 16, and that was on 11th November 1918. When Father saw that Mother was somehow restless, he said: ‘Maybe we need that woman for you, to help you give birth?’ And she [the midwife] came, and I was born quite quickly. So that was 8 babies. We had not long gone into that apartment and they didn’t even have a large bowl to bath the born baby, so one of my sisters knocked to the neighbor opposite and said she wanted to borrow a bowl. And the neighbor said ‘You can wash your hair tomorrow,’ so my sister says: ‘No, my mother has had a baby, I want it for the baby.’

My parents came from very poor families from Kozienice [90 km south of Warsaw]. Father, Szmul, was born in 1879; I think Mother was born in the same year, maybe in 1880. Her maiden name was Grinberg, Dwojra Rejla.

Both Father’s parents and Mother’s parents lived in Kozienice. I know nothing about my grandparents; I only know that Father’s father was called Ichesil. My grandmother, Father’s mother, came to us one time. I don’t remember what she was called; I was maybe 2 years old. We weren’t in touch because there was no money to travel. My mother had a terrible tragedy: her mother – or maybe her father, I don’t remember – died, and they didn’t tell her. A few months later, when she found out, she sobbed: ‘I would have walked to the funeral.’

My mother had a brother in Warsaw. And she had 3 brothers in Kozienice. The one who lived in Warsaw was called Jankiel Grinberg. He lived at 27 Pawia Street. We kept in touch with him but you couldn’t go visit him because he lived in a pigsty, the conditions were a very low standard. There were 5 children there, 3 boys and I think 2 girls. The boys all survived, they were in Russia, and then 2 of them went to Israel and one to Canada. They are all dead now. Mother’s brothers who lived in Kozienice was Fajwl, Lajbisz and Mendl.

Father had no family. He was very young when his father died. And there was a brother, because his children were in Warsaw: a daughter and a son, but I know nothing about that brother. The daughter, Chaje Frydman, married well, only her husband died fairly young. She had 3 children, 2 sons and 1 daughter. She used to come to our home often – my father was her uncle. We called her Auntie Chaja. She was a gutsy woman, knew everything, could do everything; she found a husband for my eldest sister. And she had a brother, called Chisel, who lived in Warsaw too, and that brother had a wife with TB. She lay for years in sanatoria, and died before the war.

I never went to Kozienice, but my 2 sisters, they went there. And my eldest brother went there, and lived a while there, did work for the Bund 1 and worked. The uncles, Mother’s brothers, used to come and they always stayed with us.

The eldest, Fajwl, I only saw him one or two times, he came to buy something for his cobbler’s workshop. And he had a son who wasn’t very alright [he was sick] and he was in Warsaw too, we had to take him to the hospital. And that was the end of it, I never saw him again and we weren’t in contact. The second, Lajbisz, he in 1905 2 was in the Russian army, near Japan, he ate frogs there. Later, still before the war, he went to Israel [ed. note: to Palestine]. In Israel he didn’t make it either, the life was too hard and the heat was killing him, and he came back to Kozienice. They were all sitting in Poland, at home, on that one piece of bread. That Lajbisz, whenever he left [after visiting], he would always leave 10 or 20 groszy for the children. You remember that. The youngest, that was Mendl, he was a consumptive and he worked in Warsaw. They made him up a bed and he slept in our apartment. For quite a long time, but I don’t remember any more, because I was still a child.

Father went to Warsaw to work as a young boy. That was at the beginning of the 1890s. And sometimes he would come back to his mother for the festivals. Once he came back and saw a girl standing in a doorway, trying not to be seen, and he liked the look of her, so he sent a shadkhan and the shadkhan said that he was a nice guy, he worked in Warsaw, and they got married. That could have been in 1898, because their first daughter, Golda, was born in 1900. And they went to Warsaw together and looked for an apartment.

Mother could have been about 19 when she had her first baby. 3 years later the 2nd baby, 2 years later the 3rd baby, 3 years later the 4th baby, and so on. During World War I they had a very bad apartment, they lived very miserably, with 5 children in this basement, at 58 Dzika Street, and shortly before I was born they decided to take that apartment at 16 Kupiecka Street, where I was born. That was a very nice house: on the 3rd floor, above us, they were 6 and 5 rooms. The same on the second, and the same on the first.

Growing up

When I was born there were already 5 children at home before me. The eldest, Golda, was 18. They were thinking, about her, to get her married, but they were having trouble. She worked, she was a very resolute, bright girl. But what? She didn’t mix with company. And because she didn’t mix with company, she didn’t have any friends. My second sister, Rajzla, who was about 3 years younger than her [b. 1903], went to the organization [Bund] and she had friends. And then there was the first son, who was called Ksil, born in 1905. So he was 13 when I was born and he went to cheder like all the other boys. Then there was Menasze, born in 1908, and in 1912 a third daughter was born, Ryfka, who was 6 years older than me, but she went to Polish elementary school. That was the first one who went to school.

On the first floor, where we lived, it was quite a big shop. There’s no other way to describe it, because you came in off the street and there was a very high room, so my parents made this sort of gallery where they slept, and when I was small I slept there with Father up to a certain age. Underneath the gallery Father had his workbench, where he worked as a cobbler. Then there was another room, which was without windows, that was the “bath,” because sometimes water came through from the second floor. When I was a child I slept there, but not alone, with my brother, and from time to time water would pour in, so we had a free bath. There was a kitchen, and the other rooms were separate [taken by another tenant].

On the third floor lived a family that had come from Russia; they had 2 daughters: one was a ballerina at Wysocka’s [Tacjanna Wysocka, 1894-1970, dancer, choreographer, journalist. From 1918 she ran the theatrical dance section at the S. and T. Wysocki Music School], and she was always escorted home. And they had 2 sons, surgeons. Those doctors very rarely came to their parents’; they lived somewhere in the good districts of Warsaw, something near Marszalkowska [one of the widest, biggest boulevards in Warsaw]. From time to time their parents went to visit them. And then there was the eldest daughter, Ida, who looked after her parents, who were quite old, and she had no private life. On Saturdays, as a child, I used to go to them to ask for hot water, because we couldn’t boil water for tea on Saturdays. But what? I would come and say: ‘Please Miss Ida, can you give me a little fresh built water?’ And she would say: ‘Not “fresh built”, “fresh boiled”.’ It took quite a long time for that to get into my head.

On the fourth floor lived the widow Ozarow, and on the second floor lived the 2 Wolkow sisters, with a daughter and a son. There were no husbands. They sublet rooms to someone, on a temporary basis, not permanently. For instance there was this young dancer, Musia Dajches, from Vilnius, who used to come and give concerts at the Novelty Theater 3. She was 10 years old and toured all over the world, she was the national celebrity of the Polish Jews. She danced in Israel. When she came, she always stayed with them. She was a child, so they needed a child to amuse her, play with her, so I was that young man.

My parents didn’t go to any school. Maybe Father went to cheder – he had learned the prayers. That was all. He could sign his name in Russian, but in Polish not even that. At home we spoke Yiddish. My parents knew a few words of Polish. I learned Polish myself, from Grimm’s fairytales. There on our street there was this shop that sold notebooks, pen nibs, ink, and he had these little books. So for 2 groszy he would let me read one of those books. I learned to read Yiddish myself too, without school, from the newspapers that come to our house.

I liked my mother very much but she was a very unhappy woman, because she had not food to give her children. In winter we bought 2 sacks of potatoes and into the cellar, and a little onion, and that was our food. And the only thing, it was so tragic for Mother, was that she couldn’t make Sabbath, because for Sabbath you had to have a few zloty to buy a fish, to buy a little bit of meat. Later, in the 1930s, my eldest sister  Golda lived in Czerniakow and was doing well. Streetcar no. 2 went from there to us, so she would come to do her shopping on Mila Street. She would come, take Mother, and bought for Mother too. So that Sabbath was Sabbath, and I would take the chulent to the baker [Jews often took chulent to the baker’s on Friday evening to put it in the baker’s oven, to have a warm meal for the Sabbath, when they weren’t allowed to cook]. You understand how that whole life went on?

Mother had that eldest son, Ksil, well, he was sickly, and she, when she was giving us food, well I would look at his plate, that he always had a spoonful more than all the others. And that hurt. And I remember how when I was working for the tailor and something needed delivering, the patron [owner] would give me the streetcar fare there and back. And I would nip there on foot and save the few groszy streetcar fare. Mother had these varicose veins on her legs and she suffered terribly, she was in bed, so I bought a satsuma for the groszy I’d saved, and took it to Mother.

I liked her a lot, only we didn’t get on at all. With Father you could always talk a bit more, but not with Mother. She was always so withdrawn, and the poorness upset her so much that it was awful. Even now I cry when I see her, how she looked. From time to time she would go to visit my sisters, to Golda most of all, so she had to have enough for the streetcar. So when she got there, Golda gave her enough to get back.

The eldest granddaughter, Nechuma, was Rajzla’s; she married a mechanic, Icchak Fruchtman, and he worked in a button factory, which was in the precinct on Nalewki at no. 2 – there was this precinct, Simons, there [Simons’ precinct opened at the beginning of the 20th century on the corner of Dluga and Nalewki as a commercial building]. There was a factory there, a big unit, and in another unit the same was the union of tailors, and in the other unit was Jutrznia, Morgenstern 4. And he earned quite a good wage, but he was unemployed for a very long time, and only when he found a job there was great delight at such good fortune. They lived opposite me. I lived on Kupiecka, the second house, and here [adjacent] was Zamenhofa Street, at no. 21, and they had a balcony that gave onto the street, and when Nechuma went out onto the balcony she would shout ‘Grandma, Grandma!’ So we could see each other. But Mother didn’t go to Rajzla’s very often because her husband, when he came back from work, he would lie down on the couch, he was tired and didn’t like having visitors. Ryfka married a Rubin Moszkowicz and went to live at 27 Dzielna Street, opposite Pawiak [a notorious Warsaw prison]. She had 2 children. Icchak was born in 1943 in Russia, Dwora she had in 1946 in Dzierzoniow.

Father was always busy, always smiling, always dashing off somewhere, always had some idea. He matched couples together, for instance, was a bit of a shadkhan, and found them apartments. And he would forget to take money. Apart from that he was always thinking of somebody. But he was very cheerful. He had a friend who was a half-rabbi. He wasn’t an official rabbi, he just wore this round fur hat. He was very poor too, but very decent. They used to go the bar on Fridays and pay so that they could go on Saturday and drink a little glass of vodka. And he would come home in such a good mood, come to his wife and kissed her, and she would say: ‘Oy! What are you doing?’ So he would say: ‘Let my children learn how to love a wife.’

Father had a little manufactory until the 1930s, which was in our house. There were about 12 people in it. When things were going worse, he made a pair of high boots, warm ones, with fur inside, took them under his overcoat and went out into the Polish district. He saw a woman selling apples, sitting at a cash desk, and it’s cold there. And he comes in and says: ‘Put them on, Ma’am.’ She puts a shoe like that on, and then she doesn’t want to undress it… And when he’d sold that pair he could buy material for another pair, and we had enough to eat for a few days. Only what? It was hard for him because he had no-one to second him. The eldest son, Ksil, he’d learned to make uppers and started work in the factory, but the first strike at Father’s it was he who organized.

We were very poor. On the one hand because my father got involved in causes like making a kitchen for the poor and taking them food. Our apartment wasn’t too big to start with, and then they set up this kitchen in it as well, to cook. On Thursdays he would go round shops and here they’d give him something, there they’d give him something else. And they’d do the cooking, and on Friday evening they’d take it to this big hall at 32 Muranowska Street. It was this hall that was hired for weddings, dances, and there they distributed the food. Father had a lot of energy and he was a very good man, and people like that have a very hard life.

In Poland rent at that time was quite expensive. And in the crisis years it was terrible. Before, when we had the shop, together with the kitchen and the little room we paid 82 zloty a month [a kilo of bread cost 30 groszy]. That was a terrible sum. To earn it the whole family had to work, and we didn’t always have it. So in 1932, when my sister Rajzla got married, they gave her the little gallery [the platform in the apartment on Kupiecka], to live in with her husband, and there she had a daughter. And later Father stopped working. He was around 50, and he couldn’t sit on the stool any more. And Rajzla left home and took an apartment [at 21 Zamenhofa]. Then Father split the shop off and gave it to somebody else so as not to have so much rent to pay. And for the kitchen and the dark room we paid 28 zloty. But once Father wasn’t working, his earnings were all up in the air: he hooked a few zloty or he didn’t. And at one time we didn’t pay the rent for about 2 months, and the bailiff came and all there was, 2 beds, Father’s and Mother’s, and the couch, they put it out in the gateway. That was a terrible thing. When I came from work, I saw our things standing in the gateway, and Mother looked like a mummy, and she couldn’t even speak. And then we started looking for money to pay somehow, and we went round everyone we knew. When we paid it, we moved back into that ‘palace’ and I carried on sleeping in that dark little room in the same bed as my brother.

Mother went to the synagogue at every festival. She knew that she wasn’t allowed to mix dairy and meat, that this wasn’t kosher and that wasn’t kosher, so she didn’t do it, but whether she was religious? What does ‘religiousness’ mean? The whole religiousness thing among poor people like that was a bit of a comfort thing, that they would go there [to heaven after death], and it would be easier there. Mother always went to the mikveh after her period. And Father went too, only Father went every week. I went once, I think, or maybe twice, I don’t know, but it was a terrible place, the mikveh! The water was dirty!

Mother lit the candles. When I was a small child we played with a dreidl [Yiddish: a four-sided spinning top traditionally played with at Chanukkah], but later on it didn’t interest me any more: I ate at home and then went to SKIF 5, we would sit there and sing all the time. We had this small projector that they showed Chaplin films on [Charlie Chaplin, 1889-1977, the biggest Hollywood silent movie star]. At Sukkot we made a sukkah and ate there. It was almost at home – we lived on the first floor, and Mother passed us food out through the window. We ate with the neighbors, so they were careful to give us better food. When I was small I went to the synagogue, but I never took a book to read the prayers in the synagogue.

Father went to the prayer house at 21 Mila Street every Saturday. The prayer house at Mila was 2 or 3 rooms on the second floor, 2 at least because the women couldn’t be together. There was a mikveh in the same house too. I know there was a board at the prayer house, and my father was on the board. I went to that prayer house until 1932. Going to the prayer house was a kind of getting away from the hard lot. The last years, all the children in our house were Bundists. One son, Ksil, didn’t live at home any more, but I and one brother, Menasze, we still did, and Father once asked us: ‘I know you don’t want to go to the prayer house, but just take me, so that other people don’t see me going alone.’ How much humbleness did he have to have to tell his children: ‘Take me’? We took him. We walked with Father and he went into the prayer house and we went off to the side and did what we wanted.

The eldest brother Ksil and Menasze went to cheder a bit but somehow it was no joy to them. And when I was a few years old, I don’t know, maybe 5, maybe 6, Father took me to cheder and I started to go. There was this cheder not far from Mila. There was some kind of cheder in every house. There were 2 teachers, and they went round: ‘Read this, say that.’ On every week you had to pay on Sunday. After 2 weeks I come and I haven’t anything to pay with. So they sent me home: ‘When you have money, come.’ So a week later Father had something, gave me a few groszy and sent me off again. But when I come back after that week the other children had already learned something I didn’t know and I was unhappy. After that happened a few times, at 8½ years old I didn’t want to go back there again. It didn’t do anything for me. My elder brother, when I was let’s say 6, he was 19, he was earning, and he bought these Literarisze Bletter 6, which used to come to our house every week. And I remember that photograph of David, Michelangelo’s, he was naked, or Moses with horns. You were afraid to look at it!

All 3 sisters got married before the war and I remember the weddings. They were religious. What is the wedding? They take the future husband and with the future wife they are stood under a canopy and the rabbi says some prayer. They get a glass and take care that it’s a fine one, and at a certain moment the man breaks the glass to recall the destruction of Jerusalem. They all had it.

My sisters kept kosher homes. I’ll tell you this: when you left a home like ours, what you cooked you cooked kosher. She couldn’t pour milk into meat, for instance. I don’t know if they had special pots, for meat and for milk. But they kept Jewish homes, though for Ryfka it wasn’t important.

I sometimes used to go to my sister Golda in Czerniakow, that was a very long way. I used to walk an hour and a half. My parents, you see they couldn’t use transport on Saturdays, they used to go 2 and a half hours on foot to go and see their first grandson there. Golda’s husband was called Froim Sziber. He was a cobbler, totally illiterate. When I used to go by tram I would take books and in the evenings I’d read to them. Sometimes he’d still be sitting and working and I would read him books. It was kind of moving that he got so much joy from those books, that he liked it so much. And my sister too. They liked each other so much. They lived in their shop, so they made a piece of canvas to divide the first room where he worked off from where she had her workshop, there she made all sorts of knits [e.g. gymnastics suits, swimsuits, ballet wear]. When I was working in Warsaw I would buy goods for her and he came and took it and she always made some design. Swimsuits that didn’t sell, I took them, went to the wholesale and sold them. When I went to them, I slept on the other side from them, but it was the same room.

When she had to go to the hospital [to have her baby], I went to their house every evening to take her. I took her in a taxi that went via Zelazna Street, and crossed over the tracks and bounced, and she screamed: ‘Oy, oy!’ Well then it [the birth] went fast after that. When she had twins, at the hospital in Czyste 7 they told me: ‘It’s a girl, but call back in 20 minutes. I called back in 20 minutes: ‘There’s another girl.’ I had to go and register it.

The street opposite us was Wolynska, and there was a series of small food stores. At 7 in the evening all the shops closed. Sometimes when I come home and there wasn’t a piece of bread, I would go there, one of the family was standing on the street, and when I came I said to him: ‘A quarter loaf for 10 groszy, sugar for 5 groszy and for 5 groszy a medium piece of herring,’ and he took the 20 groszy and in a greasy newspaper gave me the goods. And we made a bit of tea, everyone took a piece of bread and that’s what you went to sleep on. That’s how we lived.

What I remember most is Jewish Warsaw. It took in more or less from Stawki, where the Umschlagplatz 8 was later, to the philharmonic on Jasna. In every week I would go for Sunday mornings at 12, those were classical music concerts. I went on my own, or with this one friend who also liked music, Naftule Leruch. At first we were the only ones and they laughed a bit, but later other friends from Zukunft 9 wanted to go themselves, and a whole gang of us went. And sometimes I even got in on the sly, I mean I gave the janitor 20 or 30 groszy and he let me in. And from time to time there was an inspection and they went round looking for people without tickets, but I just sat in the corner on the left, on the second floor, and when they came they just looked at me and went on. I don’t know why, but they probably saw that it would be a shame to take away the happiness that this child got from the concert.

From time to time, very rarely, we used to go for a walk to Marszalkowska. And apart from that we went to the Saski Gardens and there we had fights with the Fascists 10, who didn’t want Jews to get into the garden. There was a summer theater in that garden, and I used to go there from time to time, there was this wonderful actress, a Jewish one, Ejchlerowna [Irena Eichlerowna, 1908-1990], who used to play a doctor. I still remember her acting. And I used to go to the opera for claps, to clap [as a hired applauder]. If they didn’t have anyone you could get in for free, but if there were a few who wanted to, then he wanted 50 groszy. From time to time, if I had 50 groszy and there was a good thing that I wanted to see, I gave him the 50 groszy and you had to shout ‘Encore!’ and throw flowers on the stage. When it was vacation time I sometimes went 4-5 times a week.

In the summer we went down to the Vistula [Poland’s biggest river, which flows through Warsaw], to the other side of the Kierbedz Bridge, and there there was a non-regulation beach. We went there in the morning, everyone took a hunk of bread, a cucumber, sometimes something else, and you were there all day. That was the old Warsaw. I knew her, loved her, and never in my life would I have thought that I would leave Warsaw …

I remember, it was probably in 1928, there was a terrible storm, roofs flew off, and we were on that beach. So what did we do? We got in the water and laughed and sang. Before evening it quietened and we went home. And my eldest sister, Golda, had come out to look for me. She was walking towards the beach, and when she saw me she was so happy, she hugged me and took me home. I was not quite 10. I was very independent altogether. In 1932 my brother Ksil was sick and was in the hospital in Czyste, he had a problem with his lungs. So I went every day on the streetcar, I hung on at the back. I went to visit him, sometimes take him something if Mother gave me something. And I had to be first in the ward when it was visiting time, because that’s what he wanted!

I remember one evening the great Polish violinist Huberman [Bronislaw Huberman, 1882-1947, violinist and pedagogue. Initiator of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra in Tel Aviv] came to Warsaw, and my eldest brother Ksil bought himself a ticket, and he spent a lot of money, but there wasn’t a bit of bread in the house, but he had to go. Only what? He was working, he had friends who were richer than him and they all went. Later on I understood him, because I used to do the same. Once, I was walking along Rymarska Street, near the Saxon Gardens, with a girl friend who lived in the same house as me, Estera Lenger, and we met friends of hers who lived there. And they said: ‘We’re going for coffee!’ So I say to Estera: ‘Listen, I haven’t got a single grosz.’ ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’ Later, I felt her slipping her purse into my pocket so that I could pay. But that can happen once, it can happen a second time, but it’s hard to live like that.

And 2 days before the war, on the 5th [September 1939]  there was a concert at the Warsaw Opera House. Ewa Bandrowska-Turska [1894-1979, Polish singer] was performing, and the money was going to the army. So I went with her, it was she bought the tickets, we sat opposite Rydz-Smigly [Edward Rydz-Smigly, 1886-1941, Polish marshal]. I needed it and she needed it. She saw that I loved her very much, and she loved me very much too, and her family thought very highly of me, and even of my impoverished father.

In 1929 the winter was terribly cold in Warsaw. We didn’t go to school. So I every day went to the library. And when I go, Mother says: ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To the library.’ ‘You’ll die on the way and no-one will even know where you are!’ That’s what Mother said as I left. I came back with some new book and there were the 3 of us left at home. Father, Mother and I. So I sat by the stove and read aloud, Shulem Aleichem 11, Mendele Moykher Sforim 12.

In the Simons precinct, on the first floor, was the Grosser Library [the Grosser Memorial Library in Warsaw was founded in 1915 on the initiative of a group of workers and officials. It operated until 1939]. It was the library of the Bund and the Kultur-Liga [Kultur-Liga, cultural and educational organization dominated, especially at first, by Bundist political influences. Founded in 1916 in Kiev and active in Poland from 1922]. To that library, I went every day. I had a marvelous librarian. He knew what I already read and he took my reading further. When I met someone, they had a book that I liked, I say: ‘You know what? Give it to me until tomorrow morning.’ So I went home and there in my dark room I put the light on and by tomorrow morning I finished that book and took it back. Of German literature, I remember Georg Fink wrote a book called Mir hingert – ‘We are hungry.’ It’s him talking, in Berlin, about how he’s always hungry. I read a lot and in those books I always found something in common with my life.

The Bund was a working-class party, and my brothers joined that party as young men. I was the youngest in the house and I heard what they talked about. When Perec Markisz [Markisz Perec 1895-1952, poet writing in Yiddish] came to Warsaw, there was this story: My sister Rajzla had very long hair, and she’d made a plait, and he stroked that plait, so they said: ‘Don’t wash your hair now! You mustn’t cut your hair, it’s sacred!’

In 1928, in November, Michalewicz [Bejnisz Michalewicz, 1876-1928, pedagogue, journalist, co-founder of the CISzO] died. We had a Bund place on Przejazd, no. 9; there was a kitchen there as well. So they laid him out there and people came to see him. Well I gone past 13 times. I went back in the line and gone past again. Lots of people at the funeral, hundreds of thousands came from various places to Warsaw for Michalewicz’s funeral. And Chmurner [Jozef Chmurner, 1884-1935, journalist, CISzO activist] died in something like 1934. But his was smaller. Chmurner was the leader of the leftist Bundists [in the 1920s the Bund split into 2 factions, the ‘Ones’, under Henryk Erlich and Wiktor Alter, and the ‘Twos’, led by Chmurner. The Twos were against joining the Internationale and collaboration with the PPS. The Twos were dominant until 1924, but after that the Ones gained the majority]; there were less of them, but he was a very respected leader and I often went to his lectures. I only went to Michalewicz once, with my eldest sister, to a pre-election rally. He lived opposite Joski Lifszyc [Jozef Lifszyc – dentist, Bund activist, co-founder and chairman of the Zukunft Socialist Youth Union], whose son Rubin I was friendly with. In 1928 there were elections to the Sejm, so we put on a meeting of the tenants of our house, and Michalewicz was supposed to come. And when my brother went to look for Michalewicz, he was already sick, so he went in to Lifszyc and Lifszyc came and he spoke to the tenants. I often came to the Lifszyces, because I hung out, I went round to one, then I went round to another, but I was welcome. I remember their home well – and the grandmother always put us something up to eat, because she was familiar that these children coming round are hungry.

The numbers on our street started from the first number but on one side it only went up to 11 and on the other to 18. And the side that had the lack of numbers was a dead wall without windows, without a shop, without anything. That’s where the SKIF people gathered, I saw them coming. Leruch’s sister asked if I wanted to be in SKIF too. So I went to 29 Karmelicka Street, where the school was [a 7-grade Bund school run by the Central Yiddish School Organization, CISzO], and became a member of SKIF. I was about 10.

When I went to SKIF, I met friends who went to school, I went to their houses when they were doing their homework, and I sat and did the same work as them. And one time, when I was in the SKIF place at 29 Karmelicka, I asked if I couldn’t go to night school, because I was already 10, I should have been in 4th grade, so I couldn’t go to day school. So the teacher, Halperin, who worked at SKIF, said: ‘All right, come this evening.’ She was terribly cross-eyed and we called her ‘di koke’ – ‘koke’ [Yid.] that means that she sort of looked sideways. I had another friend in SKIF, Lejbe Gruzalc, so I told him that we could go to that night school, and he enrolled as well, and we went together the whole time.

In 1932 I went on my first SKIF camp, to Gabin [100 km west of Warsaw]. We collected the money – I used to go to the Metropol bar, opposite the club for Jewish writers [Mr. Rozenberg probably means the Union of Jewish Writers in Warsaw, at 13 Tlomackie Street]. I.J. Trunk [Jechiel Iszaje Trunk, 1887-1961, Jewish prose writer and essayist who wrote in Yiddish, in the 1930s chairman of the Jewish PEN Club in Warsaw] was there, the one who wrote the 7 volumes Pojlin, and Segalowicz [Zusman Segalowicz, 1884-1949, Jewish poet and prose writer, wrote in Yiddish] used to go too. All sorts. Richer ones used to go, and in the club, on the second floor, were all the ones who wrote poems, poor lads, who wanted to get into those circles, be writers. Some of them made it, but some of them spent their whole lives sitting there.

At the committee they told us that the one who collected the most money could go on the camp free. The director of the Medem Sanatorium 13, Leo Brumberg, took a month’s vacation to run the camp. It was he who said to me, at the SKIF headquarters: ‘Listen, tomorrow evening is a committee meeting, and we’ll know who’s going.’ He said: ‘You come, and when you’re there we’ll see.’ I get there, I’m sitting there, it’s 10.30, and they’re going out, and he comes up to me and says: ‘Come here, Szulim. You know what? You collected the most money, and we have decided that for 10 zloty you can go for 2 weeks.’ So I burst into tears. I was 13. ‘Why are you crying? You should be happy!’ So I say: ‘But where’s my mother going to get 10 zloty?’ ‘Listen, I’ll see that no-one will ever know about this.’ And he took out 10 zloty.

At the camp everything was planned. We got up in the morning and did gymnastics. On the first day we had to dig a hole, which we put a plank over and that was the toilet. Then we had to make tables and we had to make a kitchen. So we had to get a few bricks and lay the bricks so that the pot could stand. And then we had to put a pole up so that the red pennant could be hoisted. That was a great honor, to hoist the pennant, a different child every day. So there were things to do all day. We had to peel potatoes, we had to go to town to buy something – we did everything ourselves. There wasn’t anyone hired. There was one teacher and then there was one deputy for that teacher, that was Emanuel Pat. At night we stood on guard for 2 hours. We drove to Gabin by ship, and in other years we drove to Brok [85 km north-east of Warsaw] and to Kazimierz [150 km south-west of Warsaw] by ship too.

After that every year I went on camp. Only once I was working I put a few groszy aside every month, so that I didn’t have to go crying to anybody to get the money to go on camp. In 1939 they did the first camp in the mountains for the trade unions’ youth section, on the river Dunajec. It was a fairy tale, so you can’t imagine it. It was run by a teacher and a juror in the Lodz magistrate court. He was so small, like a barrel, and he told wonderful stories, he taught us to hike in the mountains. We just went for 2 weeks. On our way back we stopped a day in Krakow. We visited Wawel [the Royal Castle on a hill in Krakow], we saw the Jewish area 14 and we went back to Warsaw. When I came back to Warsaw my shoes were totally walked out. And I had a girl friend, Estera, who lived opposite me, on the fourth floor, and they were quite rich people. And my mother told me that she was sick. So I wanted to go see her, but I couldn’t go in such shoes, so the next day, I don’t know what my father did: when I got home, Mother cooked some potatoes, sprinkled them with a little onion, and that was dinner, and in this bag lay a pair of shoes, so that I could go and see my friend. They were new shoes.

SKIF was so active that you knew everybody and saw everybody. And those children were attached to the organization – all the friends I had were from SKIF. We often used to go to Josel [Josel Mlotek, 1918-2000, Bund activist]. Josel had a season ticket to the ice rink. So I’d go, he’d give me the season ticket, I got in for free. You see, I didn’t have any money for all those good things. I was friendly with Bergner, his father was Rawicz [Melech Rawicz 1983-1976, poet and essayist writing in Yiddish], so I used to go round there. Once I turned up on a Saturday at his house, and my shoes wasn’t as black as they should have been. So he says to me: ‘Why didn’t you clean your shoes when you left?’ So I say: ‘I went through a garden!’ ‘What garden? There’s no garden from Kupiecka to Nowolipie! And if you come here again like this I won’t let you in the house.’ They weren’t rich; those Jewish things [cultural and educational work among the Jews] didn’t pay much. Rawicz traveled in the world a lot and wrote wonderful columns for the Folkszeitung 15. He was the secretary of the Writers’ Union 16, but all that wasn’t lucrative. Melech Rawicz used to travel around to all these small towns with lectures. He was a big expert on that Jewish philosopher, Spinoza 17. His wife didn’t work, she was a singer. They had 2 children. The daughter was called Rutka – still is called Rutka, lives in Australia. She’s a year older than me.

In Zukunft I had this one speaker, called Chenoch Mendelson, well, our club met at his house, at 43 Nowolipki. There were 3 sisters and he had a brother who was an engineer. And Chenoch worked on Saturdays till lunchtime. We would meet up in his courtyard and chat with his Mom and sister through the window, and he’d come back, go and wash and have something to eat, and only then did we go in for the meeting. During the war he emigrated to America and working in the Bund unions.

We had this speakers club at Zukunft, and for instance Mrs. Erlich [Zofia Dubnow-Erlich, wife of Henryk Erlich] would come to the club meetings, she was the daughter of Szymon Dubnow 18. She taught us literature lessons. Russian literature, German literature. She opened my head about Chekhov, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky. When we came out after she finished her evening, we couldn’t go straight home. So the whole group, we went down to the Vistula, and we took her every word apart. Later on, when I got to Russia, I felt at home there. At Hashomer Hatzair 19 they found out that she is coming to us to those club meetings, they asked her if she wouldn’t come to them too. They had this hakhshara [Heb.: center for future emigrants to Palestine], outside Warsaw, in Grochow 20 [ed. note: according to Gertrud Pickhan it was in Jozefow. Gegen den Strom, p. 293]. So she said: ‘The children want me to, so I will go. And she went there too. One evening she was there with them in Grochow, and there was this train there [a suburban train into Warsaw]. The train didn’t have the power to keep going all that time, so it stopped for a bit, for an hour or two [there was a break in the running of the trains]. And when she got home it was 12 o’clock at night, and Erlich was sitting there writing his articles for the newspaper, and he says to her: ‘I thought you’d gone to Israel!’ It was a great joy that such a woman came to such illiterates as I, she had so much knowledge, and that she could share herself with me, well, that was the biggest fortune I could have in life.

At the school on Karmelicka there were 5 different classes. We went every day evening. It started at 6.30. It finished at 9.30, sometimes maybe even 10.30. In the evening we used to go home with this Gruzalec, I remember there was this thick snow, we bought ourselves 3 bagels for 10 groszy and we each ate them on the road, a bagel and a half, so when I come home I was full. You paid for school, but it wasn’t so much for that night school. And anyway, I wasn’t enrolled. If I had money I took it, if I didn’t have any I didn’t take any.

The same teachers taught as in the day. They had a lot more work, and they were happy, because teaching was quite badly paid, so they had a few more hours. Some had families, some didn’t have families because they didn’t earn enough to have a family. Everything was in Yiddish: we had mathematics, history, Polish history, history of the Jews, and languages. Polish was taught in our school, but in little teaspoons. I did 5 or 6 years at Karmelicka. I worked, at first as an errand boy, later in a tailor’s shop, and went to that school. Later, when I was working in the shop for Znamirowski, I found I didn’t have enough Polish, so I enrolled in a Polish night school; that was in 1937.

There were 4 schools like that one [secular Jewish schools run by CISzO]. The 4th was at 68 Nowolipki [ed. note: owned by Left Poalei Zion], and a 5th, that wasn’t a Bund school; that was at 6 Zamenhofa. That was a CISzO 21 school, but it was under the influence of Left Poalei Zion 22. They had another on Muranowski Square, at no. 12. There wasn’t really any difference between those schools. Only what? At that one there was a lot about Palestine, that a state had to be built for the Jewish nation, whereas we believed that we ought to live together with others. But generally speaking, the program was the same. We knew each other. We used to go down to a square near the Vistula to play soccer.

The schools were in houses – a whole floor was taken up by the school. The rooms were made over into classrooms. There were normal benches and desks, and a blackboard that they wrote on, and we wrote in notebooks. There was one class in each room. 6 on Karmelicka, I think, and you went to the 7th class on Krochmalna. In the recesses the teachers sat in the kitchen, and we couldn’t even go out into the courtyard, because the residents didn’t really put up with a lot of noise

The difference between our school and other schools was that we were more attached to that school, and our teachers embraced us with a love that there wasn’t in any school. People who went to ‘szabasowka’ [Jewish elementary schools, where lessons were not held on Saturdays; introduced between the wars and recognized by the Polish state], or to public schools, when they went out of school they never met any of their teachers. But we stayed in that circle all our lives. That was the difference. That warmness and that duty. A lot was organized in those schools. For instance in 1937 there was an exhibition on Shulem [Sholem] Aleichem. It was like this: the children had various interests – some painted, some wrote poems or stories, or some sketches about Shulem Aleichem. Every child prepared something. It was an exhibition in some trade union [A national exhibition on the life and work of Sholem Aleichem organized by CISzO].

I hadn’t left the school on Karmelicka when I started working. My youngest sister Ryfka worked for this patron, plaited plaiting for shoes. And those were 2 brothers who had this little manufactory, and then they sold the plaiting to cobblers. Well, they needed an errand-boy, to fetch and carry. And I was that errand-boy. I worked there for maybe a year, or perhaps more. But later – I knew that wasn’t a trade – I decided I would look for work with a dressmaker. And I went to work for this dressmaker, it was a small manufactory, an atelier, well, let’s say 6-8 people worked there. What was my work? I had to go down into the cellar, bring coal, because the house needed heating. Then, before lunch I had to go and buy something for each of those workers. So he gave me this whole task: to buy a quarter loaf of bread for 10 groszy, sugar for 5 groszy, and the middle slice of herring for 5 groszy. Later I had to take a finished piece of work to a patron and bring another piece ready cut. I didn’t have the chance to learn anything there. And there was this terrible thing there, too, that haunted me my whole life, called the dead season. There was no work: ‘There’s no work, so go home.’ And then they didn’t pay.

There was this one affair, that he sent me on the day of the seder to take a piece of work to this patron, and it was already 10.00, and when I got to the seder it was after 11.00. And it was this big tragedy at home because they couldn’t start the seder. So I stopped going to work for that patron and went to another patron. I seemed to be doomed not to learn anything. This other patron already had this one apprentix [apprentice]. The other apprentix, his father gave that patron of mine work. When he gave him work, he put him in front of the machine and I did all those other things.

Back then – I was maybe 16 – I started feeling badly. And Lucjan Blind summoned me, he was the secretary of Zukunft, and he told me that Zukunft had the right to send 2 people to the Medem Sanatorium for 30 zloty. That was 1936, and it was a bit easier financially, because the family had thinned out a bit. I gone to my family and told them, and they all chipped in, and gave me the 30 zloty. I paid and went to the sanatorium for a month. When I arrived at the sanatorium, in the evening you had to go and take a shower and clean your teeth – I didn’t even know what you did that for! And I gotten into a clean bed, all on my own. I’d never slept alone. When I was a small child I slept with my parents, when I was bigger I slept with my brother. Well, I didn’t know what was going on – such a big room, such big windows, so much sun. All my life in Warsaw I’d slept in a room where there was no window!

When we got up we did gymnastics and then we went to eat breakfast. And before breakfast they read out this log, what had happened that day. At 4.00 they gave us a snack; there was this teacher, called Batke, he asked ‘What do you want to eat?’ ‘I want chocolate.’ He brought chocolate. And how could I possibly imagine that, when I’d always gone hungry?

When I was there I was elected to the committee that was in charge of all matters, and Josel Mlotek was there too; he was always at the sanatorium in the summer. We were very friendly. And I met a girl there, she was from Vilnius. It’s not the kind of acquaintance they make today, but something like it. She was called Fojgele Jofe. Her father was a teacher in Vilnius.

When I came back from the Medem Sanatorium, I gone to the trade unions, to the merchants 23. Everyone in the organization knew me, they gave me a letter to go with. I went to Mr. Znamirowski [a shop owner] on Franciszkanska. He took the letter and asks: ‘Where do you live?’ I told him where I lived. ‘Who your parents?’ I told him, and that was it. ‘And you shall come on the Monday after next.’ On the Monday after next I came and it was all all right. There came a time, I found out he had an uncle who lived on Majzelsa, so he asked, and they told him: ‘Szmul the cobbler’s child, you can take him on blind.’

When we sent parcels to customers, for down payments, we had to collect the money at the Post Office. Sometimes we had to collect it from the eastern railway station. They sent me, and I brought the money back in coins. So he asks me: ‘Have you counted it?’ So I say ‘Yes.’ So he tips it into the till. I say: ‘I don’t want that. I’m a poor kid and if I need a zloty I’ll take it, because I know you tip it in without counting it.’ So he says: ‘You’re wrong, I know that you’re a decent person.’

I remember once he told me to come in on 1 May [appointed as a holiday, Labor Day,  by the Second Internationale, from 1890 celebrated every year with mass rallies, demonstrations and marches]. So I told him that I could come in on Yom Kippur, I could come in on other holidays, but on 1 May  I couldn’t come in. So he says: ‘Well, you needn’t come in on 2 May either, then.’ But I come in on 2 May, and I come with the secretary of the youth union, and when I come in with him, he talked to the patron and the patron told me to stay.                                  

When I was working in that shop of Znamirowski’s, I go out of the house, which was at 39 Kupiecka, and I walking to Franciszkanska, and on the left there were 3 Jewish publishers and on the right 2. When I walking to work at 8.30 I always saw those writers and I knew them by sight. Shalom Ash 24, for instance, who was a handsome man. You could have made a film of him and his wife walking along. Always as he walked he looked up to heaven, like he was talking to the Lord.

During the war

And the war started, and I was walking to work in that shop at 34 Franciszkanska; that was the best job in my life. I worked there about 3½ years. And on 7th [September] a friend of my elder brother’s came in and asks: ‘Don’t you know that the president of the city has ordered all young people out of Warsaw 25?’ So me and my brother, Menasze, started thinking about it. We didn’t have any money. So I went upstairs to my friend Estera, borrowed 10 zloty off of her, and as we gone, Mother took out 2 zloty and gave it us for the journey. And that was our farewell with Mother. I saw them again but my brother never saw them again.

When we started walking, we met Josel Mlotek and we walked those 550 km together. Josel Mlotek was editor of Forwerts 26 [after the war], and he was my age, he’d known me from childhood and I’d known him from childhood. On the way we met this one teacher from the Medem Sanatorium, Trupianski – a musician -he was a beautiful man [Abraham Brumberg remembers Jankew Trupianski as a 'tall, well-built man over 30, the owner of a huge nose and a bushy mop of black hair.' Midrasz, September 2005, p. 17]. He was pushing a baby carriage with a baby and he was worn out, so we took it from him and we pushed that carriage for 5-10 km.

And when we came to Sarn [ed. note: Sarny, today Ukraine, 230 km east of Chelm], I met my patron’s son – Jakub Znamirowski. My patron had stayed in Warsaw; his son was this small, fat guy, but he’d bought himself the loveliest wife that Warsaw had. She was an orphan [ed. note: she had no father but her mother was alive], and when he got his hands on her, her mother said: ‘This is gold!’ and she married him.

From there we walked on foot to Maniewicz [today Ukraine: 30 km from Sarny], that was a beautiful little town. In Maniewicz was one of the richest Jews in Poland, who was a factory owner in Lodz – I don’t remember his name. The Russians there had started arresting anyone wearing Polish army clothes. So Josel Mlotek and I went to that factory owner and told him that there were Jewish soldiers who needed civilian clothing. If not, they are sending them to plen [Russ: taking them prisoner]. He took out a few hundred zloty – that was a huge amount. For that money we clothed about 15 people.

Then Josel Mlotek decided that he was going to Vilnius, and my patron’s son went to Vilnius too. So at one point I said to my brother: ‘You know what, we’ll go to Vilnius too.’ That was right after the war ended between Poland and Germany 27. I get to Vilnius, and on the street I meet Fojgele Jofe, the girl from the sanatorium. I was with my brother, and she took us to a friend who’d been with us in the sanatorium, and his mother gave us clean underwear and I had a bath. It was more than a month that we’d been on the road. That was the first time I washed after that month. And the girl said: ‘My father said he wants to meet you.’ He was a teacher, in our schools, and was a Bundist, and he was hiding, he didn’t live at home. I came at the arranged time, and he sits there with me, talking to me, and he says: ‘You know what, I believe that in such hard times it’s better to throw in your lot with a bigger country than to stay here in Lithuania, because there’s no knowing what might happen here. I’m even sending my daughter to Grodno.’ So we thought, and we went to Volkovysk [today Belarus, 100 km east of Bialystok].

If I’d stayed in Vilnius, then Sugihara [Sempo Sugihara, 1900-1986, Japanese diplomat, consul general in Kaunas at the time of Lithuania’s incorporation into the Soviet Union, who issued over 2,000 transit visas forJewish refugees], who was giving out the visas to Japan – I could have gone there too. My friend Josel Mlotek and my patron, they went to Shanghai and they survived the war there, but as it was I had the chance to get my sisters and brother out of Poland.

We were in Volkovysk for about 6 months. Rajzla, Ryfka and my brother and I, we were all living in this shop. Golda had stayed in Poland. One of my teachers, Halperin, was Volkovysk. Her parents lived there. She met me and it turned out there were 2 other people from our school there, so every week we had to go to her place for tea. There was such a community, between those students and those teachers, like nowhere else in life.

When I was in Volkovysk from time to time I went to Bialystok, because people from Warsaw come there. On one day I’m standing selling cigarettes on the street, I meet my elder brother Ksil. So I ask he: ‘Where are your wife and child?’ and he says: ‘The Germans took me into plen and I escaped.’ So I give him the cigarettes and I say: ‘I’m going to the train, to bring you your wife and son.’ And I decided to go to Warsaw. That was sometime about October [1939]. I went to Zreba Koscielna [Zreby Koscielne, 120 km east of Warsaw] and there you could still get over onto the German side, it wasn’t so hard, though when we went into Zreba, the Germans grabbed us by the head and cracked our heads, but they let us go and I took a train to Warsaw. I bought lots of things, because when I went to my patron [Znamirowski], he gave me money, and things. By then I knew what we needed.

After his wedding my brother Ksil lived in Otwock [25 km south of Warsaw]. He married a young girl. He was 34, she was about 18. She was called Tauba Frydman. They met because he was working for her father, he made shoe uppers, very expensive, lovely things. She was from Otwock, and she’d been to school in Warsaw. She was a nice girl, and there aren’t even any photographs of her in the family. And in about 1937 she had a little boy, Perec. And I took them from Warsaw to Volkovysk. And they put their names down to get Russian passports [people who lived in areas occupied by the USSR were forced to take Soviet citizenship. Refugees who had arrived there from central Poland could take Soviet citizenship or put their names down to return to the General Governorship. The latter were deported to Kazakhstan in June 1940] and went to live apart from us.

Ryfka was pregnant. Ryfka’s husband saw I’d brought so many things from Warsaw, so when I came back, he said he would go too. And he went to Warsaw – it was a week, 2 weeks, he didn’t come back. And he had 2 brothers in Bialystok. So I went to Bialystok. I go to his brother and I ask him: ‘You know anything about Rubin?’ So he says: ‘Yes, I know, he’s sitting on that neutral strip [a strip of no-man’s land on the Russian-German border]. He’s been there 18 days and they bring him food from Warsaw. A wonderful thing, a good lodging.’ So I say: ‘Come on, we’ll go to the border and see what we can do there.’ We went to get something to eat in a Jewish bar, and a young boy came in, maybe 15-16 years old. I ask him: ‘Do you know how to get to the neutral ground?’ He says: ‘Yes.’ ‘Would you come at 12.00 at night to take us there?’ ‘Yes.’ In exchange he wanted a pair of officer’s boots worth 200 zloty. At 12 he came, we went to that neutral strip – there were 5,000 people there. We started shouting: ‘Rubin! Rubin! Rubin!’ And somehow we found him and we took him away, to some village. What he’d brought we packed in bags and put the bags in a hole, and I brought a barber to shave him, cut his hair, and we took him home. The next day they took those 5,000 people and transported them back to Warsaw, and almost all of them perished.

Rubin and I went cleaning railroad tracks, and Ryfka had a little boy. I think he was called Jakub. That was their first child. After that they started sending families to labor villages [kolkhozes], they escaped from that village and were supposed to go east, but on the way the child died. That was terrible.

There in that Volkovysk we had to put our names down, whether we wanted to be Russian citizens. So I said no, that I wanted to go to Vilnius. And in April 1940 they arrested me, put me on a train, we were going to Minsk, but there was nowhere to put us out, so we went back to Volkovysk. Here they put us on a barge and we went to Koltas, that was the NKVD zone, where you couldn’t get out from.

And then we lost each other. They went one way, and I and my brother Menasze found ourselves in a camp in Komi ASRR, near Vorkuta [160 km south of the Arctic Circle, the region with the biggest forced labor camps in the European part of the USSR], and we didn’t get contact with the rest of our family. In 1944, when I met Ida Kaminska 28 in Moscow, she gave me contact with Ksil, and then he gave me the address to Ryfka and to Rajzla.

In the camp we worked, we hacked wood. But when I came to the camp, I had dysentery, from the journey on the barge. I gone to the doctor, well, I didn’t know Russian yet. So I ask him if he knows any other language, and he says he knows Jewish. He was from Bukovina. He asked if I didn’t want to work with him, as an assistant – clean, wash the floor. So I was pleased, and I worked in the hospital. One day a commission came round to see what was going on in the hospital. I was reading Pushkin for my patients. And they ask what I’m doing here, and the doctor says I have tuberculosis. But they sent me to work, made me a brigadier [gang foreman]. I worked for 20, and I told them I didn’t want to be a brigadier, that I’m no good at holding a truncheon to beat people over the head. So they sent me to the horse base to water and wash the horses. And I never went back to the heavy work any more, I come out of the camp in good shape.

We sat in the camp about a year and a half, and when the Russian-German 29 war started, that was a great fortune for us, because we knew we would get out. When I gotten out of the camp, my brother, with some different boys, they made this sewing manufactory, where they mended broken jackets, padded trousers, everything. It was in the same place, in a building next to the camp, but we were free people, we had our own kitchen, we made good soups there, you could buy a bit of bread. And my brother was a good tailor, so they took him to the center, to do work for the managery. So he went there, and I stayed here. I had a brigadier there, a Chinaman [Mr. Rozenberg probably means someone of Asian background] and one day he gave me a pair of trousers to mend that were dirty. I said: ‘I’m not doing that!’ I threw it in his mug and went to my brother.

After a few days I got my first job: I was to tidy up the pharmacy store. But my brother had gotten friendly with his director, a woman, and asked if she didn’t have work for me. So she says: ‘We’re looking for a head of snabzhenie [Russ: provisions], which means someone to take care of the whole supply process.’ So he says: ‘Maybe my brother.’ I come to them, and by then I could speak Russian, only writing I found very hard. And one of the foremen from that group went into the army and left a young wife and child, so I said that maybe she could do the writing for me, because I had to write reports. And she started doing it.

At the end of 1942 we finished our work in Komi ASRR and went to Gorki oblast [the Gorki district]. Menasze stayed, because he had a good job. At the end of 1943 I went to Moscow for the first time on business. When I was coming back I brought various things – needles, pins. So the wives of the engineers working there took them from me, round the villages and brought back a pile of money. So I left my job, because I knew that if anything happened with my brother I would be left all alone. So I decided that I will go to my brother in Krasnodar. I had a girl, a Russian girl, her name was Lena. And we went to Ukraine together, where she lived, and she stayed there. I said: ‘When I get myself fixed up you will come.’ I didn’t go back to her. And I went to my brother. When I got there, on the street I met a guy I knew from Komi ASRR. And he knew that I worked in transport there, as head of snabzhenie, so he says: ‘I got a good job for you.’ And he took me to the NKVD construction authority 30. In that district was one of the 10 most devastated cities, so there was building going on. I was head of purchasing. It was a good salary. Every morning when I come to work, the boss asks me: ‘You have money?’ So I say ‘Yes.’ ‘Dania! Bring the car!’ That was to the driver. And we went to the market, where they sold vodka in 100g shots, and he would have a drink: ‘Sashenka [Szulim] will pay.’ That was how my working day started. And I had to travel – for instance for glass almost to Chechnya. Once I brought lamps, for kerosene lamps for myself, and I sold them and earned a pile of money, and there was money to live on.

I didn’t work till the end, because I got sick, and I went back to Krasnodar, about 120 km, and hailed a doctor, and the doctor gave me sick leave. And they fined me for not being in work. So I gone to the prosecutor and got a job in this big pharmacy store. And there they would always leave me a little of the dressing stuff, it was in meters, and I sold it and made as much as I could have earned in a month. I was in Krasnodar until 1946, and from there I went to Poland.

I had a girl there called Dina. I used to go round to her house, I was welcome, like a son. They wanted me to go study pharmacy. But around that time, in 1945, I got a telegram, that they put Ksil away for 10 years ‘after Henryk [Erlich] and Wiktor [Alter]’ – which meant for Bundism. He had been speaking at the funeral of a friend’s father who’d died and they arrested him. It wasn’t the post office that brought the telegram to the house, it was a policeman. I come to Dina’s in the evening, and her mother took me into another room. She had been at school with the chief of the police in Krasnodar, and he told her that I should take my evacuation card and leave. Then this whole drama began between me and Dina. But she couldn’t go. She could have registered to leave, only what? Her father was director of agriculture. He had another daughter who was at university. And he said to me: ‘If you stay here, then that’s nothing, but if she goes, then our life had no value.’ Menasze and I decided to leave. And back before that, Ryfka and her husband had already left. In the meantime she had had another son, Icchak, and when they got to Poland in 1946 she had a daughter as well, Dwora. So she had 3 children: Jakub, Icchak and Dwora, but Jakub didn’t survive.

After the war

We went back to Poland. When we arrived at Ryfka’s address in Lodz, she had gone to Dzierzoniow [60km south of Wroclaw], because she had a nice apartment there and he’d got work there right off. She wasn’t there, so I had to go to her. And Rajzla had gone back, to Szczecin. I went to Ryfka, Menasze went to Rajzla, he was closer to her. There he met a woman, and got married there. She was Jewish, Anna Karmazin. They had a daughter; she lives in Paris, her name is Izabela.

In Dzierzoniow I went straight to the organization [Bund], but my sister kept me on a tight rein. And I wasn’t used to being told what to do any more. So I went to Lodz. And I gone to the apartment where they were before, got a job straight away, in the Jewish Committee 31, in records, and later distributing food and the clothes they sent from America.

In 1946, at the Bund camp in Bielawa [60km south of Wroclaw], I met Zenia. And back in Lodz, then working for a tailor’s co-operative – I was a buyer and a seller – I met Zenia, who was walking back to her student dorm with her friend Lena. I kissed Zenia, shook hands with Lena, and Zenia says: ‘She used to work in the embassy in Moscow.’ So I say to her: ‘I need you – I’ve got a problem for the embassy. Can I come and see you today?’ Because all the time the thing with my brother Ksil was upsetting me. I come, I started telling her of my brother, and she started writing letters. She was a very practical girl. I started coming to her, and almost every day in the evening were together. Apart from that I had meetings in the evening – I was secretary of Zukunft at that time. And Lena moved in with me.

Rubin came, Ryfka’s husband, and he saw that there’s some girl here in bed. Well, they introduced themselves, and everybody liked her a lot. And my eldest sister asks me: ‘What kind of wedding do you want?’ So I say: ‘We’ll go to the town hall and register.’ But she says: ‘But if our parents were alive, wouldn’t you have a chuppah?’ Well, I despaired, and I said: ‘Do what you want.’ And they ordered some rabbi, and we went, it was raining, a Saturday evening, and they did the chuppah thing, and we laughed, and the rabbi told us not to laugh.

We met on 17 September 1947. At the end of November, on her birthday , I took her to my place. We got married before the rabbi on 27 December 1947. Our son, Samuel, was born on 24 November 1948.

My wife was born on 30 November 1924 in Bialystok. She was 6 years younger than me. She was called Lea Jedwab. Later, in Russia, she became Lena, and that’s what they called her all the time. Lena Rozenberg-Jedwab. She came from more or less a family like mine. Even more miserable. She went to a CISzO school, too, in Bialystok. And she moved in, and she was pregnant, and she didn’t even make food. We had this kitchen in the Bund, opposite where I worked, so she came and we ate there every day.

Being in Russia we didn’t know a lot about what was going on in Poland: Mother and Father, and Golda and the 3 children were in the ghetto 32. The Germans killed her husband with a bomb. When I was in Dzierzoniow I went to Lodz via Wroclaw [330 km south-west of Warsaw]. While I was in Wroclaw, I thought to myself that I’d go visit an acquaintance from the camp, Berenfeld. I ring the bell, and the door was opened by my neighbor from before the war, we grew up in the same house from the first day of my life! Kronenberg, she was called. It was she told me that my father and her mother died in the ghetto around the same time. Her father and my mother, and my sister and her children were taken to Treblinka 33 on the same day.

In 1948 the witch-hunt against the Bundists started, for its links with the Bund in America, because the Bund in America is against communism. And they told us the Bund had to be shut down and we had to go over to the workers’ party, PPR 34. When we heard that, we made a meeting of the Zukunft Central Committee and the Bund Central Committee separately, and we decided we were leaving. [A faction of the PPR aligned with the Central Committee of Jews in Poland (CKZP) was attempting to break up the Bund from the inside. In 1948 part of the Bund joined the PPR, creating a faction of the PZPR aligned with the CKZP. Most of those who didn’t agree with the fusion with the PPR emigrated to France]. And groups started being organized to emigrate. Before that I’d never thought to leave, because I was waiting for my brother Ksil to be released from the camp. On 15 May 1948 my brother Ksil came back from Russia. I’d gone to buy flowers, and the train came in, and Lena saw, this old man walking along, holding some dirty sack on his back, and Lena says: ‘Isn’t that your brother?’ It was my brother. And I took him to a friend’s house, we took a tin bath and put him in that tin bath, washed him, and I had brought with me the clothes I had worn at my wedding. And he was a different man. No-one knows what happened to Ksil’s first wife. When the war started, they fled from Nesvezh [today Belarus, 50 km east of Baranovichi] and on the way their child wouldn’t walk; he couldn’t carry it, and they split up. She said: ‘They won’t do anything to me, I’m a blonde.’ And she disappeared, and he married again in Russia, Jentel Rubin. Jentel Rubin had already been with a husband, and already had a daughter – she had her years, she was from 1909, and that was 1945, so she’d had time to have her first child.

When there was the decision to leave Poland, there was a group of 6 of us, and we went to Katowice [290 km south-west of Warsaw]. In Katowice was the boss who was running the emigration 35. I don’t know who he was. We were to go in the night, over the border, and in the morning we were in Prague. I went with my wife, my brother Ksil, my friend who I lived with after the war, Leon Krolicki, and there was also one of the editors of the Folkszeitung with us, a writer and historian, Mordechaj Bernsztajn. From Prague we had to go to Germany. And we went by train to the border, and from the border by bus to Feldafing [Germany]. We arrived in Feldafing in the night; they saw there was a pregnant woman with us, so they took us straight away to a private family. We stayed with those private people those few weeks that we were in Feldafing. For a visa to America you had to wait a year, a year and a half, and I didn’t want the child to be born in Germany. And we went to Ulm and from Ulm there was a group that was going to Paris. And we arrived in Paris on 22 August 1948.

We arrived here, and they sent us to a hotel. And here, the first evening, I started crying terribly. So Lena asks me what’s wrong. I say: ‘I don’t understand a single word, I can’t say anything, I can’t buy anything, and I haven’t a trade. What are we going to live on?’ So she comforted me a little. And a few days later I went to the Bund club and there I met a friend from Warsaw, called Rochman, and he ran a manufactory there, they made windcheaters, these coats with fur on the inside. And he took me on at his place. But that only lasted until the end of December, because the season finished. I went to work for a tailor who made women’s suits, as an assistant machinist, and I worked there 2 weeks but then he said he didn’t need me any more. So I gone to an elderly lady, she worked alone, and what it took her a whole week to make, I did in a day. So that wasn’t normal either, so she sent me to her sister, who also had a studio where they made coats and other things.

I arrived the first day and asked how much they’d pay me: 5,000. OK. I come on the Monday, and the guy attacks me and starts screaming: ‘How dare you ruin other people’s property!’ First of all, no-one had ever screamed at me, I’m not a street urchin to be screamed at like that. What for, what was the problem? He comes out and brings this overcoat, and I start to laugh. So he says: ‘What, and now you’re laughing?’ So I say: ‘What, you want me to cry as well? I didn’t do that.’ He had a son, who did the same things as me. So the son gets out of bed, in his pajamas, comes in, still half-asleep and says: ‘Dad, it was me did that.’ ‘Ah, well, if that’s the case, go to your machine!’ So I said: ‘Go to a machine I will, but not yours.’ He paid me and I gone.

I had the address of another workshop, so I went there, and they told me to report to Monsieur Marcel. This young guy, maybe 35. An older lady, a finisher, asks me: ‘And where are you from?’ So I say: ‘Warsaw.’ ‘I’m from Warsaw too.’ ‘Where did you live, Ma’am?’ So she says: ‘At Dluga, no. 12.’ So I say: ‘I had a friend at Dluga 12. Lea Kristenfrajnd, she was called.’ So she starts crying terribly. And she told me that Lea had died in the ghetto. So I say to her: ‘There’s no need to cry. She’s alive.’ Because of course we knew who was still alive, and who wasn’t. I say: ‘I’ll bring you her address.’ That lady was Marcel’s wife’s sister’s mother-in-law. And he told me to come to work, and I sat down at the machine and started work.’ And one time he says to me: ‘You know what, Szulim, you could find yourself a machine.’ So I say: ‘My friend has a machine, I’ll get it from him.’ ‘And you could go to the same patron and do the same thing, and earn 2 or 3 times more.’

The next day I went to the patron, took material off him to make up, and if I earned 5,000 with Marcel, in the first week I earned 18,000. That was the beginning. Later I hired a machinist, I hired finishers, and made a proper business. Only what happened? Lena got sick and went to the sanatorium. That was in 1950, on 19 August she went to the sanatorium. I was left with the workshop, with the child, and it was very hard. At Pascha, I went to Lena. And for the vacation I had to send the child to this family, to stay. For a while there was a woman in the house, but it didn’t work, somehow.

When Lena came, she threw me out, so I didn’t work at home. So I got a room on this street that went up a hill. And you had to haul those ready cut things, and I worked myself into the ground. And at the end of the year, when Lena was back home, they told us to have our son Samuel x-rayed. When I went to have the x-ray done, he didn’t want to have it done, so I say: ‘Don’t be silly, look, I’ll have one done too.’ They x-rayed me – found a hole in my lungs. I went to the same doctor as Lena, and he put me in the hospital for a few months, then they sent me to a sanatorium for nearly a year; that was 1952. And one time I go to the doctor, he x-rayed me, and says it was all healed. Two days later I was home, and through a friend I got a room near us, on the first floor, to use as a workroom.

We had two rooms at that time. On the one hand it was very nice, but we had to carry everything – coal, and everything – 4 floors. It wasn’t our own apartment, but we lived there 14 years. Our first daughter was born on 30 March 1957 and is called Flore, the second, Dorote, was born on 23 January 1962.

My wife never worked. I was always working for somebody. One time, Lerer [Yid.: teacher] Rotenberg came to Paris from Mexico. And I went round the museums with him. To Versailles a student of his was supposed to take us, who turned out to be a school friend of mine. ‘What do you do?’ I say: ‘I’m all in tsures [Yid.: tsores – trouble, problems]. I’ve fallen out with my patron and I’d like to do something on my own account.’ Well, he didn’t say anything. ‘We’ll see.’ When we’d taken our Lerer Rotenberg back to the train, where he was going to catch his ship, he took me to 2 retail stores, one on the opera square and the other opposite Galleries Lafayette. And there he said: ‘If he brings you something, try to order from him.’ So I made these leather vests. In a few days the first 12 were ready and I took them to the shop by the opera house. That was on the Thursday or Friday. On the Saturday I come to the phone, and they say: ‘We’ve sold all those jackets, haven’t you got any more?’ I say they’ll have to wait until the end of the week

If the first week I bought material for 12 jackets, on the Monday for 40. That was 1959. And by chance I gone in this street, and I saw that there was a shop to let, so I went in to that woman and I gone out a few hours later with the key in my hand. And that was at the end of the week, and on the Monday we went to the notary to sign and I fixed it up. 1 January 1960 I opened the shop, and till 8 February no-one even came in, and I got sick. And Lena went to the shop. She comes in in the evening from the shop and says: ‘One man came, and he saw those models of yours, and says he’ll come tomorrow. Well, I was better – I could have killed the world boxing champion! The next day I went, and it started. It was such a season, something fantastic. I bought an apartment straight away. I had the shop till 1985.

Ksil came to Paris with me. In 1951 Ryfka and her husband and 2 children left Poland and emigrated to Israel, and as well a year later Menasze to Israel, with his wife and daughter. And my other sister Rajzla went in 1956 also to Israel. And the 2 sisters stayed in Israel and died there. Menasze came with his wife and daughter to Paris. He couldn’t register in Paris and that was a whole problem, and somehow later he registered. His daughter, Izabela, graduated in medicine here. And Menasze died very early, in 1961, at 53. Ksil died at 89, and his sons studied at a university in Israel and then came back to Paris, and work here, as engineers in Information technology. Rajzla died in 1986. She was 83; Ryfka died at 91 in 1991.

At home we used to speak Yiddish, and only later we started to speak in French a little, because the children didn’t like it. My son spoke Yiddish like me. When he took the phone, they would say to him: ‘Szulem?’ He said: ‘Ich bin nicht Szulem, ich bin Shmil [Yid.: I’m not Szulem, I’m Shmil].’ He went to a Jewish school, where he learned to read and recite Hebrew very nicely. Only later he stopped being interested in those types of things, because his wife is French. His wife is called Elian and he has 2 children: Silvan, who is 31, and Eliza, she is 26. Flore’s husband is a Jew from Algeria, he’s called Serge Amselem, and they have 3 sons. Dorote’s husband is a Jew too, he’s called Michael Albert, they have a son Daniel and a daughter Sara.

My son did his school-leaving examinations, then he did a fee-paying IT school. In 1968 he got his diploma and got a job straight away. And he worked in one firm 32 years. Now he’s going on a pension from that company. His wife is an official at the university. My elder daughter studied in Paris at medical school and is a virologist; she teaches at the university, in the Pasteur Institute; my son-in-law is a physician too, a geneticist. He is a professor. Dorote graduated from a school for translators in Paris too and is an English-French translator, and he is a lawyer, a partner in a big law firm.

My daughters have a bond with their Jewishness, well, my son does too. We celebrated all of the Jewish holidays here, and my son’s wife always came. 30 people would sit at a table like this. Especially on Passover. One time the mayor of a large Israeli city was here, and our friend from Los Angeles brought them here for lunch. That was at Yom Kippur. We sat here from about 1.30 till about 4.30. 4.30, my son came in from school. So the mayor of that Israeli city says to him: ‘Go wash your hands and come and eat.’ But he says: ‘I’m not eating today, I’m fasting.’ It was a lovely house.

One day I come home, and I said: ‘Lena, you know what, I think I’m closing the shop.’ I’d worked hard, I was 67. What more did we need? So she says: ‘Fine, I understand, you need to close down. But what are you doing, you can’t sit at home for 5 minutes?’ So I say: ‘I’ll go to the Medem library 36.’ She says: ‘That’s a good thing for you.’ And I went to the Medem library and from then on I’ve been in the Medem library. The Medem library was set up in 1929. As soon as I came to Paris I became a member of the library. I had to have books. My wife and I used to go to various lectures there. My wife was the main reciter. She graduated in the humanities and German from the university in Moscow.

After I came to Paris I was in the party [the Bund], only I didn’t have the chance to get involved, but I was a member like the others. In 1997 in Paris we organized the 100th anniversary of the Bund, in a large restaurant, there were 300 people. There were a few Bundists who spoke. And Marek [Edelman] 37 spoke in Yiddish and that was a great thing, no-one wanted to believe it. Of those 300 people who were at the banquet, to say Bundists, I don’t know if there were 20. And now there are none at all. I couldn’t count 5 Bundists in Paris. Only what? For me, well, it was a home, it was an idea that I held on to all my life. It never bankrupted as an idea. Recently there was even talking whether it shouldn’t be wound up, but what is there to wind up? There isn’t anything to wind up. For me it was something awesome, I had such wonderful people, who showed me life, who taught me to read, taught me to write, taught everything, and above all taught me to be a man. That if there was somebody who was sicker than I, I gave him my bed and gone to the shed.

I took an interest in what was going on in Poland, because I was interested in politics. Le Monde talked about it all. Neither I nor my wife went to Poland after we left. I finished with Poland. I was wounded by Poland, because of how they received us when we came back [from Russia]. I stopped having a link with Poland.

In the library I did everything. Above all I took care of issuing books to the people of my generation, and then there were a lot of them. There were these women, for instance. If I wasn’t there, she didn’t want anyone else to give here the book. Apart from that, that was the period that the generation that had come here before the war was starting to die off. And there were libraries, some of them had fairly decent libraries.

Did I tell you how our library came into being? When anyone came from Poland, his friends, what could they give him? They gave books. When they came here, everyone had a few books. So instead of one lending to another, they made a library in this cafe in the Jewish quarter, on the second floor, with those few-score, later few hundred books. And that’s how it became a library. And they would come there, talk, drink a beer, and that was it. Later they rented a place, and before the war that library had 5,000 volumes. That was a huge sum. And there was a Bund club there, and a kitchen. The dinners were cooked by this old Russian Bundist, who had lived in Germany, in Berlin, Natan Szachnowski, and he’d married a German woman. And later, when they had to flee [in the 1930s], she fled with him. He had a daughter with her. Well, once [during World War II] the Germans came. They started milling around, but the door to the library was closed. And she started to string them along, and they said: ‘OK, we’ll come another time.’ When they said: ‘We’ll come another time,’ the next day she organized carrying those books into the cellar at her house. When they came again, the books weren’t there. And they closed the place down. That could have been 1941. And as soon as the war ended, those books came back up, and there were 5,000 books straight away. And then Americans who published books started sending all the new books that had been published in the war to Paris straight away. And there were a lot of publications, because everyone had to write something. Later, we split off from the Arbeter Ring 38.

I’m the librarian to this day, only now the books are in the cellar, and I find it hard going up and down steps. So now I send the boys and girls. But even so, I’m the brain. Everything goes through my hands.

My wife died on 15 February 2005. Only she left life 12 years ago. We came back from a walk, I met our nephew, and he kissed me and her, and when he went she asked who it was. He was 40-something then. She’d brought him up and didn’t know who it was. So straight away we started going round the professors. And my daughter Dorote’s father-in-law is the best specialist on that disease [Alzheimer’s] in America, and he dictated to the doctors, but they couldn’t do anything. She was on her feet another 10 years, but the last two she was in bed.

My life flows along with these memories of our life together, these memories of the children, of my grandchildren; that’s the compensation that I have from life today. I miss having somebody close to lean on, lay my head on. And I don’t have that, and that’s a big thing. I had such a full life with my wife, we understood each other so well, we had so many shared desires in literature, in art, in music. It goes on, I come in from the library, make myself something to eat, look at the television a while, and listen to music. I like classical music very much, and I know it well, and that’s how I fill my days and nights. And that’s all.

Glossary

Judel Ronder
Kaunas
Lithuania
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: October 2005

Judel Ronder is living in one of the buildings constructed in soviet times in Kaunas. Judel instantly agreed for an interview in spite of feeling unwell. The door was open by a Lithuanian lady of the middle age. She said she was Judel’s custodian. He was sitting at the table. It was hard for him to get up. Judel was a tall, big man with nice facial features, sleek hair and sparkling eyes. When looking at him, it is hard to believe how old he is. Yudel starts his story. He is trying to tell as much as possible. His main storyline is about the people who perished in holocaust. No matter what he talked, he would always mention about the fate of the Jews during the war. First I was trying to make his story more customary course, but then I understood (and Judel confirmed it) that he was ‘afflicted’ holocaust, and I just listened to him closely. We were in a drawing room. We could hear that someone came in another room. It was Stepha’s daughter. When Stepha silently came in the room, it looked like she was aware of Yudel’s stories and she was worried about the fate of the Jews of her country.

I was born in Lithuanian town Kedainiai [about 100 km to the west from Vilnius]. In 1920s-1930s it was a small district town. The population was a little bit over three thousands, two thirds out of which were Jews. There were strong Jewish traditions in town.

I do not know much about my ancestors. My saw my maternal grandparents only once. It was during my childhood, when mother took her children to them. I was about 6-7. Grandfather Hirsh (his Jewish name was Tsvie) and grandmother Beila Bobtelski lived in a small town Naujamiestis [about 150 km to the west from Vilnius] not far from then German border. They were born in the middle of the 19th century. I do not know what grandfather did for a living, when he was young. When we came to see him, he was rather elderly and was not working. Grandmother was a housewife. They had their own one-storied house. We occupied one room when we came. We stayed there for about a week. I had not seen grandparents since then. I know that both of them died in early 1930s and without having lived to see the war, fortunately. 

Mother had three sisters and a brother. Mother’s elder sister born in 1875, had Russian name Natalia. Probably she had another Jewish name, but I remembered the name she was called by her kin. Natalia was married to a Lithuanian Jew Frenkel. They left for South African in early 1920s. Natalia died 1970s. As it turned out we did not have anything to speak about as we had different lives and turned out to have nothing in.

My mother’s second sister Frieda, born in 1877, lived with her husband Meishe Markson in a small town on the North of Lithuania Pilviskei. Frida’s husband was a rich merchant. She sold poultry and horses to England and Germany. Frieda had many children: Channa, Yudel, Leiba and Leya. When the Soviets came to power 1, the whole family of Marksons was exiled in Siberia [Deportations from the Baltics] 2. Leiba, who was out of town, and little Leya, who was sheltered by the neighbors, stayed. The rest family members survived in Siberia and left for Israel in 1956 from Altai. Meishe died in Israel shortly after his arrival. He fell ill in Siberia. Frieda passed away shortly after him. Frida’s daughter Channa is currently living in Jerusalem, Israel. She got married with Friedman.

Mother younger sister Tsilya, born in the middle of the 1880s, got widowed young. When her husband died, she and her son David left for Palestine in early 1920s. She died in late 1940s, and her son David got a legal education and became a prosecutor. He is currently living in Israel. He has a large family –about 15 grandchildren and great grandchildren. We do not keep in touch as they do not speak Russian or Lithuanian, and I do not know Ivrit.

Mother’s brother Mordechai, born in 1890 was the youngest in the family. In 1920s he left for Palestine, wherefrom he went to England, where he graduated from London university. He found a good match for him, a Jewish lady Frieda who was in love with the science. They had been working together all life long. Mordechai, who was called Max, held lectures in London university. Both of them were constantly occupied with research, and they seemed to have no time for having children. Mordechai died in 1950s. Frieda survived him by ten years.

My mother Leya Bobtelskaya was born in 1879. In her birth record, issued by the rabbi, Sarah Leya was written. She was always called her second name Leya. Mother went to elementary school. She could speak and write in Russian, and she practically did not know Lithuanian. Mother said when she was wooed to Kedainiai Jew Wolf Ronder, before getting married she gave her the clew of tangle threads. According to the local Jewish tradition the bride was to unravel the threads which would infer that she was patient and hard working. Mother easily coped with the task. In actuality, further on she happened to be a good wife.  

After getting married, mother moved to Kedainiai, where my father was living. I did not know paternal grandparents as they died long before I was born. I know that grandfather’s name was Menachem Rondem. I cannot recall grandmother’s name. Menachem was a gardener. He was especially good at cultivation of the cucumbers, which Kedainiai, took pride in. That business was taken over by children, my father in particular. Father had siblings and all I know about them is that they left for South Africa. I only knew about father’s elder brother Yudel. He was born in the early 1870s and died one year before I was born. I was named after him. I do not remember his wife either. She perished in ghetto. Yudel’s daughters Mina and Beile left for Palestine in 1934 with their numerous offspring. Mina had lived in Haifa all life long. She died in 1990. Beile remained single. She passed away in the 1980s. Yudel’s son Chaim Ronder was a close person for me. During occupation he managed to run away from ghetto and had been in hiding and he was by a hair’s breadth of death. In 1943 he happened to be in a partisan squad, which entered liberated Vilnius. Chaim died in couple of years after war. She was still very young. Yudel’s younger son Aba perished in ghetto.

My father Zeyev Wolf was born in 1875. I do not know where exactly he studied. I think he was literate. Father as well as grandfather cultivated cucumbers and sold them wholesale. I do not know for sure ho my parents met, but I think they had a prearranged marriage. In 1898 my parents got married in chuppah in the main synagogue of Kedainia. There were a lot of guests at the wedding, Jewish musicians. In word, it was a true Jewish wedding.

In a year, in 1899 my eldest brother Abel was born and in 1902 –David, in 1904 – Mordechai, in 1906 – Leibl, in 1910 – Menachem, in 1912 – Benjamin, and in 1914 – the only sister Beile.

In 1914 when the first world war was unleashed, the tsarist government exiled the Jews from the frontiers regions of Russian having considered Jews to be potential spies. Our family was to move to Kharkov [Ukraine, about 600 km from Kiev]. Father and elder brother were employed by tea factory. The factory was located out of town and father with his sons had to take a shuttle train. The train went past our house. At that time train speed was not high and usually on the way home father and brothers just jumped off the train being happy with making a beeline home. In 1919 the tribulation came to pass: as usual Dovid and father jumped off the train, but a handsome, 17-year old lad Dovid, fell under the train. Both of his legs were cut off. Fortunately, Dovid survived and even after his return in Lithuania in 1920 he got married and was happy in his own way. His wife Rivka, who came of a very poor family, married Dovid having deep affection towards him. She was not only a beauty, but she was also very kind and outgoing person. Besides, she was very intelligent. Dovid and Rivka had a son Volodya, who was a year and a half younger than me. He and I retreated together during the war. We were very close friends. Dovid and Rivka stayed in occupation and were killed in 1941.

In contrast to Dovid, the family life of my brother Avel was unhappy/ Shortly after his return to Kharkov Abel married Kedainia Jew Bune, who was very angry and feisty, who always threw him fits and even beat my brother. To please his temperamental wife and make money, Abel left for South Africa for seasonal work at plantation. My father went with him twice within four years. Both of them worked very hard and undermined their health. In 1930 Abel had appendicitis and was taken to the Jewish hospital in Kaunas, but it was too late and he died. He was buried in Jewish cemetery. Those were the first funeral that I remember. I took part in the mourning along with the adults. I was sitting in the torn (by the collar) attire. Bunya and Abel’s daughter Yudita moved to Kaunas and both of them perished in Kaunas ghetto.3

The third brother Morduchai finished lyceum. He married Jews Luba from Marijampole [Lithuania, about 100 km to the east from Vilnius]and moved to her. In his town Morduchai became a respectable man. He was the chief accountant at the mill. In 1941 Morduchai, his wife Luba and their baby David, were shot in Marijampole.

My adolescent brother Leibl left for Argentine to look for work. I remember him giving me a strong hug when saying good bye. This is all I remember about him. I had a bad toothache and I could not think of saying goodbye to my brother. At that time I did not understand what it was to say goodbye for good. At first Leibl wrote mournful letters, which made mother cry a lot. He wrote that he did not have a place to live, a thing to eat, and he remember tsimes mother used to make every Friday. He had to sleep in town garden of Buenos Aires. Then his things got better and Leibl found a job, married a Jew Adel from Byelorussia. They had a happy life together. Leibl’s son Kito is currently living in Israel and their daughter Channa recently died in Argentine. Leibl had a long life. He died in the middle of 1990s.

My favorite brother Menachem remained single and lived with us. He kept on working with father’s business- husbandry and sales of vegetables. He served in Lithuanian army. I have his picture in the uniform. Menachem was apolitical, he was fond of sports and he was a member of the Jewish sports organization Beitar 4. Menachem was shot by fascists in our town during the first days of war.

Benjamin, the youngest brother, was an underground komsomol member 5. When the Soviets came to power, Benjamin started working as an accountant in one of the soviet organizations. He married local Jew Miriam Ioffe. Miriam got pregnant before the outbreak of war. She and Benjamin were shot were shot during the first days of occupation in Kedainiai. along with other komsomol members.

My only sister Beila was beautiful. She got a good education – she graduated from Lithuanian lyceum. She was well educated and erudite. Beile married a rich Jew, grain trader Feivel Shishanskiy. I loved their little daughter Iona very much. I tendered her. Beila’s family was also shot by  fascists during one of the first actions in Kedainiai.

I was born, when my parents were considered elderly. Father was about fifty and mother was in her late forties. By the time when I was born (17 March 1923) my father got very sick – he had open tuberculosis. When he was dying, father asked to wait before he died to name me after him as in accordance with the Jewish tradition I was supposed to be named after him, but I was circumcised on the 8th day and was given the name of my elder brother Yudel. The baby was to be named before brit-milah. In two weeks my father died.

The house, where I was born, was one-storied long building made by grandfather Leibl, which was practically out of town, close to the gardens. I vaguely remember that place. When the family was getting larger (practically all my brothers, beside my single brother Menachem, Leibl, who left for Argentine and Morduchai who left for Meriampol) brought their wives in our house. Then started having children, there was less and less room. Then mother sold the old house and bought another one in the downtown. It was kind of angular, two-winged, two storied wooden house like most Lithuanian houses. There were seven rooms, a large kitchen, where the whole family met at dinner in the evening.. Our family was neither rich nor poor. We had a modest living, but had all necessary things my mother and brothers worked very hard. They did not have easy bread. Мenachem dealt with husbandry more than anyone else in the family. In spite of the fact that he was not the oldest, he took over father’s business. Menachem treated me very well, trying to be like a father to me so that I would not feel like being an orphan. Even now I sincerely consider him to be my second father.

I do not know for sure at what time mother got up. At any rate it was long before the sunrise. She had to take are of livestock- chicken, turkeys, cows and horses. Besides, she took care of the husbandry. The family had equipage as well as dray horse. When I was a child, I got up very early, usually at 5-6 am and went in kitchen. By that time mother was by the stove baking bread and pies. Usually Yiddish was spoken at home. In the morning, mother used to speak Russian for me to have a good command of that language. She read me children’s verses about butterflies, moths and had me memorize them. The hardest thing was to feed me. I was a very feeble child. I most likely was afflicted with tuberculosis as later on the doctors found some lung scarring. Besides, I had constant toothaches. Thus, having meals was a real ordeal to me. Mother was running after me with a spoon of soup or porridge beseeching me to eat something and promising some presents for that. The only thing I was willing to eat were the cutlets made by mother. Then she found a funny way out- she paid me 10 cents for every plate of food I ate, but still it did not always work. I was such a poor eater that is hard for me to remember what my mother cooked every day. In summer Menachem hired some people to work in the garden as there was a lot to do. When I grew up, there was a job for me as well. I packed tomatoes for sale once, when there was a rich crop of cucumbers, mother asked me to sell some of them. I was standing on the road, heading to the town and sold cucumbers to the passersby and took 5 cents for one cupa (the container where 60 cucumbers could fit in). I turned out to be a bad salesman as cucumbers got rotten and I had to throw them away in the river.

It is hard to say how religious the family was when father was alive. When he died, mother was so busy with her chores that she probably had no time for praying. At any rate, at home she did not cover her head. I do not remember her praying. Sabbath was mark obligatorily. Usually mother went to the synagogue on Friday, having put a dressy outfit on and laced head cover. Brother and I also went there. In the evening mother lit candles. I still remember how she leaned over them and put her palms on he eyes. We had a festive dinner on Saturday- chicken stew, pies, sometimes gefilte fish. Mother tried not to do anything on Saturday. Usually some Polish lady worked. She also helped with gardening. But still, there were times when mother had to work on Saturday- to milk cows, feed poultry. Thus, she had to break Sabbath rules.

Jewish charity was very developed in town. We also helped the poor for them to have the chance to mark Sabbath. I remember that we had a very poor blacksmith, who had very many children. His wife was butter fingers and managed things poor. Apart from money, Rivka sent them basket with food every Friday.

Kashrut was observed at home. When I grew up, mother often sent me to shochet in synagogue. I liked watching him how he made a precision cut on the hen’s throat and hang it on the hook with a special funnel, wherefrom the blood was trickling down. The dentist prescribed me pork’s hat. I liked it a lot. Brother Menachem came to me and brought me a piece of pork fat telling me that it was important for me to eat it to be healthy. I ate it only when nobody was looking. Especially I did not want mother to see it. When I was a schoolboy, German Neiman rented some premises from us. He owned a store, where sausages and delicious ham was on offer. I was obsessed by the smell of that ham. The German guy must have felt it. Once when I came in his store, he started talking me into having a piece of ham. I was adamant saying that it was nonkosher. Then he put pork’s fat on my lips and pressed me against the wall. He was laughing at me being pleased with humiliating me. I did not say a word to my mother about that case. Since that time I had never stopped by that place. When in late 1930s, Hitler called all Germans upon returning to their motherland and all Germans from Baltic countries repatriated to Germany. Neiman also left.

We marked main Jewish holidays at home. I loved Rosh Hashanah, when the shofars were blown in the synagogues. At home we had a festive dinner.. On Yom Kippur we fasted obligatorily. I also fasted on that day, even when I was in the lines. I liked autumn holidays. Though we did not put sukkah in our yards, but I called on my Jewish friends and we had meals in the tabernacle. Simchat Torah was a joyful holiday. We ran to the synagogue to watch Jews dancing with the Torah scroll. I became rich on Chanukkah – mother and elder brothers gave money to me. I bought deserts with some of the money and shared them with my friends and nephews. On Chanukah we lit the candles on Chanukah- a silver candlestick. Each day we added a new candle. In accordance with the tradition, the chanukiah was placed on the windowsill and the whole city was shining with the lights. On that holiday children played with the spinning top and adults played cards. We ate tasty potato fritters. On Purim mother baked hamantashen and I took them to my school friends. They also brought presents- shelakhmones to me. On Pesach mother baked all kind of Jewish dishes- tsimes, sponge cake, chicken stew, gefilte fish. There was matzah at home. We ate no bread at that period of time. We got ready for the holiday beforehand making the house sparkling clean. I was given a task to whisk the eggs and sugar for the holiday cake. All siblings with their families came to us, but nobody carried out seder as neither father nor grandfather were a live, and brothers were modern people and they did not know how to do it and were not willing to. We did not disdain traditions. We loved our parents so we tried to please them and did what we were supposed to in accordance with the Jewish traditions. I do not know why I did not go through bar mitzvah.

My brothers’ favorite pastime was to keeping a diary. I found out about their diary, when I was a schoolboy. It turned out that mother and elder brothers described important dates for the family there. I read about my birthday there, about father’s death, about father’s request to hold on with my name. There was also the information about the birth of my nephew, Dovid’s son, who was named Volf after father [in Russian Volodya]. Volodya was my closest friend and.

Kedainiai of my childhood was a quiet Jewish town, where its inhabitants had a regular life. The only culprit was one Jewish drunkard Goldberg. He even at times was lying in the street and was taken home. When I grew up, I enjoyed going shopping with my friends and buy some small things there. There were tailors, cobblers, watch menders, glazer and other craftsmen. The richer people owned either brick or stone houses. I remember pediatrician Mulyar. He had two beautiful daughters, with whom I went to school on 28 August 1941. His whole family was shot by fascists during mass execution in Kedainiai. I remember an old lawyer Abramowitz, who loved children and treated them to deserts. During the occupation rabbi was smudged in tar and chicken feathers, taken out outside and teased, Almost all Kedainiai Jews who had not deported during the soviet times, were killed. 

There were several schools in Kedainia, including Yiddish and Ivrit Jewish schools. When I was seven, I went to Ivrit 6-year school. My elder brothers insisted on that thinking that there I would get a more classic education. Before 14 I was a madcap and had did not think of studies. Having read the books by Sholom Aleichem 6 I decided to get the apples the way it was described in one of his stories. I made gadget looking like a rod a nail at thee end [I closely followed the instruction of the story written by Sholom Aleichem] and went to neighbor’s fence. Widow Schneider had an apple orchard and sold apples. Even in winter time she sat on the threshold of her house, having put warm coals under her skirt and sold the apples. I rooted under the fence with my rod and started getting the apples put in the piles. Suddenly someone snatched me. It was Schneider crying out loud. She pulled on my ear and took me home to my mother. I liked throwing stones at ‘alive targets’. Once I threw a stone at the chicken of my neighbor. She came to me that the chicken killed in non-kosher way could not be eaten. When something like that happened perturbed neighbors came up to mother and she only signed and covered their losses. My mommy never punished me. She understood that I was growing up without a father and she loved me very much.

In general, my school years fled very quickly. I had studied for six years in that school and I learnt Ivrit very well. I graduated from school in 1936. Our family had a pretty good relationship with the school principal Nisim Zaltsburg. Nisim was a friend of my brother Menachem and he decided to cram me for lyceum free of charge. In Keidanai there were no other educational institutions apart from Lithuanian lyceum and my mother did not want to hear anything about my going to any other city. I was very well crammed by Zalsburg and passed the exams preterm and entered the 3rd grade of Lithuanian lyceum. my favorite teacher Nisim Zaltsburg perished before a big action. He could not stand humiliation from the fascists and he hang himself in the room prior to execution of Kedainiai Jews.

When I began my studies at the lyceum, it seemed to me I was the unluckiest guy in the universe. At that time it was not a coed school. Girls were studying separately. There were 9 Jews out 32 students in the class. There was an ardent anti-Semitism, which was implicitly encouraged by teachers. We were teased, humiliated and even chastised. My classmate Gelsburg was so beaten that he had to keep to bed for two months. Nobody was punished, usually after such cases the principal said that all of us had to calm down without saying who was to be blamed. In late 1930s there was an anti-Semitism way in Polish and Lithuanian educational institutions. The Jews had to take separate desks, where they were supposed to be segregated from the rest. In some educational institutions certain students and administration were strongly against such discrimination. In our school there were some anti-Semitists who brought up the subject. During the Lithuanian lesson one of the Lithuanians got up and said «we, the Lithuanians, are not willing to sit with the kikes!» The teacher agreed with him. After such an offence, the Jews did not want to sit closely with anti-Semitists. We took the left side of the classroom. Then, one of the students, a Lithuanian Pole Katkyavichus, sat close to us without saying a word. I still remember that moment, the way I felt, my eyes streaming with tears from that warmth he demonstrated. I remembered that guy in my hardest days- when I was in the trenches. That reminiscence made me stronger. Katkyavichus remained in occupation, but he did not stigmatize himself with anything. After war he became the chairman of physical training committee. I met him often. We were friends.

. I was a very serious lad when I was in senior grades. I decided to get a good education, no matter what. I did pretty well. I started taking an interest in politics, listened to radio at home, I read newspapers. Of course, I knew what was going on in the world. I knew that fascists came to power in Germany and Spain, and what threat it was to the world. I was a member of Jewish youth organization A Shomer Azair  7. It was a left wing organization, getting ready the youth for immigration to Palestine, purchase of Jewish land plots, establishment of kibbutz. In general, the ideas of the organization were pretty close to communistic. I caught every piece of information about Soviet Union, thinking this country to be the domain of justice and happiness. My only dream was to leave for Spain, which was at war 8 or to go to Palestine, even if I had to walk there. I even started getting ready for the escape- bought a German backpack, stuffed it with rusks and sweets. Besides, I always replenished my stock of the rusks and sweets with the fresh ones. I also had geographic maps, torch and a Swiss knife. In a word, I took it very serious. If the Soviet had not come to power, I might have realized my dream.

I late June 1940 Soviet troops entered Lithuania 9. It was the happiest event in my life. Despite of not being a komsomol member, I was a stickler of communistic idea. I did not know what was going in the USSR, repressions 10, arrests of innocent people. When the Soviets came to power, I thought that the life would be amazingly splendid. My wise mother was very worried, she even cried saying that the land and the house might have been taken from us. I tried to calm her down and say that it was a mere trifle as compared to the fact that we would become free and equal. My pal – a komsomol member, and I went to Didzhuny on purpose as the units of Red army were positioned there and we were eager to see them. We worshiped those guys. Underground communists organized demonstration supporting the Soviets, who were met by the platoon of Lithuanian soldiers creating a mess. In general, the first days of the soviet regime were rather ardent and emotional.

Our life barely changed. Though, part of our land was nationalized, but we still had a small land plot. It was enough for our life, besides mother had some savings. The only relative of mine who was exiled was mother’s sister Frieda. As for the rest of us, we did were not affected by repressions. There was a school reform. In fall of 1940 our lyceum was made into the soviet school. Subjects were taught in Lithuanian, but our teachers remained the same. I was in high spirits, I felt inner freedom. I was not the member of komsomol, but I was friends with our komsomol leader Eisek Ioffe, who got me ready for joining komsomol organization.

On Saturday 21 June1941 we had a festive dinner at school, dedicated to the year end. The party was organized by military unit positioned in Kedainia. There was a concert of school choir. We danced, watched a movie about the life in USSR. It was a nice party. My comrade Morduchai Mulyar and I came back home at 2 am. On our way home we were singling a popular soviet song Favorite city can Sleep Quietly. Near Morduchai’s house we said: see you tomorrow, but the next day early in the morning we found out about attack of fascist Germany. I had never seen Morduchai again as he was shot during the first action.

My brother Menachem and Dovid in particular insisted on leaving the city and going to the East immediately. At that time our neighbor, my coeval Lithuanian Vitas threatened me with his feast crying out that soon I, comsomol kike would pay for everything. When the war was unleashed my mother was a rather elderly lady- she was over sixty. She had problems with the vessels on her legs and she could hardly walk. Mother, legless brother Dovid and his wife Rivka got on the cart. I, Menachem and Volodya, my nephew, followed the cart. People were walking on the road. There were people on the bikes and in the carts. All of them headed in the Eastern direction. Though, most of the Jews stayed in the city, having decided that Germans would do no harm like it happened during the first world war. Closer to the evening we reached the town of Sheta, the motherland of Rivka. Here her elderly parents were living. I had never seen such poverty in my life, such a wretched house. We spent a night there. There were other Jews from Kedainia who were heading to the east.

We could not fall asleep because of being alarmed. Dovid and Menachem had been discussing something all night long and at dawn they called Volodya and I. They started insisting that Volodya and I, the youngest, should leave the place immediately and go to Byelorussia by ourselves. Menachem could not leave the elderly people and Dovid, therefore they insisted that the younger ones should leave at once. Our conversation was heard by other young people and they also started packing. There were fifty of us. Some of us walked, others rode the bikes. We decided to take the road to Ukmerge. I was bellicose and dreamt of serving in Red Army. I even did not think of the fact that I was leaving my mother. I could not picture that I would never see her again. The brothers told me that we were not parting for a long time. Soon the fascists were to go back and we were supposed to come back soon and we’ll reunite with the family quickly. Rivka and mother found out about that and burst into tears. They did not want to let us go. Then Menachem took me aside and told not to pay attention to their rationale and to the tears of ‘silly women’. Menachem gave me his bike and wad of soviet money [I think there were 600 rubles]. Menachem took great Swiss watch Tisso from the pocket and gave it to me. He also put a waterproof cloak on me. Dovid also found as bike for Volodya and gave him money. Only later on I understood and appreciated what Menachem did. He understood that all of them were to die and did his best to save the lives of the youngest generation of the family- Volodya and I. My friend Aizek Ioffe also wanted to join us, but father did not let him go as he though that he had to share the fate of the whole family. The parents of the rest of the children did not let them go either. In general, there were the four of us who went together. I took my backpack, where I had rusks and toffees, flash light and the map of Lithuania. Mother only managed to kiss me and give me two cutlets. Those were the last mother’s cutlets I ate.

We took Ukmerte road. On our way we were stopped by the group of Lithuanians, who had become Hitler’s followers since the first days of war.. «Go where you came from, kikes!» - They were instructed not to let anyone pass. We took a minute to think and came back to Panevezhis crossroads. Not having reached it in the town Nigav, we called on an old poor Jew. He housed us in. early in the morning we hit the road. The host started asking us questions : what is going on, why are we running? – it turned out that he did not know anything about the war. We went to Panevezhis. Lithuanian ladies, who were working in the fields started throwing stones at us and saying– «Where are you running, kikes?» – We ignored them without looking up. In the morning of 24 June we came to Panevezhis. We heard the sounds of shooting and bombing. There were warehouses burning. We decided to go to the komsomol committee to ask for weapons and fight the fascist. In the building of the district komsomol committee people were fussy, running around with some papers. At first, nobody paid attention to us as there was a panic. Suddenly one man in the uniform ran up to me and arrested me. My pals were untouched. I looked like a saboteur paratrooper to him as I had a waterproof cloak and a German backpack on. Without saying a word they pushed me and took to NKVD office 11, which was located in red brick house. There was an officer sitting at desk in the office where I was taken. Judging by his shoulder straps he was a colonel. He took a pistol from the holster and put it on the desk. Interrogation started. I calmly said that I was a Jew, running away with my friends to the east to join the Red army. The colonel was not listening – «Why do you need the flash light, the map of Lithuania to signalize where the military positions are- you are a spy !».He asked for the convoy and told me to put my arms behind the back. When they walked me on the yard and could notice the body of shot tankmen. There were about six or seven Lithuanians in the basemen. Lithuanians told each other about their feats- one of them boasted of killing the tankman with a knife. I felt terrible as I understood that it was a criminal gang. I understood that nobody would look into my issue and I understood that I would be executed with those criminals. I remembered the movie called we are from Kronstadt, where the sailor tore his singlet before executing. I decided that when I would be taken out for the execution, I would sing International [Anthem of the International Worker’s Movement and of the Soviet Union between 1918 and 1943. Originally French it has been translated to most languages and has been widely used and is still used by various Socialist and Communist movements world wide.] to prove that I was not an enemy. Soon I was taken out of the basement. Hardly had I started singing saw I my pals standing by NKVD lieutenant and pointing at me. The lieutenant came up to me and asked me in Yiddish who I was. Then Volodya turned up and said that I was his uncle. Thus, I did not have to sing International as they let me go. Even now I remember about that case with humor despite of being about to die.

We went to the train station- the echelon with the fugitives was about formed at that time. We took the locomotive train. At night we headed to the east. There was such a bombing on our way that one lady ran amuck. We witnessed her hysteric laughter. Somewhere in Byelorussia, the train was stopped and all civilians were told to get off the train. That was a spy mania at that time as they were afraid that the agents might cross the border along with the fugitives. We walked along the ties and happened to be in Latvia again. We spent a might in the house of the Russians and were given there a very warm welcome. In the morning we tried to cross the border for several times. Frontier officers were in ambush behind the bushes and did not let the people cross the border. Finally we found a loophole and happened to be in Byelorussia once again. We had walked for several kilometers and stopped by the administration of some kolkhoz 12 to slake thirst and to ask for food. My mother’s cutlets and sweets from my backpack were eaten a while ago. The administration gave us water and during our respite they called the frontier officers. Again we looked suspicious. My pals tried to talk me into getting rid of my backpack, but I said I would not it in any way. We had to lean against the wall with our hands raised right in front of Stalin’s portrait.  We were checked and released. We had to walk again. I do not know how long we went on foot that our legs got swollen. So we walked barefoot. We slept straight in the field. Thus we reached Nevel, which is to the North from Minsk. There was a locomotive train at the station. There were big stones on one of the platforms. A wounded pilot, and several officers were lying on those stones. We asked them to go with them having explained that we were the fugitives from Lithuania. The guys helped us climb on those stones and we headed farther. On our way we plucked some grass and put in on the stones. It was a tiring trip. Besides, we were starving. In a while we started having lice, which always appeared in war and devastation I rolled my pants and was shocked to see that my boots were teeming with lice.

Thus we reached Sverdlovsk [about 1000 km to the North East from Moscow]. There was an evacuation point straight at the train station. We had to go through disinfection right away. I was ashamed to take my clothes off in the presence of the nurses’ aides – ladies. They were not looking at us as they were used to their work. When I was taking a warm shower, I saw that my whole body was I red bits from lice. After sanitation we were given food to eat. We started brooding on next steps. It did not take us long as the so called ‘recruiters’ came. They hired young and healthy people for work. When they saw the four of us- young and healthy all of them started talking us into working for them. Volodya and I agreed to work in one of the coal mines of the region. Here we parted with our fellow travelers and we had no idea what happened to them later.

Our passports had been taken right away and we went far in taiga. We had covered about 180 kilometers of God forsaken woods and arrived at local hamlet. We were housed in the hostel and the next day we went to the mine. It was a new mine and every day we had to dig about 6 deep pits. The waters were dripping behind the collar making it really cold. I had never worked so hard in my life. In the morning we had warm porridge without butter and then we had to toil all day long. There were a lot of drunkards in the village. Everyday the men were drafted in the army, so vodka and moon shine were gone. There was even no eau-de-Cologne from the local store. We also went to the military enlistment office, but Lithuanian people had not been drafted yet as there was no trust in them at that time. There at the mine we made friends with young man Kopelev and he decided to help with the transfer for timber cutting. We took us in his place. His mother, a kind Russian woman, gave us some food and tried to convince us that we should leave this place as we would not survive the winter here. She advised that we should go to HR department and take our passports back. It took us a long time to convince our boss. I said that I wanted to study and Volodya said that he had a heart trouble ( it was the truth). The HR manager was sorry for us and he gave us our passports back.

We took the train and headed to the South. I had spent for several days at the train station in Chelyabinks, wherefrom we left for Aktyubinsk. Finally we happened to be in Tashkent [now the capital of Uzbekistan, about 3500 km to the South East from Moscow]. We had spent several days at the train station and then left for a calm city Ferganu, located one kilometer away from Tashkent. We found a job, washed lemonade bottles. In the afternoon we had tea with rusks in the café as we could not afford anything else. We spent the night on the bench in the central park. Fall came and the nights were getting colder. We decided to look for the job offers with lodging. We turned out to be in kolkhoz 17 party congress. We were housed in covered wagon. All we had inside were quilts. We worked in the field harvesting cotton. The day norm was unachievable for us hungry people and we put the stones in the harvested cotton. Before going to work in the morning we ate the onion as there was a lot of it and had water from the dirty canal along the street. Some locals were sorry for us and gave us some food, others teased us. I remember, one time a rich man was riding a donkey and eating dried apricot and we followed him and picked up the pits. I do not know how we would survive the winter in the poor kolkhoz, but we were lucky to be demobilized in the army in December 1941. We were sent in Balakhna, Gorky oblast, where the 16th Lithuanian division 13.

I turned out to be in Balakhna in February 1942 and had stayed there for a year with the training unit. It was a joyful time as I was with my comrades- the people I knew. We were not starving. If there was not enough to eat, we exchanged the remainder of our civil things for food. Volodya, my nephew, played the violin and was assigned in Lithuanian military orchestra right away. It was formed in Pereyaslav Zalesskiy. We corresponded with him and I was looking forward to Volodya’s letters as he had become one of my closest friends by that time. Here I also met Mendel, my pal from Kedainai. He came of very poor family.

I became a combat engineer and happened to be on the leading in late February 1943. In spite of annual training, the first battle was very hard on us. We were in action on 23 February 1943 in the vicinity of Alexeyevka of Orlov oblast. The winter was very cold and snowy. Hardly had we cleared the way before the attack when it snowed again. I heard Mendel’s voice calling me in Jewish –Yudus- today is a big battle and we will win. It was his first and last battle. Mendel perished. Artillery was lacking behind and there was no training. I was lightly wounded on the first day. Fortunately it was not serious. The bullet was caught in the jersey and my hand was just slightly touched. They rendered me the first aid. The commander told me to go in headquarters, located in Novoalexeyevka, report on the status and take a rest. I could hardly move in the store, supporting my wounded hand, but I managed to reach the headquarters. When I reached the headquarters dug-out, I was about to swoon from the smell of food. The officers were sitting at the table and a young lady served just baked pancakes. I off the gasket and said while we were fighting, they enjoyed themselves. The officers calmed me down, gave me some pancakes and took to the village hut. I spent the night on soft hay in the garret and in the morning came back to my unit. In March Novoalexeyevka battles were over and were taken to the rear for reformation. By the way, there were other human feelings, including the comic ones apart from deaths and horror. I remember how we could not stand break-up spring season, when our legs were drenched. One of the old-stagers- the sergeant, advised to put gas masks instead of galoshes. Thus we followed his advise. The general from headquarters was passing by. When he saw us he commanded right away: «Attention, gases»», and we were supposed to put the gas mask on right away. We were reprimanded by our squad commander for inappropriate usage of gas masks

In June 1943 I got the letter from Volodya, where he informed of his arrival in the unit. I got ready for our meeting beforehand. I stashed the bread from my ration as I knew that musicians got much poorer nutrition that we. It is hard to put in words what it felt like when we met. Both of us were happy and sad at a time. We cried over all` tribulation as we understood that our relatives who stayed in Lithuania, perished. Before leaving, Volodya gave me his picture where he wrote in Yiddish: revenge on fascist occupants for our mothers’ deaths.

After my meeting with Volodya, our unit was transferred to the areas of Orel and Belgorod, where one of the most important battles of World War Two was being prepared. Our unit was dislocated in Kamenka village. I was included in the combat engineering intelligence group. We were to observe what changes were taking place in German units. My workmate was Lithuanian, who came of Caucasus. His name was Domark. Usually at night we approached German defense trenches. We hid in small pits which we dug out. Once I probed something hard with my digging tool. When I unburied the object, I found out that it was a hand. It belonged to the soviet solider judging by the color of the military jacket.

We observed the movement of the units, watched whether there appeared more technical equipment and tanks, and sent the messages in the headquarters. Once I saw 50 Germans marching and we started artillery shooting on command. There was time when I killed a high rank officer from my rifle when he popped out from the trench. It was easy for me to fight and I always remembered the death of my relatives and all Lithuanian Jews, so I decided to take revenge. On that day German command started their propaganda all of a sudden. By the trenches we could hear transmissions on German radio calling Soviet soldiers and officers to surrender for great well-being, well paid job and good life in Germany. Of course, we did not believe in that. Fascists threatened that there would be a major attack on 5 July and told to prod the bayonet in the earthy which would be the signal of surrender. There was propaganda on our side as well and during the breaks soviet songs were sung and fascists also enjoyed them. Domark, my workmate was anti-soviet. He dreamed of surrender and tried talking me into that. He said that he would not give away my Jewish origin though I understood that he would do it in a heartbeat. I indignantly refused and it was hard for me to stay close with the potential traitor. We parted after the first battle. As far as I know Domark died in 1944.

Once we were given a warning of the next attack. Late in the evening on 4 July Domark and I left for another task. I remember my compatriot, the Jew from Vilnius, the military doctor Dashevskiy, said good bye to me. he wished me good luck in the coming hard battle. He said he was not sure whether I would see Lithuania once again, and added that he was sure to see it. There was a bombing early in the morning and it also affected us. There were great many tanks after that. There was a fierce battle. As a result our unit was besieged. We got out of the siege in the evening. We literally were stepping at cadavers of our soldiers while walking back to our positions. When we came, Kamenka was on fire. It turned out that captain Dashevskiy and Lithuanian nurse died from the direct bomb hit. That was the war … nobody could know what would happen next minute.

I could talk about war incessantly if it had not been so painful to recall about the perished. When Orlovka battles were over, our unit was to be reorganized. We were sent to the just liberated Byelorussia, Vitebsk. I was a sergeant. Our squad was given assignment to build the bridge across Yemenka river within one night. It was a very urgent and important task. The bridge was meant for our troops to pass. We started working despite of shooting and by the morning the half of the squad had been dead. The bridge had been construction within the timeframe. At that time my friend, a Lithuanian of my age Gelaytis, died in my presence. When dying he said: «tell mother…» After war I could not find his mother. She died, but I told his sister how he died. We took the bodies to our side of the river and buried them. After war they were reburied in village Plestsi in military cemetery, where the monument was set up in their honor.

After Vitebsk we happened to be in the vicinity of Polotsk. I and two more of the girls from my department were assigned to the battalion named after Lithuanian Soviet Union Hero  14 Wolf Vilenskiy. Once he saved my life by killing the fascist who was aiming at me during our attack accompanied by «Hurrah!». In summer 1944 before the attack I wrote the announcement to join communist party and became a communist.

On 10 July 1944 there was a case which I am still dreaded by. I captured a fascist. He was a guy of my age, wearing a helmet and a mosquito net. I commanded him to drop weapon and lied down. I lied down close to him. Our conversation was short, but I will always remember it. I asked where he was from. He told me about his birthplace and added that only today their unit came to the front from Dantsig. He had never been to war before that and had never killed a man. He was awaiting death and was very scared. He put his hand on my gun beseeching me to spare his life. He even showed me his mother’s picture. I told him : «Don’t be afraid, though people like you killed my mother, but I will spare you- Jews and communists do not kill captives!» At that moment his arm was being touched by the accidental bullet. I put a bandage and repeated once again that Jews and communists were not killing the captives. Then the officer from the headquarters came to get the captives and that lad was taken away. I had never seen him again. I had speculated on that case for long. I thought that I had no right to play the master of human life, even when it goes about your enemy. It is wrong to kill eth helpless. After war I told that story to other Jews. I even had quarreled with my cousin Chaim for a long time as he argued with me through his hatred to all the Germans as he barely survived the occupation. Chaim cried out that I ought to have killed the fascist and had not right to spare his life. I asserted that if I knew that he was involved in executions and other wrong-doings, I would kill him, but that person was a mere victim of Hilter’s fanatics. I had been pondering over and over whether I was right or wrong. Many years had passed and Chaim died. I wrote the article in Russian paper in Berlin, where I described my case. In about two months I got the letter from the editor’s office. It was the German lady, who happened to be that guy’s mother. She said that her son was in Soviet captivity and came back home in 1947.He kept on telling everybody who a Jew spared his life and put a bandage on his hand. In 1954 he died from meningitis. The lady invited me for a visit. I responded to her with the polite letter and made sure that my deed was human.

The next day after that case I was wounded and was taken to the hospital in Vitebsk oblast. I was contused being almost blind and my hand was wounded. I found out about liberation of Vilnius from my letter. I had a gangrene and the Jewish doctor Krivorushko wanted to amputate my finger. I wanted to go in battle. I tried talking her into leaving my finger as I wanted to be in action. Thus, she managed to save my hand. I was hurrying home and the doctor told me: «Why hurrying as you would not find anybody at home!». The nurse wrote the request in Lithuania and I got the letter where I found the truth about my family’s perishing. Only my cousin Chaim Ronder survived and was living in Lithuanian city Pagede.

From hospital I was sent to 27 division in Latvia. I did not want to be a combat engineer and ask to transfer me in any other unit. I became a gun soldier after couple of hours of training. I was in action in Latvia for a while and then happened to be in Ukraine. I took part in liberation of Moldavia and Romania. I marked the victory day in Romania in the palace of the kind Michai the 2, where we had our quarters. I even spoke to the king’s grandmother. She kindly treated soviet soldiers. I had stayed in the army until November 1945. I got several awards - Great Patriotic War Orders of the 1st and the 2nd class 15, Red Star Order 16, two medals for «Valor» 17, medals and orders for liberation of the cities. In fall 1945 there was an order on demobilization of those who were wounded more than three times. I was classified for that. I was given a free train ticket and a ration. They asked me where I was heading. I named the most Northern city of Lithuania –Mazheike having decided that I can get off the train where I wanted on my way. I knew that my nephew Volodya was living in Vilnius. He was demobilized from the army. Chaim Ronder was living in Pagedai.

I got off the train in Vilnius. I had mixed emotions. I was happy to be in the motherland, though understanding that I was alone. I spent couple of nights in the house of some of Volodya’s distant relatives as he was out of town at that moment. I decided to go farther. I went to Pagedai,where Chaim Ronder and his wife were living. I was given a very warm welcome. We had talked with Chaim all night through. He told me how my family perished. Now I found out horrible details. When on 23 June 1941 Volodya and I left for the East, my mother could not calm down. In couple of days fascists came and put all the Jews in large stables. There were kept there for several days, even were given food and promised to be taken to work somewhere. Mother said with tears : «Why did I let my favorite Yudel go, he must have been lying dead in some ditch». In several days all Jews were taken to execution and my mother, whose legs were very sore, was buried alive straight in the yard of the stables. My poor mommy did not know that her Yudele survived and was one of the very few Kedainiai Jews who visited her grave [editor’s note:after those words Yudel burst into tears and could not stop crying for a while].

Chaim managed to escape. He was hiding in the forest, dug pits, where he sheltered himself. Some Lithuanians helped him and gave him sconce. He was about to face death for several times. Once the warden of the village so a lady brining food to Chaim and he gave him away. The found a pit where brother was hiding and encircled it. Policemen could not lure Chaim from his sconce and had been calling him kike for a long time. Chaim outsmarted them. he got out of the pit and blew politseiz up with the grenades he had. He rushed to the farmstead of the peasant Vishotskiy, who had helped the brother on a number of times. Brother was running barefoot on the snow. Visotskiy hid him in the stove. When he took a rest for a bit and looked around, he saw that the walls of his hut were covered with Torah readings. Chaim got off the stove and said that he should flee right away. He left at night and roamed for long. Visotskiy was a good man and he probably was not aware what his walls were covered with. The next time my cousin had to spend the night in Visotskiy ‘s place, he had white wall papers. Lithuanian understood that he insulted national Chaim’s national feelings. Chaim had been a partisan for a long time, took part in liberation of Vilnius. Then he worked in Kedainai militia. Then he was transferred to Pagedai.

Chaim married a wonderful lady. Sarah was married to our agnate double cousin David Gronberg. David perished and Sarah had to see inferno in occupation being in concentration camp. According to Jewish tradition Chaim married her. It was a great, kind family, where I found my home. Soon I found a job at district authorities, but got into trouble as one Jew wrote a letter saying that my parents were rich. So, I was fired. In a while, they thought batter and I was reemployed. Those were hard times – we founded kolkhozes, fought with Lithuanian gangs, who had left for the woods. I do not want to talk about that. Now the values have changed in Lithuania. I do not want my neighbors to know that I fought with the ‘patriots’. I went from village to village being authorized to found kolkhozes. The chairmen of rural councils helped me a lot. There were traitors among them. It was the time when I got the notes with the threats to lose my life. I never said in which house I stopped. I always had a pistol with me. Chaim gave it to me. I had to run away in the woods and fight with the gangs. This is all I can in regard to your question.

Chaim and I were best friends. Though, he had frazzled nerves and could not get rid of the recollections about war. At that time German captives could be seen on the roads, in towns. Once a German lady knocked on our door. She asked for food and Sarah gave her a piece of bread. Chaim was perturbed, turned that lady out and even hit her. I understood Chaim, but did not justify his actions in such cases.

I had stayed with brother’s family until 1949. Chaim and his wife moved to Kaunas, but I stayed in Pagedai. By that time I met a young Lithuanian, who was a member of former underground comsomol. We had a lot in common. We got married 1948 and the same year our daughter was born and named after my mother Liya. My wife’s name was Meybute Tamuinene (she kept her maiden name). She was born in Pagedai in 1925. She also worked for municipal authorities. My wife’s father was a communist. He was a communist, very good-natured and mature man. He treated me very well. Later on I was sorry for not having married a Jew. My wife was not anti-Semitism, but she never understood the depth of my feelings for Israel, my willingness for repatriation. It was most unpleasant for me that Meybute was an ardent stickler of Stalin and took his death as if` he was her father. In a while we started being more and more aloof, but I did not divorce my wife because of our daughter.

In late 1949 I left Kaunas and my wife and daughter stayed in Pagedai. We still were not divorced and I considered myself to be a married man. We were just separated. In Kaunas I was immediately employed for the position of the assistant to the chairman of the municipal authorities. Then I was transferred to the position of a legal advisor. I did not have a problem with employment. It was enough to come to HR department in military jacket with the awards. I never wash it and keep all awards on it. Besides, it was the time when they needed literate employees, who are fluent in Lithuanian and Russian. In a while, my wife and daughter came to me and I was given an apartment. I have been living in Kaunas since then.

I should say that state anti-Semitist campaign, deployed in late 1940s [Campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’] 17 and in early 1950s [Doctors’ Plot] 18 was not as active in Lithuania as in any other part of Russia. I was not affected by it in any way. Of course, it was repulsive to read and listen to about doctors poisoners and I took it hard. I was glad when Stalin died. I thought him to be a tyrant at that time. My attitude to Stalin added up antagonism in the relationship with my wife.

In 1953 I quitted my work in municipal authorities and was employed as HR manager at the factory. I entered extramural legal department of Vilnius university. I went to Vilnius several times a year. My trouble started at that time. I did not keep Jewish traditions and marked no holidays, but I never forgot that I was a Jew. I met other survived Lithuanian Jews and we went to the places of execution and collected donations for the monuments in their honor. My idea was to make a so-called archive of the people who rescued Jews and those who murdered them. I have been doing it from the moment of my return in Lithuania and until now. Probably my peculiar hobby was found out by security and I was called in KGB, interrogated and threatened. There was no imputation for me as I did well, was the member of party and my reputation was not marred.

In 1959 I went to Vilnius to another semester of the graduate year. I was supposed to write a diploma paper. It was the period of centennial jubilee of Sholom Aleichem and there was a postal stamp was dedicated to that even. I went to the post office to buy it. A lady who was in front of me in the line caught my attention. She was a well-dressed Jew. She did not look like a local. She spoke neither Russian nor Lithuanian to explain how many stamps she would like to get. I started speaking Yiddish to her and found out that she was born in Kaunas and currently living in Israel. She came to Lithuania from Moscow, where her husband Eliva was working as the second secretary of the Israeli consul. I enjoyed talking to her an she invited me to the hotel. I came there, but I did not go in the room. I asked Israeli lady for some souvenir from her country as it was sacred for me. The lady came down in the lobby with Israeli newspaper and gave it to me. We talked a little bit. We mostly spoke of Israel. After that we said good bye to each other and I went to the train station. Two men of mediocre appearance came up to me and pushed me in the car. I was taken in Vilnius committee of national security. I had been interrogated all night long asking me what information I gave to the Israeli woman, blaming me in the treason, threatening with arrest and trial. They took the paper that the lady gave to me. I still surprised how I was not arrested. Those were different times- if Stalin was alive, I would be in the camp for that. They let me go in the morning. When I came in Kaunas, I was not admitted to work. They had all the information here and I was found. In couple of days I was expelled from the communist party for loosened party vigil. I was shocked. Of course I was hurt for being expelled from the party, but the worst thing was that I was jobless and unable to provide for my family. I decided that I should write my diploma paper and graduate from the university. When I was defending my diploma, there was a person who started asking questions for me to flunk, but still I succeeded. I came back in Kaunas and started looking for a job.

Having wasted couple of months for my futile efforts to find a job, I wrote a letter to the first secretary of` the central committee of the party. I wrote that that I graduated from legal department of the university and could not find a job. I also wrote if he did not help me get a job, I would have to take a poster: a soviet lawyer is looking for a job of a janitor- and walk along Laivess alley (then Stalin street). In a while I was called by the municipal authorities and offered a job of a lawyer in a small shoe factory. I had worked there until retirement. When in 1975 I came to Israel for the first time, the lady which brought trouble on me, came in my hotel. Somehow she found out from her Lithuanian friend which problems I had and also learnt about my visit. Israeli women brought a huge boquete of roses. Then she invited me to call on their family. I met with her husband, a famous polititian at that time.

I did not have to deal with KGB any more after than. My last call there was in late 1950s. My cousin Chaim and his wife were going to leave for Israel via Poland. My cousin was very nervous as it was pretty problematic at that time. Ten days before departure Chaim had infarction and died. He was buried in Kaunas and I personally designed his tombstone. There was a Mogen David on it. In a while I was called in KGB and asked who instructed to put Zionistic symbol on it.  I said it was my idea and I would not let it removed from my cousin’s grave.

In 1960s I was fond of amateur art. There was a Jewish amateur theatre in Kaunas, which was about the only one in the USSR. We staged the plays of Sholom Aleichem, learnt and sang Jewish songs. In 1963 we gave a large concert devoted to the 20 year anniversary of the mass execution of Kaunas ghetto Jews. After that active members of that theatre were called in KGB and threatened that it would be closed down and repressed. I did not fear anything. It must have been hard to make me submissive.

In 1975 I filed my documents for the trip to Israel. At that time to go there it was necessary to get the letter of invitation from a close relative. I did not have such. With the help of my friends I got the invitation from my sister Beila who allegedly was living in Israel. My poor sister who is in the common grave with her little daughter Iona, did me the last favor. When I submitted the documents, I was called at a certain point They said they would never let me out. Strange as it may be in a while I was issued a visa either it was because of somebody’s help or they just decided to watch me. Though, my wife was in the way thinking that I would not come back to her. After having received the visa, some Kaunas Jews stopped keeping in touch with me thinking me to be an informer. One of them even wrote a letter to his friend in Israel for them to beware me. The Israeli guy, who knew me perfectly did not believe it, laugher over that letter and even showed it to me. Israel was my revelation and joy. I could not help breathing in the air of Israeli state. I met some of my distant relatives and the most important thing I saw my cousin Volodya. He married a Jew from Ukraine shortly after war. He had two sons. Unfortunately, my brother had heart trouble. It was our first and the last meeting after war. In 1976 Volodya died at the age of 51. I went to Israel three more times, two of them during the soviet times and one time 1990s.

I always dreamed of immigration to Israel, but my wife was against it and I did not want to leave my daughter. My wife died in 1989. I did not marry again. It was too late for me to leave for Israel at my elderly age. My daughter Liya identifies herself as Jew and at the age of 16 she put Jewish nationality in her passport. Liya tried entering teachers’ training university for several times and failed to it. She did not have a higher education. Liya’s personal life was not happy. She was married for couple of times. Every time she married non-Jews and I was not pleased with that. Liya has my last name Ronder. To my shame she left Germany in the 1990s which was not acceptable to me. I refused to visit her. I think that after holocaust Jews cannot have anything in common with Germans, and have their sops. Liya has two children- the elder –Dovid, born in 1976, named after my brother. He is dreaming to go to Israel with me. My granddaughter Etel, born in 1981, is studying at the university.

When I retired I had worked for couple of years for Vilnius Jewish museum. By that time I had collected a pretty considerable material about holocaust in Lithuania, about the murderers and the rescuers. And helped many of them get the title Righteous among the Nations 20. I always kept an active civil position in this matter. I always was an ardent struggler against anti-Semitism. A few years ago a Jewish cemetery was raided- the gangsters upturned the graves to find some gold, including golden teeth. Chaim’s grave was also touched. I filed a suit with the court to get spiritual injury compensation in the amount of 1 lita. This case was covered in papers, but it was not sustained as they alluded to absence of such law on spiritual injury compensation.

Several years ago I found out that one of the murderers of the Jews lives nearby. He is healthy and wealthy. I was aware of his testimony at one of the postwar trials, when they could not prove his participation in the actions and executions. Then I started writing letters to the murders for them not to sleep quietly. Once I wrote a letter to the man, where I describe his and others malefaction in detail. The letter was written by the daughter, who loved father very much and asked him to say if it was true. Father said that he was a good man, and the letter was tosh and even tried to turn it into a joke. The lady did not calm down and went to KGB. She asked for the truth. They did not tell her anything as his guilt was not proved. When she came home she found him dead. He hung himself in the bathroom. I do not have any compunction as I think it was a fair punishment for his crimes.

The global community supports me. I have a sponsors, who assists Lithuanian righteous among nations. His parents got rescued and lived for Switzerland. He is currently living in the USA. He invited me there and I accepted his invitation. I was in the States for couple of times several years ago. I gave my documents – the list of murderers and the list of rescuers of Jews – to the Museum of holocaust in Washington. Thus, I completed my mission in the world.

Now I am living in the independent state [Reestablishment of the Lithuanian Republic] 21. Of course, it became easier for the Jews to live when they did not have to conceal their nationality, but still anti-Semitism is still there, and when it is discrete it is much more dangerous than open. I am an old and a sick person. I demised my apartment to the Lithuanian lady Stepha. She is the daughter to one of the righteous among nations, whom I helped quite a lot. Stepha is a wonderful lady. She became my custodian and looks after me as my own daughter. We often talk and she is always surprised at my ardent hatred to the fascists, Germany and some Lithuanians. Then I ask her if someone killed groundlessly killed her relatives, buried her mother alive, she sits pensively and does not say anything as she loves her family dearly.

GLOSSARY:

Beniamin Chaim Zylberberg
(Boleslaw Janowski)
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Jacek Borkowicz
Date of interview: December 2003 - January 2004

Beniamin Zylberberg, since the war Boleslaw Janowski, is a retired civil servant. He lives alone in Warsaw; his wife died a few years ago. In spite of his age he has retained his vigor and equanimity. He enjoyed talking about his youth, which he spent in a small town in the Lublin province. He holds left-wing, atheistic views but has always felt Jewish.

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

My family background

My official name is Boleslaw Janowski, but I was born Beniamin Chaim Zylberberg on 19th February 1916 in Krasnik Lubelski. I changed my name after the war to make my life in a non-Jewish society easier. My father, Mordechaj Zylberberg, was born in Ozarow Kielecki, about 40 kilometers from Krasnik, around 1884 - 85. My mother, Hinda, nee Nyrenberg, was born in Krasnik around 1888 - 89. My father had a furrier and cap-making workshop, while my mother simply kept house: she maintained a traditional Jewish kitchen and bore children. My parents were very religious. My father dressed traditionally, kept his head covered and wore a kaput [caftan]. He was never without a cap. He was a Hasid 1, a member of the Lubliner Rebbe’s circle. The only school my parents went to was cheder. They could read the prayer book, but they certainly couldn’t write in Hebrew or Yiddish. I don’t know how they met and got married, but I’m certain that the marriage was arranged by a shadkhan.

Ninety percent of the clientele in my father’s workshop were Poles, because Jews only bought his black caps for the holidays: Pesach, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but the Poles came in frequently. My father knew a few words of Polish and was able to communicate with his Polish clients, and the clients could usually understand a little Yiddish. But my father couldn’t speak Polish, and my mother had nothing at all to do with it [the Polish language], because she didn’t get involved in matters to do with the workshop or the business. They had both been brought up among people who spoke only Yiddish.

There were seven of us children. Two died a few days or weeks after being born, and five survived: my eldest brother Mojsze was born in 1908, Wigde, younger than him, was born about two or three years later, I was the third, and the fourth, Duwydl, younger than me, was born in 1920 or a little later, and the youngest was a girl, Surel. I don’t know exactly when she was born, but I remember that before the war she had started to go to elementary school, so she was seven or eight. Mojsze got married in 1932 to Lybaly Lederwerk from Ozarow Kielecki, who moved to Krasnik, where my brother built himself a little brick house out of her dowry, about one kilometer from our cottage. He sold fabrics for clothes there, measured in ells and so his shop became known as ‘lokciowka’ [the Ellery]. Mojsze and Lybaly had a little girl, a very pretty child, I remember her well. Wigde married too, when I was in jail. Like my father, he worked in a furrier and cap-making workshop, somewhere in Wielkopolska [province in northwestern Poland].

My maternal grandfather was called Duwyd Nyrenberg. He died in Krasnik in 1926 or in 1927. I don’t remember him very well. He dressed traditionally; he was very religious – an Orthodox 2. I remember that he had a long beard, but what Jew didn’t have a beard at that time? I remember his funeral better, because of a certain unpleasant incident. We carried my grandfather’s body from the synagogue to the Jewish cemetery through the side streets, because the Krasnik authorities had prohibited Jewish funerals from passing through the main square of the town. And all around the square lived almost only Jews. There were a few Christian houses and shops too, but about ninety percent were Jewish shops and cottages. In that little town, out of 8,000-10,000 residents, half were Jews. Grandmother Gitel, Duwyd’s wife, wore a wig and was dressed in dark clothes. She had a little shop on the square in Krasnik, where you could buy a few needles, a bit of thread, and clay pots. Grandfather Duwyd didn’t make the pots himself, somebody brought them to him. I would often go to see my Grandmother on the square for a few groszy. I remember too that she told me some fairytales at home.

I don’t remember my grandmother’s death, but I do know that she was still alive in 1935 when I was arrested. In prison I wasn’t told of her death and I wasn’t at her funeral. They were both born in Krasnik. They spoke only Yiddish. My grandmother may have known a few words of Polish, because some of her Polish customers must have spoken to her in that language. They only had a religious education. I don’t consider them illiterate since they could read prayer books. And that wasn’t in Yiddish but in Hebrew, ‘lushn-koydesh’ [Yiddish: ‘the holy language’]. But they couldn’t write. I didn’t know my paternal grandparents, who lived in Ozarow. I very rarely went to Ozarow, and they never came to Krasnik.

My father’s sister, Binaly, also had a large family. In 1920 my father took her and all her family to Palestine. When in the 1980s I was able to go to Israel for the first time, Aunt Binaly was no longer alive, but I met her large family. Her granddaughter came to Poland recently with her husband, who is an AIDS specialist; he’s called Izrael Just, and lectures in Tel Aviv, the United States, Canada and England. So thanks to my father’s wisdom I still have relatives in Palestine to this day. Though on the other hand, if my father had stayed there too, then my family would have survived. But he came back to Poland, where all of them, about ten people, except me, died. I don’t even know where they were burned. I remember an uncle, too, my mother’s brother, who was called Eli Nyrenberg and was a melamed in one of Krasnik’s cheders. His wife was called Ity. My mother also had two other brothers, who immigrated to the United States before World War I.

Growing up

In Krasnik we lived in a wooden cottage near the square, on Krotka [Short] Street, which really was short. But I don’t remember the number. Were there numbers there at all? Our house was a single-story house, although above us, on a low mezzanine, lived another Jewish family. Some 200 to 300 meters from the square was the synagogue, and next to it a prayer house. That was open every day, but the synagogue only on Saturdays and holidays. From there was a road that led to the Jewish cemetery, the ‘kirkut’ [the Polish name for a Jewish cemetery] or ‘heilike ort,’ which in Yiddish means ‘holy place.’ It was nearby; you just had to cross the river.

My earliest memories go back to 1920, when during the Polish-Bolshevik War 3 the Bolsheviks 4 came almost into Krasnik. The people in our town made themselves all kinds of shelters. In our house we made our attic into a shelter. I remember waiting in the attic with my family for the front to pass.

All my friends were Jewish, from the neighboring cottages. In the vicinity of our house there was a cheder, which I started attending at age five or six. Classes were in the morning. There were 30 boys minimum in my class. But I didn’t like that cheder somehow. There was this melamed there, we called him Kanczuk [‘kanczuk’ is a whip made of leather thongs], awful discipline, and I’m belligerent, and I started fighting the discipline. In the end I got out of that cheder and moved to another one 500 meters further on. My second melamed, who had come from Lublin, was a very civilized, liberal man. But I didn’t go there for long, either. It was even a progressive cheder, but somehow I couldn’t get interested in Hebrew. I found it a bit repellent, I don’t know why – that was silly of me, because to this day I don’t know any Hebrew. I quit cheder when I was eight or nine. In all, I was no longer than three years in both cheders.

I know Yiddish not from cheder but because we spoke Yiddish at home. When I was 16 or 17 I read an awful lot in that language. And I started to read when I was about eight or ten, with the Yiddish classics: Mendele Mokher Seforim 5, Sholem Aleichem 6, and Isaac Leib Peretz 7. To this day I read and have a lot of books in Yiddish at home. It was thanks to elementary school, where I started going in 1924-25, that I learned some Polish. I had a few Polish friends there, who I spoke to in Polish, but that was poor knowledge of the language too. After the outbreak of war, when I ended up in the Soviet Union, I had no one to speak Polish with at all, but I did master Russian well. I only mastered Polish after the war, at the officers’ school and while studying economics. At elementary school we spoke to our Polish friends in Polish and in Yiddish. It was a kind of Polish-Yiddish, the kind used by Poles in small Jewish towns, in shtetls. We understood each other. To the end of my days I’ll never forget one of my friends, by the name of Rycerz. A very decent boy. We shared a bench and we were friends [two pupils were seated together in double benches in the classrooms]. Then they put me in prison and I don’t know what became of him.

In Krasnik there were no clashes or conflicts between the Jews and their Christian neighbors up until the beginning of the 1930s. Although some ridiculing went on, it never got serious. We, Jewish lads, walked freely all over town; there were no streets that we were afraid to go down. But soon after Hitler came to power in Germany in 1933 our Polish friends, whom we had played with, started throwing stones at us. Fortunately we were on very good terms with our Polish teachers. I remember their names: Garncarz, Koszalk, I even remember the priest who taught religious studies, although Jews didn’t take part in that subject. The headmaster himself, Mr. Pytlakowski, who taught us history, was a member of the National Democratic Party 8, but he has remained in my memory as a decent man. But his two sons used to throw stones at us.

I completed seven grades of elementary school. Already at age nine or ten I started working at my father’s workshop. He was a poor Jew and couldn’t afford to pay any assistants. So when I started work in the workshop, Mr. Pytlakowski agreed that I could attend evening classes at the elementary school. So in the mornings I worked in the workshop, and in the evenings I studied. I went to school until March 1935, with two short breaks. At that time I was already active in the Jewish Trade Unions. On 1st May 1933 I organized a strike at school, which involved us not going to class but taking part in demonstrations. I was thrown out of school for that, but there was this very kind man, Mr. Laszkiewicz, who kept an eye on the school, a professional photographer, and through his intervention I was taken back. I was thrown out a second time, for the same thing, the next year, but in 1935 they didn’t get the chance to throw me out because I was already in prison. All in all, I went to Mr. Pytlakowski’s school for over ten years.

I had Jewish friends who were between two and four years older than me. For a ten-year-old that is a huge difference. Those older boys were from non-religious families, and under their influence I started to move away from religious traditions. They talked me into going to Mr. Gawlik’s shop on the square. Mr. Gawlik was a Christian who sold cold meats that were half the price of those that you could buy in the Jewish shops because the Christians based them on pork fat and not on goose fat as the Jews did. We were poor, and that price difference was significant to us, but we wouldn’t have done it if not for our non-religious views. And so under their influence I started eating pork. I remember the names of some of those boys: Bajrech, or Berek, Gutfilig, and Mojsze Frajhof. The last was murdered by the Germans later on in the camp in Belzec 9.

I mentioned that I read a lot in Yiddish. Electricity hadn’t reached our little town yet. In the evenings I would read by the light of a kerosene lamp. Once I fell asleep, the lamp went out, and I had left a piece of bread and the remains of some sausage on the table. In the morning, my mother, who got up first to make breakfast, noticed it and quickly realized that it wasn’t kosher sausage, because the kosher sausage had goose fat, and that one had pork fat. She wasn’t 100 percent sure whether she was right or wrong, so she wrapped the piece of sausage in a rag and waited until Friday, when the shabesgoyka [a female shabesgoy], Mrs. Marcinowa, came to put the Sabbath candles out. My mother showed her the sausage, and Mrs. Marcinowa, who spoke Yiddish, said, ‘Vus is dus?’ [‘What’s that?’]. There was a terrible fuss, of course, as everything had to be koshered. I couldn’t have gotten away without a beating – my mother had to let my father in on the secret, but I don’t remember that.

Already by then, when I was ten, I had started to move away from religion, but I still prayed and went with my father to the synagogue. My father prayed at home, he didn’t have time to go there three times a day, because his poor little workshop was on its last legs. But he wasn’t in a position to check whether his children prayed. It was most probably then that I stopped praying, for lack of time: firstly, I was going to school, and secondly I had already started working. Until 1933 I carried on going to the synagogue with my father on the important holidays: Pesach, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. But from that year I was involved in the left-wing movement. Yom Kippur dawned; my father woke up, and said to me, ‘Kim in di shil!’ [‘Let’s go to the synagogue!’]. I replied, ‘Dad, I’ll just get dressed and I’ll catch up with you.’

From the ground floor window I could see that my father had walked on, so I quickly got dressed and went out, but to a meeting in the woods. Because Jews pray all day on Yom Kippur, our meeting in the wood also went on until the evening, around a campfire, with sausages. When I got home in the evening, my mother, who realized that I hadn’t been with my father at the synagogue, said to me, ‘Go to bed! I’ll tell your father when he gets back from the synagogue, that you’re ill.’ It didn’t help much. When my father came back, he threw the blanket off me and shouted, ‘Get out of my house!’ He threw me out of the house. I was a poor boy, so I asked my friends for a few zloty and went to Warsaw.

I could hardly speak any Polish, but I found a balagula [popular name for a Jewish carter in southeastern Poland and Ukraine], who drove me from Krasnik to Lublin for 50 groszy [100 groszy = 1 zloty]. And from Lublin I set off on foot for Pulawy, because I didn’t have the money for a train ticket. In Pulawy I got on a ship [up the Vistula]. It cost I think two zloty, and they gave me supper and then in the morning breakfast, because we sailed all night. A few days after Yom Kippur in 1933 I reached Warsaw. I got off at the river port, where Wybrzeze Kosciuszkowskie Street is now. I wanted to get to Gesia Street, because there was a baker from Krasnik who lived there and his son was my friend. I asked a policeman, half in Polish and half in Yiddish, ‘Where’s Gesia Street?’ He looked at me, he was a tall policeman, and said, ‘You Yiddo, if you’re a communist, I’ll hang you!’ I’ll never forget those words as long as I live. Even so, he told me how to get to Gesia Street.

The baker had a large, poor family; I slept there on the floor for a few nights. After that I found a job in a cap-making workshop on Niska Street. I earned a zloty a day there. On Zamenhofa Street there was Chaskielberg’s Jewish restaurant, where you could eat dinner for 30 groszy: as much soup as you wanted, bread too, and a main course. I slept on Mila Street, at a cobbler’s house. The cobbler didn’t make new shoes, he just mended old ones, and to tell you the truth, he didn’t make his living from that, but from his five cast-iron beds: he charged 50 groszy a night for each one. And on that 2.50 zloty a day he kept his fairly large family. And I slept on one of those beds. I repeat, slept, not lived, because you could only turn up when he finished work, and you had to leave early in the morning: at the crack of dawn, he had to open up his workshop and he put the beds up.

Out of the one zloty that I earned at the cobbler’s workshop, after accounting for dinner and my bed for the night, there were 20 groszy left, and that had to last me for everything else. It was vegetation, of course. So I moved to another furrier’s workshop close by, where I earned two zloty a day. But that work was seasonal, and after Sukkes [Sukkot], or the feast of shelters, the season came to an end. I was out of work, and then I remembered that my father had a cousin in Warsaw who was called Schali Bigiel. I’d heard about him back in Krasnik, because that cousin could read and write in Yiddish, and corresponded with my father. And when father got a letter from him, he would ask the neighbor, who could read and write the language, and the neighbor read my father the letter. My father would dictate an answer to him. Schali Bigiel lived on 7 Krucza Street, and I live on 5 Krucza Street now. Krucza 7 had two courtyards, and in the back well, on the fourth floor, without an elevator, lived my uncle.

He wasn’t such a poor Jew, because he had a fruit and vegetable stall on Three Crosses Square and didn’t have to beg anyone to make him his challah and fish for Sabbath. When I knocked on his door it was already evening just before Sabbath. A handsome Jew with a handsome beard, already dressed for evening prayers, answered the door and asked, ‘Ver bis di?’ [‘Who are you?’] I answered that my father was Mordechaj from Krasnik. ‘Aha!’ he said. ‘Your father is my cousin! Come, you shall be with us, but now come with me to the synagogue!’ Although I bridle at lies, I had to deceive him: I told him that the son of my landlord on Gesia Street was waiting for me downstairs because we had to go to the synagogue with his father. I hung around on Krucza for a while, waiting until the Jews came back from the prayer house, and went upstairs.

I spent a few weeks at my uncle’s house. But he let my father know that I was there. My father came to Warsaw. A Jew from a shtetl, first time in the capital, so I wanted to show him a thing or two. At the time the Staniszewski Circus, famous not only in Poland, was performing on Ordynacka Street. I went to the circus with him, and there were these bearded Jews sitting there in black caps, Jews like my father. That pleased him very much. As we were going home, to Krasnik, I said to him, ‘Dad, I’m not going to try and persuade you to stop praying, so don’t you force me to go to the synagogue.’ And so we made a pact.

But my father was tolerant as far as religion went. He allowed us to walk around the house with our heads uncovered, although that was unthinkable among Orthodox Jews. He wasn’t happy about it, of course, but he realized that conflict wouldn’t help. I don’t remember any conflicts of a religious nature between my father and my elder brothers. And neither of them was religious; what was more, Wigde was a very active Bundist, and after all, the Bund 10 was no less anti-religious than the communist party 11. Mojsze, who was a Zionist 12, was at least kosher. Our house was kosher, you see; after all, we didn’t go out to restaurants, because we didn’t have the money. Anyway, there was no such tradition in small towns at that time.

When I was 14, maybe 16, my brother Wigde got me involved in SKIF 13. And when we organized a 1st May strike for the first time in 1933, I think I was already in KZMP 14. I had gone over to that at the encouragement of my friends, especially by my future wife, Rachela Zylberman.

Rachela was born on 8th September 1910 in the village of Lisznik, between Krasnik and Annopol. So she was six years older than me. She came from a progressive family: evidence of that was the fact that she went to grammar school, because you had to go there on Saturdays too. Her father walked around the house with his head uncovered, which was unthinkable among religious Jews. That was a large Jewish family, too, they lived near us, and we were neighbors. In material terms they lived quite well, because they had a restaurant at home where not only Jews but also Poles ate, technicians and engineers hired to build a ball-bearing factory.

We were in the same gang, that’s what we called it, eight or ten young people, girls and boys. Rachela was going out with Chaim Feldhendler at first, but in 1934 he was arrested. It was then that we became close. Feldhendler himself, I remember, was born in 1914, so at the time he was arrested he was exactly 20. I remember the other people from our gang too. Jankiel Goldfarb, a year younger than Feldhendler, after the war moved to New York. Izrael Wolman, a cobbler from Chelm, we used to call him ‘Srulkale Tar-Head,’ because he had tar-black hair. Tauba Fisz died not long ago in Tel Aviv. Joel Kopytko, born in 1917, lives to this day in Poznan. And then Goldfarb’s girl, the daughter of a ‘Jewish peasant,’ as we used to call him, because her father had a farm in the country. We tried to speak Polish in our gang. We had mixed success, because some of us could speak Polish better, some worse. Tauba had done her school-leaving exam in Polish, so she spoke Polish well. But Srul Wolman was illiterate; he couldn’t even count to five in Polish. He called the navy ‘the war coat’ [the same word – ‘marynarka’ – means both ‘navy’ and ‘jacket/coat’ in Polish]. I didn’t speak it grammatically either. Even some time after the war I still couldn’t speak Polish well. At one time I thought I was speaking Polish but I was actually speaking Russian.

In March 1934 there was a big tip-off in Krasnik: a double agent denounced the whole of the KZMP District Committee. There were about 20 of us on the Committee, half and half, Jews and Poles. The boss was Marian Weiner, who had a forge in Krasnik. After his arrest, a party functionary, Stanislaw Jablonski, came to Krasnik from Lublin, met us, and said to me, ‘Now you shall be secretary!’ And so I became secretary of the KZMP Committee. I acted under the pseudonyms ‘Jurek’ and ‘Borys.’ I held the function until the next tip-off, which happened a year later, in March 1935. Stanislaw Jablonski came to see us at that time, too, and I, as the secretary of the District Committee, organized the meeting, at Chrusciel the cobbler’s place, he was a Pole. I remember it well; there were seven of us, Jews and Poles. I gave Jablonski the addresses of our out-of-town organizations. There was this one village, about twelve kilometers away, called Rzeczyca: they were all farmers there, Poles, not one Jew. And practically the whole village was communist: the Klecha family, the Zawisz family, the Rzad family, etc.

Some people even called Rzeczyca ‘little Moscow.’ So I gave Jablonski an address in Rzeczyca, Tadek Klecha’s. But hard on Jablonski’s heels was a guy from the police. When he walked into Klecha’s house, Jablonski was arrested. Tadek Klecha was in the army at the time, and they hauled him back, too, to lock him up. Antek Niziol was there too, a student at Warsaw Polytechnic, a Pole, in 1940 I met him in Lvov [today Ukraine]. When the Germans occupied Lvov in 1941, he organized the resistance, was arrested and sentenced to death by decapitation. He was taken from Lvov to Berlin [today Germany] and executed there.

Unfortunately, Jablonski wasn’t tough by nature, and when they locked him up, he got scared and let out that I’d given him the address. So they arrested me, Rachela, a member of the Committee too, and a liaison officer, and took us to Janow [today Germany], the administrative capital of the district. There was a police commissariat there, whereas in Krasnik there was just a normal police station. There the hearing was held, conducted by the District Court from Lublin. To the question about religion, I answered that I didn’t belong to any religion, and I heard, ‘No, all Jews are believers in the Jewish faith.’ To which I said, ‘If you write ‘Jewish faith,’ I will not sign that statement!’ And so it stayed as I wanted it. I denied Jablonski’s statement, ‘It’s a lie, I’ve never seen this man in my life before!’ My wife did the same. But there was one snitch and he sang. We were sentenced to five years in prison.

We were held in the tower in Lublin castle. For a long time we were held with the common prisoners, so we announced that we were going on a hunger strike and demanded to be transferred to the political prison. The prison service held us with the common prisoners for a few weeks, but in the end they had to give in and they sent us to the political cells. The regulations for political prisoners were very liberal at that time, the cells were open, there was a prison community, we could read books and newspapers, and write letters. We had lessons, too: a teacher from Lublin came in to us, as well as Antek Niziol, who I mentioned before. And they taught us Polish history, arithmetic and geography in prison. They taught us in Polish, although many of us were illiterate. But we wanted to master Polish. Anyway, in prison we were only allowed to speak in Polish. Not long afterwards, however, the next minister of justice brought in a new set of regulations designed to make political and common prisoners equal. The cells were closed, we were ordered to put on prison clothes, because until then we had been in our civilian clothes. And then we announced a hunger strike, we didn’t put our jackets on, and we were in just our underwear. On 29th June 1935, St. Peter and Paul’s Day [a national holiday in Poland before 1939], the prison service organized a terrible massacre: seven comrades who wouldn’t conform to the new regulations were murdered in their cells. The whole of left-wing Poland protested.

Rachela and I were released in 1937 under an amnesty that reduced our sentences by a half. In 1939 I went to Warsaw for the second time. I lived in Praga [a district of Warsaw], on Zabkowska Street, and worked nearby, on Radzyminska, in a furrier’s workshop. By then I was earning three or even four zloty a day, I think, that wasn’t bad at all. I knew my trade better and was working in a bigger workshop with more custom. As soon as I arrived in Warsaw I joined the Tailors’ and Furriers’ Trade Union, which was on Przejazd Street. I lived and worked in Warsaw until mobilization in August-September 1939. When it [mobilization] was announced, I went back to Krasnik to volunteer at the regional recruiting board, prepared to go to the front against the Germans. But at the recruiting board it turned out that I had been in prison and apart from that sentence I had also been stripped of my civil rights for ten years. I was therefore informed that I couldn’t serve in the army.

A few days before the outbreak of war, in August 1939, a fire broke out near our house and almost all the wooden cottages burned down. We were on the street, but our kind neighbors who lived on the other side of the street took us in. They had a wooden house too, but somehow the firemen had managed to put the fire out. The woman, the midwife Marmu – Miriam – took my father’s workshop in, and thanks to her my father was able to potter on a little longer. Some time later, during the German occupation, my eldest brother Mojsze took us in, and we all lived together again in his little house. But the conditions were very miserable.

During the War

The Germans invaded our little town on 15th September, right before the holiday of Rosh Hashanah. At first the Jews weren’t persecuted en masse, although there were unacceptable incidents. If they met a Jew with a beard they would cut his beard off. We didn’t yet know that they were preparing the extermination of the Jewish people. At the turn of September and October Rachela and I escaped from the Germans – I don’t remember whether we went separately or together – and we reached Kovel [today Ukraine], which had been occupied by the Red Army. We lived in the home of some former political prisoners there and after the outbreak of war between the Soviet Union and Finland 15 we worked in storehouses of weapons taken from the conquered army. We cleaned the weapons and earned our living that way. After some time I decided to go back to Krasnik, however. Rachela stayed in Kovel. As a child she had had polio and since then she had had one leg shorter than the other. She had a limp and wasn’t as physically active as I was. At that time you could still cross the borders freely, so I had no trouble getting back to Krasnik 16.

Soon, an edict was issued that Jews weren’t allowed to move. The Germans created a labor camp around the synagogue and the prayer house, and put up a fence around it. They set up workshops there. They made another camp for the Jews some two or three kilometers away, on the site of a factory that was under construction. In the synagogue itself one part was set aside where prayers could still be said. In the rest of the hall there was something like a waiting room, Jews slept there on the floor.

In spring 1940 I decided to escape, not so much from the Germans as from the dark blue police [popular name for the Polish police under the German occupation], because I was a suspect to them. They were constantly coming to our house. On 1st May they locked me up for 24 hours so that I couldn’t stage a Bolshevik Revolution in Krasnik. I was afraid they would lock me up for longer. In June I managed to cross the river border on the Bug in a boat at night with a group of a dozen or so others [Bundists, communists, trade union activists]. In Vladimir-Volynskiy there lived a Jewish family from Krasnik, and there we were given our first night’s accommodation and supper.

When I went to register, I was detained, like everyone in that group, Jews and Poles. We were an unknown quantity, ‘beznadiozhny’ [Russian for ‘no-hopers’]; the Russian authorities didn’t trust us. They kept us locked up for a few days, and then we were herded onto a goods train under escort. Without any investigation they sent us to clear forest, to the Vologda district on the River Unzha, near a place called Manturovo [today Russia]. Vyetka 53, something like a settlement, was a labor camp where we were prisoners. We slept in barracks on straw mattresses, and during the day we cut down trees. Clearing forest is hard work. The work lasted from sunrise to sunset. There’s a vast pine forest there. We cut the trees down with axes and saws. There was a minimum of two people to a saw, maybe even four: two at each end, but the axe I had to wield myself. Then these specialists would throw the trees into the Unzha, where they bound the trunks together into rafts, ‘kletka’ in Russian. They floated downstream into the Volga.

I had been deported there with Rachela. My wife ran the kitchen there. In spite of my tiredness, I started to learn Russian there. There were a few books there, and we also had contact with Russians. One older Russian man, old enough to have been my father, who was also working there, taught me Russian. He brought me a textbook, and when I started studying after my hard work, I used to fall asleep with the book in my hand. But once I knew a few words, I used to greet him, ‘How are you, Ivan Ivanovitch?’ and he would always reply, ‘Better than Stalin!’ You remember little things like that.

There were more than a dozen people living in our barrack, Poles and Jews. There were a few women there, too. The ones who proved physically unable to survive we buried in the ground near the barrack. Among them was a very dear friend of mine, with who I had been in the Polish prison. There were a lot of people who had been inside for communism there. We felt that we had been done a great injustice, and so we wrote letters to Moscow [today Russia], addressed to Stalin. Evidently someone in the Kremlin read them, because sometime around January-February 1941 we were liberated from that slave labor. We were told, ‘You can go where you please. But only into the heart of Russia. So we, five or six of us, went to Gorky [today Russia]. In Gorky Rachela and I got married. We lived with a Jewish family in the very center of that huge city. I set myself up in a big firm, in Russian ‘promkombinat’: they had furriers and tailors and cap-makers there, several hundred people worked there.

When the Germans attacked the Soviet Union on 22nd June 1941 17, the whole of our group, Jews, Russians, Poles, over a dozen people, volunteered to go to the front. In the ‘raivoinkomat’ [recruiting board] we were told that they would be glad to send us to the front, but first a forest had to be cleared to make room for a military airport. We had already had a little practice at clearing forest, so we did clear it.

Then they sent us to the Finnish front. They were still afraid to give us weapons, because we weren’t Russians, we were escapees from Poland. My friends from the army, young Russian Jews, were treated the same. They explained to me that their parents had been repressed in 1936 – 37 [during the Great Terror] 18, so the Russian authorities didn’t trust them either. All of Karelia is forest and lakes. I and my friend Zanwel Brandes from Krasnik, who was killed there, were liaison officers. Towards the end of 1941 we had to take some orders to the battalion headquarters. It was a few kilometers away, so Brandes and I decided to walk there. As we were walking along the forest track, a ‘gazik’ [colloquial name for an all-terrain vehicle] overtook us, carrying our commanders. They called out to us, ‘Lads, we’ve got one free seat!’ We replied that we would stay together and go on foot to the battalion. When we reached the battalion headquarters just before evening, it transpired that the others had never made it. On the way some Finnish marksmen, and one woman, had shot the guys in the ‘gazik’ and taken the vehicle. By then our battalion headquarters were already surrounded. It was good that it was winter, because we had a local in the battalion who knew every inch of the land, and he led us out of there at night across the frozen Lake Segozero. We walked northeast and early in the morning reached Soviet-controlled territory.

Our battalion was dissolved due to losses and I was sent back to the place where I was mobilized, to Gorky. You made your own way back, usually riding on the buffers, because the wagons were taken by troops. I’m tough, so I made it to Gorky, but many men froze to death on those buffers. I arrived in Gorky sometime in January - February 1942. At that point General Anders was organizing his army 19 and I decided to join it. We were sent to Kuybyshev [today Russia]. I remember that several hundred of us slept on the station forecourt floor there, and the chaplain, Bishop Gawlina, brought us food.

A few weeks later smaller groups were organized and I and a group of about ten people went to Alma Ata, the capital of Kazakhstan, to the recruiting commission. The commission comprised two colonels, a Pole and a Russian. The Pole, when he heard that I had been stripped of my civil rights for ten years before 1939, quickly calculated the years and said, ‘This citizen was supposed to be inside until 1940, and it’s from then that his sentence of suspension of civil rights commences. That means that until 1950 this citizen has no rights in our country.’ A repeat of what had happened in 1939. The other colonel, a Russian, didn’t understand a word of Polish, but he was sure of one thing: I was not to be trusted. I was sent straight from there, under escort, to a coal mine in Karaganda [today Kazakhstan].

That was my second camp. There were Russians, Jews and Poles working there. It was a brown coal mine, opencast. We would hack lumps out with a pickaxe and load them onto the wagons by hand. Then the wagons went out over ground. The conditions in the mine were so harsh that we couldn’t have lasted very long there. We lived in a dig-out, where it was so damp that you could get tuberculosis very quickly. I was saved from a serious case of typhus. I survived because I was taken to a hospital. I remember clearly that I had a fever of over 41 degrees. The treatment involved my being stripped naked and wrapped, without any drugs, in a cold, wet sheet. When it dried quickly, another sheet was ready, and that way they succeeded in bringing my temperature down. A few people survived in a similar way, but the rest snuffed it. The so-called doctor who looked after us said to me, ‘You’ve the heart of a horse!’ When I came out of hospital I was in no state to go back to the mine. And from there I went to a place called Dzhangiz-Agach, not far from Alma Ata, to a kolkhoz 20 called Ekenchi Beshaldyk, which in Kazakh means ‘The Second Five-Year Plan.’ My wife and some friends from our town were there.

I was kept in the Red Army, but in the rear, in Akmolinsk [today Kazakhstan], in a minesweeping unit. I learned to drive there. We were sent to Gorky, where they wanted to take me into the ‘trudarmia,’ a forced labor army. But somehow I managed to get out of that, and when Zygmunt Berling 21 and Wanda Wasilewska 22 began to create the First Tadeusz Kosciuszko Division, I reported for the front. By then it was 1943. I joined the ZPP Union of Polish Patriots 23 and I was sent to Moscow, to the headquarters, where Wanda Wasilewska held office. In summer 1944 I was sent to Lublin, to officer training school.

Traveling from Moscow to Lublin, I passed through Krasnik. I asked the group commander if I could stop for a day or two in the town. The railroad station in Krasnik is about three to four kilometers from the town, so I walked there on foot, and there I met a friend, called Szurym Garl. He was older than me, and before the war he had had a newspaper kiosk in Krasnik; he delivered Jewish newspapers from Lublin and Warsaw. And he said to me at once, ‘Listen, you’re all alone – all your people have been killed. We don’t even know where they were burned.’ It was only then that I found out that I had no family left. All the time I had been in the Soviet Union neither the press nor the radio mentioned the fact that Hitler was murdering the Jews in Poland. In Krasnik the only Jews who survived were those who worked in one of the two camps. Garl was among them; he had been working as a carpenter.

After I finished officer training school in January 1945 I was sent to Zamosc to do medical courses for the Front. I was second in command of a company there. And the other second-in-command was Joel Kopytko, a friend from my old gang back in Krasnik, who had been arrested with me in 1935. The NCOs [non commissioned officers] in that company were pre-war stock, with anti-Semitic attitudes. As one of them was leaving the unit one evening, Kopytko ordered him to show his pass. ‘You miserable Yid!’ came the response. A scuffle broke out, and the NCO got a shot straight through the heart. The news spread around Zamosc: a Jew has killed a Pole. We feared a pogrom.

Kopytko was arrested. I had been in prison with the senior prison officer in Lublin before the war, so he let me visit Kopytko, even gave me the keys to his cell. I looked at him – he had his head bandaged. It turned out that earlier on, when he had been locked up in UB 24, during an interrogation they had found his Komsomol 25 identification on him. And the people who were interrogating him had transferred to the secret police from the NSZ [National Armed Forces] 26, so they had given him a beating. A few weeks later they abandoned their posts and returned to the woods. In fall 1945 Kopytko was taken to Lublin for trial. And can you imagine – the same panel of judges tried his case as before the war! As a re-offender he was given ten years’ imprisonment. I intervened on his behalf in Warsaw. The news of Kopytko’s sentence reached Bierut 27 himself, who had also been in prison with him before the war in Lublin. Kopytko was soon released.

In February 1945 our unit was transferred from Zamosc to Srodborowo near Warsaw, where the Jewish Center 28 is now. In May 1945, when the war ended, I reported to the Department for Personnel Affairs in Rembertow, where I was seconded to a liaison unit. In Lublin, where the central authorities were installed, as Warsaw was in ruins, we ensured communication between the central powers and the province offices. As the trains still weren’t running, the Soviet authorities gave us ‘kukuruzniki’ [planes which were big enough for just one person next to the pilot].

After the War

In time I requested a change of work: it was too hard for me; I was so skinny, I weighed only 40-something kilograms. So I was sent to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where I was made head of the codes department. All the encoders in all the embassies and consulates all over the world answered to me. When I traveled on inspections I couldn’t travel officially in my professional capacity, and so I was sent ostensibly as a diplomatic courier. In the Foreign Ministry I was promoted to the rank of major in the Polish Army.

In 1960 Mieczyslaw Moczar 29 [then junior minister for internal affairs, in 1968 instigator of the anti-Semitic campaign] wanted to have me thrown out of the army on disciplinary grounds, because someone had told him that I had called him anti-Semitic. But fortunately, his superior, the minister of internal affairs, was a decent man, who annulled the dismissal and ordered the head of the personnel department to find me another job. And I was on first-name terms with the head of the personnel department, because we had done our school-leaving exam together after the war. He said, ‘We’ll pay you as if you were on regular service, and you can do a full-time degree.’ He was an anti-Semite as well. And that’s how, thanks to two anti-Semites, I did a degree; I’m a Master of Economics, a graduate of the Institute of Planning and Statistics [SGPiS].

After my degree somebody gave me a leg-up into the Institute of Economics and Industrial Organization on Aleje Jerozolimskie [Warsaw’s main thoroughfare]. 1968 was drawing near, and unfortunately the head of the Institute was Professor Ilia Epsztajn. It was a small research institution, with a dozen or so employees. As well as the Jewish professor, there were also one or two other Jews and myself, and it wouldn’t have done to throw those few Jews out, so they closed the entire institute down. That was the end of my academic career. As by then I could speak five languages well: Polish, Russian, Yiddish, German and English, and I had mates in Orbis [the Polish state travel agency], I became a tour guide taking Polish people on holidays abroad.

I wanted to go back for Rachela. In late fall 1945, by then as an officer, I think I was a second lieutenant, I went to Alma Ata to bring my wife back. As a courier I had a permit to travel from Moscow, I was in military uniform, I even had a gun. Wherever I went on any business, the first thing they did was to take the gun and sniff the barrel to check that I hadn’t fired it on the way by any chance. In Alma Ata I found out that my wife was working in the Polish school in a town called Kirovskiy, some 300 kilometers to the north. And there we were told that they couldn’t let her go there and then, but they would do it when the 1946 summer vacation started. And indeed, there was a mass repatriation then and my wife returned in June 1946. From then on we lived together in Warsaw. My wife worked as an archivist in the Party History Institute.

When the war ended and I was in charge of liaison between Lublin and the eastern territories, we didn’t always have a ‘kukuruznik’ at our disposal, and very often we had to hitch rides, stopping a truck and paying a zloty, 50 groszy or two zloty for the route to Bialystok [Northeast Poland] or Rzeszow [Southeast Poland]. And at that time the National Armed Forces were very active: they would stop trucks and if they found anyone with a PPR 30 card or papers on a Jewish name, they would shoot them on the spot. Then my Polish friends said to me, ‘We’ll leave you as Zylberberg, but outside this office you shall be Janowski.’ And they made me papers under the name Boleslaw Janowski. So I had two lots of papers. When our daughter Elzbieta was born in 1948, my recently deceased friend and neighbor advised me to register the child as Janowska [female form of Janowski]. And only then did I officially change my name, but to this day I treat it more like a pen name.

When my wife and I moved to Warsaw after the war we only used Polish. Unfortunately my wife could hardly speak any Yiddish, although she understood the language, because her family back in Krasnik had used Polish too. For that reason, my daughter was angry with us because she didn’t learn Yiddish. Elzbieta was brought up in the Polish culture; no mention was made of our Jewish roots at home. Only when she was in her first year of mathematics at Warsaw University, and that was 1968, was she told that she was a Jew too. Elzbieta got married in December 1970 to Michal Nekanda-Trepka, from a Polish intellectual family with aristocratic roots. In June 1983 they had a daughter, Judyta. At the moment she’s studying ethnology at Warsaw University. She has vowed that she must marry a Jew – and sure enough, she has a Jewish boyfriend. They are seriously intending to get married this year. Neither Elzbieta nor Judyta are religious. Kuba, Judyta’s boyfriend, is moderately religious.

Rachela died in May 2001. We buried her in the Jewish cemetery in Warsaw. Rabbi Schudrich came to the funeral ceremony [Rabbi Michael Schudrich is the rabbi of Warsaw]. I refused to let him recite the Kaddish. I told him that Rachela wasn’t religious, and that I’m not religious either. And I added, ‘If you recite the Kaddish at my funeral, I’ll pull you down into the grave!’ Although I’m not religious, I have always felt Jewish. As soon as I came back to Poland in 1944, in Lublin, I registered with the Central Committee of Polish Jews 31. In the 1970s I started getting involved in the TSKZ 32. I helped to organize the Association of Jewish Combatants and Victims of World War II. Later on, in the 1990s, I worked in the editorial office of ‘Dos Yidishe Vort’ 33. I’m still in touch with the editorial board, as a translator and proofreader. When I worked at ‘Dos Yidishe Vort,’ when I wrote in Yiddish I signed myself ‘Beniamin Zylberberg.’ Although my official name is Boleslaw Janowski, my roots are Jewish, after all, and Zylberberg is my parents’ name.

My attitude to the state of Israel has changed over the years. As a young boy I was influenced by my brother Wigde, a Bundist, and like him I believed that Jews should stay where they were born and their fight for autonomy. But after the Holocaust I started looking differently at it, and when in 1948 the state of Israel was established, I was delighted.

When in 1966 I visited Israel, I resolved to meet my old friends from Krasnik. Many of them live in the Tel Aviv area, and in Tel Aviv itself there’s even a synagogue known as Krasnik, because my countrymen pray there. When I visited them the holiday of Simkhat Torah was approaching, and my friends persuaded me to go to the synagogue with them, although they knew that I’m not religious. And when we were there they asked me to dance with the Torah. I tried to resist, but they said, ‘This is such a rare opportunity for you – dance!’ And I agreed. I danced in the synagogue with a tiny copy of the Torah that the Jews who survived had smuggled out of my hometown.

Glossary:

Boris Slobodianskiy
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of the interview: November 2002

I met Boris Slobodianskiy and his wife at Hesed [1]. Boris and his wife live with their daughter’s family in a three-room apartment. There is an atmosphere of love and mutual respect in their family. Boris changed into a kippah with silver piping and had a shofar in his hands. He used to blow the shofar during Jewish gatherings for a prayer in his native village of Poyana when he was a child. During our interview he demonstrated his art of playing and explained the meaning of tunes. Boris is the founder, author and producer of “Yiddishe Wort,” the only radio program in Yiddish in Ukraine. It is his creation and he can talk about it endlessly.

My father, Moshe Slobodianskiy, was born in the village of Poyana, Rezinsk disrict, Moldova [2], in 1900. At that time it was the territory of Russia and in 1918 it became a part of Romania.

I didn’t know my grandparents on my father’s side. They died during an epidemic when they were young. All I know about them is that they were born in Poyana. My grandfather’s name was Berl Slobodianskiy and I was named after him.

My father told me that his family was poor and that my grandparents had many children. My father was the youngest. After their parents died their older children moved to Palestine and the USA. They didn’t write letters and there was no information about them since then.

My father and his two older brothers, Ide-Leib and Yankel, were raised by some distant relatives. My father and his brothers studied at cheder, but after finishing it they had to go to work. I remember them well – they lived in our village.

My father’s brothers built houses in Poyana and got married. One of my father’s brothers, Ide-Leib, worked as a shoemaker, but later he became a tailor. He could do many things; he was very handy. He could also cut glass. My father’s brother Yankel was growing tobacco and my father was helping him. It was his business.

My father’s brothers were religious. There was no synagogue in Poyana and Ide-Leib had Jews coming to his house for a prayer every day. Ide-Leib was a cantor during such prayers.

Ide-Leib perished at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War [3], and Yankel and his family moved to Israel in the 1970s. He died recently; his children still live in Israel.

My mother’s parents lived in the village of Pisarevka, Yampol district, Vinnitsa region. They were born in the 1860s. My grandfather, Haim Kupershtock, was a handicraftsman and my grandmother was a housewife. My mother’s parents were religious; they observed all Jewish traditions. My mother and her sister were raised in a religious manner. My grandparents had two daughters: my mother’s sister Boba, born in Pisarevka in 1895, and my mother Pesia, born in 1901.

All I know about Pisarevka is that it was a Ukrainian village and there were few Jewish families living in it. Jews were handicraftsmen: shoemakers, tailors, coppersmiths and tinsmiths. There was no synagogue in their village and Jews went to the synagogue in the neighboring village, some five kilometers away.

My mother’s sister Boba got married and moved to her husband in the nearby village of Shypka. Boba had two sons and a daughter. She grew vegetables in her kitchen garden and kept chickens. She also had a cow and sold some dairy products and milk.

My mother’s whole family was religious and Boba was no exception. She observed Jewish traditions and celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. She also followed the kashrut. Jews bought dairy products from Boba, because they were sure these were kosher products.

My aunt Boba perished at the very beginning of the war. She had a neighbor, a young Moldovan man. After my aunt’s husband died this man was helping her about the house. My aunt treated him like a son, but when the Germans came to the village in 1941 this Moldovan man came to my aunt’s house and killed her with a knife.

Her children survived. After the war her younger son and daughter lived in Chernovtsy and her older son lived in Kishinev. Boba’s older son died in Chernovtsy and her other son died in Israel.

My parents were introduced to one another by a shadkhan. It was a traditional way of arranging marriages in Jewish families. Matchmakers showed my father pictures of my mother and her parents and he came to her village to meet her in person.

My father and mother liked each other and got married in 1922. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah in Pisarevka. The rabbi conducted an official ceremony. After the wedding my mother moved to my father in Poyana. My father owned a small house that formerly belonged to his parents. My mother’s father, Haim Kupershtock, died shortly after my parents’ wedding. My grandmother died two years after my grandfather passed away – in 1924.

My older sister Haya, born in 1924, was named after our grandfather Haim. I was born on 5th August 1926 and was named after my grandfather on my father’s side. Berl in Hebrew means ‘bear.’ During the Soviet regime I was mostly called Boris. My younger sister Sheiva was born in 1932.

Poyana was a Moldovan village. It had a Moldovan and Jewish population. There were about 20 Jewish families in the village. Some of them were handicraftsmen like my uncle Ide-Leib. There were tailors, roofers and carpenters. Some Jews owned stores and the rest of them rented fields to grow tobacco like my father and his brother Yankel.

Tobacco is a very demanding plant. It required constant care to grow. After harvesting it had to be dried. Dried tobacco leaves were sold to wholesalers. This wasn’t a profitable business. Our family was one of the poorest in the village. In cold summers tobacco plants died in the field. In rainy falls tobacco leaves got rotten. Therefore, my father didn’t usually earn enough money from tobacco sales to last until the next season and there were periods when we were starving.

My mother was a housewife, but she also helped our father in the field. We, children, were helping in the field, too. There was enough work for all members of the family. We had to water the tobacco plants, turn up the soil, weed and collect harmful bugs from bushes. In the fall we gathered leaves and took them home, so they could dry on a special wooden frame in the yard. We hung tufts of leaves on this frame, but when it rained we had to take it promptly to the shed. If the leaves got wet they began to rot and were useless.

When I was five I already went to work in the field at 5 o’clock in the morning. We didn’t wear shoes when working in the field. Shoes were expensive, so we worked barefoot. We got our feet injured by dry branches. Injuries developed into blisters and abscesses. There was no medical facility or drugstore in the village and our mother used to heal abscesses with baked onions.

We had two small rooms plainly furnished with beds, a table, chairs, a cupboard and a wardrobe, and a kitchen in the house, half of the area of which was occupied by a stove. In winter this stove was used for both cooking and heating. In summer our mother cooked on a small brick stove in the yard.

There were few fruit trees near the house. We had apples and pears in July. We also grew quince and our mother made jam from this fruit. Our mother also grew all vegetables that we needed in the kitchen garden. There was a shed and poultry yard near the house. My mother kept chickens and ducks. We had meat and eggs.

There was no synagogue or shochet in our village. On Jewish holidays Jews went to the synagogue in Rashkov, seven kilometers from Poyana.

There was a shochet in Ochedar, some three kilometers from our village. I used to take chicken to have them slaughtered when I was a young boy. I took the living chickens to the shochet. I took a path across the forest. Sometimes I joined a group of people from Poyana going to the shochet. The shochet slaughtered our chickens and afterwards we returned home.

We spoke Yiddish at home. We knew Moldovan and Romanian to communicate with our neighbors. The other villagers respected the Jewish traditions and religion. There was no anti-Semitism or pogroms in our village or in the neighboring villages.

There was a sufficient number of men in the village for a minyan. On Jewish holidays, such as Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah and Pesach, Jews went to the synagogue in Rashkov, but not all of them could walk that far. So these people always, and on less important holidays all the Jews, got together to pray either in our house or in the house of my father’s older brother Ide-Leib.

Ide-Leib was a cantor. When I turned six years old my uncle taught me how to blow the shofar. I blew the shofar at Yom Kippur and my uncle expressed his appreciation. Every combination of tunes has its own meaning and there are many such combinations.

My parents weren’t deeply religious, but they always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays according to all rules. They strictly followed the kashrut at home. On Saturday and on holidays my mother went to the synagogue in Rashkov – she walked seven kilometers to get there. My father stayed in Poyana and went to the community house to pray.

On Friday our mother made challah for Sabbath, chicken broth and gefilte fish. Besides dinner our mother made food for the next day. She stewed potatoes with beans. She left the pot with the stew in the stove to keep the food warm for the next day. Our mother also made potato pancakes and rolls.

We got together on Friday evening and my mother said, ‘Tsaritsa Subbota’ – she always said it in Russian – ‘Enter our house.’ We pronounced a traditional greeting, ‘Shalom Sabbath!’ and started dinner.

Nobody worked on Saturday. We were not even supposed to light a lamp or start a fire in the stove. We asked our Moldovan neighbors to come and start the fire in the stove. Our father read out the weekly paragraph for Saturday from the Torah.

At Pesach we bought matzah, because it was difficult to make it at home. We bought 10 kg bags with matzah at the synagogue in Rashkov. We needed lots of matzah for the five of us. We didn’t have any bread at home at Pesach. My mother made everything from matzah flour.

Before Pesach we cleaned the house. My sisters and I searched for breadcrumbs walking through the house with a candle. They were to be burned. Our mother always whitewashed the house before Pesach. We took our everyday utensils onto the attic and took a box with festive dishes and utensils down.

My mother sent me to have a few chickens slaughtered by the shochet in Ochedar. My mother and my older sister Haika were cooking the food. My sister was helping my mother and learning to make traditional Jewish food. Gefilte fish was our favorite food. My mother made boiled chicken, chicken in jelly and stuffed chicken neck with liver and flour.

I was responsible for crushing matzah in a copper mortar. Then this crushed matzah was sieved. My mother made sponge and honey cakes from fine matzah flour and pancakes from the matzah flour that remained in the sieve. Our mother also made strudels with jam, raisins and nuts and pudding from matzah and eggs.

Nobody worked for eight days at Pesach. On the first day of Pesach my parents went to the synagogue in Rashkov. On the other days of Pesach all Jews got together for a minyan in our house or Ide-Leib’s.

On the first night of Pesach our father conducted the seder. My mother put a white tablecloth on the table with embroidered quotations from the Haggadah. My father said prayers in Hebrew. I asked him the traditional questions. I began to study Hebrew only at the age of five, but I had learned these questions even before this age.

At Sukkot our father made a sukkah at a special spot in the yard. My father made a booth with a roof made of branches. My mother and sisters decorated the sukkah with green leaves and ribbons. At Sukkot we ate in the sukkah even if it rained.

Before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the whole family took to fasting for 24 hours. Then we all sat at the table after the evening prayer. On these days I played the shofar during praying. I was praised and was very proud of it.

All Jews in our village strictly followed all Jewish rules. Jewish families lived in the center of the village.

There was a Jewish community in Poyana. There were metal boxes [4] with a Jewish star on them in Jewish houses. People threw coins in a slot in these boxes. This was money saving for poor Jews and for Jews in Palestine. Savings were collected by the chairman of the community and his deputy.

There was no cheder in our village. When I turned six my father began to teach me Hebrew, but I wasn’t doing well. Probably it was because my father worked a lot and got very tired or I was a poor student, but our classes were no success. Later my mother hired a teacher of Hebrew for me and my sisters to teach us at home. He lived in Ochedar. After the war this teacher was a cantor at the synagogue in Chernovtsy.

All Jewish children had to study Yiddish and Hebrew. I haven’t met an illiterate Jew in my life. At the age of seven I went to the Romanian elementary school in our village. It was a free school. My sister Haya also studied in this school. I studied five years in this school.

My parents wanted me to continue my studies and so I went to the Romanian lower secondary school in Rashkov. There was also a Talmud-Torah religious Jewish school in Rashkov and my parents sent me to this school, too.

My parents rented a room for me from a Jewish family. The mistress of the house cooked for me and did my laundry. I had classes at the Romanian school in the morning and in the Torah-Talmud school – in the afternoon. I didn’t have enough time to do my homework.

Our teacher at the Jewish school used to punish us punching or even slapping us. In the Romanian school teachers didn’t punish us for coming to class unprepared, but at the next lesson we were supposed to show them our homework for a previous class. We studied Hebrew and Yiddish and religious subjects at the Jewish school. At weekends I went home.

At 13 I had my bar mitzvah. I received a teffilin and came of age. Since then I went to the synagogue in Rashkov every evening.

There was a fabrics store in Rashkov. I became an apprentice to its owner, Haim Tzenner. I also helped the shop assistant in the evening. I was paid and could pay for my accommodation and meals myself.

We lived in a small and shabby house in Poyana. My parents saved money for a new house. They were buying construction materials and began to build a new house next to the old one in 1938. My mother and father worked day and night. They also hired employees to do work that they couldn’t do. The house was completed by 1940. There were three spacious rooms, a big hallway and a big kitchen in the house. My father made a well in the yard. After we moved into our new house the old house was removed.

In 1933 Hitler came to power in Germany [5] and Romanian fascists raised their heads immediately. There were two fascist parties in Romania: the Iron Guard [6] and the Cuzists [7] – Cuza was the name of their leader. At that time there was anti-Semitism. Jews had to sit on separate benches at the higher educational institutions. It was not safe to walk in the dark – Jews could be abused and beaten. Boys threw stones and broke windows of Jewish stores.

The authorities didn’t bring fascists to order. We were glad that Moldova and Bessarabia joined the USSR on 28th June 1940 [8]. Soviet tanks arrived in the village. The whole village came out to meet them. We built up hopes for the power of workers and peasants and were attracted by the slogans of the Soviet power: ‘For Freedom, Equality and Brotherhood,’ ‘Peace to all people!’ We believed that it was a fair power and that we would have a better life.

Our family was poor and we came to the first ranks of the new regime. My mother was elected a deputy of the district council. I finished eight classes in 1940 and entered the agricultural college in Rezin, 30 kilometers from our village. On the first day in college I became a Komsomol member [9] I believed in the ideas of communism and dropped religion and everything about Jewish traditions.

My parents continued to observe Jewish traditions and celebrate holidays. They had to do it in secret. I didn’t try to dissuade my parents from Jewish traditions or holidays. I understood that it was useless and might only cause argument in the family. When I was at home I usually joined them for a festive meal during celebrations. Saturday was a working day and our father had to work in the field that belonged to the collective farm [10].

Young people in Moldova were called to work at the communist construction sites in the USSR. My older sister Haya, who had turned 18 by that time, went to work in Makeevka, Donetsk region. She wrote us letters. She was working at the construction in mines. It was very hard work and there were no comforts in their living quarters, but young people were enthusiastic about their work anyway. Some of them, even young men, tried to escape, but they were imprisoned if captured.

We lived less than a year during the Soviet power when the Great Patriotic War began. On 22nd June 1941 German and Romanian armies occupied Moldova. The college in Rezin was closed on that same day. I got to my village by vehicles. Local authorities there announced that the Germans were killing Jews and we had to evacuate. My mother packed our luggage.

The nearest railway station was in Shuldaneshty, some 40 kilometers from our village. A few Jewish families were given horse-drawn carts to get there. At the station we boarded a train. I went with my parents and my sister Sheiva. We had no information about our older sister Haya. We arrived in Novomoskovsk, Dnepropetrovsk region, where we began to work at the collective farm.

This collective farm had to drive its cattle to the Northern Caucasus. A few families that knew about cattle were sent along to take care of it. We walked day and night taking a short rest every now and then. We had to cover over 1000 kilometers. Our father had a severe cold. When we reached Chechnia he got much worse. After a few days he died. We buried him at the local cemetery and continued on our way.

We reached the village of Bekeshevskaya, Ordzhonikidze region, where we decided to stay. My mother went to work at the collective farm and I went to the 7th grade of the local school. I didn’t know Russian, but I understood that I would have to master it to continue my studies in the USSR.

In summer 1942 we went on. The Germans were close to the Northern Caucasus. We got to Turkmenia by boat and continued on our way by train. We came to Kata-Kurgan in Uzbekistan, over 2500 kilometers east of Kiev. My mother and I worked in a collective farm not far from the town.

We were accommodated in the clay hut of a local Uzbek woman. My sister Sheiva stayed alone when we were at work. We received bread per bread coupons, but there were long lines to get it and besides, its supplies were very rare. My mother sent Sheiva to a children’s home where they provided food for children and where she could study.

In Kata-Kurgan I went to study at a professional school. After finishing it I got a job as a tinsmith at the machine building plant. From there I was mobilized to the construction of the longest channel in Middle Asia. There were only men working there. Most of the construction employees were local Koreans. People were dying of malaria and other diseases in the hundreds. I was glad to go to the army from there when I turned 18 in 1944.

Upon completion of my military training I was sent to the front at the beginning of 1945. I participated in the storm of Zeelov hills and the storm of Berlin. At the beginning of the war I was senior sergeant and I finished the war in the rank of lieutenant. I was awarded the Order of Combat Red Banner [11] for my participation in the storm of Berlin. The fascists tried to resist our attacks desperately, but all sides understood that the war was coming to an end. I was wounded in my head and had to stay in hospital, but then returned to the front.

I celebrated Victory Day [12] in Berlin and from there I was sent to the border of Czechoslovakia. There were remaining fascist units in the woods in Czechoslovakia and we were to clean up the area. The Czechs were happy that we came, because the Germans were killing them. Later I returned to Germany and continued my service in the Soviet occupational units until 1950.

When we returned to Berlin we were exhausted, dirty and worn out. We got washed and received new uniforms to march along the streets signing songs. I served in Chemnitz for about two years and then in a fortress in a wood near Berlin. Our task at that period was to guard nationalized enterprises, convoy shipments and support the development of public economy in the Soviet territory of Germany.

I became a member of the Communist Party in 1948. It was easy to become a member of the Communist Party in the army. I was eager to become a party member and couldn’t imagine my life without the Party. In 1950 I demobilized.

My mother took my sister Sheiva from the children’s home after the war and returned home with her. Our new house in the village was robbed and disassembled to bricks stolen by villagers. Our relatives helped my mother and Sheiva to move to Chernovtsy. My mother went to work at the human resource department at a plant.

After demobilization I came to my mother and sister in Chernovtsy. I liked the town. I went to work as personnel inspector at the textile plant where my mother was working. Later this plant was modified into a garment factory. I worked there until retirement. I was a former military and a party member and I was employed without any problems.

I went to complete my secondary education at an evening school. I finished higher secondary school and entered the faculty of economy at the university where I studied by correspondence. Upon graduation from the university I became production manager.

Throughout this time we had no information about Haya. My mother continuously wrote letters to evacuation agencies, but Haya wasn’t registered in any of them. We believed our sister to be dead, but our mother said she was sure that Haya was alive. My mother died in 1958, some time before we heard from Haya.

It turned out that Haya was captured by Germans at the beginning of the war. She said she was Ukrainian and they let her go. She came to Poyany after we had left. Our neighbors, a Romanian family, took her to Romania as a niece of theirs. She lived all these years with a different name in Romania.

She married a German man, born in Romania and resident of Romania. He knew that Haya was Jewish, but it was no problem for him. They had two sons. In the 1950s my sister and her family moved to Germany. My sister didn’t face any anti-Semitism living in Germany after the Great Patriotic War. Her husband died there and my sister and her sons still reside in Düsseldorf. Her sons are electronic engineers.

My younger sister Sheiva lives in Chernovtsy. After the war she finished Business College and worked as an accountant at a plant. She married a Jewish man, a former inmate of a ghetto. Her husband was foreman at a textile factory.

They had twins: a boy and a girl. They are 45 now. Their son moved to America over ten years ago and their daughter lives with her parents. She is single. She lost her job recently due to major reduction of staff. My sister Sheiva had an infarction. She is 72 and her husband is the same age.

In 1952 I met my wife-to-be Dora Melman. She was born in the Romanian town of Faleshty in 1930. Her father, Wolf Melman, was a leather specialist and her mother, Golda Melman, nee Shnaiderman, was a housewife. My wife’s parents were religious people. They observed all Jewish traditions.

After the World War II they moved to Chernovtsy. Dora graduated from the Faculty of Biology of the University and worked as a teacher of Biology at a school in Chernovsty. Her distant relative was my colleague and he introduced me to her.

We got married in 1952. We didn’t have a wedding party. We had a civil ceremony and our parents organized a small dinner to celebrate. We invited our closest relatives to the dinner party.

From the plant where I worked I received a room in a communal apartment [13]. It was a dark and damp room, but we felt happy to have it. My wife spoke Yiddish and Romanian when she was a child. She began to study Russian in 1940. Dora and I spoke Yiddish at home.

We didn’t observe any Jewish traditions – I was a communist and it was not appropriate for me to follow any Jewish rules. This was a period of struggle against religion and even more so – with Zionism. Part-time agents of the KGB [14] were near the synagogue all the time. They took no notice of older men, but if they saw a younger man they photographed him, identified who he was and informed his management at work. A communist might have been expelled from the Party or fired.

However, my wife’s parents strictly observed Jewish traditions and celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. We visited them on holidays and attended their seder at Pesach. My wife used to joke saying that even though I didn’t celebrate holidays at home I was a co-participant of my in-laws’ celebrations. My wife and I celebrated Soviet holidays, arranged parties, sang Soviet songs and enjoyed ourselves.

On 22nd May 1959 our daughter Polina was born. Her Jewish name is Pesia-Perl after my mother and my wife’s grandmother on her mother’s side. My mother’s parents looked after our daughter until she turned five. I took the girl to them in the morning and my wife picked her up after work.

Polina spoke Yiddish before she went to the kindergarten. Our daughter studied successfully at a secondary and music school. After finishing school she finished Pedagogical Music College and now she teaches music at school in Chernovtsy.

My wife and I were very happy that Polina married a Jewish man. Our granddaughter Marina is 20 years old. She finished a Jewish secondary school and Polytechnic College. They live with us and my wife and I are happy about it.

I remember Stalin’s death in March 1953. Many people were crying and I didn’t hide my tears. I was secretary of the party unit of the plant at that time. I was involved in organization of memorial meetings and spoke at them. Stalin was my idol and symbol and I believed in him like he was God. I couldn’t imagine life without him. After the Twentieth Party Congress [15] I began to see things in a different light. But at that moment it was the biggest sorrow of my life.

Upon graduation from the university I was appointed as production manager. Besides, I was secretary of the party unit of the plant until I retired. I was an enthusiastic activist. I arranged meetings to criticize underperforming employees and stimulate advanced employees. We arranged socialist competition between employees and shops. People were infatuated with the enthusiasm of building communism and a happy future for their children and grandchildren.

I wasn’t paid for such activities, but I got involved in them willingly. These activities took much of my leisure time, but I felt an urge to do them. In 1960 I was elected a deputy of the town council and held this position for 13 years. People trusted me to deal with their problems.

I never faced any anti-Semitism. People treated me with respect. When in the 1970s Jews were moving to Israel there were demonstrations of everyday anti-Semitism. I was a member of the party town committee. I went to the secretary of the town committee and told him that the situation had worsened significantly: Jews couldn’t find a job, enter higher educational institutions and suffered abuse. Of course, I put myself at risk. But I knew that the secretary was a decent and honest man and secondly, I just couldn’t help speaking my mind in this situation.

The secretary of the party town committee arranged a meeting with directors of enterprises, human resource managers and secretaries of party units. The secretary of the town committee invited the chief of the KGB office in Chernovtsy. This chief spoke at the meeting indicating that Jews were not traitors or parricides. They are citizens of the USSR like people of all other nationalities. The secretary of the town committee stated that if he ever heard of refusal to employ a Jew he would bring a guilty manager to justice.

It was at my initiative that this happened. I was head of a group of 40 lecturers at the town committee. We lectured on international education of the Soviet people. We tried to explain that if a Jew behaved wrongly it was his own fault that should not be transferred to all other Jews.

My wife and I never considered moving to Israel for several reasons. Firstly, we are attached to our home and are content with what we have. I served in the army for five years and then worked at the same enterprise for 43 years. We prefer stability to new experiences. I had a low salary, but I learned to make use of what I had.

My work and my party activities were most important for me. I was a member of the bureau of the town committee of the Communist Party. I was also a leader of a group of 40 lectors, including university professors. Or group traveled all over the Chernovtsy region holding lectures. People are looking for places where they can earn more now, but we never looked for more than we could get. People respected me and I appreciated it. I was invited to all celebrations in town.

In Israel I would have faced a language problem. I would have been isolated there. My friends were trying to convince me to move to Israel telling me that I would find a job and that even if I couldn’t find a decent job at the beginning I could work as a janitor. But I don’t want to have a job like that – I am an important person here and have many things to do.

In 1999 I went to Israel with a delegation of war veterans from Ukraine. We traveled around the country. Israel is a beautiful country. There are hardworking people there. It’s hard to imagine that this prosperous country was built in a stone desert. I wish these people a peaceful life and prosperity. I visited our relatives: 23 families of my relatives and 16 families of my wife’s relatives live in Israel. Only my sister Sheiva lives here, the rest of my relatives moved to Israel.

When perestroika [16] began we saw the difference immediately. Mikhail Gorbachev [17], the new Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU, was the first Soviet leader in a long time that began to build up relationships with Israel. There were associations of friendship and cultural ties with Israel established.

In 1987 an association of the Jewish culture was organized in Chernovtsy. I became a member of the council of this association. I took a great effort in the revival of the Jewish culture by arranging lectures and concerts. At that time some people were in opposition to these activities. My wife and daughter were concerned about my safety. They feared that I might be attacked or there might be a pogrom during a lecture, but there were no such incidents.

Later I became leader of the group of the International Ukrainian Union of War Veterans and Ties with Israel. A year ago I was elected as a member of the Presidium of the Jewish Council of War Veterans of Ukraine. I work with all Jewish war veterans.

The most important work is renaissance of the Jewish identity. I have established a radio program in Yiddish – ‘Yiddishe Wort.’ It’s a monthly program and we do not pay for its broadcast. About once in three months we broadcast a Jewish program on TV. There are about 400 generals of Jewish nationality, the Minister for Armaments during the war was a Jew. There were many outstanding design engineers and we identify their names.

This is what I call renaissance of the Jewish identity – that we call them by name. We make programs with outstanding Jews: design engineers, professors, heroes, etc. This program is dubbed in Ukrainian. People write us letters. The broadcast has spread to Chernovtsy, Ivano-Frankovsk, Lvov, Ternopol and Khmelnitsk regions.

I can’t say that I am a religious man. I worked on Saturday and we didn’t observe Sabbath, but nowadays my wife and I celebrate Sabbath with our friends in Hesed. I go to the synagogue on Jewish holidays and on the death dates of my relatives to say prayers for them. My wife and I celebrate Jewish holidays sometimes at home and sometimes at Hesed.

I used to organize parties for war veterans. I invited actors and other people of art. They didn’t charge us and I wasn’t paid for my organizational activities. We didn’t even have money to buy flowers for our guests, but they enjoyed being our guests. These were interesting parties. I am used doing things for others and I think it is very important.

We have meetings at our club for war veterans at 11am every Monday. We talk about Jewish culture, literature, read literature works and listen to music. We discuss the history of the Jewish people, traditions and holidays. We have many books and other materials prepared for the future radio programs and meetings of veterans of the Great Patriotic War.

We’ve scheduled a meeting with Joseph Burg, a Jewish writer, to celebrate his jubilee, a memorial day to honor the memory of the Jews shot in Chernovtsy on 8th July 1941, the 90th anniversary of the birth of the Jewish actress and singer Sidi Tahl, the 60th anniversary of the death of Joseph Shmidt, a wonderful Jewish tenor who perished in a concentration camp, celebration of Jewish holidays and many other events.

We find common graves of Jews shot during the Great Patriotic War to install monuments on them. There are many such places in Chernovtsy region where Jews were killed by the Germans as well as by the local population.

My wife and I have lived a beautiful life. This year we’ve celebrated our golden wedding. We love each other and are in agreement with one another. Our daughter and granddaughter need us, and so do many other people. They tell us that they need us.

Glossary

[1] Hesed: Meaning care and mercy in Hebrew, Hesed stands for the charity organization founded by Amos Avgar in the early 20th century. Supported by Claims Conference and Joint Hesed helps for Jews in need to have a decent life despite hard economic conditions and encourages development of their self-identity. Hesed provides a number of services aimed at supporting the needs of all, and particularly elderly members of the society. The major social services include: work in the center facilities (information, advertisement of the center activities, foreign ties and free lease of medical equipment); services at homes (care and help at home, food products delivery, delivery of hot meals, minor repairs); work in the community (clubs, meals together, day-time polyclinic, medical and legal consultations); service for volunteers (training programs). The Hesed centers have inspired a real revolution in the Jewish life in the FSU countries. People have seen and sensed the rebirth of the Jewish traditions of humanism. Currently over eighty Hesed centers exist in the FSU countries. Their activities cover the Jewish population of over eight hundred settlements.

[2] Moldova: Historic region between the Eastern Carpathians, the Dniester River and the Black Sea, also a contemporary state, bordering with Romania and Ukraine. Moldova was first mentioned after the end of the Mongol invasion in 14th century scripts as Eastern marquisate of the Hungarian Kingdom. For a long time, the Principality of Moldova was tributary of either Poland or Hungary until the Ottoman Empire took possession of it in 1512. The Sultans ruled Moldova indirectly by appointing the Prince of Moldova to govern the vassal principality. These were Moldovan boyars until the early 18th century and Greek (Phanariot) ones after. In 1812 Tsar Alexander I occupied the eastern part of Moldova (between the Prut and the Dniester river and the Black Sea) and attached it to its Empire under the name of Bessarabia. In 1859 the remaining part of Moldova merged with Wallachia. In 1862 the new country was called Romania, which was finally internationally recognized at the Treaty of Berlin in 1886. Bessarabia united with Romania after World War I, and was recaptured by the Soviet Union in 1940. The Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic gained independence after the break up of the Soviet Union in 1991 and is now called Moldovan Republic (Republica Moldova).

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

[4] Keren Kayemet Leisrael (K.K.L.): Jewish National Fund (JNF) founded in 1901 at the Fifth Zionist Congress in Basel. From its inception, the JNF was charged with the task of fundraising in Jewish communities for the purpose of purchasing land in the Land of Israel to create a homeland for the Jewish people. After 1948 the fund was used to improve and afforest the territories gained. Every Jewish family that wished to help the cause had a JNF money box, called the 'blue box.' They threw in at least one lei each day, while on Sabbath and high holidays they threw in as many lei as candles they lit for that holiday. This is how they partly used to collect the necessary funds. Now these boxes are known worldwide as a symbol of Zionism.

[5] 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 30th January 1933 the German president swore in Adolf Hitler, the party's leader, as chancellor. On 27th 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.

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

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

[8] Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union: At the end of June 1940 the Soviet Union demanded Romania to withdraw its troops from Bessarabia and to abandon the territory. Romania withdrew its troops and administration in the same month and between 28th June and 3rd July, the Soviets occupied the region. At the same time Romania was obliged to give up Northern Transylvania to Hungary and Southern-Dobrudja to Bulgaria. These territorial losses influenced Romanian politics during World War II to a great extent.

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

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

[11] Order of the Combat Red Banner: Established in 1924, it was awarded for bravery and courage in the defense of the Homeland.

[12] Victory Day in Russia (9th May): National holiday to commemorate the defeat of Nazi Germany and the end of World War II and honor the Soviets who died in the war.

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

[14] KGB: The KGB or Committee for State Security was the main Soviet external security and intelligence agency, as well as the main secret police agency from 1954 to 1991.

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

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

[17] Gorbachev, Mikhail (b. 1931): Soviet political leader. Gorbachev joined the Communist Party in 1952 and gradually moved up in the party hierarchy. In 1970 he was elected to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, where he remained until 1990. In 1980 he joined the politburo, and in 1985 he was appointed general secretary of the party. In 1986 he embarked on a comprehensive program of political, economic, and social liberalization under the slogans of glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring). The government released political prisoners, allowed increased emigration, attacked corruption, and encouraged the critical reexamination of Soviet history. The Congress of People's Deputies, founded in 1989, voted to end the Communist Party's control over the government and elected Gorbachev executive president. Gorbachev dissolved the Communist Party and granted the Baltic states independence. Following the establishment of the Commonwealth of Independent States in 1991, he resigned as president. Since 1992, Gorbachev has headed international organizations.

Larisa Radomyselskaya
Uzhhorod
Ukraine
Date of interview: July 2003
Interviewer: Inna Galina

Larisa Radomyselskaya is an elderly woman with typical Middle East Jewish appearance. Her resin black curly hair has turned gray. Her two grown up daughters looking very much like their mother live with her. They and Larisa’s only grandson have this specific looks.  Larisa’s family lives in a small-size thee-bedroom apartment of Khrushchev’s period design of the 1960s called Khrushchovka 1 when they economized on each square meter of the living space. They have furniture bought during that same period. It’s a clean and cozy apartment. It shows that the family has little to live on, however. It hasn’t undergone renovations for 40 years since they moved into it. Three women have maintained it as well as they could. Larisa had a stroke few years ago. Her older daughter is a single mother. Her younger daughter is an invalid. All three women dote on Igor, their ‘sunray in the women’s realm’. All three generation care about each other. They are very friendly, shy and quiet people. Larisa moves little after her illness. She speaks so quietly that at times it is hard to figure out the words. Her life has been as quiet as the way she talks. Larisa stays at home alone during a day while her daughters are at work and her grandson is at school.

My family backgrownd

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family backgrownd

I didn’t know my paternal grandmother or grandfather. My father told me that his family lived in the small village of Rubanovka of Kherson region [500 km from Kiev]. My grandfather’s name was Michael Lifshytz, his Jewish name was Moishe. I have no information about my grandmother. I don’t even know her first name. I don’t know where or when my grandparents were born. I don’t know what my grandfather was doing for a living. They had five children: three sons and two daughters. My father’s brother Zinovi was the oldest. I don’t know his year of birth. Then my father Yefim was born in 1904. His Jewish name was Chaim. I don’t remember any dates of birth of the other children. All I know is that after my father came his brother Mark, whose Jewish name was Morduch, his sister Sarra and the youngest sister whom I didn’t know. My father told me very little about his family. He was reluctant to talk about it. In 1926 my grandmother and grandfather and their youngest daughter emigrated to Palestine on religious motives. They left their other children here. My father was 22 years old and Sarra was a teenage girl. As far as I know none of the children had any contacts with their parents. I have no information about them.

I don’t remember what my father’s brothers were doing to earn their living. Zinovi perished during World War II, he disappeared. As for Mark, I just can’t remember anything. I don’t know much about my cousins, my father brothers Zinovi and Mark’s children. Mark had two daughters: Inna, born in 1934, and Valeria, born in 1938. Inna and her family live in Haifa in Israel and Valeria lives in St. Petersburg. Zinovi’s daughter Sophia, born in the early 1930s, lives in Moscow. So this is how our life scattered us around. My father’s younger sister Sarra graduated from the College of Journalism in Novosibirsk or Krasnoyarsk. She was single. My father and his brothers and sister were convinced communists. Of course, none of them was religious or observed Jewish traditions.

My father finished 10 years of a Russian secondary school and at the age of 18 he was recruited to the army. He served in the Navy. My father told me little about that period. All I know is that they often sailed abroad and my father visited many countries. After the army, in 1925 he was sent to work in Kharkov [a big town in the east of Ukraine in 450 km from Kiev, before 1936 capital of the Ukrainian SSR], to the turbogenerator plant. My father was clever and he quickly grew from an apprentice to a qualified worker, manufacturer of turbine blades.

I don’t know anything about my mother’s family either. My grandfather died of a heart disease in the early 1920s, long before I was born. My maternal grandmother’s name was Maria Pinchusovich. I don’t know her maiden name or her place of birth. My grandmother was born in the 1880s. I knew one of her sisters: Sonia, whose last name was Leiberman in marriage. Sonia had four daughters: Fania, the oldest, whose year of birth I don’t remember, Ghita, born in 1917, Ida, born in 1919, and Ghenia, born in 1925. I don’t know any details of their life.

My mother’s family lived in Kherson in the east of Ukraine [500 km from Kiev]. My mother and her two sisters were born there. I don’t know my mother’s older sister’s name. She died when she was young. My mother Ida was born in 1915. Her sister Sarra was a little younger than my mother.

I don’t know what my grandfather did for a living. My grandmother worked her whole life. I don’t know where she worked. She left home in the morning and returned in the evening. My grandmother wasn’t religious and didn’t observe Jewish traditions. She didn’t go to school and she learned to read and write by herself. My grandmother spoke Russian, but she knew Yiddish as well. In the late 1920s her family moved to Kharkov. I don’t know for what reason they moved.

I do not know the history of acquaintance of my parents, I was too small, when my mum has died and I didn’t have time to ask her anything. I know only, that my parents got married in 1933 in Kharkov. It was an ordinary wedding of their time: they registered their marriage in a registry office and in the evening they had a small dinner. My father received a room in a communal apartment 2 from his plant and my parents moved in there. I was born on 20 July 1934 in Kharkov. I was given the Russian name of Larisa. I didn’t have a Jewish name. My parents were atheists and believed everything related to Jewish traditions, history or culture to be vestige of the past. From the time I remember I lived with my grandmother Maria, my mother’s mother. My mother was always ill: she had a congenital heart disease. Perhaps, she inherited it from her father. My mother couldn’t take care of me and my grandmother was raising me. She lived in a small private house in the center of Kharkov with the family of my mother’s younger sister Sarra. Sarra had two daughters and we were growing up together. I don’t remember Sarra’s husband or her last name in her marriage. He left for work very early in the morning and returned home when I was already in bed. Sara was a housewife after she got married. When grandmother Maria went to work I stayed with Sarra. Neither my grandmother nor Sarra were religious and I didn’t know anything about Jewish traditions or holidays. Of course, I was too small at the time to make any assessments of the situation, but later I came to understanding many things. It was 1936-37, the period of mass arrests [during the Great Terror] 3. Everybody was suspected of espionage and of being an enemy of the Soviet people. My father had relatives in Palestine and this might become reason enough to arrest him, even though we had no information about them. Besides, Soviet authorities struggled against religion 4. They were closing temples, arresting clergymen and persecuting believers. This is the way it was. Perhaps, this was the reason why even the word ‘Jew’ was said in whisper in our home. Fortunately, my father wasn’t arrested, but later I got to know that there had been arrests at his work.

I saw my mother rarely, only when my grandmother took me there visiting. In 1940 doctors offered my mother to have a surgery in Kiev. Heart surgeries were just beginning to be performed. My father was going to take a vacation, accompany my mother to Kiev and wait there until she could go back home. Regretfully, it didn’t happen this way. My mother died shortly before she was to go to Kiev in 1940. My father was a member of the Party and a Jewish funeral was out of the question. My mother was cremated and buried in the town cemetery in Kharkov. After she died my life went on as before: I continued living with my grandmother and my mother’s sister Sarra. My father lived alone. He was provably feeling lonely since he asked my grandmother to move in with him and take me with her. My grandmother kept working and my father’s sister Sarra came from Siberia to take to my bringing up. She didn’t have children and was happy to take care of me. Aunt Sarra worked as a journalist in a small publishing house and she could take her work home and then she could spend much time with me. She taught me to read and write and before going to school I could read in Russian very well. When my aunt was working I used to sit beside her with a book and I could spend hours reading children’s books by Russian and Soviet authors. We spoke only Russian in our family. I didn’t hear one Jewish word, I didn’t know any Jewish traditions and I didn’t know who Jews were.

During the war

In September 1941 I was to go to school. I looked forward to this day. Nobody could imagine that a war would shatter our peaceful and quiet life. On Sunday 22 June 1941 my aunt Sarra promised to take me to a children’s movie in the cinema and buy me ice cream. It was a hot summer day. We were at home and I was hurrying my aunt when our neighbor ran in. She said that the radio was broadcasting a speech by Molotov 5 and that fascists attacked the Soviet Union [and so began the Great Patriotic War] 6. They turned on the radio and I heard Molotov saying that we would win the victory. Then Stalin spoke with an appeal to the people. The adults were very anxious, but I, of course, did not understand how serious this was. If Stalin and Molotov said that we would win then it will be so, I thought. I can still remember how angry I was with my aunt who said that we would go to the cinema after the war since we had some more important things to do.

Things were quiet in Kharkov on the outside. There were refugees from other towns coming to town. My father was waiting for a notice from the military registry office. He insisted that my grandmother, I and his sister evacuated before he went to the front. I don’t think my grandmother was willing to leave her home. Before our departure my grandmother took me to my mother’s grave in the cemetery. There was a wall with numerous boards and there was quiet music playing. I couldn’t come to my mother’s grave after World War II: the columbarium was destroyed during a bombing of Kharkov.

We evacuated from Kharkov by the last train in September 1941. German troops were approaching Kharkov. There were three of us leaving: my father’s sister Sarra, I and my grandmother. We went by a train for cattle transportation. Our carriage was overcrowded. People slept on their suitcases and bags. We had little luggage and food with us. Our train was bombed almost every day on the first half of our trip. There was no water and toilets didn’t work. I remember that when the train stopped all passengers ran to the toilet at a railway station and then hurried to get some water. Sometimes we managed to get some food, but there was not enough to eat. Later hunger became our habitual condition.

We arrived in Sverdlovsk region [approximately 1,000 km from Moscow]. The train stopped at a small station. There was a woman who said that she could accommodate one family in her house. My grandmother was very weak at the time and we decided to get off. It was a district town. I don’t remember its name. We accommodated in the house of this woman. Her husband was at the front and she lived with her old mother and two daughters. They welcomed us and supported with whatever they could. They were poor, but they shared their clothing and food with us. They had a log house with two rooms. They gave one room to us. I remember that all residents of this town seemed different to me. All men and women were big, fair-haired and beautiful. There were many children in every family. There was a family with 18 children. I remember that children often gathered to listen to me telling them about life in a big city. They couldn’t imagine many-storied houses and trolleybuses and trams commuting in the town. I told them about our apartment and that there was a balcony in it. My stories were like a fairy tale for them.

Kharkov turbogenerator plant evacuated to this town and my aunt went to work in a shop there. It had nothing to do with her profession, but workers received almost three times more bread for their food coupons and this became a decisive factor. My grandmother and I had dependants’ coupons receiving 300 grams of bread per day while aunt Sarra received 1 kg of bread. This bread was baked with bran and sawdust and it was heavy. 300 grams made a 2 cm thick slice. We had to stand in lines for days to receive bread. My aunt returned home from work late at night and went to sleep immediately. She left early in the morning. My grandmother was our housekeeper. She knitted socks, mittens and sweaters for sale and her customers paid her with food that was much more valuable than money at the time. Of course, we never had enough food, but we didn’t starve either. From spring till late autumn my grandmother worked in a local kolkhoz 7: pricking out, weeding and harvesting. After school I ran to the field to help her. They paid with agricultural products for work. I remember that I had a dream when in evacuation to have a whole crispy fresh loaf of bread just for myself.

I went to the first form of a local Russian school. About half of my classmates were children in evacuation. I don’t know whether there were Jews among them. At that time issues of this kind didn’t matter. There was no anti-Semitism. The local population sympathized with those who were in evacuation in their town. Local children used to bring a potato or a pie to give them to evacuated children. I studied well and had no problems at school. In the first form I became a Young Octobrist 8. I became a leader of a ‘little star’: an Octobrist unit of 5 children. I remember that ‘little star’ group went to help one old lady whose only son was at the front. We fetched water from a well and washed the floors in her house. 

At first we didn’t know about my father. In February 1942 we received his first letter and from then on we corresponded regularly. My father found us through a search bureau that had information about those in evacuation. I don’t know at which fronts my father was. All I know is his field post number. He told us that my mother’s sister Sarra and her children evacuated to Uzbekistan. We didn’t correspond with them and only my father wrote us about them every now and then. Actually we rifted apart then. After World War II my mother’s sister Sarra moved to Kirovograd and we only rarely wrote her. She died shortly afterward. Her last name in her marriage was Gurevich. She had two daughters: Fira, born in 1931, and Sima, born in 1937.

In 1944, when we heard that Kharkov was liberated grandmother began to pack to go back home. She and I went home together. My father’s sister Sarra decided to stay in Sverdlovsk where she was working at the plant. Sarra was hoping to build up her personal life. So my aunt and I rifted apart.

I don’t remember our trip back home. All I remember is that the train was too slow while I was eager to get home as soon as possible. My grandmother’s home was ruined by bombing, but the house where my parents’ apartment was there. My grandmother and I moved in there. There was a school near the house and I went there to submit my documents to the 4th form.

I remember 9 May 1945. In the morning our co-tenant came by to tell us that the war was over. My grandmother turned on the radio and we heard an announcement about complete capitulation of Germany and that the war came to an end. Strangers in the streets hugged and greeted each other. Many were crying. In the streets and squares people were dancing, and signing and there were fireworks in the evening. Everybody was happy hoping for a happy life in the future.

After the war

In late May 1945 my father returned home. The three of us shared one room. My grandmother was very concerned that my father was single. She kept telling him that he needed to get married and that I needed a mother and that he was too young to be living alone. My grandmother introduced my father to her niece, her sister Sonia’s daughter Ghita. Ghita was my mother’s cousin. Her surname in marriage was Wainshtein. Ghita’s husband perished in Sevastopol on the first days of the war. Ghita’s son Edward was born in March 1941. Ghita was in evacuation in the Ural and from there she moved to Kharkov. My father and Ghita registered their marriage in a registry office and Ghita and her son came to live with us. In 1947 my father and Ghita’s son Mark was born. 

We didn’t observe any Jewish traditions or celebrate Jewish holidays. We, children, didn’t even know anything bout such. We celebrated Soviet holidays: 1 May, 7 November [commemorating the October Revolution Date] 9, Victory Day on 9 May 10. We celebrated these holidays at home and at school. My parents tried to avoid any mention of Jewish subjects or Israel. Now I understand that they were just frightened. Between 1948, campaign against cosmopolitans 11, and until Stalin died in 1953, Jews were arrested. Jews lost their jobs and there were continuous article in newspapers stating that Jewish cosmopolitans were enemies of the Soviet power. I think my father was afraid that they could somehow figure it out that his parents and a sister lived in Israel [it was dangerous to keep in touch with relatives abroad] 12. We, children, thought that it was shameful to acknowledge our Jewish identity. 

My grandmother didn’t get along with Ghita and moved to my father’s sister Sarra in Sverdlovsk. She lived there until she died. My grandmother worked as janitor at a military storage facility and occasionally we received short letters from her. She died in the early 1980s at the age of over 90. I don’t know where grandmother was buried or whether there was a Jewish funeral. Aunt Sarra with whom my grandmother lived died few years after my grandmother passed away. 

I was a difficult child. I couldn’t find a common language with my stepmother and her son and I was jealous about my father and them. My father often went on business trips. He spent home few days per month. After my grandmother left I felt very lonely. I was nervous and restless. I studied at school hazardly and my teacher had many complaints about my studies. I couldn’t wait to become independent from my father and his wife. After finishing the 7th form I began to consider getting a profession. I didn’t want to think about finishing school and entering a college afterward since this option meant few more years of dependence on my father. There was a Construction College. I passed my exams successfully and entered the Faculty of Civilian Construction. There was anti-Semitism at that time and I was aware of it. Some of my friends told me that some of them got a refusal to admit their documents and some were plucked at an exam. However, I didn’t face anything like that. My co-students and teaches had a friendly attitude toward me. When I was the first-year student I joined Komsomol 13 and I was very serious about it. I dedicated much time to Komsomol activities: I was an agitator and propagandist and participated in all Komsomol events. There were few Jewish students in our group and there was unprejudiced attitude toward them. Even the Doctors’ Plot 14 that began in January 1953 did not impact these attitudes. I was a Soviet child raised in patriotic spirits and with strong belief that Stalin or Communist Party could not make mistakes. I believed that those doctors who wanted to poison Stalin were guilty. When in March 1953 Stalin died it was a terrible shock for me. On the day of his death I stood in guard of honor by his monument with tears pouring down my cheeks. I couldn’t hold back my tears for several days. All people around were crying. They were not ashamed of their tears. I remember my stepbrother Edward sobbing on the sofa ‘Why him? I wish I had died rather than he’. We believed in Stalin, this was how we were raised. His death was a terrible tragedy for millions. All of them kept asking one question: how we were to live on? A big shock for me was Khrushchev’s 15 speech on the 20th Party Congress 16, when he denounced the cult of Stalin and told about the crimes committed by Stalin’s regime. It was hard to believe what I heard, but I couldn’t help believing what the Communist party was saying. In general, I believed piously radio broadcasts and was convinced that radio could only tell the truth. Few years later I learned to live with the thought that my idol was a criminal.

After finishing college I asked them to issue me a mandatory job assignment 17 to Uzhhorod in Subcarpathian region [800 km from Kiev] 18 where my cousin Ghenia whose family name was Cherchis and her children lived. Her husband was a military doctor. He served in Chop [700 km from Kiev, 30 km from Uzhhorod] near Uzhhorod. Ghenia and her daughters Elena and Marina, who were the same age as I, lived in Uzhhorod.

My friend Ada Trudler also got a job assignment to Uzhhorod. We became friends when we were first-year students. We went to work in Subcarpathian regional construction trust where we received a double room in a hostel. I liked Uzhhorod very much: it was a quiet, beautiful and cozy town. It became part of the USSR after World War II. It belonged to Austria-Hungary before 1918, then Czechoslovakia and in 1938 it became apart of Hungary. Since I grew up and was brought up in the USSR I was amazed to hear Hungarian in the streets. Jews were not afraid of speaking Yiddish or demonstrate that they were Jews. I and Ada met few local Jewish guys who began to take care of us. One of them was Wolf and the name of another was Misha. They introduced us to their friends and families. They invited us to celebration of Jewish holidays where they told us about Jewish history, traditions and customs. This was all new and amazing to me. For the first time in my life I identified myself as Jew. There were many Jewish employees in the construction trust where I was working. The local Jews were surprised that neither I nor Ada knew Yiddish or received at last elementary Jewish education. The big synagogue didn’t operate by then. It housed the Philharmonic. There was a small synagogue in Mukachevskaya Street and prayer houses where men got together to pray. At Pesach women made matzah. Later they began to supply matzah from Hungary. 3 years passed. At first we socialized with Jews only, but then we began to make other acquaintances. Many people moved to Uzhhorod from the USSR after World War II. I didn’t face any anti-Semitism in Uzhhorod at that time. I think it emerged a little later and that those that had moved from the USSR were its carriers for the most part.

I met my husband Isaac Radomyselski in 1956. He was born in 1929 in Chopovichi town in Zhytomyr region, Ukraine, [150 km from Kiev]. My husband’s mother Rieva was born in Chopovichi in 1888. Isaac didn’t know his father Yakov Radomyselski: his mother left her husband when she was pregnant. She was raising her son alone and then she married a widower from Kiev who had five children. She moved to her husband in Kiev. Isaac was growing with his stepbrothers and stepsisters. Rieva was a housewife. She didn’t get along with her stepchildren. She was a rough woman and she couldn’t even find a common language with her own son. I don’t know how religious Isaac’s family was, but he knew Yiddish well. He often talked Yiddish with his mother. Before World War II Isaac finished the 6th form at school. In 1940 his stepfather died. During World War II the family was in evacuation in the Altay region. After the war they returned to Kiev. Their house was ruined during bombing and Isaac and Rieva had no relatives in Kiev. Rieva’s stepchildren stayed in Kiev and Rieva and her son moved to Lvov [500 km from Kiev]. Isaac didn’t go back to school. He didn’t get any education at home: his mother was too busy trying to survive through trying times. Isaac went to a factory vocational school at the mechanic plant and spent his leisure time with other children like himself. They even used to steal food from vendors at the market. At the age of 18 Isaac went to the army. My husband told me that service in the army saved him from the way of life that he had led before: at least, he got food and clothes in the army. After mandatory term of service he remained in the army. He had no other alternative. When he was in the army he finished an evening higher secondary school. This was all education he got.

When my husband became a professional military he received a room in a barrack in Uzhhorod. His mother joined him there. After we got married we lived in this barrack for few years. We registered our marriage in a registry office and then had a small wedding dinner with Isaac’s mother, my aunt Ghenia and her daughters and my closest friend Ada. None of us was religious and we didn’t even mention a religious wedding. My mother-in-law also was an atheist.

Shortly after we got married, in autumn 1957, the military unit where my husband served was given the alarm and they moved to Hungary [because of the Soviet invasion of Hungary] 19. He didn’t stay there long and returned to Uzhhorod. The Hungarian events that became a concern for many active residents of Subcarpathia didn’t interest us. We grew up in the Soviet Union and were taught to blindly believe official explanations of events. We believed that if the Party and Government decided it was right to take troops to Hungary, then this was necessary. Thus, when in 1968 the USSR brought its troops to [invade] Czechoslovakia 20 and Isaac also went there, I began to have doubts that it was right. My husband didn’t take part in military action. He was in a supporting unit deployed at some distance from the area of combat actions. However, I was terrified to hear what he told me about beating and arrests of peaceful civilians. I understood that the USSR conducted tough policy with regards to socialist countries, but I thought that it might be some political necessity in this. In general, I took no interest in politics. I had other problems to think about.

In 1957 our older daughter Irina was born. Our second daughter Galina was born in 1961. After my older daughter was born I didn’t have milk and gave her cow milk right from her birth. We didn’t have any problems and Irina was growing a strong and healthy girl. I began to have problems after Galina was born. She was born prematurely. She fainted after each breastfeeding. Only few days later we had tests completed and I was told that I couldn’t breastfeed her due to rhesus incompatibility. I guessed there was something wrong with my daughter. She looked and behaved different from other babies, but doctors calmed me down that it would pass. They wrote in the certificate that I received before release from the hospital ‘Healthy baby’. My daughter was a difficult girl and didn’t develop like other babies. She couldn’t even sit when she turned one year old. My husband was terrified to look at her and he even said it wasn’t his baby. When I took Galina to a professor pediatrician he said that she had ‘children’s cerebral palsy’. He told me that my daughter would never grow to be a normal person and that she would remain a creature with no mind or motion and would be not able to lead an independent life. But I didn’t believe it was a final sentence. I took my daughter to doctors in big towns and was hoping for good luck. A professor in Kharkov who specialized in cerebral palsy gave me hope saying that if I attend to my daughter she would learn to move and do everything necessary and she could develop her mind. It’s horrible to recall what my baby and I had to bear, but it worked. At the age of 8 my daughter went to the first form of an elementary school. She could read and write already. She couldn’t walk well. She often fell injuring her knees. Her schoolmates teased her for her handicaps. Galina had a strong character and strong will and she finished school with a golden medal regardless of anti-Semitism of this period. It was next to impossible for a Jew to receive a gold medal, but my daughter did it.

After finishing school my older daughter Irina entered the Faculty of Mathematic of Uzhhorod University. Irina was a good student. She was number three on the list of best students of her faculty. Irina got a job assignment and went to work as a teacher of physics at school in Artyomovsk town in the east of Ukraine in Donetsk region [665 km from Kiev]. Irina was the only teacher of physics in this school and she also taught physics at the extramural department of the Pedagogical College in Artyomovsk. Irina lived in a hostel. Other people were friendly toward her. She didn’t face any anti-Semitism. The only thing that made her sad was that she didn’t have a good place to live. Because of this Irina returned to Uzhhorod in 1983.

My younger daughter Galina also decided to go to college after finishing school with a gold medal, but I was shocked to hear that she intended to go to the Lvov University. I couldn’t imagine how Galena would manage without my help, but she insisted on it. She passed her entrance exams successfully and was admitted to the Construction Faculty of the Lvov Polytechnic University. My daughter shared her room in the hostel with three Ukrainian girls from Western Ukraine. They treated her well and helped her to cope with everyday routines. Galena had walking problems and it was difficult for her to go downstairs. Other girls held her by her hand and she always had support. She helped others with their studies. She still keeps in touch with her University friends. They correspond and visit Galina. In 1983 Galina graduated from the university with honors and got a job assignment to a construction trust in Uzhhorod. She has worked as an engineer there for 20 years. Although they often reduce staff in her office Galina continues to work there.

We received this apartment in 1960 and moved in here with my mother-in-law. She died in 1964. Although she was an atheist she asked us before she died to arrange a Jewish funeral for her. My husband and I were confused: we didn’t know anything about Jewish customs or traditions. She died on Friday morning and I recalled that Jews went to the synagogue on Friday. My husband and I went to the synagogue. Although we were there for the first time other attendants were sympathetic with us. We got any help we needed: they delivered a casket, excavated a grave and made all arrangements for the funeral. We buried my mother-in-law in the Jewish cemetery in Uzhhorod according to Jewish traditions, but my husband and I didn’t join the Jewish way of life then.

We had Jewish, Russian and Ukrainian friends. We didn’t care about nationality. Unfortunately, our daughter’s condition didn’t allow us to meet with friends or invite them home often, but we celebrated Soviet holidays: 1 May, 7 November, Victory Day and the Soviet Army Day 21 and our children’s birthdays. I cooked and we had parties with guests. We danced and talked. On our daughters’ birthdays they invited their friends. Sometimes on weekends we went for walks with the family. My younger daughter loved these outings, though walking was hard for her. We wished we could take our daughter out of the town, but we didn’t have such opportunity. We didn’t have a car and we couldn’t generally afford it. Considering Galina’s condition we spent our vacations in Uzhhorod.

Neither my husband nor I were members of the Communist party. In his youth my husband was a Komsomol member and secretary of the Komsomol unit of his military unit, but when he overgrew his Komsomol age and was offered to join the Party Isaac refused. He believed it was a great responsibility and a big honor to be a communist and he didn’t deserve it as yet. It’s hard to say whether this had an impact on his career or it was his national origin, but he never got promotions when his time came and received higher ranks with big delays. I spent all my free time with Galina. Besides, nobody offered me to join the Party.

I worked as an engineer in a construction trust 20 years. In 1974 I got an offer to go to work at the Uzhhorodpribor plant. I got a position of acting chief of the department of capital construction. After few years of work I asked them to appoint me chief of this department, but director called me to his office and said directly: ‘You cannot be chief. Firstly, because you are a woman and secondly, because you are a Jew’. It was stressful for me. This was the first time I faced anti-Semitism. I had never faced any anti-Semitism before. It became difficult for me to come to work, but I understood that I wouldn’t find another job. I worked there until I reached the age of retirement and then I continued to work as an engineer. I left work in 1992.

In the 1970s many Jews were moving to Israel. Our friends and relatives moved there at this period. My husband and I respected their decision, but couldn’t understand why people having a place to live and a job would go to another country without knowing the language or knowing for sure that they would find their place in life in this country. We didn’t even consider in our family the issue of moving to another country.

My husband demobilized due to his health condition in 1978. He went to work at the Uzhhorodpribor plant where I worked. He didn’t work there long. A severe disease made him quit. When in 1983 our both daughters returned home Isaac was very happy. It was as if he had a feeling that would die soon. Irina couldn’t find work at school and went to work as an engineer at the Uzhhorodpribor plant. Both daughters were with us and my husband and I were very happy to have them back home. My husband died in 1984. We buried him in the town cemetery. We didn’t make a Jewish funeral.

Few years later my mother sister Sarra’s older daughter Fira moved to America, and Sima moved to Germany in 1991. Around the same period of time my mother’s cousin Ghenia Cherchis, her husband and their daughter Elena moved to Israel. Their second daughter Marina stayed in Uzhhorod. Shortly afterward they sent us an invitation. My husband had died by then, and my daughters and I didn’t venture to leave. I was afraid of giving up friends, our apartment and work to go to the uncertainty. My daughters were also afraid of such radical changes. Of course, propaganda had its impact on our decision-making. We believed that Israel was another capitalist country where money decided everything and where we wouldn’t be able to find our place in life. I wish we had been more resolute then, but it is too late to feel sorry about what we didn’t do.

My older daughter Irina only wanted to marry a Jewish man. I supported her in this: I was terrified to think that my daughter could hear the word ‘zhydovka’ from a non-Jewish husband one day. She has typical Semitic looks. However, Irina couldn’t find a Jewish husband. At some point of time Irina decided to have a baby without a husband. In 1988 my grandson Igor was born. I don’t know who his father was. My daughter never spoke to me about him. I think that if we had moved to Israel Irina would have got married and her child would grow in a full family. When she went to work in Hesed she finally got a Jewish surrounding. Irina tells me ‘If only I had this when I was young…’. Anyway, Igor has become a big joy for us. He is a nice boy and we raise him together. He is a very talented boy. He studies well in a special school with advanced learning of English. Igor finished a music school in playing the flute. My grandson has played 3 years in the ensemble of old music in Hesed and we are very happy about it. He reads a lot and is fond of computer. He has Jewish friends for the most part. Igor is eager to go to Israel and we are very concerned about his future.

My father lived in Kharkov all his life. Regretfully, we rarely saw each other. Due to Galina’s condition we couldn’t travel. My father wrote us about his life and his family. My both stepbrothers finished Polytechnic College in Kharkov. Upon graduation they received job assignment to the turbogenerator plant. They married Russian girls. Edward had two daughters: Irina, born in the late 1970s, and Anna, born in the early 1980s. Irina is married and has a little son. Mark’s son Dmitri was born in 1970. After my father died in 1979, my correspondence with stepbrothers died away gradually. He was buried in the town cemetery in Kharkov. My stepbrother Mark and his family live in Kharkov.

When perestroika 22 began we noticed a change. The Jewish life became more active. There were performances staged after works by Jewish writers and concerts of Jewish music and dances. Before perestroika it wasn’t allowed to correspond with people from capitalist countries and it was impossible to imagine that they could visit or we could travel there. During perestroika this became real. Of course, life has become more difficult. We lost all our little savings. We felt it like many other middle class citizens.

In 1992, after I retired I traveled to Israel once in my life at the invitation of my cousin Elena. Elena has two sons. They work in Israel. One is a rabbi and another was in the army at the time. I don’t know where he is now. Of course, Israel made an unforgettable impression on me. It’s a beautiful country and every citizen is a patriot of his country. I went on tours to many parts of Israel, met with my cousin Inna, Mark’s daughter, and visited my friends. And of course, more than once I felt sorry that we failed to move to Israel. I was trying to find my father’s family, but I couldn’t, unfortunately.

After Ukraine became independent after the breakdown of the USSR 23, I saw that it had an effect on the Jewish life. We became closer to it. At first, I began to work at the synagogue helping to distribute meals to old people. In 1999, when Hesed opened in Uzhhorod, my daughter and I went to work there. My grandson Igor attends a Sunday school in Hesed. They study Jewish traditions, history and religion, Ivrit and Yiddish. In summer Igor goes to Jewish summer camps. He likes it there very much. My grandson identifies himself as a Jew and he speaks proudly about it. Hesed provides assistance to us: food packages and meals. We got to celebrate all Jewish holidays in Hesed and often attend lectures and concerts. Of course, our biggest pleasure is to attend the concerts of the orchestra where my grandson plays. I can socialize with friends in Hesed. Hesed has given me and my family a possibility to become Jews and return to our roots. This is very important for me now.

GLOSSARY:

Mira Markovna Mlotok
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova
Date of interview: March 2002

My family backgrownd

Growing up

During the war

After the war

My family backgrownd

I am Mira Markovna Mlotok. I was born in 1920, on December 5, in the town of Khorol. Khorol was a small Jewish town in Poltava province, where everyone knew each other. My father’s father was a rabbi there. His name was Moses. His family was large: three sons and two daughters. My grandmother was a housewife. Their family was noble. All children - boys went to yeshiva and all girls went to Jewish school.

I don’t remember my grandfather and his house very much. I remember what he wore when he went to the synagogue: a taleth, a yarmulke, and a small box on his head, I forgot its name. [in these small box put convolute sheets of paper , to which were written prayers, this is identified tefilin]. Grandmother was a very quiet and gentle woman. But I did not spend much time with them because we lived in another city. They were very religious. They always prayed and always kept Sabbath. All their children spoke Yiddish very well – they spoke Yiddish at home. Then all their children went into revolution and became atheists. Their parents did not oppose them because they were wise people and understood that the new time had come. Their eldest son, Zinoviy, was born in 1891. He was a Communist Party worker in Lubny. When the Second World War broke out he went to fight. He was heavily wounded and died in 1946 from diseases in Belaya Tserkov. His brother, Abraham, was born in 1895. He also was a Communist. He died in Chernovtsy in 1948 from some diseases. My father’s favorite sister Katya (Kitusya) was born in 1897. She married a big Party leader Alexandrov. He was arrested in 1937. Her life was very hard. She died in Chernovtsy in 1985. The youngest sister Anya was born in 1898, lived in Leningrad for many years and died in 1945.
I remember the big room of grandfather’s house. They had carved furniture, a huge sideboard with carved birds, a big table with round legs, around which the whole family sat. Grandfather sat at the head of the table and everyone looked into his eyes. When he lifted up his cup the day turned into a holiday. Their big carved bookcase had a lot of books. And they had a small violin. One of the children played violin, but I don’t remember who. All of them sang beautifully Zmirot when came guests , in holidays on eve Sabbath. Their family was a friendly and talented one.
I was very young when we moved, but I remember people singing all the time, having smiles all the time, drinking red wine. I remember small silver wineglasses. Grandmother gave everyone something sweet, strudels with apple, nuts and jam.

My mother’s name was Rosa Moiseyevna Kashtan. She was born also in Khorol, in the family of shoichet, meat-cutter. Both families (of my father and mother) knew each other very well. Mother graduated from Midwifery School in Kremenchug. She was interested in revolutionary ideas. When Denikin’s gang was around, she carried a white bag with red cross and distributed revolutionary leaflets. She risked her life, but that bag saved her; she hid her revolutionary propaganda in it. At that time if a person wanted to join the Communist Party he had to provide recommendation of more experienced and trusted party members. So, my mother gave such a recommendation for him. They met before the Revolution. They had common views.

Her mother was an ordinary woman, without education, but very smart. When Denikin’s soldiers came to kill the Jews she cut her feather bed and when the soldiers opened the door the feathers flew around, so they had to leave. Thus she rescued her whole family.
The family of my mother’s parents was large. They had three sons. The eldest was Sholom, then David and Saul. They all finished yeshivas and moved to big cities early – two went to Petersburg and one to Kiev. They worked a lot and did any kind of work only for the right to listen to lectures in the medical university. They took and passed examinations without attending all the classes. Saul then worked in Kharkov as the chief doctor of a polyclinic of workers. David was sent to the Donetsk coal basin to miners and was a doctor there. Then David moved to Kiev and his whole family (he, his wife and son) were killed in Babiy Yar.  Sholom, the eldest, went to Pavlodar during the war (they were evacuated) and stayed there with his family. He died there in 1955. Saul had a son, Boris, who graduated form a technical university in Kharkov. When the war broke out he went to fight as a volunteer and was killed somewhere in Ukraine.

My mother had two sisters. Tsipa died early. Tsipa had one son, Aron. His father, Tsipa’s husband, was also a shoichet. The Soviet power denied the rights of citizenship and the right to vote to him because shoichet is a profession related to the synagogue, while the Soviet power declared religion outside the law. Their son wanted to study very much. After Tsipa’s death in 1932 Aron came to us, to Lubny, from Khorol by train without a ticket. So, we took him to live with us. He studied at the workers’ department and was an excellent student. In fact, he knew only Yiddish because they spoke only Yiddish at home, but he managed to graduate from the Chemical Technology Institute in Kharkov. Then he volunteered to fight during the war and did not return from it.
The eldest sister, Leah, married a man ill with tuberculoses. He took her out of Khorol into a village in Poltava region. He was Jewish and a talented man. She bore seven children from her ill husband. He soon died. She had no profession, so she learned to sew and her children worked the soil since early age; her boys also fished and thus they did not starve to death, but they were very poor. They had only one pair of shoes for all the children, so they went to school in turns. The boys walked barefoot even in winter. But they survived. The girls, Rosa and Sonya were put into basement to hide from Denikin soldiers, so they had problems with their legs and feet for the rest of their lives. Sonya worked as a doctor and Rosa – as an engineer in Kharkov. Despite all the hardships they survived. A son of Leah was an electrician engineer who worked at Dneprovsky NPP. Eida was the eldest of Leah’s girls. She lived in Lubny and worked as a nurse at the spirit factory. Her mother, Leah, being old lived with her. The eldest son, Chaim Meyerovich Krasik, worked in civil aviation in technical provision. He knew personally many famous pilots, and they respected him for “Sholom-Aleichem” types of jokes. In 1937 he was arrested on suspicion of espionage. He had to stay in horrible conditions. I was very young then. People at that time were afraid to intercede for somebody’s release because it was dangerous. So my mother said, “I can’t write him, but you a child, you can”. So I sent letters and parcels to Chaim as if from myself. When he worked at wood throw he froze so that he was thought to be dead, but the doctor noticed he was alive at the last minute. Later he worked with Ostap Vishnya (famous Ukrainian humorist) and Ostap Vishnya liked him and his humor too. When Chaim was released he settled in Moscow and sold tickets to theaters. He had no family.

Leah died in 1942 when the Germans came to Lubny. They also had a place like Kiev’s Babiy Yar – a common Jewish grave. She was very old and could not walk, so the Germans did not want to carry her to that grave and left her in her flat. Her neighbor, a Ukrainian man, took care of her until she died. He buried her in his backyard. Leah’s son, Iosif, stayed in underground of the Party and was a guerilla. His neighbor betrayed him. The Germans surrounded his house, took him out, called all the residents of the village he lived in, put a board on his chest saying “kike-guerilla” and burned him alive. His son was young at the time, 13 years old. He crossed the front line and found himself at an airdrome. There he said, “I came to take revenge for my father”. After the war he was sent to an aircraft school. His name was Boris Krasik. So, he remained in aviation for the rest of his life.
My father, Mark Moiseyevich Mlotok, was born in 1893. He finished yeshiva – 4 classes. He had no other education. He educated himself. He read a lot. He also played piano. He was a very gentle man, but kept strict discipline. He did not go to university but got involved in politics. There were many revolutionary clubs at the time, so he got engaged with these activities and under the Soviet power he went to work in the Extraordinary Commission to Fight Counterrevolutionaries. He was in control of money and values confiscating from the rich. For many years he worked at the State Security Committee. He started his career in Cherkassy. There my father and mother got married. It was certainly not a traditional Jewish wedding, but a new, communistic, wedding, with no ritual, no chupah, but with simple registration – such was the fashion then.
Father was sent to different cities of Ukraine and he fulfilled the Party’s orders there. He liked that work very much. He was an honest man: while other people got rich in similar positions, my father gave every penny to the state. When he had a lot of experience in that work, he came to Kiev and was highly appreciated by the People’s Commissionaire of the Interior of Ukraine. (Many innocent people were killed because of him. In 1937 he was arrested and shot too). My father was made chief of the personnel department, which was a very prestigious office. In 1937 many people were arrested and my father was doomed to arrest too. But he was sent to the north instead. He was appointed the chief of the camp of political prisoners in Archangelsk, which was in the north with mosquitoes and permafrost. Prisoners of his camp floated logs there. It was a demotion. He did not get any more military ranks in his life, just a mayor. But praise God even for this, at least he was left alive. He worked in the GULAG system, then he was sent to Siberia – Omsk, Tomsk, Novosibirsk, where he was the chief of camps again. Then he was sent to Karelia-Finland, where he was the chief of the construction of a hydrosystem.

Back when father was going from city to city he had an affair with another woman. Her name was Gusta. She was an active Komsomol member and a beautiful Jewish woman. We saw father very seldom, only when he came to Lubny. Officially parents are not divorced, father simply has left not lives with us. My mother did not want to forgive him and cursed Gusta She never had any children. She died in 1938 from cancer. My mother took me and returned to Poltava region, to Lubny. She worked as a paramedic in a children’s hospital and in ambulance. We lived in a house for medical workers. My mother worked a lot because she had to provide for herself and me. We lived poorly. Mother sewed me clothes from her old clothes “to keep me in a decent appearance” as she said. Every time she had vacation we went to her brother in Kiev. We went to Opera Theater and the Zoo. When we came to Kiev for the first time I was 7-8 years old. I remember we went to the Zoo and looked at Kreschatik, the main street of Kiev, and at the Botanic Garden. My mother only had two weeks of vacation and in that time we had to go everywhere, see everything and buy everything we needed. For me, Kiev was a fairytale. I dreamed of studying here.

Lubny was a good green town at the time. There were a lot of schools, a medical college, a teachers’ institute and other institutions of learning, as well as a few plants. There were buses, but no street cars. I never felt anti-Semitism, nobody called me a “kike”. The atmosphere was absolutely different from that after the war.

Growing up

I remember the famine in 1933 very well. Only due to the wisdom of my mother, who sowed the seeds of pumpkin, we survived. We ate so many pumpkins that we became yellow. But we survived. We also ate “makukha” cakes – leftovers pressed together, of black color. When we chewed on them we did not feel so hungry. But in order to get those “cakes” we had to stand in lines for a long time. My mother was very kind and if she received 200 grams of bread but had to go see some patients, she took this bread to her patients and told me that we could eat pumpkin again. Mother’s brother, doctor David Kashtan, worked in Donetsk coal basin, where miners received more foods than others, so he sent us parcels of foods. So, I know what it was like living in 1933 very well. My father did not really help us.
Everyone suffered then. I was very thin. But I was always joyful. We just had to hang on and survive. A year later, in 1934, life became better. 

I was certainly a pioneer. To join pioneers was a great celebration, at the Pioneers’ Palace. I wore the red pioneer tie with great pride. And I loved singing pioneer songs. I was a very active girl. I had a lot of friends. I laughed a lot. I remember mother sewed me a costume of gauze and I danced a Hungarian dance. The time was hard, but I was singing all the time, and people said I had a good voice – lyrical-coloratura soprano. I sang at the pioneers’ club and was invited to sing at different celebrations. When I was 14 years old there was the first children’s musical festival in Ukraine and I was noticed. I was sent to Kharkov. There were a lot of children from different cities. We stayed at the “International” hotel, downtown. All the concerts took place in “Berezil” theater. The jury decided that Mira Mlotok should take singing classes for sure. They made pictures of me and wrote an article about me and a boy who played violin, Dusya Solovyev. But my mother did not want me to leave after the seventh grade. She said, “You are still a child. Finish ten classes general first, and then do whatever you want”. When I finished the tenth grade I went to Kiev. I passed several exams and entered the Gliyer Musical College. First, when I came to Kiev, I stayed with my mother’s brother, uncle Sholom. But they had a large family and I had to sleep beside their wardrobe on a camp bed. My mother sent parcels to the whole family in order to support me. My relatives treated me very well but I still felt that it was hard for them to have another person living there; besides, they imposed their will on me, while I wanted to be independent.

When my father learned that I entered musical college without anybody’s help, he found me and he said he liked me very much. He realized his mistake and decided to help me become a real urban girl. He took me to the central supermarket and bought me a lot of clothes and shoes. I felt equal to other students of my college.
Father and the woman he lived with, Gusta, had a big flat downtown, with good furniture; the flat was very rich. They offered me to stay with them, but I refused. A daughter should always support her mother. I loved my mother very much and did not want to betray her. My father was a kind man, very gentle and honest. But he could easily be influenced. That woman, Gusta, could cause him to forget everything, including his family. But when she died, father came back from Siberia, where he worked, and asked my mother to reconcile with him. She agreed to go and live and work with him in Siberia. When my parents left, I no longer stayed with my uncle, but rented a room together with a relative from Khorol. She studied in university. We liked living together. We left the house every morning, I walked with her to the university and then went on to conservatory. We ate together and bought foods together. We had our companies together – my friends and hers.
I had to learn a lot of things at the college: solfeggio, piano, history of Russian music, harmony, history of Ukrainian music, history of west-European music, dances, and actor skills. It was very interesting to study. All outstanding musicians of Kiev taught in the concervatory and in my college. Studies in the college gave us the right to enter conservatory.
I had a lot of admirers. But I never treated them seriously because they all wanted to marry me. And I did not need that. I wanted to study. I had several marriage propositions. One man even went to Lubny to ask my mother for my hand. It was conductor, Yakov Fridman, a Jew. He worked in Nikolayev. But my mother said, “No way! You are 10 years older than her! Why do you need such a young girl?” So, that was my first marriage proposal.
But when I met my husband… it was love with the first sight. That’s how it happened. I had an academic concert at the college. After the concert I went to a tailor, to try something on. He was there. My God… He was wearing a naval uniform; he was cheerful and full of charm – you could not help loving him. That tailor was his uncle. His name was Yefim Nusimovich Sapozhnikov. He went to see me off that day and did not let me go. The next day he brought me flowers. The landlady of the room I was renting was jealous because she liked me and wanted her son to marry me. She was Jewish, Nomi Iosifovna, and she wanted her son to marry a Jewish girl. But I liked Fima so much! He was an interesting young man and he wore nice clothes. He finished the Kiev Polytechnic Institute and designed a ship. He was sent to the navy, very far away, to Vladivostok. By the time we met he had been working there for a year or two and came to Kiev on vacation. We met in the middle of June 1941, a few days before the war.

During the war

Fima came to see me every day with flowers. We did not know each other for too long, but it was love with the first sight. I was horrified, I did not know what to do, I could not get hold of my parents (there was no communications with Karelia then). He proposed to me. And I thought, “Why not?” So we went to the registration office. People looked at us with surprise: people scatter away from bombings and we are walking with flowers to register our marriage. I don’t even remember what I was wearing. After the registration we went to his parents. His father, Nus Alterovich Sapozhnikov, was a Red guerilla during the Civil War. He had a surgery before the war and his kidney was removed. He worked as a manager in Lavra (the largest and the most beautiful Russian Orthodox Church in Ukraine). His mother was Freida Borukhovna Linetskaya. She was a housewife. For a long time we had no intimate relationship because I continued to stay at my room, and his parents were going to evacuate.

We got on a barge because it was impossible to get on a train or ship. We had to flee by any transportation because the Germans were close. I did not know about the threat to the Jews at the time, but I was scared. Fima’s parents evacuated. And I was waiting for a message from my parents, so I asked Fima to wait with me. We could hardly get on that barge. There were logs and a small room for the captain. The barge was overcrowded with people. All people sat on the logs, close to one another. It was very scary. We could not move. But we were rescuing our lives. When we reached Kremenchug, there was a heavy bombing raid. As it turned out, somebody was sitting on this barge with a flashlight and pointed the Germans to the barge. My Fima noticed this. When the bombing began the captain landed and all people went to the shore. Fima went to catch the one who pointed the Germans to us. I said, “How will you find me afterwards?” He said, “You will start singing and I will find you”. My husband caught that man and brought him to the authorities in Dnepropetrovsk afterwards. They said he landed on parachute to us. I began to sing a Ukrainian song and Fima found me by my voice and led all other people back to the barge. We went on. In Dnepropetrovsk we found Fima’s cousin. All Fima’s relatives were gathered there – parents and their three-year-old grandson Boris (the son of Fima’s brother). They met us nicely but we all had to go on. My husband had to return to his place of service – Far East. I could not go there without a visa. So, he went alone. All trains were overcrowded. He jumped on the steps of some freight train and told me, “Don’t worry, we will keep in touch”. We decided that all of his relatives will keep in touch through him and that he would send a telegram to my parents. There was shooting every day. Fire-bombs exploded at night and nights were like days. The Germans were approaching Dnepropetrovsk. I was left with Fima’s parents. Evacuation from Dnepropetrovsk began. But we were not on the list and nobody wanted to take us. There was no way out. It was horrible. So, we went to the train station and got on some freight train – just so that we would go somewhere. We were taken to Northern Caucasus. It was steppe. It was a German colony that worked with grapes. The Germans were very nice to us, shared beds and foods. Grandmother, Frida Borisovna, Fima’s mother, spoke Yiddish better than Russian, and the Germans understood her somehow. We went to work with them, gathered grapes. Everything went well and we fulfilled their plan, but suddenly it was announced that within one night all Germans had to leave that place. They could not take anything with them. It was Stalin’s deportation of the Germans over the Urals mountains as “Hitler’s assistants”. It was horrible. Only those who were evacuated to these places remained, but not many.
As soon as the Germans left, the Nazi parachutists came. We even heard their speech. We were horrified. But in 30 minutes we were put on a truck and taken to Makhachkala by the Soviet authorities. In Makhachkala we were put on a small boat and taken across the Caspian Sea to Middle Asia. There were many evacuated people there. I remember the sea was stormy. We were taken to Krasnovodsk by sea. From there we went to Tashkent. We found ourselves on the train station. We had no documents that we were evacuated. And in order to get food at the train station we needed documents. As a matter of great favor we were given a glass of kumys (goat milk) each and a piece of bread. While we were sitting on our bags in the street a noble Uzbek man, whom we did not know, came up to us and gave us some food. We wanted to get to the Ural mountains. Before our departure from Dnepropetrovsk I received the address of the place where my parents had moved; Fima let me know that address. So, we went to that place. We were put on a train wagon that carried prisoners before us. There were so many lice that when we reached our destination we did not enter the house. My father threw away all of our clothes, while my mother brought us everything she could find for us to wear, including underwear. So, only when we were clean we entered the house. It was in the town of Perm, which was then Molotov. My father worked there. Outside Molotov there was village Ioranchi with a camp for prisoners. My father was the chief of that camp. My father had wonderful organizational skills.

Most of prisoners were put in jail for political reasons – on suspicion of espionage, anti-Soviet activities, bringing harm to the nation. All of them were certainly absolutely innocent, but it was such a time when anyone could get in jail so that others would get scared. These people were of different professions. There were many medics, intellectuals, artists, actors, authors. I remember the name of one doctor, Simon, from Moscow. He was a quiet Jew, a noble man. My father made him chief of the medical unit of the camp. He had an assistant – a Jewish woman, Genya. There was a shoe shop in the camp, laundry, and other workshops. There was an amateur theater and prisoners performed wonderful concerts. Some prisoners were wonderful actors, former soloists of the best theaters of the Soviet Union. My father understood that these people were innocent, because many of our relatives suffered too. But he was unable to change the policy; it did not depend on him. However, he was a man of discipline, who had full trust in the Communist Party.
As a real member of the Security Committee since 1920 he had a double name. His party nickname was Davydov. In his documents he was Mlotok-Davydov.
We lived not far from the camp. We lived in a one-floor wooden house. We had a stove that we heated with woods and cooked on it. It was hard for my mother, a woman who never did that before. Then Kitusya, father’s sister with two children came to us. They were very thin, like dystrophic patients, and the girl had rash on her hands. But my mother knew how to cure that. They were behind their class at school. My mother sat with them and helped them study so that they would not lose that school year. She cooked at the same time. And she managed – they became normal children.
I never went to the territory of the camp. People could get there only by passes. I could never go there. I was very sorry for these miserable people. I never talked to the prisoners myself, but I heard stories about them from my father. In general, we did not go anywhere if we did not have to. Kitusya began to work as a secretary in a technical school. Father helped her get a room not far from us. Thus they survived that hard time and we certainly helped them. Sapozhnikovs, the family of my husband, also lived with us in the beginning, but then father helped them get a room too. But very soon Fima’s father died. He got infected at the barber’s and he had blood poisoning. He was only 54 years old. He was a very good man, an extremely kind man. He called me his daughter. My husband’s wife and a child remained. Fima sent them his documents which allowed them to get some money as the family of an officer, and thus they survived those hard times.

I did not spend a long time in Perm. In winter I went to Sverdlovsk springtime 1942. It was a very snowy winter. I could not cross the street before it was cleansed from snow. I learned that the Kiev Conservatoire had been evacuated to Sverdlovsk. The teachers recognized me and treated me well. I rented a part of a room. We studied in the premises of the Sverdlovsk Conservatoire. It was a wonderful building downtown, on Lenin Street. We had a life full of music. Famous pianists, actors, singers and musicians came there. We, students, performed in hospitals. We had to smile there. We were looking at those wounded soldiers wrapped in bandages, our souls cried out, but we had to sing and smile to them. Especially if we met somebody from Ukraine, we became like relatives to one another and tried to do whatever that other person desired from you. The military who formed tank divisions in Sverdlovsk came together in the Officers’ House. We performed a concert to them as well. And the next morning, we went to see them off, and when we were at the train station; it was very cold and frosty and we should not have sung, but we sang anyway. There were different people, including the Jews. But there was no anti-Semitism. And many Jewish boys were killed. When Kiev was liberated we had classes. We heard on the radio that Kiev was liberated. Both students and teachers hugged and kissed each other, jumping high. It was such a joy that I can’t even describe it. We were taken to Kiev. We were all happy. We went to see around the city. Kreschatik was in ruins. The captured Germans were clearing out the ruins. Some people got so mad at them that they spat at them right in the street. Kreschatik had been such a beautiful street, and they made it lie in ruins!
I kept up a correspondence with my husband. Every time I entered the conservatoire, a letter from him expected me. He continued to serve in the Far East.
When the Conservatoire returned to Kiev I was living in a dormitory. There were no windows after the war; all windows were blocked with boards. It was very cold; we had to play piano in gloves. We died from cold and hunger. There was also a band of gangsters at the time called “Black Cat”. They killed and robbed everyone. After every murder or robbing they left a sigh – a black cat. They came to us as well, but then saw that they could not take anything from us, students, and left. They did not each touch us. We shook from fear and cold. My friend Sofa and I slept together in one bed and covered ourselves with our two coats over the blanket. When we had to practice singing we went to the Conservatoire because they had some heating there. It was a horrible time.
My husband and I met in Moscow, accidentally. I was going to my parents to spend vacation there (my father remained to work in the Urals) from Kiev. I had to punch a ticket. I came to the student cashier, and saw him standing there. Moscow is so big, and we bumped into each other four and a half years after seeing each other for the last time. He was given a leave and he was going to find me. First we did not recognize each other. We had not had too much time together. He was smoking a cigarette and when he recognized me he dropped it. “Mirochka?” he asked. I said, “Yes”. He said, “We will never part again”. So, we went to my parents together. But first we spent two wonderful days in Moscow. It was 1945 – the war ended!
Can you imagine the joy my parents had when they saw us together? They liked him very much, because he was very cheerful, full of charm and kind. But I could not go to his base with him again. I was waiting for a special visa and then I went to him. At that time I was already pregnant with Lora when he left. But my pregnancy was not visible yet. In Vladivostok I even sang in a philharmonic society. Fima worked as the chief constructor at a shipbuilding works with huge naval ships. He was very talented. And his bosses characterized him in an excellent way. In our flat we had nothing, only an iron bed just like in dormitories, a small bedside table and a box in which I brought my belongings, which we used as a chair. But we had such a wonderful time together that we did not notice how empty it was in the flat. His friends and colleagues came over and we were happy to be alive, to see one another. We did not need anything else! I went to sing and Fima went to try his underwater mines. There was a custom that when sailors go into the sea they had to throw something away in order to get back safely. I did not know it before. Once, Fima came back with only one glove. I asked, “Where is another one?” He answered, “See, I am alive, my trials went well – I had to throw something away”. Another time he threw away his slipper.
I went to Molotov, to my parents when it was due time for me to deliver a child. My father occupied a very high office – deputy director of the main department of camps of prisoners (GULAG) in Molotov region. My husband accompanied me. Our tickets cost very much, so we were advised to “justify the means”. It meant that we had to do some commercial operation. But Fima and I were such bad “businessmen” that we lost rather than benefited from it. We bought a small barrel and fish to smear it; but there probably was a hole in the barrel because the fish got stinky and we were happy to get rid of it.

After the war

My parents had a big flat downtown. They welcomed me nicely. My older daughter, Lora, was born in 1946. The first delivery is always hard. But my beauty was born! She cried a lot. My parents would rock her all night long, but she was crying and crying.

In Vladivostok my husband submitted requests to be transferred to reserve, and finally he was allowed to. He had a choice: to live in Port-Arthur, Dantzig, Keningsberg, or Kiev. He certainly chose Kiev. We moved here and he was given a wok at a shipbuilding plant. This plant was located in Podol, near Dnepr. It used to be named after Stalin. Fima restored the diesel workshop of that plant. He stayed there day and night. I brought him meals there because he had no time to go home and eat, even though we lived nearby. I went back to the Conservatoire. There was no transportation, so I had to walk up the Voznesensky street from Podol. Lora was still young and I nursed her.
The flat of Fima’s parents had burned down. We lived in the dormitory of the plant. It was a big house; 12 neighbors had one kitchen. They treated me nicely because I had a baby. First we were given one room, then two. Before Stalin’s death all Jews were fired form such organizations as GULAG. My father retired on pension, then in 1949, my parents moved from Molotov to live with us. We had different neighbors. One was anti-Semite. When my father died and she saw all his awards she said, “Those kikes bought medals with money”.  Certainly this was not truth and all this understood. But general mood was against Jews and we  could not do nothing, therefore that protect us was certain, but live was necessary. Then my husband received a separate flat in Obolonskaya Street, in Podol. In 1951 my second daughter Nata was born.
The family was large: Fima’s mother, my parents, my husband and I and two children – seven people. Praise God, we had no quarrels. Fima’s mother could not see well. My mother would sit and read out loud and she would listen. They became very good friends. Then my father got very ill. He had three heart attacks and also he had stenocardia, so he could not breathe well. He smoked a lot and was very nervous and he died in 1954. He was buried with honors. He was on the list of honored Communists. He did not spend a lot of time in Kiev; here he spent time chiefly in the hospitals. He died at the age of 62 in 1954. In 1962 my mother died at the age of 67.
I did not work. My husband had a lot of important work. So, I did not sing. We had a very friendly family. Fima loved me very much. He said if he had another life he would have married me anyway.
I speak Yiddish but I cannot read it or write in it. My girls understood Yiddish because their grandmother, Fima’s mother, often spoke to me in Yiddish. When we had to conceal something from our kids my husband and I also spoke Yiddish. We cooked Jewish meals; stuffed fish, hen with prune, salad with cheese and garlic, bean with onion, we make motzebrai from matzos, stuffed fish, and Jewish roast meat, and others at home and bought matzos in the synagogue every year. We keep post in Yom Kippur and celebrated other holidays. Light candles at Saturdays, in Pesakh, go to synagogue and do not eat bread, only matzos. I considered grandmother’s age, and when she returned from synagogue I always knew what to cook for her. I tried to please her all the time and she was pleased. She could not see well, she had three eye surgeries. I treated her in such a way that some of our neighbors thought she was my mother. I still like Jewish dishes.
We certainly felt anti-Semitism, especially Fima. His boss was an illiterate Ukrainian man, who could only sign all the technical documents that Fima made. Fima never was a chief because he was a Jew. When he went to Czechoslovakia, we were all surprised that he was allowed to go outside this country.
First Lora and then Nata followed their father’s steps – they graduated from the shipbuilding Institute, economic department.
Lora got married at an early age. Her son Yura was born. In order to help my daughter we took full care of our grandson. Today Yura is 34 years old. He is a very good boy. He is a businessman. Lora’s family life failed – she divorced. Then she got married again and gave birth to a daughter – Sveta. Today, Sveta is 18 years old. She lives in Jerusalem, Israel. She is already married. Nata moved to live abroad. Many young people were moving and she also decided to go to America. At those times it was considered treachery. She concealed from us the fact that she decided to leave. It happened in 1979, and Nata was afraid that her father would not let her go. Fima was a Communist Party member and occupied a high office. She and her husband took English classes in secret, while Lora and I babysat her child, Gena, at home. He was less than two years old then.
I learned about her plans accidentally when they were on the go. I had to prepare Fima to give them permission. He loved her very much, as well as his grandson. He told me, “My God, I will never see her again! But if she wants to go, I can’t hinder her, let them go”. He was ill at that time – he had a bad case of adenoma. So, he gave Nata permission. Soon after that he was summoned to the district committee of the Communist Party and was ordered to return his party ticket. He threw his ticket into their faces. What else could he do? He cried as a child. He could not even see them off because he was ill. But in his heart he felt that he would never see her again. Later we got a postcard from Italy: “How wonderful that I was born Jewish! I could finally see the beauty of the world!» 
Fima got into hospital. I spent 4.5 months there with him. Lora and I raised him up. He lived ten more years. He retired and got very interested in drawing. Our whole flat was full of his pictures. He also played chess very well. He missed Nata very much. Fima died in 1990. He wanted to go see our daughter in America; he was even willing to cover his travel expenses, but Nata’s husband, Mark Ostrovsky, did not want to send him invitation, beside us never come in well relations. Nata loved him and did everything he said. But when Fima died she sent me an invitation. I went to see her. I had not seen her and her child for 14 years! But I did not stay there for a long time; I was drawn home. They would go to work and I would stay home all day long, with their dog. I could not talk to anyone; even their dog did not understand Russian. Nata’s son is graduating from college this year. In summer they are planning to come and see us. She wants to show him where he was born, his motherland.

Lora is working in “Khesed”, which is a Jewish charity organization. She works as a curator. She takes care of the elderly Jews. I am very proud of her and very pleased with what she is doing. She brings me Jewish press to read, and I read all papers and magazines. I always look forward to novelties. I am very interested in them. I watch closely all developments in Israel. Unfortunately, I’ve never been there: first I was not allowed, then I could not afford myself. I am a great patriot. If I were younger, I would go there, but unfortunately my years have passed. Day by day is passing. I’m scared to go there now. But I had such plans when I was younger, to be honest. But now I just need to live the rest of my life – I am 81 years old already.