Travel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucharest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going to school

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glossary:

1 Gheorghiu-Dej, Gheorghe (1901-1965)

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

2 10th of May (Heroes’ Day)

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

3 King Carol I

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

4 King Ferdinand I

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

5 King Carol II (1893-1953)

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

6 King Michael (b

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

7 Caragiale, Ion Luca (1852-1912)

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

8 Eminescu, Mihai (1850-1889)

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

9 Legionary

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

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

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

11 Iron Guard

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

12 Codreanu, Corneliu Zelea (1899-1938)

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

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

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

14 Legionary rebellion

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

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

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

16 23 August 1944

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

17 Patrascanu, Lucretiu (1900-1954)

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

18 Sebastian, Mihail (Hechter, I

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

19 Ceausescu, Nicolae (1918-1989)

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

20 Romanian Revolution of 1989

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

Alice Klímová

Alice Klimová

Alice Klímová

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

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

Kazeta č. 1, strana A:

B: Tak, nevím od jakého začátku chcete?

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

B: Dobře.

A: Vy se jmenujete Alice Klímová?

B: Ano.

A: A rodné jméno?

B: Justitzová. Psáno německy. Jo?

A: Ano.

B: Justitzová.

A: A kde jste se narodila a kdy?

B: V Praze. 5.7.1928.

A: A kromě Prahy jste žila někde jinde ještě?

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

A: A vaším mateřským jazykem je co?

B: Čeština.

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

B: Ano.

A: Máte nějaké sourozence?

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

A: A jak se jmenovala?

B: Emílie. Provdaná Passová. Dvě „s“.

A: A kdy a kde se narodila?

B: V Praze. 22.listopadu 1922.

A: A zemřela tedy kdy?

B: 5.6.1981.

A: A váš manžel?

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

A: On je židovského původu?

B: Ano.

A: A jeho mateřský jazyk?

B: Taky čeština.

A: A žije ještě?

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

A: A nějaké děti máte?

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

A: Ano, to taky.

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

A: Egemová?

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

A: A máte vnoučata? Kolik a jaké?

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

A: Všichni? A váš tatínek se jmenoval jak?

B: Bohumil.

A: A kdy a kde se narodil?

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

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

B: Ano, matka taky.

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

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

A: Jako u nich doma? U matky?

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

A: Tak jste se to alespoň naučila.

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

A: A jakou práci dělal tatínek?

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

A: A měl nějaké sourozence?

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

A: Pamatujete si jak se jmenovali, třeba?

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

A: Jo a psáno Moravitzová?

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

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

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

A: No, když tak potom někdy ještě.

B: Jo? Já to někde myslím mám.

A: A tatínek přežil válku?

B: Ne.

A: Nepřežil.

B: On tam zemřel.

A: A kde zemřel?

B: V Osvětimi.

A: V kterém roce?

B: Prosím?

A: V kterém roce?

B: 1944. 28.září 1944.

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

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

A: A z maminčiny strany teda?

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

A: Babička zemřela kdy?

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

A: Maminka měla nějaké sourozence?

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

A: Maminka zemřela kdy teda, v kterém roce?

B: 1.října 1944.

A: Taky v Osvětimi?

B: Ano.

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

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

A: Jo?

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

A: A oni byli o kolik starší?

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

A: Tak stručný rodokmen teda je.

B: Dobře.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A: A nevíte třeba jak byli nábožensky založeni?

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

A: A sestře ne?

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

A: A chanuku jste slavili?

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

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

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

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

B: Ne, ne. Bohužel Vám nepomůžu.

A: Tak to nevadí.

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

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

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

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

B: Ano.

A: Tak o nich víte co teda?

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

A: Tady v Praze někde?

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

A: A ještě jako když měla vás už?

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

A: A jak to tam vypadalo v tom velkoobchodu?

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

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

B: Jo.

A: A pak se s tím stalo co?

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

A: A mohla by jste mi nějak dědečka popsat?

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

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

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

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

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

A: Aha.

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

A: Jo?

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

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

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

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

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

A: Asi bych musela vidět ty obrázky teda.

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

A: V Terezíně?

B: Ano.

A: A ona se teda taky nevrátila?

B: Ne. Jsem to někomu půjčila.

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

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

A: Ještě, ještě jak dědeček vypadal?

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

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

B: Až potom dohromady, dobře.

A: A tak babičku, kdyby jste mi popsala.

B: Babička, menší, hodná.

A: Veselá, živá nebo tak?

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

A: Na té Sokolské?

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

A: A trávily jste spolu hodně času?

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

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

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

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

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

A: A teď tam teda nic není?

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

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

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

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

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

A: A ona taky pletla jako ta její sestra.

B: Nepamatuju si, to si nepamatuju.

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

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

A: A byl dědeček nějak orientovaný, politicky?

B: To netuším.

A: A nebo babička, v nějakých organizacích?

B: Myslím, že ne.

A: A oni košer taky nějak?

B: Taky ne. Ne.

A: A jinak chodili nějak pravidelněji do synagogy?

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

A: To jste měli českou?

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

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

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

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

B: Jo, o tři roky.

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

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

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

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

A: Tak možná my jsme takový zastaralý kraj.

B: A to je kde.

A: No, na Jižní Moravě, pod Brnem.

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

A: Tam jste chodila?

B: Ano.

A: A sestra taky?

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

A: A byla přísná na Vás?

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

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

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

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

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

A: A kdy že dostanete?

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

A: A co maminku třeba zase bavilo?

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

A: A brali vás také do divadla?

B: Ne.

A: Ani na nějaké dětské představení?

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

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

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

A: Pořád?

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

A: Pro sestru to platilo taky?

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

A: A kde se vaši rodiče vlastně seznámili?

B: Kde? Tak to nevím.

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

B: Ne.

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

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

A: A kde ho měl?

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

A: A jak to bylo velké ten podnik?

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

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

B: Jediný.

A: A chodila jste se tam někdy podívat?

B: Jo, velmi často.

A: Jak to tam vypadalo?

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

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

B: Na těch Vinohradech?

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

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

A: Ano.

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

A: No, to bych ráda.

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

Kazeta š. 1, strana B:

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

A: A chytli vás někdy?

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

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

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

A: A proč jste se přestěhovali z té sokolské?

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

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

B: V tý Sokolský?

A: Ano.

B: no, tak děti už, to znamená moje matka, byly už dospělý, co já si vzpomínám, že jo, provdaný. Tak no asi jo. Říkám moje sestra se tam narodila tak asi matka s tím mým strýcem tam pravděpodobně taky bydleli.

A: ještě jsem se vlastně chtěla zeptat jaké měl tatínek vzdělání?

B: Nevím přesně, to jako si nejsem jistá. Maminka určitě maturitu měla. Jestli otec, tak to si nejsem jistá.

A: Maminka to měla na gymnáziu¸ nebo jinde?

B: Jo, pravděpodobně. Jestli nějaký Lyceum, nebo jak se to nazývalo, to nevím. Jo? To nevím. Ale jak říkám, určitě měla maturitu a měla tu, státnici na filosofické fakultě z angličtiny.

A: A jak se dostala k angličtině?

B: No, proč ne?

A: No, to je pravda. A tatínek v první světové válce byl kde na frontě?

B: Nevím. Jako mě to nikdy nenapadlo se ptát. Vás by napadlo se ptát jako osmi, desetiletá holka?

A: Ne.

B: Jo. Takže.

A: No, já jenom kdyby náhodou o tom nemluvili třeba.

B: No. Se sestrou se bavil mnohem víc. To já vím. Říkám, byla o těch šest let starší, takže to já vím že tam se jako bavili velice často. No a mě v životě nenapadlo nějak se jí vůbec na co ptát protože mě stejně tak nikdy nenapadlo že tak brzy umře, že jo. Jí bylo padesát osm. To jako bych nikdy nepředpokládala. Člověk je vždycky chytrej až když je pozdě. Dneska bych měla sto a tisíc otázek na ni. To už bohužel nedoženu.

A: A jak jste spolu vycházely jako děti?

B: No, jak říkám, jako děti jsme se každou chvilku rafaly hádaly a nadávaly, protože ona měla červenej penál a ještě k tomu na zip. A já ho měla hnědej a na zip nebyl. Tak takovýhle hlouposti mi vadily, i když můj byl z mnohem lepší kůže. No, ale já byla jako malý dítě věčně nemocná, nějaký ty chřipky a bronchitidy a tak dále. V ten okamžik ta by mi byla snesla modrý z nebe. Většinou to byly nějaký takový skleněný figurky nebo něco. Tak to jsme se milovaly, no jen mi bylo dobře, tak už jsme zase byly v sobě. Ale v momentě, když jsem byla, když jsme byly v Anglii, já si nevzpomínám, že bychom se byly někdy pohádaly. A to už mi byla více matkou než sestrou. A bylo nás víc, co měli třeba sestru nebo nějakýho sourozence v Anglii, ale já myslím, že nikdo neměl takovou sestru jako já. Ta byla naprosto jedinečná, jak se starala o mně.

A: A jaká byla povahově?

B: Jak říkám, zlatej člověk. Ne jenom ke mně. Jo. Mimořádně hodná. Ta by se rozdala na všechny strany, ale jestliže z nějakého důvodu někdo se jí znelíbil, tak prostě byl odepsanej. Jo? Prostě už s tím člověkem nekomunikovala. Jo? Při její, buď černý nebo bílý, jo? Ale říkám, doslechla se, že někomu není dobře, tam mu šla něco napéct a už to tam nesla a koukala co může zařídit, pomoct, a tak dále. Ale kolikrát na úkor vlastní rodiny, že jo. Protože v těch poválečných letech nebylo nic. A my měli dvakrát nic, že jo. Ale ta by se byly rozdala na všechny strany.

A: A co ji třeba bavilo?

B: Ta se velice zajímala o literaturu. To vím, že dostávala kapesné, které si ušetřila a nechala si třeba za ty peníze svázat Jiráska v kůži. Jestli by to udělala dneska ještě, to teda pochybuji. Jo? Ale tehdy jako jo. Ta byla skutečně, bych řekla, velice taková všestranná. A říkám, co se týče tý hudby, my jsme byly opravdu, jak se říká, ten hluch. Ale o tu hudbu se zajímala. Převážně bych řekla tu literaturu. Na sporty nebyla, to určitě ne. Mě nic nenapadá.

A: Maminka hrála taky na klavír?

B: Ne.

A: A tatínek taky na žádný nástroj?

B: Ne.

A: A vás bavilo co, když jste byla malá?

B: v podstatě nic moc. Já vím, že rodiče byli zoufalí, že jsem se neměla ke čtení. Já jsem nějak nechtěla číst. A až pak, nevím jak se mi dostalo do ruky, to dodnes vzpomínám. Knížka, která se jmenovala „Irča vede jedenáctku“, autorka nějaká Hüttlová. A byly to takový ty dívčí románky.

A: Já jsem to četla taky, tohle.

B: Jo? To ještě existovalo?

A: No, já jsem nevěděla co mám dělat. Byla jsem jednou někde, asi u babičky, jsem to tam někde vyhrabala.

B: Jo. Tak to mě chytlo. A tak jsem postupně pak začala trošku číst. Díky tomuhle tomu. Jo? A dneska si neumím představit život bez knížky, že jo. Ale tehdy mě to nějak… No, nějak si nepamatuju. Já jsem byla furt, jak říkal tatínek „ty seš víc na rukou a na hlavě, než na nohou“, věčně jsem někde hopsala, nějaký ty stojky a hvězdy a todle, takhle jsem se vyblbla. Ale nějaký vyhraněný zájmy jsem nějak jako neměla.

A: Jako v rytmice, tam to?

B: No, tam. Ale, já nevím, jako kdekoliv, když jsme byli někde venku, že jo. Hlavně v létě, na tý trávě. Tak to jsem tam někde takhle se snažila se vyblbnout.

A: A jak se tam bydlelo, na Vinohradech?

B: Krásně.

A: Tak mi to nějak popište. Jak to bylo dostupný.

B: No, ono dodnes, jo, to je tak zvaná vilová čtvrť. Jo? Velice příjemný prostředí, jak mám vždycky tu představu, že to bylo takový prosluněný, světlý. Jo? Nějak ty zimy se mi vymazaly z paměti. Vždycky člověku utkví v paměti to příjemný a milý, že jo, než to záporný. Dostupný. No tak, já vím, že jsme chodili pěšky třeba až na Václavák. To tehdy bylo docela běžný. Jo? Když si pomyslím. Nebylo to tak daleko od Flóry, a jít ten kus pěšky, to dneska by asi málo kdo udělal. Ale my jsme to jako, neříkám často, ale docela, prostě, nebylo to nic mimořádnýho. Jo? To jako rozhodně se chodilo víc tehdy všude než dneska. Pravda, že, myslím v roce 1937, to bylo, že pak tatínek měl auto. No, ale to jezdil on do práce a z práce a my, pokud se jezdilo někam v neděli ven. Jo? Poněvadž jako, tak jak je to dneska běžný, ani omylem, to jako neexistovalo tehdy. Že jo? No, říkám, bydlení tam bylo velice příjemný. Dneska je to to, co jako bylo po těch schodech dolů už ty Vršovice, tak tam byla ještě celá řada takových volných strání. Já vím, že jsme tam chodili sáňkovat třeba v zimě. To je všechno zastavený dneska. Jo? To už jako není. No a pak u tý školy, že jo, tam byly parky. Já vím, že se se mnou chodilo dost často do těch, do Riegrových sadů třeba, že jsme chodili. Takže tam jako bylo kam chodit na ty procházky. A chodilo se. Ne jako dneska. Rozhodně víc. Prostě takový příjemný.

A: A do Prahy, jako do města, jste se dostala často?

B: Tak dvakrát týdně jsem chodila na tu rytmiku, to jo. A to vždycky před tím, mě maminka vzala k cukráři a koupila nám věneček, žloutkovej.

A: Tak na nervy.

B: Asi. No, já byla hlavně strašně mlsná. Říkali mi taky Lízo, to nevím jestli to byla nějaká, jestli, že jsem všechno musela vylízat. Nebo mlsná koza Líza. A nebo jestli to byla nějaká zkratka jako Alice, ta Líza, to nevím jak jsem k tomu přišla. Jinak nevím, tak jako. Tak šlo se někdy do toho města, jako. Ale mimořádně často, to bych neřekla.

A: A když jste bydleli kousek od té „Orionky“ bylo to cítit?

B: Jo, to maminka říkala: „když budete holky hodny, tak smíte jít okolo a čuchnout si“. Jo, to bylo cítit. To bylo cítit. A před tou „Orionkou“ tam stál takovej vozík a prodával ovoce. A na cestu jsme dostaly, já už si nevzpomínám kolik, asi padesátník, korunu, si koupit nějaký ovoce do školy. No a po válce jako já jsem dlouho neměla odvahu jít okolo toho domu. A pak jednou v roce 1947, byl ten mládežnickej festival, no, zkrátka nějak jsme tam dělali dlouho večer a já jsem bydlela tehdy na Hanspaulce a nic nejezdilo, to noční tramvaje nebyly ještě. Tak kamarádka bydlela právě v tý Ruský, blízko a říká „tak pojď přespat k nám“ a musela jsem jít právě kolem toho baráku. Ona to nevěděla. No nic. To jsem překonala a ráno, když jsem se vracela, tak tam byl pořád ještě ten stánek s tím ovocem. A ten prodávající povídá: „tak co dělá sestra?“. Mě spadla čelist a povídám: „Odkud víte, že mám sestru?“. „Vždyť jste tady bydlely a chodily jste každý den.“ On mě poznal. Já jeho samozřejmě ne. Věděl, že rodiče jako zahynuli. A že prostě sestra a já jsme zůstaly. Takže to jsou taky takový drobný vzpomínky.

A: Jo to jo, no. A co vás bavilo ve škole? Chodila jste ráda do školy?

B: Ale no tak, jo, snad jo. Já bych spíš řekla co mě nebavilo. To byly ruční práce. To, v žádným případě. A vzpomínám jako dnes, že v páté třídě jsme museli dělat ažuru, nějakou zástěru, jednoduše, a tadyhle byl řádek ažury. A já jsem byla úplně nemožná. Tak, no, vzala jsem to domů, no a maminka byla stejně tak neschopná. Nicméně mi s tím nějak pomohla. Jo? Ale rozhodně to nebyl můj oblíbený předmět. Tělocvik snad byl nejoblíbenější. A krasopis, ten jsem taky nemilovala. Jo? Ale jinak celkem tak nějak. Jsem to v průměru absolvovala. Asi tak.

A: A učila jste se dobře?

B: No, tak premiantka jsem nebyla. Vždycky tam byla tak jedna až tři dvojky, asi tak. Určitě ty ruční práce a ten krasopis. Takhle. Samozřejmě tehdy byly jenom dívčí a chlapecký třídy. Že jo.

A: Jaké jste měla kamarádky?

B: Kamarádky. To byla Alena Hromádková. Její otec byl vrchní, ježíš, já nevím jak se to nazývá. Českobratrská církev. Co je jako vrcholnej ten.

A: Nemají oni biskupy?

B: Biskup snad nebyl. Já nevím. Každopádně byl něco v tom. A taky už byl ohrožený, právě z této funkce, hned po okupaci. Vím, že bydlela v Moravský, což byla souběžná ulice s tou naší školou. A ta už odjela v dubnu 1945, celá rodina. Jeli do Švýcarska a odtud pak do Ameriky. Já vím, že se pak vrátili, ale. I když jsem se nějak snažila, jsem se jí nikdy už nedopátrala. Další byla Věra Vrbenská. O jejím osudu jsem se dozvěděla vlastně až po válce. Její otec byl zakladatel, myslím, socialistické strany, nebo něco takovýho. A oni měli nějakou vychovatelku a ten otec se s tou vychovatelkou zapomněl. Ale říkám, to jsem se dozvěděla až po válce. A ta Věra je právě, vlastně to byla dcera tý vychovatelky. No a ten otec její s tou legální manželkou, ještě měla bratra, ti jeli do Moskvy. A já mám takový dojem, že on tam snad nějak zahynul za války. Na nějakou nemoc, nebo co. A ta Věra s tou, co by vychovatelkou, ty žily řadu let za války v ilegalitě. Ve sklepě. A nějak přežily. No a shodou okolností po válce jsem ještě chodila dva roky na střední školu. To bylo v Dejvicích, tak zvaná repatriantská třída. No a ta Věra tam byla taky. Takže jsme opět seděly vedle sebe, no. A pak byla ještě jedna kamarádka a s tou jsme jely společně do té Anglie.

A: Takže židovka, byla?

B: Ano.

A: A ty ostatní byly židovky nebo nebyly?

B: Ne, ne, ne. Byly tam asi. Ještě vím, že tam byla nějaká Dorantová.

A: Od vás ze třídy?

B: Ano. Ta nepřežila. A Růžena Železná. Ta přežila. To je co si pamatuju. Nikoho nenapadlo jako tohle nějak rozlišovat. Ještě co se týče tý Růženy, s tou Zuzkou, která byla jako taky v tý Anglii. Pak jsme se nějak úplně ztratily. No a úplně náhodně jsme se pak zase setkaly, my jsme odjížděly 29.června 1939, a 29.června 1989, čili přesně po padesáti letech, jsme se znova setkaly.

A: A cíleně nějak?

B: No, tak našly jsme se. Jo? A to datum bylo, více méně, náhoda. Jo? Ale pro obě nesmírně významný. Jo? No a protože, ona už, více méně, zapomněla česky. Protože byla jenom v anglickém prostředí a rodinách. Tak přinesla sebou nějaký dopisy. A mezi nimi právě dopisy, hned po válce co dostala, od tý Růženy. A z toho jsme se dozvěděly, že ona přežila koncentrák a my obě zíraly, ona to musela být židovka teda. Že jo. To jsme nevěděly. To si takhle kamarádky člověk nevyhledává, jestli je žid nebo ne. Ta přežila.

A: A přátelé vašich rodičů byli židi, nebo nebyli židi?

B: Většinou jo. Já bych řekla, že jo.

A: A tady jste říkala, že za vámi chodili nejčastěji. Kdo to byl?

B: Jmenovali se Kasovi. Jestli vám to něco říká.

A: Ne.

B: No, těžko. Protože jako.

A: A měli nějaké děti?

B: Ne.

A: Jo, to jste říkala. A přežili?

B: Přežili. No, přežili.

A: A jak to tak na tatínka přišlo s tou ledvinou?

B: To nevím. Jestli to byl nějakej průstřel nebo co, to nevím.

A: A byl dlouho doma?

B: To si vůbec nepamatuju. A tak když já jsem se narodila určitě ne. No a jestli hned po válce, nebo co. To nevím.

A: No a chodili jste třeba na nějaké vlety s rodiči? Nebo ne?

B: V létě. To určitě. Protože celé prázdniny jsme vždycky byly někde venku, to pronajali někde nějakou místnost nebo dvě, že jo. A tam jsme byli. A to když bylo pěkně, tak jsme byli vždycky u vody. Já spíš ve vodě od rána do večera. A když počasí jako na to nebylo, tak to jsme dělali výlety na dost dlouho. To vím.

A: A kam jste třeba jezdili?

B: No, první vzpomínky jsou na Dobříš. A pak hlavně Malá skála. Tam po tom Českým ráji jsme toho jako prochodili dost.

A: A jezdili jste tam jenom vy? Nebo ještě někdo, jiná rodina?

B: Vím, že ještě jedna rodina právě. S těma jsme jezdili. Tak jednak aby, tatínkové byli v Praze v práci, že jo, tak maminky jednak aby měly společnost a my děti taky. Že jo. No a ta rodina, s kterou my jsme jezdili. Nevím jak rodiče na ně přišli. Já si je pamatuju od nepaměti. Ti měli dvě holky. Ta starší byla stejně stará jako moje sestra. A ta mladší byla, myslím, o rok starší než já. Já jsem se s tou svojí docela dobře kamarádila, snášela. Sestra tu jejich moc ne. Ale zajímavější byli rodiče. Ta maminka byla židovka. Otec nikolivěk, ale ještě k tomu to byl němec. Myslím. Jo? Ale jako rodina byli perfektní. No a vzpomínám si, že, já nevím jestli do bylo šestnáctýho, sedmnáctýho března. Čili den, dva po okupaci. Jo? Hned. Že mě tatínek vzal, a šli jsme se podívat tam, kde oni bydleli. Oni bydleli kousíček jak bylo kino Flora. Teďka je tam ta pojišťovna, že jo, kousek. Tak Velehradská se to jmenuje. A jenom se šel tatínek podívat jako do oken, kde bydleli a tam visel hákovej kříž. Tak to, tudletu hrůzu jako vidím ještě dneska. To mi nikdo nemusel moc vykládat a vysvětlovat, ale hákovej kříž, to bylo, prostě, největší nepřítel, samozřejmě. Jo? A to jsem prostě nebyla schopná pochopit a polknout. Že jo? No, jak po válce jsem se dozvěděla, že jeho měli k tomu aby se rozved a on to odmítl. Jo? Čímž vlastně zachránil tu manželku i ty holky. Jo? Ta manželka, myslím, to byl únor 1945 a ty holky snad taky, šly do Terezína. Poslední tři. No, nicméně samozřejmě přežily. Jo? Ale pro mě, jak říkám, to byl šok. Protože to vidím dodnes. Vlajka vlála. No a když jsem k nim přišla. Nevím jestli to bylo po mým návratu, ale přišla jsem tam na Vánoce 1945, nebo kolem Vánoc. Protože k nim jsme chodili na ten stromeček. A taky když se vstoupilo, měli takovou halu. A to bylo před válkou, po válce. Vždycky tam měli takovej velikej stůl. A teď koukám a na tom stole byla, něco mezi ubrusem a dekou, co se dávalo na jídelní stoly. Takový ty brokátový ty. No a to tam bylo, to bylo mojí maminky. Jo? No a ještě, maminka měla takovou krabici na šití, jak se to takhle otvíralo. Jo? To tam taky bylo. Povídám: „jé, to je maminky!“. Kdyby měli tu duchapřítomnost aspoň to tam nedat, když věděli, že přijdu. Jo? „To nám dala maminka, abychom jim posílali balíky, když jeli do Terezína.“ Možný to je. Asi jo. Jestli je posílali nebo ne, já nevím. Jo? Mě jenom strašně vadilo, že to tam nechali, když věděli, že přijdu. Jo?

A: A ani vám to potom nějak nedali nazpátek?

B: Ne, vůbec ne, ne. Fotografie jsem od nich dostala. Ty nepotřebovali.

A: Aha. Takže rodiče to schovali všechno k nim?

B: No všechno ne.

A: No, jako to co chtěli nějak zachránit?

B: Já nemám tušení co tam nechali. To nevím. Jo? Já, byla jsem, a asi už zůstanu, strašně naivní. Protože. Vím, že když jsem. Sestra se vrátila z Anglie asi o tři měsíce dřív jak já. No a ta zjišťovala jestli někdo přežil a kde co je. A zřejmě, to mi došlo až tak během šesti let, možná, že musel být nějaký dopis. Asi u těch Škodů, kde jsme bydleli. Bych to tak tipla. Kde maminka, tatínek nebo oba popisovali u koho co je. Jo? Protože sestra mi říkala, že byla tam a tam a tam a každý odmítl něco vydat. Cokoliv. Jo? Proto já říkám, to mi došlo až po x letech, odkud věděla, že ty věci tam jsou. Jo? Takže když mi nevydali tady i krabičku na šití, jo, tak to je samozřejmě prkotina. Takže. Tak asi takhle.

A: Takže potom se vám vrátily po válce jen ty fotografie?

B: V podstatě fotografie, ale, což je úplný unikát, tady ta Míšeň. Ty hrníčky. Jo? A sice to můj strýc věnoval mamince jako svatební dar. Celou jídelní soupravu Míšně pro dvanáct osob. To bylo v době inflace v Německu a bylo to „za babku“. Jo? Strýček byl fotograf, chemik, doktor chemie, fotograf. A pravděpodobně ho ilegálně zaměstnal nějaký fotograf na „Tyláku“, na Tylově náměstí. Protože nesměli zaměstnávat židy. V roce 1946, já už nevím jak na nás přišli, ale přišel nějakej takovej pikolík, asi šestnáctiletej, že pracuje u toho fotografa tam a tam, a abychom tam přišli, že tam pro nás něco má. No, tak jsem se tam vydala, no a ukázalo se, že zřejmě to byl strýček, který tam dal tohleto. Jo? A ještě tam byly dvě Míšeňský figurky a pár sklenic. Ty byly rozbitý. Ta paní schovávala i ty střepy. Jo? No, začala pátrat po válce, že, jestli strýček nebo moji rodiče nebo někdo přežil. A zjistila, že jedině sestra a já. Celej rok nás hledali. Jak nás našli to už nevím. Jestli jsem se vůbec ptala tehdy, to nevím. Až nás našli, aby nám mohli tohleto vrátit. A lidi, které jsme znali, věděli, že jsme se vrátili s holýma rukama, neměli jsme nic. Jo? Tak ti všechno zapřeli. Tohleto, říkám, to je naprosto unikátní, aby byl někdo takhle poctivej a dával si tu námahu. Já jsem tehdy chtěla tý paní dát ty dvě figurky, vím, že to byl nějakej pes a, myslím, kočka nebo oba psi, to už nevím. No, vzpomínám jenom, jak jsem se s ní až hádala, aby si to nechala. Jo? Protože já nemluvím o tý hodnotě. Když ale pro mě to bylo v podstatě jediný co jsme měli po rodičích, že jo. Takže to bylo něco tak mimořádnýho. Ale říkala „vždyť to máte po rodičích“. Řekla jsem: „tak mám tohle to, ale za to, že vy jste to takhle opečovávala a nás takhle hledala“. No, tak nakonec jsem jí to vnutila, že si tohle nechá. Ale říkám, to bylo naprosto ojedinělý, tohle to. Nebo moje učitelka na klavír, se kterou jsem se sešla. Ta zase s výčitkami svědomí povídala, že tatínek přišel za ní, jestli by mohl u ní nechat jeden prsten, prý nějakej. A ona říká: „já to odmítla, protože kdyby tohle u mě našli, tak jsem měla prostě strach a odmítla to“. No a byla celá nešťastná, že to odmítla, že aspoň to bychom byly měly. No ale už bylo pozdě. No a teď celá bezradná, že někdo jiný si k ní dal dvě kostky mýdla. A ty dotyčný se nevrátili. Co má dělat? Takže tu tam se našel někdo poctivý. Že jo? Ale bohužel velmi málo. Velice málo. No. Takže asi takhle jsme dopadli.

A: Vy jste teda byly jediní z rodiny, kdo se vrátil?

B: Jo.

A: A váš tatínek byl nějak politicky orientovaný?

B: Já nevím. Ale tušila bych, že trošičku tak nějak směřoval k tý levici. Jo? Pochybuju, že byl organizovaný. Vím, že byl členem svobodných zednářů, a ti rozhodně jako nebyli nějací levicoví, zase. Jo? Ale sestra, ta byla členkou jedné mládežnické organizace a ta byla velice levicově zaměřená.

A: Jak se jmenovala?

B: Roten Falken, se říkalo, jako rudí sokolové.

A: Aha. No, pan Auerbach říkal něco o rudých skautech, že on byl členem.

B: Tak to bylo něco jinýho, to nebyli skauti. Jo? Čili, když tohle jí dovolil, tak asi musel mít taky nějaký tyhlety, jak bych řekla, sklony nebo jak. Jo? Pochybuju, že byl organizovaný. Ale asi měl, řekněme, nazvěme to sociální cítění. Jo? No, v podstatě já jsem přes tuto organizaci se dostala do Anglie.

A: Přes ty Roten Falken?

B: Protože ten vedoucí jel do Anglie, tam se spojil s obdobnou organizací. A ten napsal takovej oběžník, s tím, že tady je celá řada dětí ohrožených, a že by bylo třeba je dostat do Anglie. A kdo je ochotný si nějaké to dítě vzít k sobě. Nevím proč, že limitovali tehdy věk mezi deseti až šestnácti, myslím. Jo? A sestře už bylo šestnáct a půl, takže já jsem jela místo ní. Jo? Když já odjížděla, tak vůbec nebyla řeč, že by jela ona. Čistě náhodou ona přišla až tím dalším transportem. Tak, jo? A pokud vás to zajímá. Tak, aby se naučila pořádně německy. Číst a psát. Tak ji rodiče dali potom na německé gymnázium. A v roce 1934, tam přišla nějaká dívenka z Berlína, protože tatínka zavřeli do koncentráku a on byl novinář. No a nějak se spřátelily ty holky. Já vím, že ona chodila k nám občas. A v létě, když jsme jeli na ten letní byt, že jela s náma. A tak. A tatínka pak pustili. Maminka byla dětská lékařka. A jeli do Anglie. Já vím, že když já jsem přijela, tak byli na nádraží, tam na mě čekali. A to jsem si po létech dala dohromady. Tím, že ona byla dětská lékařka, sestra tam přijela s tím, že půjde rovnou do nemocnice se učit jako ošetřovatelka. Čili to musela zařídit tahleta maminka tý lékařky, že jo. A tím se dostala sestra do Anglie, že jo. Protože podmínka těch dětských transportů byla, že každý to dítě muselo mít kam jít. Jo? A ještě zaplatit padesát liber. Kdo to zaplatil za ni já nevím, ani ne kdo za mě. To už je zase jiná věc. Takže sestra přijela hned tím dalším transportem po mě.

A: Taky s Wintonem?

B: Taky s Wintonem, ano. No, já když jsem odjížděla, tak jsem měla povoleno padesát kilogramů. Ona jela o osmnáct dní později a už mělo povoleno jenom dvacet. Takže ty podmínky, ale ve všem, velice přituhovaly, že jo. Takže třeba už bych byla nesměla na gymnázium, ještě bych ale byla směla na tak zvanou „měšťanku“. Že jo, ani to dlouho netrvalo. A židovský děti nesměly vůbec už chodit do školy, že jo. Nesměly chodit do parků, a já nevím, do kina, nikam prostě. Na žádná veřejná místa. To už jsme naštěstí nezažily. Tohle to.

A: A nějaké teda to zhušťování té atmosféry? Ano nebo ne?

B: Prosím?

A: A nějaké to zhušťování té atmosféry? Jako po té politické stránce. Že byl Hitler v Německu a tak? To jste vnímaly?

B: Vnímaly. Já jako ani ne jedenáctiletá pochopitelně do té míry zdaleka ne. Ale pamatuji si, že k nám chodil, jestli to byl nějakej študák nebo co, je to možný,prostě nějakej mladík, myslím, dvakrát týdně na obědy. Jo? čili buď ze Sudet nebo taky z toho Německa, po tý křišťálový noci, anebo, prostě vím, že to bylo od podzimu. Jo? taky. Mě to všechno docházelo až tak nějak zpětně. Jo? Pamatuju si jak dnes na ten patnáctý březen, byla to taky středa, jako teďka bude středa opět. Že jo? A tak trošku padal sníh. No a když jsme přicházeli k tý vodárně v tý Moravský ulici, tam, no, viděla jsem tanky. To v životě nezapomenu, když desetiletý dítě jde kolem tanku. A nemáte tušení proč a co. Jo? Když ty hlavně na vás míří. Jo? šla jste kolem těch německých vojáků. Teď ty čepice s tím kšiltem. No, nepůsobí to dobře. Rozhodně ne. Jo? Vím jak tehdy říkali jak vyjídali ty obchody. Hlavně šunku. Jo? jinak to, že se už se začínal zabírat některým židům i majetek, že museli přihlásit. Tak to mě rodiče neříkali. To mě jako nějak uchránili. Já jsem až, není to tak dlouho, v nějakých dokladech našla, že už tatínek musel, já nevím, přihlásit tu jeho továrničku nebo dílnu nebo co. Že jo. Že už se jednalo o tom, že tam bude nějakej ten jak tomu říkali ten Trojhändler, nebo co, ten správce, že jo. Tak to už se připravovalo. To jsem se dozvěděla až po mnoha a mnoha letech. Že jo. Ale už to bylo těsně před mým odjezdem. Že jo. Tak zřejmě dělali co mohli, rodiče, aby mě uchránili od všeho nepříjemného. Tak jako to, že když se naskytla ta možnost, že mám jet do tý Anglie, tak s úsměvem na tváří „to je ohromný, ty se máš, ty pojedeš do Anglie, to bychom taky chtěli, to určitě pojedeš k moři“, jo, prostě udělali z toho senzaci pro mě. A já jsem se těšila. Jo? Pochopitelně ani oni nemohli tušit, že už se neuvidíme. To nevím, jestli by byli takhle dokázali tohle to. A v podstatě když došlo k tomu rozhodování mají, nemají. Tak to byli zase ti jejich nejlepší přátelé, kteří je přesvědčovali, aby nás poslali. Jo? Protože říkali: „podívej se jak se zachovali v Rakousku k židům, co byla křišťálová noc v Německu, nemůžete čekat nic dobrýho, ať aspoň ty holky jsou v bezpečí“. Nebo to jsem byla tehdy jenom já, že jo. takže díky jim, že přemluvili rodiče, aby mě poslali. A oni tohle všechno dokázali s úsměvem na tváři to takhle naservírovat. Dneska, když se vžiju do tý jejich role, tak mi jde mráz po zádech, jak to dokázali. Takže, když někdo dneska přijde a řekne „Jéžiš, co ty sis musela všechno prožít.“. Říkám: „já, já vůbec ne, rodiče“. Já byla vždycky nějak chráněná. Já měla štěstí, že jsem přišla k hrozně dobrý rodině, mladý, milý. A celej život nade mnou měla ochrannou ruku moje sestra. Já jsem nepoznala, co to je nemít kolem sebe lásku. Což je strašně důležitý, že jo. neměla jsem ten pocit, že jsem nechtěná, nežádoucí, což ta moje kamarádka, se kterou jsem chodila do tý obecný, ta to měla. Ta přišla do rodiny, kde nebyla žádaná a chtěná. Jo?

A: A proč si ji tam vzali teda?

B: No, tak byl to hlavně on. A oni byli v domnění, tak na šest neděl. No a pak vypukla válka. Jo? a zřejmě ta manželka toho pána. Ta paní. Ta tomu tak nakloněná celá nebyla a asi ta trpěla nějakou poruchou duševní, že se chovala tak jaksi divně. Takže zdaleka ne, měl každý takový štěstí. Že jo.

A: A vaši rodiče se chystali emigrovat?

B: No, byli by rádi, kdyby to bylo možný. Ovšem to jako bohužel nešlo. Po okupaci. No, prostě nebyla možnost, že jo. Jednou, když už tady byla okupace, no tak každej se vzdal majetku a všeho možnýho, že jo. To bylo podplácení, podplácení. Dneska když slyším, že někomu se podařilo ještě v roce 1940 se dostat ven, jo. ale jim bohužel ne.

A: A někdo z vaší rodiny emigroval?

B: Jeden, jéžiš, jak byl příbuznej, maminka měla bratrance, sestřenici. Tak to asi bylo, jestli to byl bratranec z druhýho kolena nebo něco takovýho. Tak ten, nevím jak, skončil asi v Palestině a pak byl v severní Africe s naší armádou. Československou. A ti pak v roce 1943 se dostali do Anglie, že jo. A v roce 1944 pak do Francie a pak jako. Tak to snad jedinej. A ještě jeden přibližně stejně příbuzný. Jeden ten co by bratranec, jak říkám, z kdo ví, kterého kolena, ten přežil koncentrák.

A: Který koncentrák? Osvětim?

B: Asi. To nevím přesně.

A: A vy jste se setkala s nějakým antisemitským projevem ještě než jste odjela?

B: Ne. Já v podstatě ani před tím, ani nějak pak. Manžel jo. Já celkem ne, spíš tak bych řekla okrajově a velice tak v těch padesátých letech. Ale jako osobně v podstatě ne.

A: A sestra nebo rodiče nebo někdo z rodiny?

B: Sestra taky bych řekla že ne. No, rodiče tak ti to pocítili na vlastní kůži, na vlastním těle. Že jo.

A: No, ale před tím ještě?

B: To nevím, to nemůžu říct. To ne. Ale aby někdo vysloveně jako mi řekl „no jo, co vy židi..“ a vždycky hned něco tak to ne. To ne. Ještě tak možná, jak říkám, má to být vtip, že jo, někdo to i používá. „On je to žid, ale je to dobrej zubař.“ Jo? Tak to já říkám, to je takovej ten skrytej nebo nevinej antisemitismus. Že ty lidi si to ani neuvědomujou. Tak asi tak. Tak s něčím podobným možná. Jo? To jo. Ale v podstatě jedna kolegyně, se kterou jsem učila řadu let, i ta je trošku ten typ. Ale kdybych jí řekla, že je, že má sklony k antisemitismu, tak ta by se durdila, čertila a nikdy by to nepřiznala. Jo? Ale jednu, dvě poznámky tohoto typu jako utrousila. Jo? Ale jinak nemůžu říct.

A: A bylo to o vás tak jako známý, že jste židovka?

B: Já jsem se s tím nikde netajila. Jo, to jako. Dcera moje ta teda nosí hvězdu, i za totality. Já ne. Ale já jsem s tím nikdy tajnosti nedělala. Já se nemám za co stydět. Tak co by jste ještě ráda?

A: Ještě něco o tom vašem odjezdu do Anglie.

B: No, odjezd. Tak jak jsem říkala, že to bylo s úsměvem na tváři, kdy jsem dostávala nové šaty a podobně. Takže pro mě to bylo ohromě vzrušující. Já jsem se , jak říkám, měla na co těšit. No, ten poslední den, ten mám jako velmi živě v paměti. To byl 29.červen. Byl to čtvrtek a shodou okolností zrovna končila škola. Takže já jsem dodělala přesně pět tříd obecné školy. A blízko nás, kde jsme bydleli, asi před rokem nebo tak, tam začal prodávat někdo italskou zmrzlinu, která byla mimořádně dobrá. A maminka moje ta moc na sladký nebyla, ale tuhletu zmrzlinu od toho Itala, tu měla strašně ráda. No a já byla ten typ, který si vždycky všechno šetřil, kdežto sestra, ta všechno musela sníst hned, že jo, a tak. No, nic, takže jsme tam dost často chodili. A jako na rozloučenou mě vzala tam k tomu Italovi na zmrzlinu. Kde takovej velkej kopec stál korunu, takže to mě jako koupila a ještě k tomu se šlehačkou. A to byly dvě koruny. To bylo tehdy hodně peněz, že jo. Tak to jsme snědly tam, v té cukrárně. Nebo, to nebyla ani cukrárna jenom tu zmrzlinu tam prodával. No a pak odpoledne přišli se rozloučit právě ty drážďanský sestřenice. A kufr, ty zřejmě už byly nějak podány na nádraží. Jestli už, já nevím, den před tím, týden před tím. To nevím, to si nepamatuju. Jenom, že na cestu jsem měla ruksak, ovšem to se nedá srovnat s tím co je dneska. To byl jenom plátěnej pytel. No a mám v paměti, že babička mi dala na cestu půl kila meruňek. Což tehdy jako, ještě asi to byl dovoz nějakej, nebo co. No, takže na nádraží jsme šli asi v sedm hodin. Rodiče a sestra. Babička zůstala doma. S tou jasem se rozloučila doma. No a vidím ještě dnes, jak holčičky malý mačkaly panenky. A chlapečkové zase medvídky a tak dále, že jo. Někteří ti tatínkové se snažili ještě někomu honem nějaký anglický slovo naučit nebo podobně. A každej vždycky: „a piš!, a piš!“. Že jo. A pak najednou jsem tam viděla ty známý mých rodičů. Protože ti už žili v ilegalitě. Tak přišli na nádraží jednak se mnou rozloučit a žili každej sám už. Takže se tam setkali. To bylo těsně než odjeli do toho Polska. No a pak jsme jako postupně nastupovali do toho vlaku. Vím, že jsem seděla u okna. A každej jako, že jo, nataženej krk z toho okna pak. A jakmile se začal vlak, jak se dal do pohybu, tak najednou vidím, že se tatínek rozplakal. A moje poslední slova jemu bylo prostě: „Tati, nekrop tady a nedělej mi ostudu!“. No, tak to bylo poslední co jsem, já jsem řekla. To už se táta neudržel, že jo. Protože nikdo netušil na jak dlouho, kdy se vrátí.

Kazeta č. 2, strana A.

A: A sestřenice se nepokoušeli? Nebo jejich rodiče se nepokoušeli?

B: Ano, já jsem si to nějak neuvědomila, ale když jsem před lety procházela korespondenci co jsem dostávala do Anglie. Tak tam jsem našla dopis právě od strýčka, kde píše, že Věra dalším transportem přijede za mnou a bude v Newcastle. No a to je ten poslední transport, který už neodjel. Takže. Každej se snažil. No, každej. Devadesát pět procent. Že jo. Děti, dospělí. Ale ne každej měl to štěstí. Že jo. Tak to, zrovna to měl být jeden z největších transportů, asi dvě stě padesát nebo tři sta dětí a pokud vím, tak z toho snad nikdo nepřežil. Ona tam měla taky jet, no.

A: A co na to říkaly vaše kamarádky, že pojedete?

B: Nevzpomínám, nevzpomínám tohle. No tak, do jaký míry. Ty děti si taky nemohly uvědomit, co to je, když odjíždíte od rodičů do cizí země, kde neznáte jazyk. Nevíte ke komu. Nevíte kam. Akorát Anglie. Nebo Británie spíš. Že jo. Protože někteří byli i ve Skotsku. Či kde jinde. Tak to nevím. To si nevzpomínám. Opravdu. Jak na to reagovali.

A: A učila jste se před odjezdem angličtinu?

B: No, velmi krátce, ale že bych něco se byla naučila, to si moc nevzpomínám. Vím, že to bylo. Ten dům bych ještě měla popsat. Jo? Teď si nevzp. Pod „pavlákem“ kousíček někde. K nějaký paní jsem chodila. Velmi krátce. Takže dá se říct, že jsem neuměla nic. Asi tak. Že jo. Když chodíte jednou týdně půl roku, tak to nemůžete se zase tolik naučit.

A: A maminka se snažila vás něco naučit?

B: Ne. To si nevzpomínám. Ale to je to nejhorší. Učit vlastní děti.

A: no, a když ona měla teda tu státnici z angličtiny, tak pracovala nějak jakože něco s tím dělala?

B: Myslím, že ne. Jestli to uplatnila v tom velkoobchodě svýho otce, to nevím. Jestli to nějak i tak daleko šlo. To nevím. To si nevzpomínám. Nevím.

A: A vzala jste si něco takového typického, nebo, sebou do Anglie?

B: Co jsem si vzala, to byla Babička od Boženy Němcové, kterou jsem dostala na rozloučenou od tý mý učitelky na klavír. Tu mám dodnes. No, to jo. A jinak si nevzpomínám. Něco. Možná ještě nějaký ty knížky, to jo, ale jinak to bylo ve směs takový praktický. Oblečení asi.

A: A vy jste teda nevěděla kam pojedete?

B: Ne. Ne.

A: A jak jste se to dozvěděla?

B: No, až na místě. Až na místě. V podstatě až jsme dorazili. Tak nás bylo asi patnáct. Právě z té skupiny, že jo. Tam na nás čekal ten, řekněme, pražský vedoucí. I ten anglický a mí přátelé, teda přátelé mých rodičů. A jeli jsme. Východní část Anglie. Do jednoho tábora, abychom se trošičku aklimatizovali. Což bylo takový jako jejich dárek nebo něco podobnýho. Což bylo velice milé, pěkné. Spali jsme pod stanem. A protože já jsem odjížděla pár dní před svými narozeninami, tak tihle ti přátelé mých rodičů tam za náma, za mnou tam přijeli. A vím, že přivezli zmrzlinu. Ta byla velice podobná jako ta ruská zmrzlina v těch oplatkách. Tak to byl tehdy ten ….. Icecream. No a přinesli toho víc, aby bylo pro všechny. Tak to si vzpomínám, že nám strašně chutnalo. No a pak nás rozvezli po těch různých rodinách. Nebo jestli si přijely ty rodiny pro nás. To už nevím. No a protože rodina, ke které já jsem měla přijít ještě neměli postel pro mě. Takže jsem byla pár dní u jiné rodiny, která bydlela velice blízko a vzali si taky jednu tu dívku. Já myslím, že ona byla ze Sudet. Ale to není podstatný. Takže jsem byla tam několik dní. No a vzpomínám jak dnes, že jsem byla na záchodě a přijdu zpátky do pokoje a tahle ta, já myslím, že se jmenovala Lia nebo Lea nebo nějak tak, strašně plakala. A já povídám „co se děje?“. „Mě se stejská“. No, v tu ránu se mě stejskalo taky. Takže jsme měly duo, slzavé údolí. No, a obě dvě jsme napsaly zoufalý dopis domů, jak se nám stýská. A že přeplavu moře. A já nevím co všechno. Dopis jsem hodila do schránky a už mě bylo dobře, už jsem o ničem nevěděla. No, pár dní na to jsem dostala zoufalej dopis od maminky. Že jo. Celá nešťastná. Že si určitě zvyknu brzo. A že zatím tatínkovi dopis neukazovala. Že jo. No a teďka tetičky všechny psaly. Ať se uklidním. Říkám, já už jsem dávno o ničem nevěděla. Že jo. No tak tatínkovi ukázala ten dopis až když jsem začala psát zase normální běžný dopisy. Ale dítě si vůbec neuvědomí, co může způsobit. Co tohle to pro ty rodiče bylo. Protože nikdo mi vlásek nezkřivil. Nic. Jo? No a tak potom jsem přišla do tý svojí rodiny. Že jo. Ti byli velice mladí, hodní, milí. Měli čtyřměsíční mimino. Já měla svůj pokoj pro sebe, velkej, krásnej. Že jo. Už tam byla i ta postel. No, říkám, měla jsem štěstí. Byli to hrozně milí lidi. Navíc to nebylo daleko od Londýna. Takže tím pádem, jako, bylo možný se vídat se sestrou, která byla v tý nemocnici. A měla jednou za čtrnáct dní, teďka nevím, myslím, že celý den, volno. No, já jako dítě jsem jezdila jako na poloviční jízdný. A to bylo kousíček autobusem a pak už to bylo jenom podzemkou vlastně. I když to bylo předměstí Londýna. Že jo. Takže to jsme se každou druhou sobotu scházely. No a to mini, mini kapesné, které ona dostávala. Tak to všecko jako věnovala na mě. Buď do kina, na zmrzlinu nebo prostě. Aby mě vždycky udělala nějakou radost. Že jo. Což teda opravdu udělala. A při tom, jak jsem se po letech dozvěděla, tam měla hlad v tý nemocnici. Tak ne, aby si něco koupila na přilepšenou, tak to všecko investovala do mě. Že jo. No. No bohužel květen 1940. Ten odnesla ona hlavně. Protože já už jsem u té rodiny nemohla zůstat déle. Protože ten pán musel rukovat. Oni čekali další dítě. No a na mě by nedostali žádnou podporu. A ta podpora u těch vojáků byla tak malá, že měli co dělat z toho vyžít a ještě k tomu splácet hypotéku na dům. Takže jsem pak jela, se odstěhovala k jiné rodině a současně sestru vyhodili z nemocnice, coby cizinku. To byly výjimečný případy. No a ji to potrefilo. Takže ona byla na dlažbě. Doslova a do písmene. Že jo. No a podařilo se jí díky tomu všemu, jak měla málo jídla a ještě tohle, že si, jak se ukázalo asi o deset nebo více let později, že měla tuberu pak z toho. No. No takže. Já jsem pak přišla k jedné rodině. To byli čtyřicátníci. Bezdětní. Hodní, ale velice takoví, jak bych řekla, jednoduchý lidi. Kde sice jsem měla svůj pokoj, ale koupelna tam nebyla v tom baráčku.

A: Vůbec?

B: Ne. To se chodilo do společných nějakých těch lázní. Nebo něco takovýho.

A: Aha.

B: No a zřejmě v tom městě musela být velice silná židovská komunita. Protože se doslechli, že tam žije židovské dítě v nežidovské rodině. Což oni nemohli přenést přes srdce. Já klidně. Oni ne. No, takže se stalo, že jsem se tím pádem dostala do židovské rodiny. Cožpak to by nevadilo. Ale oni byli strašně ortodoxní. Jo? To už byli lidé tak kolem šedesátky. Původem to byli emigranti buď z Litvy nebo z Lotyšska. Ze sedmnáctýho roku. Jo? No a, říkám, já tohle jsem nebyla vůbec zvyklá. Já jsem znala jen ty nejzákladnější svátky. Ale tady. Vzpomínám, že v pátek odpoledne jsem musela třeba natrhat novinový papír na záchod, protože se nesmělo trhat ani. Jo? Kapesník se nesměl nosit v kapse. To se muselo uvázat takhle na zápěstí. Jo? No, takový detaily. Já v životě o tom neslyšela nic. Jo. No, tak jsem brzy se přizpůsobila, protože dítě ve dvanácti, ve třinácti, to je jak vosk, tvárný. A hlavně já byla přesvědčena, že když tohle budu všecko dělat a dodržovat, že zachráním rodiče. Jo? No, stalo se, že tam taky jsme byli vybombardovaní v baráku, v kterým jsme bydleli, že celá část toho domu byla zasažena. Takže jsme se vystěhovali jinam. No a teďka sestra chtěla, abych za ní přijela. Jo? A to bylo dost daleko od Londýna. Protože já měla poloviční jízdné a ona jako neměla na to, že jo. I když už mezi tím práci sehnala. No a ta rodina „kdepak, v zádným případě, Londýn je tak bombardovaný, to jako nemůžeme si dovolit vzít si na sebe“ že kdyby se něco stalo, že jsou za mě zodpovědní. A pořád ne, ne, ne, že to nejde. No až sestře zřejmě došlo, co je hlavní důvod, tak potom jednou napsala, že tam vedle ní bydlí nějakej rabín a u toho, že bych mohla bydlet, a abych přijela na Vánoce. Najednou to šlo. Jo. No. Takže jsem jela za sestrou na Vánoce do Londýna, byl to pátek večer. Pochopitelně vlaky zpoždění, za války, už tma. No, hned jsme se našly. Rok a půl jsme se neviděly. Možná ještě malinko víc. A první moje bylo: „tady mám kufry, odnes mi je“. Protože já jsem je nesměla nosit, ale ona židovka mohla. No, ta jenom lapla po dechu. No, popadla kufr, že jo. No a teď jsme přijeli. Ona bydlela v Hostelu takovým, s několika čechy. A teďka něco jíst. A povídám: „ne, to není košer“. „Co budeš jíst?“ „No, já nevím.“ Teďka utahaná, tak spát „zhasni, mi“. Já jsem nesměla zhasínat. Já jsem si z ní dělal poskoka, jo.

A: A ona to snášela?

B: No, všechno jako ha, ha, ha, chi, chi, chi, jo? Ale to byl předstíranej smích. Takovej z tý nervozity. Jo? Tak mě bylo třináct a půl a jí bylo devatenáct. A ona měla tuhle zodpovědnost vlastně, za mě. Jo? Tak ona jako předstírala smích, ale musela z toho být úplně zničená. Jo? No, ukázalo se, že, v uvozovkách, onen rabín. Říká vám něco jméno Lüben? To bývával velice známý pražský rabín. A tohle to byl jeho, myslím, synovec nebo vnuk nebo něco takovýho. Jo? Ovšem, žádnej ortodoxní žid. Nic. Jo? Ale byl to prapůvodem nějakej rabín. No, a teďka. Já furt. Já nevím co jsem jedla jestli suchej chleba nebo co. Já vím že tam měli košer margarín, protože ten byl lepší, ale z jinýho důvodu ne. No a teďka někdo tam napek i vanilkový rohlíčky. Sliny se mi sbíhaly. Já disciplinovaná, že jo. Nic. No, ale teď jsem si sedla vedle toho Lübena a koukám jak všechno baští. Příští den naživu, nic mu nebylo. Všecko přežil. A teď byl Štědrej večer nebo Štědrej den a byla husa, knedlík, zelí. No tak to už košer ne košer, to už jsem nevydržela. No, takže tím jako padlo tady částečně to moje velké ortodoxtví, no a hlavně sestra byla zděšená, ne jenom z tohohle, ale já zapomínala česky. Já jsem přijela a já jsem mluvila s anglickým přízvukem, hledala slova a tak dále. No a ona věděla nebo zjistila, že tam je ta československá škola, státní, no tak se jí podařilo, že jsem se tam dostala. Já jsem se ještě vrátila, tam na sever, k tý rodině. No a o dva nebo tři měsíce později, už jsem byla ve škole.

A: A tam jak jste bydlela, tam nebyl nikdo, žádny Čech nebo něco takovýho?

B: Tam na severu?

A: Ano.

B: No, tak nevěděla jsem o tom, ale teďka po letech, když se objevily ty seznamy, tak jsem našla někoho, kdo tam bydlel taky. A my jsme o sobě nevěděli, ovšem. Jo, ještě. Já jsem byla celkem rok a půl v tý rodině. A, já nevím, po půl roce možná dýl, si oni vzali ještě jedno dítě. Myslím, že byla taky ze sudet. A měla mladší sestru a ta byla u jejich syna. Ale to byla taková, jak bych to řekla, nevýrazná, taková myš, nic neříkající osůbka. A, ve kterým to bylo roce? 1998 nebo kdy. Zkrátka, měli jsme sraz tý naší československý školy v Anglii a jeli jsme na nějakej výlet. A přede mnou tam jeden manželskej pár z Izraele. „A napadá mě, jezdíte někdy do Prahy?“ „No, někdy.“ Já jsem říkala: „no, když příště, vyhledejte mě, ráda se s vámi sejdu“. A já nezapomenu, jak ona tak podivně se na mě koukla. Tečka. Asi rok a půl na to dostanu dopis z Izraele. Jméno mi nic neříkalo. Otevřu ten dopis, no a to byla podepsána Sibi. No a to byla ta dívenka, se kterou já jsem u tý ortodoxní rodiny bydlela. A jak na mě přišla? Ta její sestra mladší, se provdala za jednoho mýho spolužáka. A já se domnívám, jak se na mě tak divně podívala, že jí asi něco tam nějak bliklo. Jo? No, proč trvalo rok a půl než tohle dali dohromady a ta mě napsala. Já nevím. No, tak jsem samozřejmě byla velice překvapená, že jo. Hned jsem jí odpověděla. Já ten dopis ještě nehodila do schránky snad ani a už jsem měla odpověď. No, já nejsem žádnej psavec. A tak jsem sice odpověděla, ale zase už ne tak hbitě. Mezi tím jsem dostala dva, tři dopisy od ní, kde jako předstírala, že ještě nenapsala, jo. A furt že mi tak děkuje. A teďka ještě takovou tou staroangličtinou mi psala. No, já jsem za chvilku byla, prostě jsem neměla tušení o čem jí psát. Přitom jsem cítila, že by šíleně ráda, abych ji pozvala a přijela, aby přijela sem. No tak já za prvé tady ten pidi byteček, ale já už jsem viděla jak bych se jí musela, ne čtyřiadvacet, ale nejméně osmadvacet hodin denně věnovat. Jo? Tak to jsem si jako nechtěla ani připustit k tělu. Ale jak říkám, já hlavně neměla tušení, o čem si s ní psát. Takže já jsem, více méně, tu korespondenci končila. A teďka, no mezi tím, ale velmi záhy na to, ta její sestra zemřela. Jo? Na rakovinu. A teďka na tom posledním srazu, to bylo v červnu, tam ten její švagr byl, na tom srazu. No a říkal: „hele, ona tak tě prosí, kdybys jí napsala“. Já jsem řekla: „Petře, já to vím, ale já nevím, co jí psát“. Jo? Říká „ona tak strašně touží po přátelství a žádny si nemůže udržet“. Ona je, zřejmě, já ji nechci odsuzovat, ale domnívám se, že je takovej ten typ, co umí lézt na nervy. Já si myslím. Já se domnívám. „Viděla jste ten film Síla lidskosti, od Mináče?“

A: No, ale …

B: Ten dokument? Tak ona tam je taky v tom filmu. On Mináč byl v Izraeli. A to já jsem se ho ptala : „hele, jaká ona je?“. „Praštěná“, mi řekl. Jo? Tak já jsem to nějak vycítila, že je trošičku nějak. Prostě, že má nějaký problémy, asi. Jo? A on jako byl hrozně hodnej. On to myslel dobře. No, tak jsem jí jenom jako napsala pozdrav, že jsem se setkala s tím švagrem. A že to bylo hezký a milý. No, naštěstí tu korespondenci neobnovila. Pak mě, myslím, ona psala, že. Ona měla ještě jednoho bratra v Anglii. Že ten zemřel. No, tak jsem napsala, co by, kondolenční dopis. Jo? Ale, říkám, já nemám tušení, o čem bych si s ní povídala. No, tak tohle to. Jak říkám, svět malej a plnej náhod. Že jo. No. Asi takhle.

A: A s těma anglickýma rodinama jste nějak udržovala kontakt?

B: U kterých jsem byla?

A: Ano.

B: No, tak z toho města v podstatě ne.

A: A jak se to jmenovalo teda to město?

B: Barrow in Furness. To je sever. Severo západ. A tam byly doky. Proto to taky bombardovali tolik. Tak s těma rodinama ne, ale s tou první rodinou, ke který jsem přišla, ano. S výjimkou těch padesátých let, kdy se jako nedalo ani dobře. No ale, když se mi podařilo do tý Anglie dostat, tak určitě jsem se u nich zastavila. Samozřejmě. Tam byl opravdu moc hezkej vztah. A oni se pak odstěhovali na západ Anglie, jihozápad. Tak to ještě s manželem jsme tam jednou byli. Tak to taky, to bylo strašně milý. Já vím, že jednou jsem někde byla a oni přijeli ještě a jenom jsme si sedli na oběd na nádraží a hned zase odjeli. Jen abychom se viděli na chvilku. No a pak jsem tam byla 1994, 1996, to jsem u nich byla tak den, dva, možná tři. A to on už dost špatně chodil. No asi rok nebo dva na to, zemřel. No, ta paní ještě žije. jí bude teďka v září devadesát. Ale bohužel je úplně hluchá a nefunguje jí ta krátkodobá paměť. Ona do detailu řekne, jaký to bylo, když jsem já přijela v tom devětatřicátým roce. Kdy, kde, co, jak. To má perfektně zafixovaný v paměti. Ale co měla k snídani, to určitě vědět nebude. Ona nepíše nikdy. Ale aspoň na Vánoce nebo mě k narozeninám vždycky poslala lístek. No a teďka asi rok, dva ne. Tak jsem měla strach jestli se něco nestalo. A volala jsem. A prostě že to číslo neexistuje. Tak mi syn na internetu vyhledal adresy a telefony, ona má tři syny, tak jednoho z nich, tak jsem mu zavolala. Tak jsem mu nechala vzkaz, hned mi volal zpátky, že teďka bydlí blízko toho prostředního syna. Dal mi telefon. No, takže občas to dělám tak, že zavolám tomu synovi nebo ta snacha to zvedne, já ji znám, že jo, my jsme se setkaly. A ta ji zavolá, že budu volat, protože ta by buď neslyšel ten telefon nebo nevěděla kdo volá. Tím jak špatně slyší. No tak hovory jsou. Ví kdo jsem: „jé, to jsem ráda, že tě slyším, jak se máš?“. Tak řeknu, že dobře. Pak se zeptám jak ona se má. Ale to neslyší už. To neví. A „Jak jsi stará, teďka?“ tak to jí řeknu. To zase neslyší. „No, já už musím být taky pěkně stará, kolikpak asi mi je, no, už asi nemám daleko od devadesátky?“ Tak jí řeknu, kolik jí je. No, zkrátka hovory á o voze, ona o koze. Je to jako svým způsobem smutný, ale vím, že jsem jí udělala ohromnou radost, že jsem zavolala, aspoň. No. Takže občas takhle ten styk udržujeme. No a já právě jsem i psala tomu synovi. Já jsem říkala, že jsem si dělala obrovský starosti, co s ní je. Tak myslím, že on ví. On má moji adresu, telefon. Tak že kdyby něco bylo, že by mi dal vědět.

A: A třeba kdyby jste jí napsala dopis, nebylo by to takový lepší?

B: Jo a ne. Ale ona na to nikdy nereaguje. Ona nikdy i v době kdy byla v pořádku. Jo? Tak v podstatě nikdy jako toho moc nenapsala a teď už vůbec ne. No, tak já se snažím třeba k vánocům, že jo, nebo na ty narozeniny. To jo. Ale vím, že to nebude mít odezvu.

A: Ale tak asi ji to potěší stejně.

B: Jo, určitě. To samozřejmě.

A: A bylo to těžký pro vás se usadit v Anglii?

B: Vůbec ne. To vůbec ne, protože, jak říkám, to byla nesmírně hodná rodina. S tou sestrou jsem se vídala. Ten jazyk jsem se naučila poměrně brzy. Ta sestra týhle paní byla učitelka. Takže já jsem šla, čemu by se říkalo, i když bych byla patřila věkově do šestý třídy. Tak jsem šla do pátý, právě k tý její sestře. A ta se mně nesmírně věnovala, hlavně po vyučování. A tak. Takže, když jsem v tom květnu 1940 přijela na sever, to už nechtěli věřit, že nejsem Angličanka. Jo? Jedině, že to byla škola, prostě, kde se neplatilo. To byl nejhorší typ školy. Jo? Protože neměl kdo by za mě zaplatil nějakou lepší školu. Takže jako jsem se tam toho moc nenaučila.

A: V které, v té české škole?

B: Ne, ne, ne, ne, ne. V tý anglický. Než jsem přišla to tý český. Jak jsem byla u těch ortodoxních židů. Jo? Tak to, tam jsem se toho moc nenaučila. Že jo. Vím, že se tam učilo šít, vařit a takovýhle věci.

A: Takže to byla nějaká rodinná škola nebo něco?

B: Ne, ne, ne, ne, ne, ne. To byla něco, čemu se tady říkalo „měšťanka“. Ano. Byla tam angličtina, byla tam, já nevím, něco alá dějepis, zeměpis. Ale jen takový ty nejzákladnější základy asi. No. A i ta úroveň těch dětí, ta byla hodně nízká. Protože já jsem pak vlastně byla o třídu výš než, věkově. A pořád jsem ještě byla jako, hodně excelovala nad nima. Já nejsem žádný studijní typ. Jo? Takže jako škola dobrá to rozhodně nebyla. Takže pak když jsem přišla do tý český školy, tak jsem měla co dohánět. Že jo. No. Tak tam už to byla zas o něčem jiným.

A: A sestra udělala tu zdravotní školu někde?

B: Ne, protože ji vyhodili. Tak tu bohužel nedodělala.

A: Ona studovala v Anglii teda tu zdravotní?

B: Jo. Jo.

A: A nedodělala ji.

B: Jo. Jo.

A: A před tím pracovala v nemocnici.

B: Ano. No, to bylo v nemocnici přímo. Jo? Se to učilo. Takže potom jednu dobu dělala v nějaký redakci, zase vydávali český nebo československý časopis. A pak přešla do továrny na munici. Že jo. Protože každý se musel nějak zapojit do toho válečného úsilí. Takže dělala v továrně. A asi pak půl roku dělala nějakej kurz chemie. Protože, když se vrátila, tak šla rovnou do Terezína. Tam odvšivovat a proti tyfu a takovýhle ty. Záležitosti. Takže se snažila, získala takový rychlokurz, řekněme. No.

A: A ona byla celou válku v Anglii?

B: Ano.

A: Teda v Anglii, v Londýně?

B: Ano. Tam se provdala, těsně než odjela.

A: Ještě za války?

B: Ano.

A: A za Angličana, nebo?

B: Ne, za Čecha. Vojáka. Takže takhle. Podstatně horší samozřejmě bylo, když jsme se vrátily. Když jsme neměly vůbec nic, neměly jsme kde bydlet, kde spát a nic. To byly krušné doby.

A: A do kdy jste udržovaly kontakt s rodiči?

B: No, v podstatě než vypukla válka. To se mohlo normálně psát, což znamená červenec, srpen.

A: To byla chvilka.

B: Chvilička. Ano. Velmi krátká. Zřejmě tatínek měl někoho v Holandsku, protože vím, že jsme pak dostávaly dopisy přes Holandsko. Ovšem to byl taky necelej rok, když Holandsko padlo. Jo? Takže pak ty jejich nejlepší přátelé. Oni měli ještě jedny. Jedny co šli až na tu Sibiř, že jo. A tydle ti byli v Anglii a pak do Brazílie, jeli. Tak přes tu Brazílii. Jenomže to trvalo někdy rok, než byla odpověď. Jo? To trvalo strašně dlouho. Takže to bylo pár dopisů. Protože. A ještě než šli do Terezína, tak měli povoleno přes Červený kříž psát. A to bylo dvacet pět slov i s tak zvanou „placenou odpovědí“. Kde jsem zase já nebo sestra, mohla taktéž těch dvacet pět slov napsat. Co člověk napíše do pětadvaceti slov? „Máme se dobře, myslíme na vás a jsme zdrávi a v pořádku.“ Že jo. Víc se napsat nedá. No, to bylo jenom do té doby, než šli do Terezína. Konec.

A: A do Terezína šli kdy?

B: V roce 1942, v listopadu. Takže tím všecko skončilo. Tak co by jste ještě ráda věděla?

A: Ještě bych ráda věděla. No, když já jsem si to napsala a nemůžu to po sobě přečíst.

B: Aha. To se mi stává taky.

A: Taky to je takový „krasopis“. Něco o té české škole mi řekněte.

B: No, ta původně byla zřízená vlastně pro děti vládních činitelů a vojáků a letců. Takže ze začátku tam těch dětí nebylo tolik. Postupně přibývaly. Tam byli už třeba před válkou zástupci Bati, zástupci Sigma pumpy, několik rodin. Tak ty děti chodily do těchto škol. Taktéž případně jiné rodiny, které emigrovaly. Byli tam i, teda, rodiče s dětma. No, a postupně jsme tam začaly přibývat i my, takzvané Wintonovy děti. Že jo. Jak se kdo o tom dovídal nbo z různých důvodů. Takže ta původní škola, kde jsme byli v tom Hentonhallu už kapacitně nestačila. Jednak. Jednak byla už taky v dost špatném stavu, takže jsme se na podzim 1943 přestěhovali do Welsu. Což původně byl hotel a byl předělaný právě na to, jako internátní škola. Takže jsme pobývali tam. Byla to nádherná krajina. Tam nikdo nevěděl, málem, že je válka. Že jo. Takže po tý stránce jsme byli taky chráněný. No, až na pár výjimek, se tam téměř každýmu líbilo. Byli jsme tam velice spokojení. Nebyly mezi náma žádné rozdíly. Jestli tam někdo měl nebo neměl rodiče. Já si vzpomínám, že jeden chlapec, tatínek byl na vojně a maminka se snad na krátkou dobu nastěhovala tam do tý vesničky, a ten ředitel nedovolil, aby ta maminka tam za klukem chodila, protože ostatní taky nemají maminku tam. Jo? Tak na jedný straně jo, na druhé vím, že se scházeli tajně. Tak. Samozřejmě. Ale abychom se necítili takhle nějak, nějaké rozdíly. Ti co tam někoho měli, tak občas dostávali nějakej balíček. Že jo. Nějaký ty mlsoty a podobně. No a dvě moje kamarádky nejlepší, jme neměly nikoho, nikdo nám nic neposlal. A jednoho dne se rozdávala pošta a já dostala balík. Bez odesilatele. V tom balíku bylo pečené kuře a nějaká jabka. No a ten dotyčný, já jsem pak přišla na to, to byl ten co rozdával, prostě jako sekretář ředitele. Jo? Si zřejmě všiml, že my tři holky nedostáváme nic a věděl, že se rozdělíme. Což, samozřejmě, jsme taky udělaly. A každá z nás má dodnes v paměti, jak jsme vzaly to kuře a ohlodávaly a šly tam před školu. Tam bylo takovej trávník, prostě takový prostranství. Tam jsme šly a ty kosti jsme házely za sebe. Já nevím jestli jste viděla ten film Jindřich VI. Jo? A to on právě ten Loten, když hrál toho Jindřicha, jak to dělal, jak jedl jo, to kuře. Mlaskal. Ten tuk mu tak to. A jak házel ty kosti za sebe. A my dělaly totéž. Jo? Takže prostě z toho vzniklo kamarádství opravdu na doživotí. Tak moje nejlepší kamarádka ta Věra Gissing. Ta se pak vrátila do Anglie. To je kamarádství, které se nenajde jen tak honem. Jo? Kde, já nevím, kdybych ve dvě, ve tři v noci zazvonila tak otevře a prostě udělá všecko, první, poslední. Totéž já tady. A ne jenom ona. Ale to jsou tak mimořádně silná pouta, protože ty osudy naše jsou tak pevně spjaty, že jsme byly spolu v takové té kritické době našeho mládí. Kdy jsme spolu vyrůstaly. Že to zanechalo vliv na nás jako na stálo. Ten průvodce v tom filmu Síla lidskosti, ten Joe Schlesinger, to je světoznámý novinář dnes. Čili už v důchodu, sice. To je pravda, ale pořád ještě něco dělá a žije teďka v Kanadě. Já jsem byla v roce, je to dva a půl let, myslím, jsem byla v Americe, kousek od New Yorku. A, no zkrátka jsem říkala, že tam budu a jestli je nějaká šance, že by přijel. Jo? No a říkal jestli to jen trochu půjde, tak že jo. A až tam budu, ať mu dám vědět. Tak jsme pak spolu mluvili. Říkal, že škoda, že to nabylo o týden dřív nebo později, to už si nevzpomínám. No, protože potřeboval stejně do New Yorku. No, kvůli mně předělal celej pracovní program, kde měl, já nevím, dělat nějaké interview s, já nevím, kolika ambasadory. A celej ten štáb televizní a všecko. No a přijel za mnou. Na, já nevím, dva, tři dny nebo kolik. Z Toronta, kousek od New Yorku. No, to každej neudělá. Že jo. Říkám, to opět svědčí o nějakých těch poutech nebo. Já jsem tam byla teďko v listopadu, tak to bohužel nemoh, opravdu, to byl velice vytíženej. Ale sešlo se nás pár zase. No, dvě ty děvčata byly z New Yorku, jeden přišel, jeden přijel z Washingtonu. To taky. Washington, New York, to je tak „kousek“ cesty. Jo? A jenom na ten oběd. Jo? Tak to já chci jenom ilustrovat jak jsme pevně, jako, jaký pouta jsou mezi náma. Jo? A není to jenom o tom. Já říkám, že kdokoliv by potřeboval pomoct tak. Ředitel tý školy. V podstatě jedinej, kterej ještě žije, tomu bylo v prosinci sto. Pořád duševně, jéžiš, kéž bychom byli my takhle duševně čilí jak je on. A nějak jsem to připomněla tam, tak okamžitě mi dali peníze, abych tady něco koupila pro něj a něco uspořádala. Jo? Naprosto samozřejmě. To není otázka jestli na to mají, nebo ne. Ale taková ta pozornost. Jo? Si vzpomenout. Si udělat radost, jeden druhýmu. Tak říkám, to jsou taková. Teďka právě byly taky dvě děvčata tady, z tý školy. Tak ta jedna, která byla mimořádně nepořádná. Takovej flegmatik a propadala a já nevím co všechno. Dneska to je člověk tak mimořádných schopností. Organizaček a všeho jiného. Neznám nikoho, kdo by uměl všecko tak hbitě zařídit a zorganizovat. Já nevím jestli jste slyšela o tom, že prodává remosky v Anglii. Jo? Tak ta byla úplně před krachem, ona i zachránila. Protože zařídila, že se prodávají teďka remosky v Anglii. Která sem vozí nespočet turistů. Jo? Každý rok. Jo? Teďka má něco, s nějakou školou hotelovou, nebo co. Takovou výměnnou akci. Teďka říkala, že přijede zase v dubnu, kvůli nějaký tý hotelový škole. Jo, oni pak přijedou k ní. Ať si lověk vzpomene na co chce, tak všecko zorganizuje. Zařídí. Neuvěřitelně schopná. Jo? No, tak to je taky taková dobrá kamarádka.

A: A kolik vás tam bylo, na tý škole?

B: Tak to vám nikdo nezodpoví. Protože, jedni přišli, druzí odešli. Že jo. Někdo odmaturoval, někdo zase třeba ten poslední rok, pokud tam měli rodiče, tak je vzali, aby aspoň se naučili pořádně anglicky. Tak je dali do anglický školy, že jo. Takže to nikdy se nedá říct přesně. Já bych to velmi zhruba odhadla, takových sto padesát. Ale velice zhruba. Jo? Takže to, říkám, nedá se to tak přesně určit.

A: A těch Wintonových dětí tam bylo kolik?

B: Teďka zrovna jsme o tom mluvili a někdo říkal, že to mohlo být takových pětadvacet procent. Jo? Pokud, to bych musela vzít seznam a asi nějak to dávat dohromady. No. Ale díky tomu, že jsme byli v tý škole, tak jsme o sobě věděli. Že jo. Ti co ve škole nebyli, ti se velmi těžko dohledávají teďka. Tak to zase vymyslel ten režisér Mináč, nějakou akci, v domnění, a řekla bych že správnou, že celá řada těchhle těch lidí potom, po válce, se odstěhovala do jižní Ameriky. Že tady nikoho neměli a ta jižní Amerika ta přijímala jak nacisty, tak ty co přežili koncentrák. Ti přijímali prostě každýho. Takže je velmi dobře možný, že se tam nachází celá řada těch dětí.

A: A do Československa se vrátilo kolik dětí?

B: Tak počet vám neřeknu.

A: Tak zhruba tak, v procentech.

B: Nevím, nevím. Protože se vrátily nejenom jako ty Wintonovy děti, ale i ty co byli třeba s rodičema. Jo? Ale velká většina se potom buď ještě v šestačtyřicátým nebo v osmačtyřicátým a téměř zbytek v osmašedesátým pak zase někam, se vrátili. A dneska jsou, do slova a do písmene, po celým světě. Až v Tasmánii třeba.

A: Tak to máte známé všude.

B: Doslova, ano. Celá řada jich je v Izraeli, v Severní Americe, Kanada, pochopitelně Anglii. Zajímavý, že ne ve Francii. Tam je nějakej spolužák. Asi dva nebo tři. Ale z Wintonových dětí ne. Jo? No, a tady ještě tak do nedávna mohlo být takových patnáct, osmnáct. Bohužel celá řada už jich zemřela. Takže dnes jich tady je tak dvanáct, možná čtrnáct. Víc ne.

A: A většinou v Praze?

B: Jedna je v Českým Krumlově. Jeden v Kolíně. A jedna je v Zadní Třebáni. Jeden byl v Ostravě, ten už deset let nežije, ale jinak prostě z Prahy. No. Asi tak.

A: Co jste dělali třeba v té škole, když jste neměli školu?

B: Půjčili jsme si kolo a jezdili tam po těch kopcích. Tam je nádherná krajina. Překrásná. Obzvlášť o víkendech. Ping-pong jsme tam hodně hráli. Tam bylo kousíček, to patřilo ještě k tomu areálu, jezero. Takže na takovou, já nevím, dvacetiminutovou procházku to bylo moc hezký. Kluci měli svoje fotbalové družstvo. My zase volejbal nebo házená. Dost tomu sportu jsme se věnovaly. No a každou sobotu večer byl nějaký program. Třeba se hrály hry. Někdy česká, někdy anglická. No, tak to se muselo nacvičovat. Že jo? Nebo nějaké kvizy. Tak někdo musel ty otázky dávat dohromady, že jo. Nebo diskusní, nějakej večer. Já nevím, rovnoprávnost žen. Nebo co budeme dělat až se vrátíme. Že jo. A takovéhle věci. Někdy to byl poslech gramofonových desek. Tancovačka. Všechno možný. Čili na řadu těchhle akcí bylo nutno se připravit. Že jo. Ne vždycky. Ale záleželo na věku. Že jo. Většinou to dělali ti starší.

A: Jo, jo. A …… - učili jste se hodně??????

B: Jo. Většinou jo. Měli jsme tam knihovnu, takže bylo možný si pučit nějaký knížky.

A: České nebo anglické?

B: Obojí. I slovenské. Jo? Samozřejmě, kolik těch knih mohlo být. Nebyly učebnice. Ty psali učitelé sami. Takže pro ně to musel být mimořádně náročný úkol. Ne, jenom, že nebyly učebnice, ale my jsme do tý školy přišli každý s naprosto jinými znalostmi. Jo? Protože dítě rychle se naučí, ale stejně rychle, nebo ještě rychleji zapomene. Takže z tý češtiny jsme toho mnoho zapomněli. A každej chodil do jiný anglický školy. Jo? Třeba já vím, že v tý třídě co jsem byla já, byla jedna dívka a já, co jsme neměli nikdy frančtinu. Protože ve všech anglických školách, těch trochu lepších, ta frančtina byla a celá řada jich přijela přes Francii. Takže francouzsky uměli. Že jo. Uměli každý jinak i tu angličtinu. Dějepis, zeměpis, matematika. V každým předmětě jiná úroveň. Jo? Takže tohle skloubit nebylo jednoduchý. Nehledě na to, že jsme byli puberťáci, rodiče tam nebyli, že jo. Byla to internátní škola. Ale zajímavý přes to všechno k žádným, takovýmhle, nemravnostem nedocházelo, jo. Že samozřejmě lumpárny že jsme dělali. To bez pochyby. Ale já myslím, že žádný takovýhle hrozné přestupky tam nebyly.

A: Co jste dělali za lumpárny?

B: No, já nevím. Schovávali něco kantorům. A, no, prostě to, co se běžně dělá. Asi tak nějak. Si moc nevzpomínám. Že jo?

A: A ti učitelé vám dělali i vychovatele, potom po škole? Nebo to nedělali?

B: To jsme měli sestry na to. No, učitelé taky. Měli službu. Že jo. No, a já si vzpomínám, že jsem si vysloužila dvojku z chování.

A: Jo?

B: No, protože na latinu jsme měli učitelku. Ten typ, strašně hodnej, ale neudrží si kázeň. Jo? A navíc ráčkovala. A když někdo neuměl slovíčko, tak ona vždycky „tak třikrát!“ což znamenalo třikrát napsat. Jo? No, pochopitelně já jsem slovíčka nikdy neuměla. Tak já rovnou: „Třikrát!“ Tak se naštvala a říká: „Ne, pětkrát!“. Tak já příště: „Třikrát nebo pětkrát?“. A ona: „Desetkrát!“. No, a takhle holt jsme se bavili, že jo.

A: Až z toho byla dvojka z chování.

B: No, přesně tak. Jo? Takže takové jsem byla dítko.

A: A ty židovské zvyky vás ještě držely ve škole?

B: Ne, ne, ty mě velmi rychle opustily. Tak jak rychle jsem je nabrala, tak mě zase opustily.

A: Pan Auerbach říkal, že tam byl i nějaký rabín.

B: Jo, byl. Ano. Byl. Rabín a katolický kněz a protestantský. Docela ten rabín Stránský pak jednu dobu byl vrchním rabínem v New Yorku. Už nežije samozřejmě. Jo, to jako. Ale to všecko bylo na bázi dobrovolnosti. Že jo. No.

A: A taky s vámi dělal nějaký program? Jako že by se taky zúčastnil rabín vašeho volejbalu nebo tak?

B: To si myslím, že ne. To si nevzpomínám. To ne. To vím, že tam jak bylo to jezírko, tak tam byl takovej domek, kam se jako dávaly ty loďky. A to bylo prázdný nějak v tu dobu. A asi tam ten katolický kněz měl to svoje náboženství nebo mše nebo co. Jo? A bylo tam taky mešní víno. No, co páni kluci neudělali? Nějak se tam dostali a to mešní víno vypili. No, tak průšvih velikej. …

Kazeta č. 2, strana B:

B: … A přece se snažil ten rabín o potrestání. Jo? A ten katolickej kněz říká: „no, byla to klukovina, tak jako nechte to“. No, ten jako trval na přísném potrestání. A mezi jinými tam byl i Julius Sidon, což je nevlastní bratr současného rabína. Jo? A já myslím, že on to odskákal ale nevině. Já myslím, že on tam snad ani u toho nebyl, ale někdo něco prásk a jeho pak snad i, jestli, vyloučili nebo co. To snad ne. To už nevím. Ale vím, že on to nějak odskákal. Tak takové běžné klukoviny se dělaly, že jo. Pak přišli maturovat letci. No, a hrdinové, ale před tou maturitou byli rozklepaní, jak já nevím co. Že. Jak bývá každej. Tak oni taky. A v prvním patře, tam byla ředitelna, pak ten sekretář tam měl svoji kancelář. A všude na dveřích tam byly cedule a taky tam byl záchod. A co neudělali ti páni hoši, než že zaměnili ty cedule. A tam, kde byl ředitel dali, že tam je záchod. No. Takže teďka, když tam ti letci chtěli na záchod, no tak vrazili, že jo, dovnitř, a tam ředitel. A ten za stolem. Žádnej záchod, že jo. No. Tak zase jako velkej průšvih. „Kdo to udělal?!“ Tak takovýhle běžný věci, který se na školách dělaly, tak to se dělalo tam taky. Že jo.

A: A nejmladší děti byly jak staré?

B: No, takhle. Tam byly české jesle, školka, obecní škola, střední škola.

A: Taky v tom areálu?

B: Ne, ne, ne. Jesle, školka, ty byla někde úplně jinde. A ta obecní škola, ty byla v tak zvané Meisenhall. Což bylo kousek od toho, kde původně byly ta střední škola, a když my jsme se přestěhovali, tak oni šli, myslím i tam, částečně, a to bylo pak už dost daleko. Že jo. My jsme pak byli v tom Welsu a oni byli, to bylo západní Anglie. Kousek. No. Tak ti pak byli tam. Ale společně jsme nebyli. To byly vždycky jiné budovy. Ze začátku ta obecná a střední škola nebyly daleko od sebe, ale byly to jiné budovy. Chodil tam dnešní senátor Outrata. Ten chodil snad do první třídy, tam. Bývalý velvyslanec v Londýně Pavel Seichter. Taky tam chodil. A taky jenom do první třídy. Že byli malinký, že jo. Ti tam měli rodiče. Jo? Takže asi takhle. Já si jdu ještě pro nějakou vodu. Nechcete taky?

A: Já ještě pořád mám ten čaj. Děkuju. Tak já zase popřemýšlím nad otázkama.

B: Dobře. Jen papejte.

A: Když povídáte tak já tady nechci žvýkat, do toho. Měli jste nějaké informace o tom co se děje doma?

B: No, myslím, že to bylo kolem roku 1944. Se objevilo něco v novinách o krutostech v koncentračních táborech. Jo? Tak to se k nám taky dostalo. Ale, asi mládí má určitej takovej ochranný filtr. Protože já jsem si nepřipustila, že něco takového by se mohlo týkat mých rodičů. Ani jsem si nebyla jistá, že jsou v koncentračním táboře. Že jo. Ani to jsem s jistotou nevěděla. Tak to ano. Ale sami Angličané tomu nechtěli nějak ani moc věřit. Že jo. O tom byly určité pochybnosti. Ze začátku. No, a v roce 1945, já si na to tolik nepamatuju, ale jiní ano, že po válce už teda přišly do školy dlouhé seznamy lidí, kteří přežili. A jak každý nad tím stál a hledal někoho. Já si na to nějak nepamatuju. Ale řada jako mých spolužáků ano. Jo?

A: A jako to byly seznamy lidí, kteří přežili a vrátili se do Prahy?

B: No, já nevím, kam se vrátili, ale přežili. Jo? Vím, že ta moje nejlepší kamarádka Věra Diamantová. Ta dostala zprávu, nějaký telegram, že maminka a teta přežili. A všichni jsme se s ní nesmírně radovali. Že jo. Jsme se těšili s ní. No a asi měsíc na to, dostala další zprávu, že maminka zemřela na tyfus. Jo? Tohle, to byla zpráva, konec dubna, začátkem května. A ona zemřela 10.května. Prostě na pochodu smrti. To měla. A to už zemřela tý svý sestře v náručí. Čili tetě tý Věra. Ta teta přežila teda. Já ji znala a já jsem snad u nikoho neviděla tak hluboký smutek v očích po celou tu dobu. Se s tím prostě nedovedla vypořádat. Ona byla jediná co přežila. Že jo. A ta sestra její jí zemřela takhle v náručí.

A: A ona se teda potom starala o tu Věru?

B: Jo. Jo. No, spíš obráceně. Věra o ni. Jo. Jo. To byl tak zdrcenej člověk, zničenej. Takže tohle to tak nějak postupně. A myslím, že každý z nás celý léta doufal, že se někdo někde objeví. Že jo. Protože celá řada těch lidí, co přežila koncentrák třeba se ani nevrátila do Prahy a rovnou jeli, já nevím, do Izraele nebo do Ameriky. Nebo někam. Že jo. Tak jsme si po celou dobu dělali iluze, ale myslím, že nikomu se nenaplnily.

A: A vy jste se to dozvěděla jak, co se stalo s vašima?

B: No, v podstatě sestra to všechno zjišťovala. Jo. Ta se vrátila hned v červnu 1945. Já po tom, nás repatriovala škola, tak my jsme se vrátili koncem srpna 1945. No a to už jako věděla, že zatím nikdo nepřežil. Což neznamenalo, že by se někdo třeba pozděj neobjevil. No, bohužel, neobjevil. Že jo. Protože i ti kdo přežili a měli někde někoho tak taky je hledali. Že jo. Se snažili. Protože byly místa, jako u Hybernů, že jo, kde byly dlouhatánský seznamy těch, kdo přežili. A u toho přišpendlený cedulky „Jsem na živu“ a, já nevím, „Franto, ozvi se mi na tu a tu adresu“ třeba. Jo? Takže tímto způsobem lidi se hledali. Každou chvilku v rozhlase byly nějaký výzvy, že jo. Těch způsoby bylo spousta. Někdy někde se našli lidi, ale spíš častěji ne než jo. Protože. Manželova matka třeba přežila. Že jo. No, tak každej dal ihned vědět kam to bylo jen trochu možný. Že se setkali pak. Protože myslím, že taky byla určitá místa, kam převáželi ty lidi co přežili. Do nějakých, já nevím, domovů nebo něco podobnýho. Že jo. A i třeba my, co jsme se vrátili z Anglie, když tady nikoho neměli, no tak taky. Do takových domovů a když jim nebylo ještě šestnáct, tak je dali do sirotčince. Moje sestra chodila dennodenně pěšky, protože nic nejezdilo od konečný, myslím to byla jedenáctka tenkrát, z Liboce na letiště, aby mě prostě nepropásla. Jo? Aby mě někam nestrčili a ona nevěděla kam, a já zas nevěděla kde ji hledat. Že jo. Tak dennodenně chodila a to už byla v jiným stavu. Akorát ten pátek, než já jsem přijela, přiletěla ta moje nastávající švagrová, což ale tehdy nikdo nevěděl, že jo, ale sestra ji znala. A ta jí řekla, že přiletím v pondělí. Tak tu sobotu a neděli než jsem přiletěla nebyla. Jo? Ale, říkám, aby mě, prostě, neprošvihla. Jo? Takže jinak by se byli těžko hledali, ti lidi. No. Říkám, ty dali do nějakýho domova. A teďka když nám bylo sedmnáct, že jo. A teďka najednou, celou dobu se vždycky o nás někdo staral, buď v tý rodině nebo v tý škole. Že? A teďka najednou, kde seženeš peníze, kdo ti bude dávat podporu, nějaký potravinový lístky, do jaký školy mám jít, že jo. Dokončit aspoň tu maturitu. A takovýhle věci. No, a nikdo nikomu nic neřek. Nikdo neporadil. Jo? Jenom je tam strčili někam a starej se. Jo? A v podstatě ti lidi, co přežili, taky. Jo? Chápu, byl konec války, takže každej měl hlavu jak škopek. Ale že by úřady byly nějak vstřícný, jestli k těm, co přežili nebo i k nám dětem, nějak myslím, že dvakrát nikolivěk. Že spíš každej se staral co se dá urvat. Z bytů po němcích, a kdekoliv jinde. Že jo. To jako na to byli velice bystří. A my co jsme žili v Anglii a zvyklí na skutečnou poctivost, tak to nám vůbec nepřišlo. Jo? Tohle to. Takže trvalo hezky dlouho, než nám byl přidělen nějakej byt. Cokoliv. Že jo. I když švagr jako zahraniční voják na to měl přednostní právo.

A: Takže to jste potom bydlela u sestry?

B: Jo. Ale nejprv, asi tak ty první, já nevím, čtyři měsíce, prostě kdokoliv známej, neznámej měl volnou postel a nechal mě tam přespat. No. No a pak konečně, že jo. Se švagrem. To byla dvougarsonka, i když pěkná. No, ale sestra, jak říkám, těhotná, švagr a jeho sestra se vracela ze Švédska, takže jsme tam byli čtyři dospělí. Jo? No, ta se brzo odstěhovala do nějakýho podnájmu, pak. Že jo. No a pak se narodilo mimino. Ale pak byl problém vůbec najít postel, na kterou si lehnout. Čím se přikrýt. Nějakej talíř, hrnec. No, v obchodech nic nebylo, že jo. To opravdu byly těžký doby. Tohle to. Každej přesvědčenej, když jsme byli v Anglii, co všechno jsme si nepřivezli. No, někteří na tom byli finančně líp. Jo? Já určitě ne. A moje sestra taktéž ne. Že jo. Takže my jsme měli opravdu jenom to nejnutnější.

A: A peníze jste měli jenom ten sirotčí důchod teda?

B: No, já jsem pak dávala nějaký hodiny angličtiny, abych měla ještě něco. Že jo. Protože ten sirotčí důchod jsem nechala sestře jako na živobytí. Což bylo jak nic. No. Takže. Jak říkám, ono se ani za ty peníze v podstatě nic nedalo koupit. Ale aspoň na tu tramvaj abych měla a podobně. No. Tak to rozhodně snadný nebylo.

A: To musel být hrozně velký šok, vrátit se z té Anglie sem po válce.

B: Ano, to jo. Člověk by si řekl války, že jo. Samozřejmě to je hrůza. Tak ty hrůzy války snad docházely až o mnoho let později. Ale tohle to bylo nesrovnatelně horší. No, a pak ty padesátý léta, to bylo ještě, to tomu dalo korunu. Jsme museli z Prahy pryč. A manžel dělal jako slévač, on byl tedy vyučenej slévač, to je pravda. Ale i tak, ani to nestačilo. V roce 1953, když byla měnová reforma, tak ho potom vyhodili, na hodinu. Jako nespolehlivej.

A: Za měnové reformy?

B: Jo.

A: Jak to?

B: Ostatní všichni stávkovali. Jo? A on ne. Ostatní zůstali. Jeho vylili. No, proč? Protože byl žid a byl v západní armádě. To jako nepotřeboval nikdo nikomu vysvětlovat, že jo. I když to nebylo takhle úředně řečeno. No. Takže pak šel do dolů. No, to odnesl pak zdravotně. Že měl vředy, dost dlouho byl doma. Samozřejmě jsme se snažili vehementně se dostat zpět do Prahy, což nešlo, protože byt vám nedali, když nemáte zaměstnání. Zaměstnání vám nedali, když nemáte trvalý bydliště. No, jak za feudalismu. Že jo? Tak to byl takovej začarovanej kruh. No. Tak až pak, že tchýně tam měla garsonku, tak se tam přihlásil. A dostal zaměstnání. No, bohužel zemřela brzo. No, alespoň nám zůstala ta garsonka, kterou se nám později podařilo vyměnit za něco většího. Takže jsme se tím způsobem dostali zpět do Prahy. Už se nám „dýchalo“ trochu líp.

A: Jo a víte teda nějak jaké byly ty osudy vaší rodiny od té doby co šli do Terezína?

B: No, v podstatě ne. Byli v Terezíně. No a pak.

A: A nesetkala jste se s někým třeba kdo by je znal a kdo přežil?

B: Sestra s někým, ale myslím, že nic moc se nedozvěděla. Jo? Jestli to je pravda nebo ne. Ale někde jsem se, ale i tohle četla, že slibovali. Tatínek šel 28.září a ty ženy nebrali. Jo? A ty zoufale chtěly za tím manželem. Protože nikdo nevěděl kam. Jo? Jenom věděli, že to bude ještě horší jak Terezín. Jo? Ale že to jsou v podstatě vyhlazovací tábory, to v Terezíně se nevědělo. Takže všichni chtěli sebou, nebo za nima, takže skutečně maminka šla 1.října. Ale to už zřejmě už nežili. Jo? Takže to jsem někde se i doslechla. Ale taky někdo, údajně snad, řekl sestře. Protože, nevím kdy, ale každopádně v lednu 1945, se dostalo snad čtyřicet, padesát lidí do Švýcarska. Moje tchýně byla mezi nimi. Jo? Prý to někdo, byla možnost, že maminka taky by tam se dostala. A ona že ne, že chce za tatínkem. Jestli to je pravda nebo ne. To se nikdy nedozvím. Ale víc jako zpráv, to jsme neměli. Že jo. Asi tak.

A: A s vaším manželem jste se seznámila kdy?

B: Čtyři dny před odjezdem z Anglie. A sice právě švagrová, tedy budoucí švagrová, že jo. Ta měla, kolik tehdy, jestli desetiměsíční miminko. A ti co byli v tý československý armádě, ti už byli tady. A dostali týdenní dovolenou, kdo chce jako ještě do Anglie. Protože tam měli třeba rodiny nebo jiné známé, příbuzné. Že si chtějí dát do pořádku svoje věci. Tak mohli jet. Tak on přijel do Anglie zpátky z Prahy. A právě šel z švagrovou a tam jsem já ho uviděla. Pro mě to byla lásky na první pohled. Ale on měl nějakou Angličanku tam. Tak ji chtěl přemluvit. Ale ta se nedala. A říkal, že jde švagrovou jako doprovodit a že se hned vrátí. No, já jsem čekala, čekala. Nedočkala jsem se. Pak jsem se dozvěděla, že přijel až asi v sedm hodin ráno a hned zase jel dál někam. No až pak v Praze jsme se zase setkali.

A: A kdy jste se vzali?

B: V dubnu 1948.

A: A vy jste potom nastoupila ještě do školy tady?

B: Ano. Ano. Já si ještě dodělala poslední dva ročníky gymnázia.

A: Na vysokou jste se hlásila?

B: Na vysokou jsem šla. Protože tehdy otvírali pedagogickou fakultu, obor mateřské školy. Já sice dětičky měla ráda, ale abych šla na první nebo jinej stupeň, tak jsem si řekla, že kdyby měl někdo zlobit tak, jak já zlobila tu latinářku, tak jsem si řekla „tak to teda ne“. Tak jsem šla, jak říkám na ty mateřské školy, protože to bylo jenom na jeden rok, tehdy. No, a už jsem jako věděla, že mám vážnou známost, tak že budou v brzku vdavky. A jako jsem byla natolik sebekritická, že vysloveně studijní typ nejsem. Tak jsem šla jenom na tohle to, což bylo ukončeno státnicí. No. Pak ještě dálkově jsem si dodělala na první stupeň. No.

A: A manžel teda za války dělal co?

B: No, vojáka.

A: Celou dobu?

B: Ne, on když přišel, tak dělal v nějaký továrně.

A: Do Anglie emigroval?

B: Jo. Přes Polsko.

A: A sám nebo ještě s někým?

B: S bratrem.

A: A pak vstoupil do RAF?

B: Ne. On byl voják, ne letec.

A: Jo. Jo.

B: Do armády. Myslím, že to bylo v listopadu 1941.

A: A kde bojoval?

B: No, tak byli všichni, že jo, nejprve v Anglii a pak hned jak se nalodili v roce 1944, tak u Dunkerque. Francie, Dunkerque a tam.

A: Ještě jste říkala, že jste vyprávěli v tom internátě, co budete dělat po válce. Co jste myslela, že budete dělat po válce?

B: No, tak mě bylo jasný, že v sedmnácti letech toho moc nedokážu, že jo. Ale myslím, že představu jsem žádnou neměla. Ne. Ne.

A: A když jste byla malá, měla jste představu co budete dělat?

B: Ne. Ne. Ne. Já jsem to nevěděla ani když jsem odmaturovala. Já věděla co nechci.

A: A co?

B: Medicínu, práva, kantořinu. Tak, odříkávaného chleba největší krajíc, jak se říká. Že jo? To byl taky důvod, proč jsem šla na ty mateřinky. Jo? A byl to hodně tvrdej chleba.

A: A proč jste se rozhodla zůstat tady? Neuvažovali jste o tom emigrovat?

B: Tak v roce 1948 rozhodně ne. Protože to jsem se zrovna vdala. Že jo. A nějak nám to nedošlo. Nebo nechtěli jsme. Já jsem pak velmi silně o tom uvažovala v roce 1968. Ale protože já jsem typ, který nejprv něco udělá, nebo řekne, a pak teprve přemýšlí. Tak jsem si říkala, tohle je příliš závažná věc. Kdežto manžel ten byl vždycky takový velice rozvážný. A všechno si důkladně promyslel. Tak jsem to rozhodnutí nechala na něm. Tak dlouho uvažoval. A nakonec řekl ne. Druhou emigraci ne. Mě bylo čtyřicet, jemu osmačtyřicet. V tom osmašedesátým zrovna jsem tam měla, jsme tam měli, kluka. Tomu bylo devatenáct. A ten řekl „ v žádným případě, když vy zůstanete tady, já se vracím domů“. Jo? Holce patnáct. A v podstatě naše kvalifikace byla, že oba jsme znali ten jazyk, což by bylo usnadnilo začátky, ale živobytí s tím člověk neudělá. A hlavně ne v těch letech. Dobře, udělali jiní, ale bylo to jako riziko. Jo? Takže nakonec jsme rozhodli že ne.

A: A vaše sestra tady zůstala taky, taky neemigrovali?

B: Ne. Ne.

A: A jak to potom, se odvíjel váš život dál? Po válce?

B: Po válce, no, tak jak jsem říkala. Odmaturovala jsem, šla jsem na vysokou ještě. Taky jsem se provdala. Pak jsem asi rok učila na tý mateřský škole. Pak se mi narodilo dítě. No, v padesátých, jednapadesátým roce manžela vyhodili ze zaměstnání.

A: Za to že byl žid?

B: No, více méně. Jo. On dělal tehdy na ministerstvu zahraničního obchodu. Jo. Tak řečeno to nebylo, že jo, ale spoustu lidí tam vyházeli tehdy. Že jo. To ještě mohl být rád, že ho nezavřeli. A teďka my jsme pak bydleli se sestrou a byli jsme domluveni. Zkrátka, my jsme měli zažádáno o první družstvo, které tehdy bylo. Tak zvaná Solidarita. A když ty byty přidělovali, tak nám to oznámení poslali na špatnou adresu, takže jsme ten byt nikdy nedostali. Jo? No, takže jsme o to přišli. Takže jsme neměli kde bydlet. Ten byl bez zaměstnání, že jo? No a tehdy taky byla tak zvaná akce 77 tisíc do výroby. Což bylo maskování, aby právě tady tyhle nepohodlné lidi dostali do fabrik. Že jo. Tyhle intelektuály. No, takže manžel nastoupila to tak zvaných „Stalinových závodů“, dneska „Chemické závody Litvínov“. Tam jsme dostali dočasně byt v Teplicích. Pak v Litvínově. No, takže jsme se přestěhovali tam, tam se taky narodila dcera. No a po tý měnový reformě, jak jsem říkala, ve třiapadesátým, ho vyhodili na hodinu z fabriky. Takže šel do dolů. A to záhy, jako, pak měl žaludeční vředy. A s tím byl každou chvilku doma. Až tam se vyskytl jeden velice slušnej člověk, který mu pomohl, že začal pracovat v „Báňských stavbách“. Takže tam částečně. A jak jsem říkala naše stálá snaha byla, se dostat do Prahy. Tak to už jsem říkala. Že jo? Takže ze začátku bydlel s matkou. No a pracoval jako redaktor v „Sentinelu“, což byla státní nakladatelství technické literatury. Takže tam pracoval. Překládal a tak dále. Pak byl na „volný noze“, překládal. Pak jednu krátkou dobu dělal v ………. No, prostě věnoval se překladům, že jo. No a já sem potom, když jsme se přestěhovali do Prahy, tak jsem začala pracovat v Artii. Taky tak zvaný tisk ve mzdě, což bylo zaměstnání, které se mě zamlouvalo asi nejvíce. Jenomže jsem tam zůstala pouze šest let. Pak se ze mě taky stala „persona non grata“. Po okupaci, že jo jsem dostala taky vyhazov. No, takže jsem hledala, kde zakotvit. No, takže pravděpodobně jediný, nebo aspoň jediný co jsem našla, bylo na plicní klinice ve Veleslavíně, kde jsem dělala od překladů vědeckých článků až po, že jsem chodila na poštu. Prostě děvečka pro všechno. Že jo. No, a pak manžel onemocněl. Takže úvěrem, když jsem mohla, jsem šla do důchodu, abych se o něj starala. Bohužel to bylo jenom pár měsíců. Pak zemřel. No a po jeho smrti jsem v podstatě začala učit angličtinu. V podnicích a ty kurzy. A dělám to dodnes. V případě ještě teďka chodím spolu ještě, buď s panem režisérem nebo někým jiným, tím Mináčem, po školách, kde se jim ukazuje ten film „Síla lidskosti“. No a já jim pak povídám svoje zážitky a pocity a tak dále. Takže mám takovej pocit, že aspoň malinko splácím dluh.

A: A vy jste se to jak dozvěděla o tom, že to organizoval Winton?

B: Když to v Anglii jako vyšlo na povrch. Tak ta Věra, moje kamarádky, nějak mi o tom psala nebo říkala. Ale každopádně měla tu videokazetu. Co bylo v Anglii ten pořad. Přijela s tím do Prahy. No, tady se nás několik sešlo a podívali jsme se na to. No a byla u toho moje dcera i můj vnuk. A ke své hanbě musím přiznat, že jím došlo víc než mě, vlastně co to všechno obsahovalo, obsahuje, o čem to je. Protože mýmu vnukovi zrovna bylo jedenáct, tak jako mě, když jsem odjížděla. Jo? A ačkoliv tehdá ještě anglicky neuměl, tak takhle mu kanuly slzy a plakal, protože, říkám, pochopil. Že jo. A moje dcera taktéž. Jo? Že to se týkalo hodně dětí, ve věku jak je její syn. Že jo. No, a pak v devadesátým roce, jsme měli sraz naší školy ve Welsu. A tam pan Winton přijel.

A: Jo?

B: Ano. Takže tam jsem ho poznala poprvé. A shodou okolností on bydlí velice blízko právě tý Věry. Takže kdykoliv jsem v Anglii, tak vždycky se vídáme. Že jo. Buď u něj, nebo u tý Věry. Nebo obojí. Že jo? No, takže je to kouzelný pán, kterýmu bude v květnu devadesát sedm. Nesmírně duševně čiperný, aktivní. Neuvěřitelný. A snad přijede v květnu do Prahy.

A: A máte nějaký program? Nebo jenom tak?

B: No, pan režisér Mináč chce ještě dělat takovej nějakej další kus filmu právě. Děti Wintona. A různý, prostě, ještě takový ukončení, řekněme, k tomu. Jo? Tak. Jednak a jednak takovej nějakej sraz nově nalezených jeho dětí. Protože pár se jich našlo. Tak v rámci toho by chtěl ještě něco dát dohromady.

A: Takže ještě pořád se ještě v tom pátrá?

B: Jo. Takhle. On angažoval jednu školu. A sice škola Mezinárodních vztahů. Jedna je diplomatická část, jedna Public Relations. No a několik těch studentů se tam o to velice zajímalo a dělají tak zvané detektivy, přes ty krajanské spolky a ambasády leckde. A prostě takhle přes internet. Vyhledávají. Protože celá řada lidí ani neví, jak se dostali do Anglie a pak takhle dál. Jo? Obzvlášť ti, co byli úplně malí. Že jo?

A: Byla jste někdy v komunistické straně? Nebo tak?

B: Byla. Ke své hanbě.

A: A kdy jste vstoupila?

B: V roce 1948. Ne, v roce 1946. 1946 ano. To mě bylo jen tak, tak osmnáct. Ano. Ale jak jsem říkala. Sestra byla dost levicově zaměřená. Čili ta už v Anglii vlastně vstoupila. A já byla hodně pod jejím vlivem. Ale spousta lidí jako opravdu poctivě, upřímně věřila. Že jo? Takže jsme se domnívali, že nám pomůžou zachránit. Bohužel tomu tak nebylo.

A: A třeba rok 1948, ten vás nějak ne to?

B: Až později. Až ty důsledky když se začínaly ozývat, že jo. Protože celá řada našich známých právě z Anglie, že jo, ti byli pozavíráni a tak dále. Že jo. Takže pak se nám začínaly teprve otevírat oči. Ale z toho rozjetého vlaku nešlo vyskočit. Takže až po tom roce 1968. že jo. To jsou ty osudové chyby.

A: A měla jste z toho nějaké vy, problémy, že jste židovského původu a že to, že jste byla v té Anglii?

B: No, jak jsem říkala. Nikdo mi to do očí neřek. Že jo. Ale taky kolem toho šestapadesátýho, myslím, taky. Že jo. Taky takové různé nepříjemnosti, že jo. Taky to bylo jako. A když mě vyhodili z Artie, tak taktéž. Že jo. Jedno s druhým. Oni vám to do očí neřeknou. Tohle to. To nějak vyplývalo ze situace.

A: A ten šedesátý osmy rok, tak to jste vnímala jak? Třeba tu okupaci? Nebo kde jste byla?

B: V Praze. Nebo vlastně konkrétně jsme nebyli v Praze. My jsme byli na dovolené. A syn byl v Anglii.

A: A co tam dělal?

B: Na brigádě. Co by? Se učit anglicky, samozřejmě. Že jo. Ale dostal tam povolení pracovat, což bylo výjimečný. A přijel jeden jeho kamarád z Francie. A nějak protože, takže, my jsme byli někde za Chrudimí, já už nevím kde to je přesně. Tak tam v těch místech. A prostě jsme se domluvili, že dcera s tím hochem pojedou do Prahy. Protože on chtěl do Prahy. Že jo. Se podívat. Tak že jo. Tak ráno, brzo, manžel je posadil na autobus a přišel zpátky. A přišel zpátky: „okupovali nás Rusové“. Já povídám „a tos je pustil jako do toho autobusu?“. Ten kluk mluvil jenom francouzsky, Věra jenom česky. No, jak se domluvili, nevím. No, ale přijeli na Florenc. Teď se všude střílelo. No, to bylo dobrodružství. No a my okamžitě sedli na první dopravní prostředek a nějak jsme jeli do Prahy. Že jo. No, tanky všude, že jo, střílelo se. Doprava nefungovala, nic. No a teď, sestra měla kluka na Slovensku někde. Tak taky celá nervózní, kde je, jak je. Mobily neexistovaly tehdy, že jo. No, takže bylo to víc jak dobrodružné. No, ten první rok celkem ještě šlo. Že jo. To ještě byla ta eufórie, jo, toho Pražskýho jara. Horší to bylo potom v devětašedesátým. To už pak začalo přituhovat. A dost. Takže když to odskákal manžel v těch padesátých letech, já zas v těch šedesátých. Jak jsem říkala, když mě vyhodili z tý Artie, tak jsem říkala nějakýmu soudruhovi. Jsem říkala: „No, v čtyřiačtyřicátým roce, moji rodiče šli do plynu za to. V padesátých letech, můj manžel dostal vyhazov na hodinu. A když teďka já dostávám výpověď a mám jedenáctiměsíční výpověď.“. Že jo, jsem říkala: „to je ohromnej pokrok, to moje děti mají ještě větší naději“. No jo. Takže.

A: Tak mi ještě řekněte o vašich dětech?

B: O mých dětech?

A: No.

B: Děti asi jako každé jiné. Jo? Asi si přehodili role. Kluk byl vždyky hodnej, mírnej. Kdežto ta holky, holka vždycky byla taková ta uličnice. Jak to někdy bývá. No, Jirka vystudoval slaboproud. No, byl zaměstnanej nejdříve v Adipně. A pak, jak se to jmenovalo, nějakej ústav obráběcích strojů. No a nějak krátce po Sametové revoluci dal výpověď a od té doby je na volné noze a překládá, hlavně technické překlady dělá. No a dcera, ta jako dost toho prostonala. Ta měla takové drobné chřipky, pak bronchitidy. A který měla i třikrát do měsíce. Takže jsme ji nechali opakovat, myslím sedmou třídu, protože skoro nebyla ve škole. Pak šla na střední. A to půl roku jakž, takž. Pak druhou půl roku dělala externě, protože pořád nemocná. V třetím ročníku chodila snad jenom dva týdny do školy. Pak dostala revma. Byla, já nevím v koliky, nemocnicích. No, odmaturovala, že jo. Chtěla na vysokou, tak díky, právě, mým průšvihům se nedostala. A krátkou dobu dělala v tý prodejně Sentinelu. A, kolik, ve dvaadvaceti se pak provdala. Pak měla kluka. No a začala dělat u rentgenu a je u toho pořád.

A: A co je bavilo třeba, když byli malí?

B: No tak, Věra, ta hlavně cvičit, cvičit. Ta dělala, závodně i, gymnastiku. A Jirka, no ten dodnes miluje lyžování. Do čtrnácti, do patnácti náruživě četl. Od tý doby konec. To už ho nějak tolik nebavilo. A no, co jinak. Tak bych řekla od všeho kousek. Asi tak. Oba mají svoje zdravotní problémy. Tak to je taky. Nemůžou udělat vždycky všechno co by chtěli, jak chtěli. Asi tak.

A: Kam jste třeba jezdili na dovolené, když byli ještě mladší?

B: No, tak to hlavně záleželo na finančních možnostech. A to byly velmi omezené. No, tak vím, že jsme párkrát byli někde u Ohře, což byla nějaká podniková, taková velice primitivně vybavená, boudička. Tam jsme byli. Pak jsme byli někdy někde u Lipverdy, na severu Čech. V Jevanech jednou, dvakrát. Jak se kde, co naskytlo.

A: A do zahraničí jste jezdili?

B: No, tehdy to nešlo. Když byli malí.

A: Ani nějaký to Bulharsko, nebo tak?

B: No, to jsme byli až někdy v sedmdesátých letech. Dřív to jako nešlo. Nejprve Rumunsko, pak Bulharsko. Bylo to všechno omezené. Jednak možnostmi a jednak finance. Ta nějak nikdy nepřebývaly.

A: A kdy jste se poprvé podívala nějak víc na Západ?

B: To bylo v osmašedesátým. Nejprve jel Jirka v šestašedesátým. To jel na tak zvané „Fruit picking“. A šedesát sedm jel manžel, já šedesát osm a Věra šedesát devět. Jo? No a pak byl konec, že jo. No a pak jsme jeli s manželem spolu, na příslib, jsme zázračně dostali, sedmdesát šest. A v osmdesátým to bylo na pozvání, ale tu už byl manžel nemocnej. No a to bylo, více méně, takový sbohem se švagrem. Ten žil v Americe a oni přijeli do Anglie, takže, aby se ještě viděli. No, manžel to nevěděl, že jo, do tý míry. Ale my jsme to věděli. No. A já jsem pak v pětaosmdesátým roce, jsme měli první sraz naší školy, po čtyřiceti letech. Takže to jsem byla. Což bylo opravdu úplně fantastický. Neuvěřitelný. I když po čtyřiceti letech máte pocit, že to jsou spíš čtyři týdny, co jste se neviděla s těmi lidmi. A s kým jsme se přátelili tehdy, tak znovu se to navázalo, to přátelství. To, kdo to nezažil, tak těžko pochopí, ty dojmy. To byl neuvěřitelný zážitek. To bylo překrásný.

A: A jinak udržovala jste s někým kontakt?

B: No, tak s tou Věrou, tu, tam. Pokud to šlo. Protože ona sem jezdila za tou tetou. Že jo? A, když byl Jirka, šedesát šest, šedesát osm. Tak byl u ní. Věrka taky. Jo? Tak s tou ponejvíc. No a hlavně potom v pětaosmdesátým, když se jako znova navázaly kontakty, tak od tý doby s celou řadou, zase. No. Velice mnoho. Takže, říkám, můžeme říct, že máme přátelé po celém světě.

A: Tak můžete jezdit, všude si na výlety a cestovat.

B: No, bohužel i to cestování něco stojí, že jo. Já vím, že když jsem byla poprvý v Americe. Tak já byla na tom východním pobřeží. No, tak to bylo neuvěřitelný je tam vidět, zase ty lidi. To bylo opravdu nádherný. Když každej je taky rád, že vás vidí. A měla jste pocit, že neobtěžujete nikde. Naopak. Jo? Že jste opravdu mezi dobrými přáteli. Kteří se snažili mi ukázat co se dalo. Že jo. Věnovali čas a všecko. Nesmírně příjemní. No. Tak to byly takovýhle milé zážitky.

A: No, a vaše děti jste třeba nějak vychovávali k tomu židovství?

B: No, nikolivěk vědomě. Oni vědí, že jsou židovského původu. Žádný nějaký ty židovské svátky nebo co, jsme nedrželi. Že jo. Vědí, že existují. Za totality Věra chodívala tam mezi tu mládež, tak zvané „děti Majzlovky“. Že jo. Bohužel po převratu se to hodně změnilo, takže už tam přestala chodit.

A: Jak se to změnilo?

B: No, už tam začala chodit jiná parta lidí, že jo. Už to nebylo ono.

A: A co to bylo přesně? Ty „děti Majzlovky“.

B: To byla mládež, právě která, mladí lidé, kteří se hlásili k židovství. A prostě takhle spontánně nějak se stýkali, že jo. Pobavit, popovídat, že jo. Třeba i na nějaký ty svátky, já nevím, tu chanuku. Ne kvůli, že by byli nějaký pobožný, to určitě ne. V žádným případě. Prostě z přátelskýho ducha. A tak nějak. No.

A: A její manžel je taky žid?

B: Ne, ona je rozvedená. Ale tak čtvrt. Její tchýně, ta už nežije teda, ta byla polo. Ale on má velké pochopení jako pro židovskou otázku. Velice.

A: A z té manželovy rodiny vlastně přežil válku kdo?

B: Jenom matka.

A: Jenom matka? A bratr teda.

B: Jo. Bratr byl taky v Anglii. A jeden bratranec, kterej pak emigroval do Izraele. Jo a jedna sestřenice, ale ta byla taky za války v Anglii. Vlastně celá ta rodina, i ti rodiče.

A: A ta matka byla kde jeho?

B: V Terezíně.

A: Jenom v Terezíně?

B: Jo. A ten bratranec jeden, ten myslím byl i v Osvětimi.

A: A osmdesátý devátý rok jste jak prožívala?

B: No, ve velké eufórii asi jako každej jinej. Že jo? To jsem s Honzou, tehdy čtrnáctiletej vnuk, každý den chodili na Václavské náměstí. Dcera byla nějak nemocná. No samozřejmě asi jako každý, obrovský iluze. Který se mnohým z nás rozplynuly do značné míry, ale zaplať pánbůh i za to, co z toho vzešlo. Že jo? To byl ten největší klad toho všeho. Ten režim byl svržený. A doufejme, že se nikdy nevrátí.

A: Ale preference jim rostou.

B: Ano. Bohužel, rostou hodně. Ale i tak nevěřím, že by se doslova vrátil ten režim co byl. Ne v tý míře.

Kazeta 3, strana A

B: Kde jsem bydlela, tak já odhaduji, že mi mohlo být tak.. něco mezi osmi a deseti.

A: To je před tou vilou tam?

B: Ano, na Vinohradech.

A: A nevíte, kdo to fotil?

B: To nevím, to nemám tušení.

A: Tak tohle, dvojka.

B: Tohle, podle toho jsem byla vybraná do toho transportu, to se posílalo, jo. Tohle, jestli se nemýlím, tak to bylo tak braný snad ve škole někde. Čtvrtá třída.

A: To je ta škola ještě česká tady?

B: Česká, samozřejmě. Tohle je tak přibližně ještě ze stejné doby, to mi mohlo být tak tři, čtyři roky, a tady jsem se sestrou.

A: Já bych teda ještě potřebovala nějaké fotografie Vašich rodičů.

B: To já strašně nerada dávám z ruky.

A: No, já Vám věřím.

B: Tohle, no, to samozřejmě originál je jeden jedinej... tohle. Možná, že mám fotokopii otce, to nevím, musím se podívat.

A: A kdybychom tam zašly společně za tím pánem, co to scanuje, že by to udělal na počkání?

B: No, tak jedině tak. A to je třeba?

A: No, oni to tam chcou.

B: Jedině tak. Protože i tohle dávám velmi nerada z ruky. To se přiznám.

A: Tak já nevím, kdy by se Vám to tak nějak hodilo?

B: Teďka přes ty svátky asi nefungujete, viďte?

A: Já tady budu, já klidně, ale zase nevím, jestli on pracuje, protože to je u něho v práci.

B: To jako by bylo tak nejvhodnější. Pondělí vidím na zubaře, ale možná, že v pondělí odpoledne...

A: Tak já se s ním dohodnu, jestli vůbec on bude v té práci teda.

B: No. Ve středu odpoledne to určitě ne, to učím. Jinak zatím nevím. Tak se domluvte a dejte mi vědět.

A: Dobře.

B: A to byste mi pak při tom vrátila.

A: Anebo možná, ono je to zbytečné, že bychom to pak udělaly všechno zaráz.

B: Jo, takhle, tak to jo.

A: Tím pádem byste to Vy měla pořád u sebe.

B: Jo, to jo, dobře.

A: A který jste dělala?

B: Jé, to už Vám nepovím. Já vím, že jsem dělala, a to už je hodně let, taky z obce, jak ona se jmenuje... Dvě ženy to dělaly... Vím, že jsem za ní byla, ne ve Střešovicích, v Břevnově, někde tam... jak ona se jmenuje?

A: Hyndráková, není to?

B: Jo, Hyndráková. Ano, to už je hodně dlouho, tohle.

A: Zhruba tak? Před deseti lety?

B: No, to určitě. Nevím, to bylo někdy v době, kdy přijel jeden spolužák z Izraele a taky jí něco povídal. Už si nevzpomenu, kdy to bylo, ale už jsem bydlela tady, a tady už jsem čtrnáct let.

A. Takže čtrnáct až deset let.

B: Jo. Asi tak nějak. Řekněme ten prostředek. Ale jinak... Zajímavé je, a to už je taky hodně let, se ke mě dostal jeden Číňan, který snad v Číně byl, já nevím, jestli mu bylo sedmdesát, osmdesát, ale žil tady před válkou, protože jeho otec byl tady velvyslancem. Tak žil tady, uměl česky, pak žil taky v Berlíně a když vypukla válka, tak se dostal do Švýcarska a žil ve Švýcarsku. Tak vystudoval historii a zaměřil se na moderní historii a taky přišel, tak jsme mu toho tady napovídala, protože on dával dohromady knihu. A úplně náhodou, je to tak dva, tři týdny, jak má Jana Klusáková vždycky v neděli tu Nedělní knihovničku, tak jsem zaslechla... takhle, on mi potom psal, že ta kniha už je v tisku a že to bude velice dobrý. Tak jsme věděla, že knížka vyšla, a pak jsem se dozvěděla, to může být takové dva, tři roky, že zemřel. A teďka ta Jana Klusáková o tom povídala, že to vyšlo v češtině, ta knížka.

A: A jak se jmenuje?

B: Mezi Berlínem a Prahou. Jang, jak on se jmenuje, já jsem kdysi měla jeho vizitku... to jsem asi vyhodila.

A: Ještě jste se nedívala, co tam psal o Vás?

B: Ne, takhle, protože jsem zjistila, že to stojí asi čtyři sta padesát korun, tak jsem si říkala, na ten odstaveček...

A: To si můžete okopírovat...

B: No. A tak. Já si nepamatuju, s kým vším jsem mluvila, ale bylo jich jako dost.

A: Tak já tam napíšu tu Hyndrákovou.

B: Jo, to určitě. To vím, to určitě, ale jináč... Pak jsem taky s Janou Klusákovou jsem v rozhlase byla, ten host Jany Klusákový jsem byla, a pak tady byl Jiří Vejvoda, když tady byla ta moje kamarádka Věra Gissing z Anglie, tak to jsme něco do rozhlasu povídaly taky, já si to nepamatuju, opravdu.

A: Tak toho máte opravdu hodně.

B: No, hodně. Já si to nepamatuju. Teďka hned po Vás přijde zase nějaká redaktorka, z toho, z Učitelských novin, ježiš pro noviny už hodněkrát, to si ani nepamatuju, vím, že ot bylo konec května nebo začátek června, protože manželka jednoho našeho spolužáka z té školy v Anglii dávala dohromady všechno o té naší škole. A tady se to mělo uložit do toho Národního archivu a já jsem byla s tím senátorem Outratou na letišti, když to přišlo, tak tam taky povídání do toho rozhlasu a snad v televizi... to bylo pak ještě, kolem toho byl článek v novinách...

A: Sbíráte to ještě všechno?

B: V podstatě jo, protože ze mě se stal takovej archivář. A díky tomu, když Matěj Mináč, víte, kdo to je, že jo? Začal děla ten dokument, tak začal dělat něco o panu Wintonovi, dostal se na mě, a to byl asi půl hodinovej rozhovor, celej udivenej, že ještě žije, a přišel ke mně a když zjistil, že já mám ty seznamy, a tam tu knihu výstřižku, tak to byl úplně v sedmém nebi, a tady mi prohrabal všechno, co se dalo, protože já byla úplně taková studna materiálu, že jo, no a stejně tak co se týče dost, i té školy. Ale už jsem si řekla dost, už to nemám kam dávat. Ale vyplatilo se to mockrát, že jo. Každou chvilku se něco děje, tak nějaký článek se hodí, že jo.

A: Letos máte taky sraz s tou školou?

B: Ne, ne ne ne. Nejprv jsme to měli po pěti letech, potom po třech, teďka ta, co ot organizuje, řekla že už dost, jednak že už toho ona má dost, že už jsme staří a nemocní a tak dále, no, bohužel je to pravda, taky vždycky, taky se stává, že někdo umře, že jo, tak začaly velké křiky a protesty, tak že ne, tak zase za tři roky, takže zase za dva roky. Snad.

A: Tak se máte na co těšit.

B: Ale jo. Tak jestliže ne to, tak já hlavně s tou Věrou, tak to se v rámci možností vídáme. Aspoň každej rok, že jo.Ona má těžce nemocnou dceru, tak jinak by asi častěji....

A: Jsem si četla ty dvě knížky od ní.

B: No. Ty Perličky, že jo, a tu Zachráněnou generaci.

A: A teď sjem byla v knihkupectví a úplně náhodou jsem tam našla knížku od Sylvie...

B: Součkový.

A: No, no. Tam měli v Levných knihách výprodej za třicet devět korun.

B: Jo? Takhle, já tu druhou nečetla.

A: Tohle je z Akademie.

B: No ono je obojí z Alademie. To první je myslím Psáno osudem a politikou, jo, tak tu mám, a tu druhou ne, to je něco s Masarykem myslím, říkala. Tak to nevím. To jsem nečetla.

A: No, ale tuhle jsem si koupila za třicet devět korun.

B: Jo? Tak to ani nevím, že je to takto zlevněný. No. To jo. Ona mi ji věnovala, tak ani nevím, za kolik se prodávala. Kde já ji mám? Já ji musela někomu půjčit? Ale to já si hlídám... Já vím, že jsem ji půjčila té...ale ta mi ji vrátila... To bych nerada o to přišla. Taky patří do toho mého archívu. No, takže už znáte řadu mých, to, no anglicky umíte? Tak by možná Vás zajímalo, to Vám ale nedám z ruky, jestli na internetu, tady ty Timezones, Joe Schlessinger. Je to možná víc pro mužské...

A: O čem to je?

B: Dá se říct taky jeho životopis. On je skutečně věhlasnej novinář. Světoznámej. Pracuje v kanadské televizi. A on v tom filmu, ta Síla lidskosti, tam dělá průvodce. A on v tom píše, tak to dětství taky, jak se dostal do Anglie, jak tam byl v té škole a tak. Potom tady utekl v padesátým roce, nebo jednapadesát, a stal se novinářem a pracoval na každém kontinentě. A jelikož je tak mladej jako já, tak ještě teďka nedávno mi psal, že jede na dva týdny do Bolívii a na jaře jako do Evropy, a že si odskočí do Prahy, aby se sem podíval. Takže ten je věčně vytíženej. Protože já, když jsem byla předposledně v Americe, tak za mnou z Kanady přijel. Jenom na den, na dva, což jsem si jako velice považovala, že se utrhl a přijel za mnou. A když jsem tam byla teďka v listopadu, tak to mu nevyšlo, že jo, on pořád pracuje ještě na plný úvazek.

A: A on má nějakou rodinu?

B: No,tak má dvě dcery. Manželka mu zemřela, to bylo akorát v době, jak tady byla premiéra toho filmu Síla lidskosti, proto nepřijel, a to bylo nula jedna. Takže žije sám. Ta jedna dcera se snad teď v léta má stěhovat z Ameriky do Kanady za ním, a druhá je v Americe. No, takže takhle. Dost jako, ta Susi taky psala něco... Říkám, tohle takové hodně politické.

A: Tak já si to zkusím někde najít.

B: Jak říkám, a internetu se to našlo určitě.

A: Celá ta knížka?

B: To nevím. To spíš kdyby se dalo objednat.

A: Ještě jsem se chtěla zeptat...

B: No, nono, povídejte.

A: Tam je jedna podsekce otázek, na které jsem zapomněla: Váš vztah k Izraeli.

B: Eh. Takhle. Rozhodně nejsem sionista. To v žádném případě. Ale pokud... považuji to za vlast židů, že jo, což neznamená, že každý žid tam má žít. Pokud chce, samozřejmě, že ano. A jelikož dva tisíce let bojují o tento svůj pidi státeček a napracovali se tam dost, nadřeli, a z té neúrodné půdy skutečně něco udělali, já myslím, že mají velikej nárok, nebo, naproste járok na tuhle půdu, a měli by je tam v klidu nechat lidé žít. Palestincům neupírají právo žít tam také, vedle sebe, ale musí je nechat v klidu.

A: Sledovala jste ty konflikty, které tam probíhaly? V šedesátém sedmém, sedmdesátém třetím?

B: No, tak studovat určitě ne, to v žádném případě, ale sledovala jsem, co bylo v rozhlase, v televizi, v novinách, no tak to samozřejmě. Já jsem tam byla jen jednou jedinkrát, ještě vlastně za totality, a v momentě, kdy letadlo dosedlo, tak mě.... no, já nevím, je to strašně působivé a strašně silně to působí. Já to neumím vyjádřit. Možná, že někdo, kdo se umí lépe vyjadřovat, tak jo.

A: No, tak to stačí, když je to působivé...

B: Velice. Velice. Velmi silně. Prostě člověk má pocit, ano, sem patřím. Ale na druhou stranu si neumím představit, že bych tam žila.

A: A nikdy jste o tom neuvažovala?

B: Ne. Takhle. Ta možnost se ani v praxi nevyskytla. Možná jen hned po válce, ale já toužila domů z té Anglie, že jo, a je pravda, že v pětaosmdesátým, kdy jsme měli první sraz té naší skoly, a byli tam taky naši spolužáci z Izraele, tak mi to nabídli. Že mi jako pomůžou a tak dále.

A: V tom pětaosmdesátým?

B: V tom pětaosmdesátým. Tak jsem řekla, děkuji pěkně, ale já už tady mám děti, rodinu, v těch letech už jako … těžko člověk jako mí kořeny, ani nevím, jestli bych po tom byla toužila. Těžko říct. Ano, podívat se, samozřejmě, ale žít tam? Těžko.

A: A co Vás nejvíc zaujalo, když jste tam byla?

B: Já nevím.

A: Celkově ta atmosféra? Ten dojem?

B: Ta atmosféra! Já to neumím vyjádřit, ale s kýmkoliv jsem mluvila, moje dcera tam byla taky, a stejněj pocit, jestli to je ta sounáležitost nebo co? Já nevím, já to neumím vyjádřitl. Těžko. Vy jste tam byla?

A: Ne, nebyla, nemám tolik peněz.

B: No. Já to neumím říct.

A: A ještě tam mě napadlo, ta Věra tam píše, jaká nadšená vlastenka v té Anglii ona byla. Vy jste byla taky?

B: Taky, ale ne tolik jako ona. A ona ještě dnes, když sem přijde, tak cokoliv, český chleba, to je to nejlepší, co existuje. Anebo, já nevím, když jí udělám vajíčka, tak český vajíčka jsou lepší než anglický, a i tak, a acylpirin náš je lepší než jejich aspirin.. prostě, nevím, o všem je přesvědčená, že všechno je lepší. No. Takhle, zase není tak neobjektivní, taky ví a zná, jaké jsou tady nedostatky, hlavně jaké byly, takže to umí rozlišit. Ale jo, já taky nemám ráda, když jsem v cizině a někdo řekne něco nehezkého o naší republice. To velmi špatně snáším. Tohle. I kdyby na tom bylo kousíček pravdy, tak to nerada slyším. Tak po té stránky vlastenka jsem, to určitě. Já si na své děti můžu hubovat jak chci, ale žádnej cizí mi na něj sahat nesmí. Asi takhle.

A: Ještě mi tam chybí, kdy měli Vaši rodiče svatbu? Víte to?

B: To vím. Devětadvacátého ledna devatenáct set dvacet dva.

A: A oni měli nějakou židovskou?

B: Asi. Asi. To nevím. To ještě bylo hodně dlouho před mým narozením. A i kdyby, tak to asi... ale řekla bych, že jo, ale zaručit to nemůžu.

A: Jo, Vy jste tam ještě mluvila o prababičce. Pamatujete si na ni?

B: Vůbec. Jo, jojojojo. Ano, Jenom vím, že měla vzadu v Sokolské tam dva pokoje a měla červené plyšové kanapíčko. Jinak nic. Musela být hodně stará. A asi z toho pokoje ani moc nevycházela. A dlouho jsem ji nemohla zažít. To určitě ne. Protože my jsme se do té Sokolské v roce třicet tři, když dědeček zemřel, jsme se tam stěhovali a jestli ještě tehdy žila nebo krátce potom zemřela... a mně bylo pět let, když jsme se tam stěhovali. Tak co si z toho můžu pamatovat? Můžu Vám udělat nějaký čaj, kafe nebo něco?

A: Ne, ne.

B: Tak vodu nějakou?

A: Tak jenom obyčejnou vodu.

B: Bublinkatou, nebublinkatou, ochucenou?

A: Bublinkatou. Děkuji.

A: Pak jsem se ještě chtěla zeptat, s těmi Rudými sokoli jste potom ještě byli nějak v kontaktu?

B: Ne. No, takhle. Ta první rodina, u které jsem byla, jo, tak ti patřili do té organizace, že jo. A vím, že se občas, asi v létě dělali nějaké tábory nebo něco takového. Vzpomínám, že na jednom z nich jsem byla, ale víc nic.

A: A když jste měla prázdniny v té škole, tak jste byla kde?

B: No, asi u té rodiny … ale nějak. To mě vůbec nenapadlo tohle. Čili to asi na mě žádnej dojem nenechalo, asi se nikam nejelo, to už nevím. To nevím. Když jsem byla v té české škole, to jo, to jsem jezdila do Londýna za sestrou.

A: Když jste byla v české škole, tak jste jezdila na prázdniny za ní?

B: Jo, to jo. Ale když jsem byla u těch rodin, tak to si vůbec nevzpomínám. To mi nějak vypadlo z paměti, úplně.

A: Děkuji.

B: Prosím.

A: A jaké jídlo s u Vás vařilo?

B: To nemám tušení. Já jenom vím, že jsem byla strašně vybíravá, já jsem byla hrozné dítě, a maminka nesnášela česnek, tudíž špenát se dělal bez česneku. A to byl vždycky problém, abych ho snědla. Já si nepamatuju, to opravdu nevím. Odjakživa jsem byla mlsná, všechno sladké jsem měla ráda, ale co se vařilo nevařilo...

A: A co Vám chutnalo?

B: No, říkám, všechno sladký.

A: Všechno sladký.

B: Ale to si opravdu nepamatuju. Já jsem nikdy moc na jídlo nebyla, hlavně nejsem. Jsem nejradši, když to nemusím vařit, ale nevzpomínám, opravdu.

A: Ještě jsem se chtěla zeptat, jak jste oslovovala sestru?

B: Mimko. Celá řada lidí jí říkala Mílo, doma se jí někdy říkalo Mimi, já jí říkala Mimka.

A: Tak děkuji, mě už k tomu žádné další otázky nenapadly, když jsem to dělala.

B: Dobře. Tak já Vám tady tohle to doplnila. Ještě teďka, když jsem přišla domů tak jsem honem na to.. když tak se na to jukněte, jestli to tak vyhovuje nebo ne.

A: Je, Vy jste mi to doplnila anglicky, děkuji.

B: No, jo, když to je v angličtině, tak jsem si říkala...

A: Jo, je to lepší.

B: Tak na to jsem jako velice velkej prevít, to dávám velice nerada z ruky.

A: Já jsem myslela, že mu to zanesu teď rovnou, ale on už teď odpoledne nebude v kanceláři, takže mu to zanesu zítra dopoledne.

B: Dobře.

A: Tak do konce týdne by to mohlo být hotový.

B: Já tady docela mám od tatínka tohle, jestli to stačí?

A: No, tak jo, tak se řekne, že nemáte nic lepšího.

B: Já teda ten originál samozřejmě mám... Tak co chcete konkrétně?

A: Tak Vás, když jste byla malá, rodiče, sourozence...

B: Já tady mám tohle, co je pro mě velice vzácná fotka, to jsou rodiče a sestra.

A: A ze kdy to je?

B: Tak třicet osm, třicet devět?

A: A to je před vaším domem?

B: Jo. No, tak náš nebyl, ale v něm jsme bydleli.

A: A sestře bylo tenkrát kolik už?

B: Patnáct? Tak stačí to, coby sestra? Pak tady mám ještě nějaké jiné, ale říkám, čím míň toho dám z ruky, tím jsem radši. Tady mám zrovna ten originál...

A: Ale tak já si klidně půjčím jenom tu kopii.

B: No, nerada bych, jestli to stačí... tohle byla moje maturitní...

A: A jaké jste, Vy jste neměla žádné problémy, když jste se vrátila do Československa? Jak se na Vás dívali?

B: Takhle, já jsem chodila do takzvané repatriantské třídy, což znamená, že každému tam nějaký ročník chyběl. Buď byli totálně nasazení, pak tam byl jeden hoch, co byl v Terezíně, a byli tam asi dva spolužáci, co byli v Anglii se mnou taky, ani neívm, proč ti ostatní, proč... ale většinou končili v kvartě. Věkově jsme patřili do septimy. Já vlastně v Anglii končila v kvintě, takže bych měla pokračovat v sextě, ale já hlavně neměla kde bydlet ze začátku, každou chvíli jinde, každý se domníval, že když jsem přijela z Anglii, tak musím mít kdovíco, kdovíjaké hadříčky, no tak bylo nám sedmnáct, tak která holka se nechce parádit, že jo, za války nic nebylo. Já vím, že za války nebyly taneční. A tak maminka jedné spolužačky, že budeme chodit do tanečních, a že mě vezmou s sebou a že mě bude dělat jakoby garde, a já říkám, děkuji pěkně, ale já nemám žádné šaty na sebe. No to nemohla pochopit. Já, která přijela z Anglie... Já neměla. Nejenom, že tam všechno bylo na příděl, ale my neměli ani jak vyčerpat příděl, protože já neměla za co si co koupit. Že jo. Takže to nikdo nepochopil, tohleto. Prostě jsem byla takovej outsider. A já vím, potom, když jsme měli taky takovej nějakej ten sraz, tak tam jedna spolužačka, která taky v osmačtyřicátém nebo kdy emigrovala, skončila ve Vídni, a pak mi říkala, po dvaceti letech, teďka teprve chápu, jak ti bylo, jak jsi se cítila, když jsi přijela jako emigrantka zpátky jaký to bylo. Jo. Ale na to ona musela být taky v té emigraci, aby to pochopila. Nikdo jinej to nepochopil. Já abych měla aspoň si mohla koupit legitimaci na tramvaj, tak jsem dávala hodiny, abych měla nějakou tu korunu. A prostě žila jsem naprosto jiný život než ostatní.

A: A cítila jste to ze strany nějakých lidí, že by se k Vám stavěli nepřátelsky, kvůli tomu, že jste …

B: No, tak nezapomenu jeden incident jedné naší češtinářky, když jsme dostali za úkol psát, tehdy se tomu říkalo kompozice, dneska by se tomu říkalo slohová práce, jako domácí úkol, české divadlo za okupace. Já jsem za ní šla a říkám, prosím vás, já tohle nemůžu napsat, já tady nebyla. Já o tom nic nevím. Já nevím, kde čerpat nějaké informace... No tak máte rádio, můžete poslouchat rádio. Já jsem říkala nemám. Já nemám žádnej domov, já nemám nic, kde něco čerpat. No byla krajně nepříjemná. Mně se to samozřejmě strašně dotklo, že neměla trochu pochopení, to mě nenapadlo jí cokoliv vykládat o svém osudu, jak jsem žila nebo žiju... ale největší šok byl pro mě, když jsem se dozvěděla snad po dvaceti letech, že vlastně ona, no, asi už nežije, byla židovka, byla v koncentráku, seděla s tou Gustou Fučíkovou, ale to jen tak mimochodem, a já jsem si z toho vydedukovala, že to byl takový, já nevím, antisemitismus je těžko použít tady, ale že, já nevím, že já jsem se musela mít ohromě dobře, když jsem byla v té Anglii, zatímco ona byla v tom koncentráku. No měla, ve srovnání s ní. O tom není pochyb. Na druhou stranu ona měla pochopit, že já jsem bez rodičů a že tne můj život taky nebyl na růžích ustlanejch. Tak nějak tu zlobu si chtěla vylít na mě. Tohle u mě zůstalo to nepochopení. A že úřady nevycházely vstříc, to je jako bohužel víc jak známo, hlavně po osmačtyřicátém. Tak to jsme cítili velice, možná manžel ještě víc než já.

A: Myslíte, že jste měla větší problémy kvůli tomu, že jste židovka, nebo že jste byla v Anglii? Nebo kombinace obou?

B: Kombinace obou. Já bych řekla, že manžel měl větší problémy, že jo, taky byl v té Anglii, a taky tne nesprávný původ, abych tak řekla. Mně se to nedávalo tolik najevo, ale, taky mu to nikdo neřekl do obličeje, ale vyplývalo to z toho. To nesla ta doba s sebou, že jo. Asi takhle. Tak mi teďka řekněte, co všechno... jsem nucena Vám propůjčit. Tak to je babička, to je matka. Co se týče rodičů mého otce, tak o těch nevím nic a taky nemám žádné fotografie, protože ty zemřeli dávno před tím, než jsem se narodila. Jo. O těch nevím nic. Jo, takže, co z toho.

A: Možná že tu matku.

B:Tak. Tohle taky?

A: No, pokud by to šlo...

B: Dobře. To je maturitní, tohle to je, buď tohle, nebo nějaká jiná, to se dávalo..

A: To jste taky Vy?

B: No, nonono. Buď podle toho nebo podle nějaké jiné mě vybírali, nebo, kam jsem ji dal, to je to stejné větší, že jo?

A: Vy jste mi nějaké ty fotky donesla.

B: No, nonono, já teďka koukám, kam jsem je dala. To je asi tak ze současnosti teďka, jo, tady to je. Tak buď, myslím, že podle téhle, ta se posílala. Tahle. To byla nějaká školní, tak co ještě byste ráda?

A: Tak asi tuto, možná i toho tatínka na oskenování...

B: Tohle nebo tohle?

A: Tak která se Vám líbí víc?

B: Tohle.

A: Tak tohle. To je tak ta stejná doba? Ten třicátý osmý?

B: No, určitě.

A: A máte nějaké fotky z Anglie?

B: Možná, že tohle, ale to je jako věkově víceméně... já bych řekla, že ne. Myslíte jako z doby válečný? Myslím, že ne.

A: Ještě mě napadlo, měli jste tam nějaké kapesné v té Anglii?

B: Něco jsme dostávali.

A: Od státu?

B: Ne. To byl takzvaný Czechoslovak Trust Found, ale asi to nějak s vládou muselo souviset. Už jsem se ptala několika lidí, jestli si pamatují, kolik jsme dostávali, ale nikdo si nepamatuje. Takže já vím, že to bylo tak na tu pastu na zuby a případně poštovné nebo tak, ale jinak...

A: Oblečení jste třeba dostávali od nich taky? Nebo to jste si museli kupovat z toho kapesného?

B: Z toho kapesného nikolivěk, vím, že jednou prostě nějakej svetr mi někdo koupil, a jinak taky jsme snad měli možnost jít na Mezinárodní červenej kříž, a to jsem snad využila jednou, že jsme potřebovali nějaké deky, a ty byly pletené. Tak to jsem tady potom po válce tu vlnu rozpárala a ještě ji asi mám. No, tak to mi sestra většinou asi něco dala, když někdo něco odložil... Tak z té válečné, jestli najdu něco skupinového.. Pochybuju, pochybuju...

A: Jak často tam jezdil za váma do té školy někdo z československé vlády?

B: Tak to nevím. Jednou, dvakrát... Vím že ještě, když jsme byli v tom Hinton Hallu, že tam byla jednou Hana Benešová... Tak já nic nemůžu najít.

A: Tak to nevadí, tak kdybyste potom našla třeba něco z toho srazu?

B: Z toho srazu? Tak těch je hodně. Aby se to nepomíchalo.. Jo, tak to fotil ten Joe Schlessinger a tohle byla jeho manželka. Tihle jsou ze Švýcarska a tihle dva jsou z Izraele. Jo, tak když jsme měli první ten sraz, tak jsme každý u stolu našli pohled, ot je to městečko, a každému tady něco napsali. Což bylo strašně hezké.

A: Z toho městečka ti lidi?

B: No, ano, ti obyvatelé. Tak tady je taková skupinka.

A: Tak nějakou skupinku, kde byste byla Vy a třeba ta Věra.

B: Tady třeba, ale to zase nejsme tak moc vidět.

A: Anebo máte nějakou fotku s Wintonem třeba?

B: Určitě jo. Tady jsem, tady jsem jednou přinesla tu vlajku. Tohle je ta budova, dneska je to opět hotel. Tady nám přišly dětičky zpívat. Tady je zase Věra, tady jsem já...

A: A tady to je kdo?

B: To je taky spolužák, ten je z Izraele zrovna, taky.

A: To je z toho osmdesátého pátého ty fotky?

B: Jo. Z toho posledního nemám ani jednu. To je těch fotek čím dál tím míň. Protože já nefotím, tak jak někdo pošle, tak tentokrát mi nikdo nic neposlal... Tohle to je pozdější... Jo, to je teďka, dva tisíce pět.

A: Tak poslal.

B: Jo. To je ten Joe Schlessinger, to je ta Věra, tady to je Milena, Lady Milena, a to je Eva Krušinová, ta žije tady.

A: Tak mohla bych tady tuto?

B: Nono.

A: A mohla bych si kdyžtak půjčit i tady tu školu, jak tu máte tu fotografii?

B: No, nonono. Jako samotnou tu budovu, jo? Tady je to. Tohle je taky hezký. My jsme na tom prvním srazu tam zasadili lípu. Taková malinká, dneska už je to strom velikej, tak tohle tam nechali přidělat. Tak si s tím pohraju později. Takže, jeden, dva, tři, čtyři, pět, šest, sedm, jo? Stačí.

A: Jo ještě nějakou tu novější.

B: Tak tady, jeden, dva...

A: To jenom jednu.

B: No, právě, tak kterou?

A: Tak tuhle. Ještě kdyžtak nějakou Vaši poválečnou.

B: Poválečnou máte tady.

A: Já myslím s manželem. Případně s dětmi.

B: No ježišmarja.

A: A nějakou s tím Wintonem.

B: Jo, s tím Wintonem. Nevím, kde hledat. To není ono, jestli ji najdu zrovna... Samozřejmě, že nenajdu... Todlencto bylo v roce devadesát osm, čili všem, co nám bylo sedmdesát.

A: Jo, to je paní Šímová tady.

B: Taky nic. No, tak tady je jedna, to není zrovna nejpovedenější. Tady je v Krumlově.Já vím, že nějaká je ještě z Václaváku, když tady byl poprvé, v tom jedna devadesátým.

Strana B:

B: ...no, kdekdo.

A: Co to je za strom, tady co máte před stromem?

B: To je sakura, ta japonská třešeň. Což je nádhera tuto dobu, a pak říkám, pak to bude fuč a my tady budeme mít takový růžový koberec. To jk všechny ty květy spadnou, takže je všechno na zemi..

A: To jste taky Vy?

B: Jo. Jsem se rozčílila.

A: Co Vám provedli?

B: Já nevím, furt něco. Pořád něco. Já byla téměř nejmladší, takže si mě dobírali.

A. A kam jste jezdila na lyže?

B: To bylo myslím Svatej Petr. Asi jednou nebo dvakrát. Já to nenajdu. Že by tady něco? Pochybuju... Tady je svatební moje, jestli Vás to zajímá...

A: Vaše sestra Vám šla za svědka?

B: Za svědka ne, ale byla tam. Já Vás zklamu...

A: Tak to nevadí, tady to stačí.

B: To je fotek, ale když člověk to hledá, tak samozřejmě to není... Furt. Nemám... Až to budu uklízet, až budete pryč, tak je najdu.

A: Tak až je budete potřebovat příště, tak budete vědět, kde jsou.

B: Ne, to už mezitím zase rozházím... já jsem to měla docela srovnaný, ale jak každou chvilku někdo něco chce a něco jiného, tak mám tady v tomhle takový maglajz. Ještě jediný, že bych něco měla, jak mám samotného Wintona... Tak to za chvíli donesu fotku...To jsou ty moje, jak říkám, archívy. Tady mám jednu jeho s manželkou... Z toho nevidím nic. To je ta Betty Maxwell, to byl velvyslanec tady, ale při jaké příležitosti, to nevím, co byl zač.

A: Já bych potřebovala nějakou, kde jste Vy s Wintonem.

B: No, podívám se, jestli něco najdu, ale nevím, nevím. Tady je jedna ze školy, to je naše tercie. Tak bohužel. Když, tak já jsem už ztratila Vaše číslo, tak mi ho napište, kdybych něco našla, tak bych Vám zavolala.

A: Nebo až Vám já přijdu vrátit ty fotky, tak potom.

B: No.

A: Chcete to mé číslo teda?

B: Jojo. Ale až se uvidíme, tak stejně... Taky si napíšu číslo, pak nevím, kdo to je...

A: Já jsem tam napsala i jméno.

B: Jo. Díky. Takže kdy myslíte, že byste to měla?

A: No, tak on to tak dělá do týdne?

B: Případně mu můžu říct, aby is tak trošku pohl, že bych Vám to vrátila už o víkendu. No, třeba.

A: Já taky budu radši, když už ta zodpovědnost na mě nebude. Mohla bych ještě tyhle dvě?

B: Ale jo.

A: Tohle, to jste mi říkala, to jste Vy před Vaším domem.

B: Před domem, ano. Tam jsme bydleli.

A: A třída asi tak která? Nebo rok?

B: Třicet sedm, třicet osm.

A: Dva. To jste Vy a Vaše sestra.

B: Ano.

A: A kde to mohlo být focené?

B: To je asi u fotografa bych řekla. No, to je fotograf, Staromák.

A: A rok?

B: To bych tak řekla, že mi mohly být tak tři roky, tak třicet jedna, třicet dva.

A: To je maminka, trojka. A co je to tak za rok, asi?

B: Nevím, něco mezi třicet šest a třicet devět.

A: Čtyři je tatínek, a taky ten třicet šest?

B: No, tak nějak.

A: Pět, to je Vaše fotka, když jste jela do Anglie...

B: Ano, ta se posílala, podle toho jsem byla vybraná.

A: Tak fotka je to pěkná...

B: Čili třicet devět. Určitě.

A: Tak šestka, to jsou rodiče a sestra před domem.

B: Mh. Tak třicet osm bych tipla.

A: Sedm to jste Vy u maturity.

B: Ano, to je rok čtyřicet sedm.

A: Vy jste měli nějaké tablo taky?

B: Hm.

A: Osm je Vaše svatební. Svatbu jste měli na Staroměstské radnici?

B: Ne, Clam-Gallasův palác. Tam se tenkrát oddávalo. To ještě nebyla radnice.

A: To je osm. Devět. Devět je sraz té Vaší školy.

B: Dva tisíce pět.

A: A ti lidi, co tam jsou, to je kdo?

B: No, tak Eva Krušinová, ta žije tady, ta dělala sestřičku a její manžel byl češtinář. A její vnuk je Pavel Zuna. A tady ot je ten Joe Schlessinger, ten dělal toho průvodce tím filmem, to je Lady Milena, která organizuje ty srazy.

A: To je ta za ním?

B: To je ta za ním. A Jinač je tady známá jako Lady Remoska, která zavedla prodej remosek do Anglie. To je Věra, to jsem já, a to je Uta, taky jedna spolužačka.

A: A ta bydlí v Anglii nebo kde?

B: Jo, v Anglii. Joe je v Kanadě, akorát Eva a já jsme tady, jinak ty tři jsou v Anglii.

A: A je to před tou školou?

B: Tady, to je ta budova, zboku to je. Čili asi tahle část. Když se jde, takhle se přichází tamtudy.

A: A sešli se tam i nějací učitelé na tom srazu?

B: Vždyť už nežijou. Jedině ten ředitel, kterému bylo sto v prosinci.

A: Ten tam taky jezdí za váma,

B: Ne, ten byl akorát jednou, když jsme měli v Krumlově ten sraz. V pětadevadesátým.

A: A on se vrátil do Československa?

B: Jo, on žije tady.

A: Tak to je devět. Desítka je ta škola.

B: Ano, ta škola.

A: A jedenáct jste Vy. A ještě teda toho Wintona?

B: Jo, tahle, jo?

A: No, nono.

B: To je taky v Krumlově, v pětadevadesátým.

A: A ti lidi?

B: To je Ruth Hálová, ta žije v Krumlově, to je manželka a to je Lia, nevím, jak se teď jmenuje, ta žije v Anglii.

A: A jaký měl Winton program, když tady byl?

B: No, tak přijel na ten sraz hlavně. Že jo. Tehdy.

A: Devadesát pět. Takže to byl sraz školy?

B: To byl sraz školy a on přijel, ano.

A: Aha.

B: A myslím, že ještě zůstal pak nějak den u Ruth... on se tady zdržel ještě... a pak tam jel na víkend? Já už si to nepamatuju. Opravdu.

A: A tak strávíte s ním hodně času, když tady je, že jo.

B: No, to samozřejmě. Takže je jich kolik?

A: Mělo by jich být dvanáct podle toho číslování. Takže já mu to tam zítra zanesu a hned Vám zavolám, kdy Vám to vrátím.

B: Dobře.

A: Děkuji.

B: … přátelé mých rodičů.

A: To jsou ti, co emigrovali kamsi pryč? Ti chemici?

B: Ano. A tohle to byla vlastně sestra mého švagra.

A: A oni se potom vrátili do Československa zůstali tady.

B: Ano. Oni byli bezdětní, takže my jsme jako jim tak trošičku dělali, no, oni byli trošku mladší než rodiče, asi deset let, ani ne.

Ida Kristina

Ida Kristina and her friends

Ida Kristina
Chernigov
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: April 2003

Ida Kristina lives in the very center of Chernigov, an old green town with ancient Christian monument in the Kiev Rus. Ida has a two-bedroom apartment in a nine-storied apartment building constructed 25 years ago. There is good furniture, bought in the 1980s, in the rooms. The apartment is very clean and decorated with embroidered or knitted napkins, fancy pillowcases and embroidered pictures of landscapes made by the mistress of the house. Ida is knitting something again since she has her knitting basket in the kitchen. She makes an impression of being a very reserved, but hospitable and amicable woman. She welcomes me warmly and apologizes that she may have forgotten some names or dates due to her age of 83 before we start the interview. We talk in the kitchen where a branch of blooming acacia was knocking on the window. After the interview we went into the living-room where we took turns to play the piano and sang Jewish and Russian songs.

My parents' families came from Chernigov region. I know very little about my father's family. They lived in Oleshevka, a Ukrainian village, where two or three other Jewish families lived apart from them. My grandfather's name was Zalman Rubin, but I don't know my grandmother's name. I don't know what my grandfather did for a living, but my father told me that his family was very poor but very religious. There was no synagogue in the village, of course, since there weren't even enough men for a minyan. Therefore, the Jews of Oleshevka often went to pray with other Jews in the neighboring village. There were five children in the family: three daughters and two sons.

My father's older brother, whose name I don't remember, was born about 1870. He lived in the town of Gomel in Belarus where he was a craftsman. He had five daughters. I saw two of them only once, around 1960, when my husband and I went on a tour to Belarus. We met with our relatives briefly and I only know that they had families and children and were wealthy. I don't even remember their names. We never corresponded or met again and I have no information about my cousins. My uncle died in evacuation in the 1940s.

My father's sisters were married. They didn't have any education and became housewives. They observed Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays in their families. However, they or their husbands weren't real believers and their children, who grew up in the Soviet times, were far from religion and didn't even celebrate holidays.

My father's older sister, Tsylia, born in 1872, was married. I don't remember her husband's name. He died in the early 1920s when I was just a child. Tsylia had three children: two daughters and a son. Her older daughter died in infancy. The other children, Basia and Michael, who I knew, lived in Chernigov with their mother. I have very little information about them. After the Great Patriotic War 1 they stayed in the town in the Ural where they had been in evacuation. Aunt Tsylia died shortly after the war in the early 1950s. Basia and Michael have also passed away by now.

My father's sister Riva, born in 1875, lived in Chernigov with her husband. Riva died in the early 1930s, shortly after her husband passed away. Her only daughter Manya got married. Her last name after her husband was Nepomniaschaya. Her husband was the manager of the planning department of Chernigov wool yarn factory. Manya finished an accounting school and worked as an accountant. During the war Manya, her husband and two sons were in evacuation. Regretfully, I don't remember her sons' names, but I know that they got a good education. Her older son was a journalist and worked in Leningrad. He died three years ago. Her younger son was at the front during the war. He was a professional military and retired from the army in the rank of lieutenant colonel. Now he lives in Israel with his family.

My father's younger sister Vera, her Jewish name was Dvoira, was born in 1880. She was married. Her husband died before the Great Patriotic War. Vera had no children. She was in evacuation during the war. She died in Chernigov in the middle of the 1960s.

My father, Yankel Rubin, was the youngest in the family, a nipper. He was born in Oleshevka in 1882. There was no cheder in the village. My father and his brothers and sisters attended classes with a melamed, who came to the village once a week. He taught them to read and write in Yiddish. My father didn't have the traditional bar mitzvah at the age of 13 since in 1895, shortly before he was to come of age, my father's parents died one after another. My father's older sisters and brother had their own families. My father became an orphan. A Jewish joiner, who lived in the same village as my father, took him to teach him his profession. So my father became his apprentice. My father followed his family to Chernigov in 1907. He became a skilled cabinetmaker. In 1907 my father met my mother through matchmakers and they got married a year later.

My mother came from a Ukrainian village in Chernigov region. Her father, Samuel Kantor, born in the 1860s, owned a small store in the village of Tarkhovka near Oleshevka. I don't know my maternal grandmother's name. My mother told me that they were a wealthy family. They had a big house and kept livestock: three horses and several cows. They were one of the wealthiest families in the village. My grandfather sold all essential goods in his store: haberdashery and household goods, tools, instruments and fabrics. Villagers often bought goods on credit and respected my grandfather for not charging them interest. My grandfather's family was very religious. They strictly followed kosher rules and celebrated Saturday. They often invited poor Jews from Tarkhovka and neighboring villages to share a meal with them. My grandfather prayed every day, before and after the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 2 when he lived in the family of his older daughter, Etl. He put on his tallit and tefillin and prayed for a long time. There were three daughters in the family: Etl, the oldest, born in 1885, my mother Leya, born in 1887, and the youngest Basia, born in 1898. There were other children in the family, but they died in infancy.

In 1905 escaping from pogroms 3 that rolled over Russia - Kishinev and Odessa, Kiev, Chernigov and towns in Belarus - the family left their house and belongings and moved to Chernigov taking only money and valuables. My grandmother died shortly afterward and my grandfather lived with his older daughter Etl.

Etl's last name after her husband was Levitina. Her husband inherited a store from his father, but after the time of the NEP 4 authorities expropriated his store and his belongings; he fell ill and died shortly afterwards. Etl had five children: four sons and a daughter. By the time their father died the oldest children were old enough to go to work to support their mother and their younger siblings. Etl didn't work. She stayed at home and helped her children with the housework: cooking, cleaning and fixing their clothes. Aunt Etl died in Leningrad in the middle of the 1960s. Her daughter, whose name I don't remember, finished a pedagogical college and worked as an English teacher. She married a Russian man, a commissar of division, and hero of the Civil War 5. They moved to the Far East and I had no information about her after that. One of their sons, Mikholka, perished at the front during the the Great Patriotic War. Boris and Matvey worked in cinematography. Boris was a cinema operator. As for Matvey, I don't know what exactly he was doing. Their younger son, Michael, became a professional military. They lived in Leningrad after the war and were married, but I have no more information about them. We weren't in contact with them.

My mother's younger sister, Basia, married a Jewish man from Gomel region. They lived in the town of Novo-Belitsa. Her husband, whose last name was Gomelskiy, was a member of the Party and worked as a secretary in the Gomel party committee. I never met him. I know that he perished during the Great Patriotic War. Basia and her children were in evacuation. She had six children: five girls and a boy. Basia died shortly after the war. Her daughter, Maria, also passed away and the rest of her children live in Israel and America. We don't correspond.

My mother Leya, born in 1887, got practically no education. However, she could read and write in Yiddish. My grandfather Samuel taught her and her sisters the basics of Jewish education. After my grandmother died my mother was busy with housework. She also learned sewing. My grandfather bought her a Zinger sewing machine and my mother earned some money by sewing at home.

In 1907 my mother met my father through matchmakers, which was customary in Jewish families. It was also a tradition that girls got dowry from their parents and my grandfather gave my mother 400 rubles, which was quite a lot of money for the time. My parents got married in 1908. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah in the synagogue and many guests from Chernigov, Gomel and other nearby towns came to the wedding. At that time the population of Chernigov was almost half Jewish. There were several big synagogues near the ancient Christian churches, a cheder and several prayer houses. There were also Ukrainian, Russian and Belarus citizens. There were no nationalitly conflicts among the people. Jews were craftsmen in their majority; they made clothes, shoes and furniture, cut glass and owned stores.

After the wedding my father rented an apartment for his family. He became a very skilled cabinetmaker and could provide well for the family. My mother became a housewife.

My older sister, Riva, was born in 1910 and my second sister, Sonia, followed in 1914. Riva finished a lower secondary Russian school and went to work as a typist, an assistant accountant, an accountant and then became chief accountant with Energosbyt company [a power supply company]. At 23 Riva married David Strashnoy, a very nice Jewish man. They didn't have a Jewish wedding. They had a civil ceremony and in the evening our mother arranged a wedding dinner for relatives and friends. The young people considered themselves to be progressive people without any patriarchal illusions. David finished Kharkov Construction College. He worked with Gorplan company and the town executive committee in Chernigov. Their son Felix was born in 1935. He followed into his father's footsteps and became a construction man. He is an honored constructor of Ukraine. He lives and works in Chernigov. During the Great Patriotic War David went into evacuation with us, but then he was recruited to the army. After the war he returned home. Riva and Felix were in evacuation in the town of Mirzachul, Uzbekistan, with us. Their daughter, Ada, was born in 1946. Ada finished Polytechnic College in Chernigov. She moved to Israel in the late 1970s with her husband and two children. Riva's husband died in 1996. Riva moved to her daughter in Israel in 1997. She died at the age of 91 in 2001.

My second sister, Sonia, finished a lower secondary school and entered a veterinary school. When she was on a training session in a kolkhoz 6 she met a veterinarian called Leonid Safroniev. He was much older than Sonia and was married. His wife was severely ill. She died and Leonid came to Chernigov to seek my mother's consent to their marriage. My mother turned him down at first. It had nothing to do with his nationality; my mother just thought that Sonia was too young. Leonid continued to court Sonia and after a year my mother gave in. She wanted her daughter to be happy. They got married in 1932, and in 1934 their son, Edward, was born. Leonid was at the front during the Great Patriotic War. He served as a veterinarian. Sonia and Edward were in evacuation with us. After the war Sonia lived with her husband in Kazakhstan and then they settled down in Stavropol. Leonid was promoted to the rank of colonel and Sonia was a housewife. Leonid died in the 1970s, and Sonia passed away in 1978. Edward finished two colleges in Leningrad. He is a physicist. He lives and works in Novgorod. Edward was married, but he divorced his wife. They had no children.

When Sonia was about two months old my father was recruited to the tsarist army. World War I began and our father went to the front. Our mother received two letters from him and then she received the notification that he was missing. It turned out that he was in captivity in Austria where he stayed until 1918. Our father told us that prisoners of war were treated decently. They wore their uniforms and insignia. My father worked for a master in Austria and returned home as soon as he got a chance after the October Revolution of 1917.

My mother had a very hard life throughout all these years. She had practically nothing to live on. She even went to see a governor with her small children. She asked him to release our father from the army to support the family, but this was impossible at that time. However, the governor's wife felt sorry for our mother and tried to keep her busy to provide for the family. She gave her orders for making clothing and sent her clients, who paid well, to my mother.

Our father returned at the end of 1918. I was born on 17th August 1919. I was their youngest and favorite daughter, a 'love child', as my father used to say. My mother and father loved each other, even though they got married through a matchmaker, and my mother was happy that my father had come back from Austria.

At that time, during the Civil War, the power in the town often switched between Reds 7, Whites 8 and Greens 9. If a gang 10 came to town a pogrom was inevitable. When I was six weeks old a Makhno 11 gang came to town. Our family and our landlords, old Jews, found shelter in the basement. My mother told me that I screamed very loudly and she pressed me tightly to her chest to stop me from crying because if bandits had found us they would have killed us.

There were two rooms and a kitchen in our apartment. We lived in one room and the owners of the apartment in the other one. There was too little space for the five of us, of course. My father worked a lot saving money to buy a house. He continued to work for his master, the man that taught him his profession. Besides, our father brought a small machine for making cigarettes from Austria. My mother and my father made cigarettes and sold them. This was some additional income for the family. However, they didn't have a license for making cigarettes and at that time any private business was persecuted by the authorities. One of my first memories was that my mother closed the door to the room and windows when they were busy doing their business. They were afraid that somebody would see them and report them to the authorities. Finally, in 1935, my parents bought a small decrepit house with a ground floor and a half-destroyed ceiling. However my father was nimble-fingered. He repaired the house. There were three small rooms and a kitchen with a Russian stove 12. There was an orchard and a kitchen garden. My mother kept chickens and geese. We also had three little goats that followed me like puppies since it was my responsibility to feed them.

My parents went to the nearby synagogue on Saturday. There were several synagogues in Chernigov. My mother, my sisters and I went upstairs and our father stayed downstairs with the other men. Women prayed and cried and I couldn't understand why they were crying [Editor's note: the interviewee may remember the ceremony of Yom Kippur]. The synagogue was big. It was fancy inside. There were many children and a handsome man with a well- groomed beard wearing long black clothing; he was the rabbi. I couldn't see much from the balcony and was bored. I couldn't understand the words of the prayer recited by the women around me.

On Friday my mother made dinner. We got together at the table. My mother lit candles and prayed over them. My father said a blessing and we had dinner. Friday dinner was different from others; more plentiful and delicious. On Saturday morning our parents went to the synagogue. We went with them and waited for them in the yard of the synagogue. We had lunch after we came back from the synagogue. Lunch was still hot in the oven where it was kept from Friday. Nobody did any work on Saturday. We all rested. I remember a merry Simchat Torah in fall when a rabbi and Jewish men following him with Torah scrolls went around the square in front of the synagogue. At Yom Kippur my parents fasted and went to the synagogue. My sisters and I didn't have to fast. We celebrated Chanukkah, when our mother made sweet doughnuts with jam and gave us some money, and Purim when she made hamantashen pies.

The biggest preparations in the house were for Pesach: we cleaned and washed the house, dusted all rooms, covered sofas and beds with starched white cloths and washed the curtains. We washed all crockery and utensils with soda powder and koshered them at the synagogue. We didn't have special crockery for Pesach. We sometimes bought matzah at the synagogue and sometimes made some in our Russian stove. Before the holiday our mother took a chicken to the shochet at the synagogue to have it slaughtered. She made gefilte fish and chicken broth with dumplings made from matzah flour - we called them 'galki'. There was a silver dish on the table with all the different food on it which is required to be on the seder plate by tradition: an egg, horseradish, chicken bone. Grandfather Samuel came to the celebrations. He lived with Aunt Etl, but he liked to celebrate Jewish holidays with us. He liked to attend the seder that our father conducted. I asked my father the four traditional questions [the mah nishtanah] about the history of Pesach and he answered them.

We followed the kashrut, didn't eat pork and didn't mix meat and dairy products. This was before I went to school. Later, when I went to school and became a pioneer, we celebrated Jewish holidays, but it was just a festive meal and we didn't observe traditions. My parents went to the synagogue and celebrated holidays, but they mostly did it for the sake of Jewish traditions. They weren't extremely deep believers. At least, when religion was persecuted [during the struggle against religion] 13 and synagogues were closed in the middle of the 1930s they still celebrated holidays, but it was more like a habit. My father tried to get the day off at work on Saturday, but he didn't always succeed. They didn't always follow the kashrut, especially during the period of famine in 1932-33 14. We had to eat what we managed to get.

I went to a Ukrainian school in Leskovitsa in 1927. There were still Jewish schools in the town, they were closed later, in the late 1930s, but my father thought it was better for me to study in a Ukrainian school since religious persecutions had already begun. My parents were convinced that life would be easier for me if I spoke without a Jewish accent and that it would be easier for me to enter a higher educational institution since the language of teaching there was Russian, the state language. I was the only Jewish girl in my class; my classmates were Ukrainian and Russian. Most of my classmates were Ukrainian boys and girls from the neighboring villages. I got along well with my classmates and there were no conflicts. Nobody ever hurt me and basically nobody cared about nationality. After I finished the 4th grade I went to study at another Ukrainian higher secondary school. I got along well with my schoolmates. I liked studying at school. I became a Young Octobrist 15, and then a pioneer. I took part in public activities. I sang in our school choir. At home I had classes with a private music teacher. She taught me to play the piano. My music classes didn't last long since my parents couldn't afford to pay for my classes. However, I liked playing the piano and picked up tunes by myself.

When the collectivization 16 began and kolkhozes started to be organized in the 1930s we often had guests from villages. Our house was across the street from the prison and our acquaintances from Oleshevka and Tarkhovka, or acquaintances of our acquaintances or just strangers, came to visit their relatives that were arrested for being kulaks 17. All those people stayed in our house. Our father came from Tarkhovka and our mother came from Oleshevka and all their acquaintances came to see their relatives in prison. Prisoners' relatives arrived on horse-drawn carts that they parked in our yard. They tried to bribe the guard to take parcels with food to the prisoners, but only occasionally they managed to do this. I remember that I went to stand in line to the window to hand over parcels early in the morning and my mother or somebody else brought boiled potatoes or soup later. Those visitors rescued us from starving to death during the famine in Ukraine in 1932-33. They brought us potatoes, vegetables, pumpkin, sunflower seeds and pork fat. Yes, that's right, my mother and father ate pork fat during that period and there was no observance of kosher laws. We didn't have bread in the house, but we didn't starve. Many people stayed in our house. Their relatives were sent to exile [during Stalin's forced deportation to Siberia] 18: they marched in columns of 400-500 people under a convoy to the railway station and from there they proceeded by train. Many of them disappeared for good. Very few survived: most of them died on the way or in Siberia from hard work, hunger and the cold.

Many people starved to death during this period and I saw dead people in the streets of the town. But I was young and forgot bad things and kept thinking about bright and nice things. We celebrated Soviet holidays at school: 1st May and October Revolution Day 19. We went to parades. We celebrated revolutionary holidays at home. Riva's husband David and Sonia's husband Leonid were sophisticated people. David Strashnoy was a communist. He was well-known in the town and was elected town council deputy several times. Leonid was eager to join the Party. He even rejected his father, who was a priest, in public when the persecution of religion began. His father was sent into exile to Siberia and we never heard about him again. We didn't blame Leonid. We believed he was right and religion was opium for the people. Leonid became a communist while at the front in the 1940s.

I liked to go to the cinema with my friends. There was a jazz band playing in the vestibule before the screening of a film. I liked the young fair- haired pianist that played in the orchestra. I simply fell in love with him. I dreamed that we would be together. He rented a room from our neighbor. One evening this man came to our home and asked my parents their consent to our marriage. They were stunned since I was just 15 years old and studied in the 9th grade at school. Boris Kristin, that was his name, told my parents that he would wait until I finished school and my parents gave their consent. My parents didn't mind that he wasn't a Jew. I became his fiancée. I looked forward to coming of age and getting married.

Boris' grandmother was Czech and his grandfather was French. Boris' real last name was Kristain. I don't know how his family came to live in Russia. They lived somewhere in the south of Russia. Boris' father, Alexandr, was a postmaster before the Revolution. He died a long time ago, leaving his wife with 13 children. I didn't know them. I only knew Boris' sister Lidia and his brother Alexei. Boris was much older than I. He was born in 1906. He was very good at music. Besides working in the orchestra Boris played at a restaurant in the evenings.

A year and half passed quickly. Boris and I were never alone, we could only meet in the presence of adults. They probably stood guard over my virginity. He visited us at home and we had tea with our family. Sometimes he took me to the cinema holding my hand. Boris addressed me with the formal 'You' until we got married. He promised that after we got married he would take best care of me.

During my last year at school my parents prepared me for getting married. They bought me two dresses, a crepe de Chine one and a woolen one, fabric for a suit and a woolen coat. Before this I had walked in the street barefoot wearing my sister's clothes.

We had a small wedding party in 1936 when I was 17 years old. A big table for guests was set up in our garden. Our guests were musicians from the orchestra, colleagues from the cinema, my sisters and their husbands and our neighbors. Pronia Sereda, my schoolmate, also came to the wedding. We were life-long friends with her. She was Ukrainian.

After the wedding Boris came to live in our house and my mother gave us a room to live in. I was happy. My dream had come true: the most handsome man I had ever known was with me. He was also a very decent man. My parents liked him and my father, who was very ill at the time - he had lung emphysema, a typical disease among cabinetmakers - was very happy for me and said that he was sure that the family was in good hands.

Our son, Stanislav, was born in 1938. My mother adored him and helped me with everything. When my son turned a year and a half I decided to go to work. My husband believed that I had to be among people and find a job that I liked. I became an assistant accountant with a bookselling company where I worked for almost two years. My mother looked after my son.

I was happy and didn't see what was happening around me. This was the period of arrests [during the so-called Great Terror] 20. There were again crowds of downcast women at the gate of the prison waiting to meet with their relatives or get some information about them. The director of our company was also arrested. He was kept in prison for several months. I don't know what he was accused of, but he died in prison. Later people said that he was acquitted of all charges, but it was too late. Sonia's husband Leonid also had problems, but thank God, everything turned out all right. They lived in a village in Chernigov region were Leonid was a vet in a kolkhoz. He was charged for sabotage and for the death of cattle in the kolkhoz. Sonia and their child came to us in Chernigov and Leonid stayed in the village waiting for his arrest. It never came to it though, due to Poland joining the Soviet Union: he was recruited to the army.

In 1940 I was fired due to reduction of staff and I went to work as a secretary at the Mechanization College.

My husband Boris had to go to the annual military training on 15th June 1941. He served in VNOS troops [air observation, notification and communication]. When war was declared on 22nd June I was alone at home: my husband was in a barrack, my mother was at the market and my father went for a walk with my son. I was optimistic about this announcement: I just didn't know what a war was about. I heard that there was a war going on, but it seemed to be so far away. I couldn't imagine that somebody dared to attack our powerful country. I went to weed radishes and onions in our kitchen garden. When I went back home my mother was already in. She was crying bitterly since she knew what a war was like, but she couldn't imagine how horrible this one was going to be.

Soon residents of the town began to panic, especially Jews. They said that the Germans exterminated the Jewish population in the occupied territories and that it was necessary to evacuate. A few days after the war began Sonia and Edward arrived. They fled from Rava-Russkaya where Leonid was on military service without any luggage. We were in town until 20th August. Riva's husband, David Strashnoy, who was the director of the water supply agency in Chernigov made the necessary arrangements for us to leave Chernigov on a truck on 20th August. He couldn't go with us since he had the order of the Town Party Committee to hide the equipment by burying it.

Boris was a military man: he taught younger officers and soldiers military disciplines, theory and tactics, and he conducted political information classes. Boris was lucky to be on service in his own town and he came home every day. Many of his fellow comrades came from other towns and had to live in barracks. We understood that we were going to have to part soon. On 19th August he came home and said, 'Ida, I had a dream. My brother Alexei [he perished in WWI] came to me in this dream, I took my green suitcase and we left. Ida, I know that I won't be back from the war and that this is the last time we see each other'. It was the last time we saw each other and our last night together.

In the morning we boarded a big truck: my mother, my father, my sisters and I and our three children - each of us had a son. The family of joiner Shehtman - his wife and their three daughters - and some other people were on this truck apart from us. Boris held Stanislav for the last time, gave me a hug and a kiss and left. Grandfather Samuel stayed in Chernigov. He was over 80 and didn't want to leave. He told everyone that the Germans were cultured people and weren't going to hurt him. People told us later that my grandfather was shot during the first shooting in town. The cabinetmaker that actually raised my father and taught him the craft also perished. His Russian wife followed him and was shot, too. We heard this when we returned from evacuation.

On 20th August we left for the unknown. When we reached Nezhyn [a small town in the East of Ukraine, about 100 km from Kiev], we felt like refugees. We were thirsty, but not in one single house did we get anything to drink. They said 'zhydy are fleeing' ['Kikes' are leaving in Ukrainian]. On 23rd August some people that we met on the way told us that Chernigov was being bombed. So, we left at the last moment, so to speak. There were several trains in Nezhyn. Nobody asked in what direction they were going. We just boarded one. It was a freight train and we were going on an open platform with some equipment under tarpaulin cover. Our trip lasted a month. We often stopped on the way. The train was bombed many times. During one of them our mother and father ran to hide in the steppe and my sisters and our children stayed on the platform. We lay under a blanket and thought, 'Be what may, at least, if we perished, we shall all be together'.

We reached the town of Azov, Rostov region, 1,500 kilometers from home. We were accommodated in a kolkhoz; I don't remember the name. We got an apartment and were given food. We went to work at the kolkhoz: we picked stems of cotton plants for the manufacturing of aviation oil. We worked very hard and people respected us for that. In villages they judge people by how hard they work. My mother stayed home with the children. Later, when the front was getting closer and we began to pack to move on, other kolkhoz people said, 'Let the zhydy go, and you stay.' And when they found out the truth they said, 'You are Jews, too? Well, but you are nice people, so stay'. But we knew that the frontline was getting closer and asked the chairman of the kolkhoz to help us leave. He gave us a big cart, we put our children and luggage onto the cart and we walked 30 kilometers to the station. Walking was difficult for my father. His emphysema got worse and we had to make frequent stops.

At the station we got on a train that took us to Makhachkala, the capital of Dagestan in Northern Caucasus, near the Caspian Sea, 2,500 kilometers from home. We stayed there on the ground near the seaport for about two weeks. There were tens of thousands of refugees, there was no food or water. Later we boarded the 'Derbent' tanker; there were tanks with oil in the ship's belly and about 5,000 refugees on the deck. There was no water and many people were seasick. There were only two toilets on the tanker and after using it one had to stand in line to the toilet since it took two to three hours before one could get there again. We were sitting on the very top. We crossed the Caspian Sea to Kazakhstan. When we got off the tanker I saw that dead people were being taken off the tanker. The trip had been too hard for them. In some time we boarded a train. On 7th November 1941 we reached Golodnaya Steppe station in Uzbekistan, near Mirzachul town, 3,500 kilometers from home.

Mirzachul was a small town with a population of 7,000 consisting of half- ignorant Uzbek people. Many people were in evacuation there, but there were no arrangements made for us. Some locals were sympathetic with us, others were indifferent. Uzbeks didn't speak Russian and we couldn't speak their language, so we didn't mix. We rented a small room of nine or ten square meters and a kitchen in a pise-walled hut. Shortly afterwards Riva's husband, David, joined us. He had passed by Kharkov on his way to evacuation. He told us that he saw Grandfather Samuel before leaving Chernigov and and offered my grandfather to go with him, but my grandfather refused. We lived in this small room together: our family of ten people and the Shehtmans - there were four of them. We slept on the floor in the kitchen and in the room. Somebody slept on the table. My mother and father slept on the only bed in there.

David became the director of the district industrial association and helped my sisters and me getting employment. My sisters and I worked in a special cardboard shop. We applied a special casein mixture on carton sheets and dried them. Later this carton was used to make filling for bullets, I think. I received 600 grams of bread per day with my worker card and 400 grams for the child. I worked there less than a month. In late December 1941 my son fell ill with measles and then pellagra. There were no medications available. David and I took our son to a doctor, but he couldn't do anything. Almost all children under five died from pellagra in Mirzachul at that time. At the beginning of January 1942 my son died. My father made a small casket and buried my little son in the Uzbek cemetery. My father said a prayer. I kept crying and constantly thought what I was going to tell Boris when he returned and how to explain the loss of our son.

I went back to work. I was transferred to the spinning shop that produced cotton wool for the front. My mother made rope on a spinning machine at home. This rope was used to make bags to pack cotton wool and wound textile. Later I went to work in the knitting shop: I knitted gloves, socks and hats for the front. Sonia worked with me and Riva became chief accountant at the district industrial association. David was recruited to the army in early 1942. Sonia and Riva received food packages for being officers' wives. Since I was a soldier's wife, this privilege didn't apply to me.

Once, when I was standing in line for food our neighbor approached me and said, 'It's all right. Sometimes they write that a person perished while he's still alive'. I didn't understand what she meant. At home I noticed that my relatives looked sad and avoided my glance. I asked what had happened. Sonia showed me a letter from Boris' sister Lida that she had received a couple of weeks before. Boris' friend, who was recruited along with Boris from Chernigov, had written the letter. There were three friends and they had an agreement that each of them would notify the family if one of them perished. They didn't have my address and so that man wrote to Lida that Boris and the other friend had perished. This happened in summer 1942. I don't even remember how I felt. I stayed in bed and didn't talk to anyone. I didn't go out for over a month and stopped eating. Only my father could convince me to swallow some food. I didn't even feel the taste of it. But I was young and life went on. I went to work and began to talk with people again.

Life was hard. Although Sonia and Riva received food packages and my mother and I had workers' cards and dependants' cards for the children we never had enough food. Everything that we planted on the plot of land that we received, dried up since we didn't have the knowledge of how to grow plants in this dry soil. Once I bought a bucket of inexpensive cherries that I took to the station to sell. I walked 30 kilometers to sell them, but nobody bought them and I brought them back home. The cherries became wet and dark and my mother sold them to someone for peanuts.

My father didn't go to work. He was feeling worse. There was no goat milk that my mother had given to him at home, or decent food. In September he fell very ill and was getting worse and worse. Once in early October, before leaving for work I looked at him and said to my mother, 'Father will die today. Please bury him without me. It's too much for me to bear!' And it happened. A girl came to the shop where I was working and began to whisper something to the others without looking at me. I understood that my father had died, but I continued working. I loved him dearly and was unable to see him dead. I didn't go to the funeral. I was told that there was no casket since there was nobody to make one. They put planks at the bottom and on the sides of the grave, lay my father's body into a shroud and put in into the grave. A few weeks later, when my mother and I went to the cemetery, we couldn't find neither my father's nor my son's grave: jackals had destroyed the graves and eaten the bodies. That's what we had to live through.

In 1943 the situation improved a bit. We began to have hope for victory: we listened to the news from the front on the radio and cheered up. I was very young and life went on. I made new friends. We often got together and sang: my sisters and I and our friends that evacuated from various towns of the USSR. We sang Soviet and moving Ukrainian songs and Russian ballads. When Kiev was liberated in 1943 we organized a big celebration. By that time we received an apartment from the cotton factory in a barrack-type building. We had many neighbors. We laid a table and everybody brought what they had. We partied, sang and drank to our motherland, Kiev and Moscow and to the great Stalin, of course, all night long. Young men courted me, but it never occurred to me that I might get married again. I loved my husband and besides, I didn't receive a notification that he had died and I was hoping for a miracle. Efim, a Jewish man from Western Ukraine, visited me more often than anybody else. I didn't like him for his lack of education and hatred for the Soviet power. I didn't even say goodbye to him when we were leaving.

After Kiev was liberated we applied to obtain permission to go home. We wrote to the director of the water supply company where David Strashnoy had worked before the war and he mailed the documents that served as permission for us to come home. There was some confusion with me, though, since he wrote my maiden name Rubina in the permit while my last name at that time was already Kristina. I had to prove that I was Rubina.

The family of Shehtman, the mother and three daughters, had died of pellagra in evacuation. We got to Tashkent where it was impossible to get tickets. There were crowds of people going home. We had to bribe employees at the station: 1,300 rubles for tickets and 1,200 for getting on a train without waiting in lines. There were crowds of people trying to get on a train. We boarded a military train that took us back to Chernigov. I was feeling very ill; I had pellagra and I was swollen from hunger and diseases. My legs were like lumps, I had a huge belly and high fever, and there was blood in my stomach. When we were getting on the train my mother didn't know whether I would survive this trip. I stayed on the upper berth in the train. I was unable to get up. A military doctor examined me and told my mother to buy good food for me at stations and when we reached another climatic zone with no heat my condition would improve. That was true. I remember that my mother bought me fish, sour cream, cottage cheese and fruit at stations. When we arrived at Chernigov I felt all right, only my belly was still swollen for a long time and people thought I was pregnant.

We arrived at Chernigov in November 1944. Immediately after we arrived I received the death notification for Boris at the district military registry office. My last hope was gone. There were other tenants in our house that were very aggressive when we arrived. They said, 'Zhydy are back'. However, an old woman, who lived in our kitchen met us saying, 'Welcome back, owners of the house' and left. We stayed in our kitchen several days until Sonia went to the executive committee, showed them our documents for the house with our names on them and we got back one room. In 1947 our whole house was returned to us.

I went to work as an operator at the post office. I did well at work and made many new friends and acquaintances. I also met with my pre-war friends: Pronia Sereda and others. Pronia, who had been in Chernigov during the occupation, told me about the brutality of the Germans in Chernigov and about my grandfather Samuel, who had been shot.

We arranged quite a celebration on 9th May 1945, Victory Day 21. We sang and danced in the central square, cried for our lost ones and laughed of joy that the war was over.

After the War

Life was very hard. 1946/47 were hungry years and we lived on food cards. David, who returned from the front with many orders and medals, helped us. He began to work at the town executive committee [Ispolkom] 22. Leonid also returned. He and Sonia and Edward got a job assignment and left for Kazakhstan. I was always hungry, but I was very proud. I was seeing a young man and when he invited me to a café or restaurant I declined, saying I didn't feel like eating, although I was hungry as usual.

I was 25 and I began to think about what I should do with my life. We had Jewish neighbors: Manya Belmont and her husband, who lived in the same street as us. Once Manya came to our house and said that she wanted me to meet her son, who had returned from hospital. They came to see us that evening and I met my second husband, Iosif Zalevski.

Iosif was born to a Jewish family in Chernigov in 1919. His father died in the early 1920s. His mother came from Novie Mliny Chernigov province. She didn't have any education. They had a hard life. His mother took various jobs; she sold ice cream, sewed and did laundry until she got married for the second time. After finishing a higher secondary school Iosif worked as a mechanic in the port. He was recruited to the army in 1939. When the war began he was on service in marine troops in the Crimea. Germans sent their landing troops at the very beginning of the war and Iosif was captured. Iosif pretended he was Ukrainian. He kept it a secret that he was Jewish by applying much soap foam in the shower and sleeping under a blanket at night. During a check-up in a concentration camp Iosif ran out into the snow naked to avoid the check-up because he was circumcised. I don't know in which camps Iosif was. All I know is that they were in Poland. He escaped three times and was captured twice. They beat him and put him back into the camp.

In early 1944 Iosif and his friend Alexandr made a hole into the floor of the railcar during transportation and escaped. People around told them they were in France. Iosif found partisans that helped them to get to Belgium. In Belgium Iosif got accommodation with a family of farmers that was aware that their tenant was a partisan. Iosif and his friend worked at the farm helping their landlords. They got a message about when they were needed at the partisan group. When Iosif and his friend returned to the farm they knew that if there was underwear drying on the line that meant Germans were in the village. This served as a warning. Iosif and his friend did mining and blasting work. He didn't tell me any details of his participation in the partisan movement. I believe he was a good performer since he got a wonderful letter of evaluation of his performance after Belgium was liberated in December 1944. Iosif liked his landlords very much. He said they treated him like a son.

When Belgium was liberated Iosif got an invitation to go to USA, but he turned it down. He was dreaming about returning home, but his motherland was not as welcoming as he had expected. All those that returned from concentration camps or occupied territories were subject to the so-called filtration. Fortunately, Iosif had a certificate that he was a blaster otherwise he wouldn't have escaped Stalin's camps. During the war Iosif was severely wounded and shell-shocked. He had splinters in his head and for a year and half after the war he spent most of the time in hospitals.

I liked Iosif. I looked forward to seeing him again. I thought he would invite me to the cinema or to a park. Two weeks passed. It turned out that he called me at work and asked Rubina to the phone, and was told that there was no such employee. I still had my first husband's last name, Kristina. About two weeks later he came to my workplace and invited me to the cinema. I cannot say that I fell in love with Iosif like I had with Boris. Besides, I had another fiancé. There was a nice Russian guy courting me. We went to the cinema and dance parties, but I wasn't in love with him. I felt sorry for Iosif. I saw that he loved me very much and I agreed to marry him. Of course, there was no such passion as in my first marriage, but I never regretted marrying him. We got married in 1947. We had a small wedding dinner with our relatives.

Iosif was a very ill man. He had trauma epilepsy and I often called an ambulance at night, but they were helpless. My husband was an invalid. He couldn't go to work and thought he was a burden on me. My husband decided to go to Kiev where doctors offered a surgery that might either improve his condition or be lethal in the worst case. He didn't want to continue living with his problems and decided for the surgery. Fortunately, the surgery was a success. The doctors removed the bone splinters, but they couldn't reach the steel splinters in his head. Iosif was acknowledged as a war invalid and had some privileges. He stayed in Kiev for a long term of rehabilitation. Kiev is a two-hour drive from Chernigov and he came home at weekends, holidays or just to stay home a couple of months before he had to start another course of treatment. I also visited him there when he couldn't come home. Only 13 years after we got married his condition improved significantly. While he was in Kiev Iosif finished Construction College and entered the Leningrad Water Transport Institute by correspondence, but he couldn't study there due to his illness. Iosif was the director of a hostel and then worked at a shop. I always tried to take good care of him.

I was eager to have a baby, but doctors told me that my husband's trauma epilepsy could have an impact on the baby and so we didn't have children. I took care of my husband as if he were a child. His mother died in the early 1950s; we buried her in the town cemetery. Iosif liked my mother very much. We got along very well. Iosif was grateful for my care and was very good to me. We had many friends and when my husband was feeling okay we went to the cinema or theaters. We traveled in summer. We visited many towns and historic places. We went to the Crimea and Caucasus, Middle Asia and the Carpathians. Every Sunday we went to a village on the Desna River on a motorcycle. We fished and made a fire. We always enjoyed being together.

My colleagues treated me well. In due time I was promoted to the position of supervisor at the post office where I worked for 35 years. There was a hard time in the early 1950s, during the Doctors' Plot 23. Although nobody said anything directly every Jew felt suspicious attitudes. We felt like outcasts. We didn't even feel comfortable to go out, but I didn't face anything like that at work. I remember Stalin's death. I didn't cry, but I remember the feeling of irreplaceable loss. We never took any interest in politics. We were busy with our own life. Nobody in our family was a member of the Party.

In the early 1960s we received a one-bedroom apartment in the center of Chernigov and later we received this two-bedroom apartment where I still live. My mother always lived with us. She liked Iosif a lot. We always celebrated Pesach. My mother managed to get matzah even at the time when one couldn't get it anywhere. There were underground bakeries in the houses of older Jews. They made matzah for sale. All religious Jews knew these addresses and placed their orders at night. We celebrated Purim and Yom Kippur. We had a festive meal, and there was always the spirit of a holiday in the house. For my mother it was important as a tribute to traditions and my father's memory and we respected her desires. My mother died in 1978; we buried her in the town cemetery.

Perestroika 24 didn't bring anything good into our life. We became poor in one day. We lost all our savings. Our pension in the past was sufficient for a vacation or medical treatment, our monthly bills and food. Don't we deserve this? In the late 1980s our pension was hardly enough for food.

Iosif and I lived 48 and a half years together. In the early 1990s we decided to move to Israel. It was always our dream to go there, but in the 1970s when the majority of Jews were leaving, my mother was ill and the issue of emigration was out of the question. We failed to leave since my husband fell severely ill. He died in 1995. His death didn't come as a surprise to me since he had been suffering for a long time before he died, but it was a terrible loss nonetheless. I didn't even have money to bury my husband. The Jewish community that was established in Chernigov helped me. I have been a member of the community since then. I attend every meeting or event and read Jewish newspapers. I don't go to the synagogue since I don't consider myself a believer, although I think there must be a God and I'm grateful to Him for my basically happy and interesting life. One thing I cannot forgive God is that He took away children's lives: the life of my son and others. They were innocent souls.

I attend the 'Warm House' in Hesed where I have meals with other old Jews like myself. However, I'm not a passive consumer - I try to give people what I can. On Jewish holidays our group from Hesed sing songs and I rehearse with my friends playing the piano. We celebrate holidays and birthdays together and get together at hard times, when somebody loses their relatives. We support each other.

In 1997 I visited my sister Riva and my niece Ada in Israel. I liked the country very much. I visited the country when it celebrated its 50th anniversary. Anyway, I don't have any friends there and I don't want to be a burden to my sister. I have the friends of my life here, at Hesed and our community - it's not about assistance, this is my life now!

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post war
Glossary

1 Great Patriotic War

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.

2 Russian Revolution of 1917

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

3 Pogroms in Ukraine

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

4 NEP

The so-called New Economic Policy of the Soviet authorities was launched by Lenin in 1921. It meant that private business was allowed on a small scale in order to save the country ruined by the Revolution of 1917 and the Russian Civil War. They allowed priority development of private capital and entrepreneurship. The NEP was gradually abandoned in the 1920s with the introduction of the planned economy.

5 Civil War (1918-1920)

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

6 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.

7 Reds

Red (Soviet) Army supporting the Soviet authorities.

8 Whites (White Army)

Counter-revolutionary armed forces that fought against the Bolsheviks during the Russian Civil War. The White forces were very heterogeneous: They included monarchists and liberals - supporters of the Constituent Assembly and the tsar. Nationalist and anti-Semitic attitude was very common among rank-and-file members of the white movement, and expressed in both their propaganda material and in the organization of pogroms against Jews. White Army slogans were patriotic. The Whites were united by hatred towards the Bolsheviks and the desire to restore a 'one and inseparable' Russia. The main forces of the White Army were defeated by the Red Army at the end of 1920.

9 Greens

members of the gang headed by Ataman Zeleniy (his nickname means 'green' in Russian).

10 Gangs

During the Russian Civil War there were all kinds of gangs in the Ukraine. Their members came from all the classes of former Russia, but most of them were peasants. Their leaders used political slogans to dress their criminal acts. These gangs were anti-Soviet and anti-Semitic. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

11 Makhno, Nestor (1888-1934)

Ukrainian anarchist and leader of an insurrectionist army of peasants which fought Ukrainian nationalists, the Whites, and the Bolsheviks during the Civil War. His troops, which numbered 500 to 35 thousand members, marched under the slogans of 'state without power' and 'free soviets'. The Red Army put an end to the Makhnovist movement in the Ukraine in 1919 and Makhno emigrated in 1921.

12 Russian stove

Big stone stove stoked with wood. They were usually built in a corner of the kitchen and served to heat the house and cook food. It had a bench that made a comfortable bed for children and adults in wintertime.

13 Struggle against religion

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

14 Famine in Ukraine

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

15 Young Octobrist

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

16 Collectivization in the USSR

In the late 1920s - early 1930s private farms were liquidated and collective farms established by force on a mass scale in the USSR. Many peasants were arrested during this process. As a result of the collectivization, the number of farmers and the amount of agricultural production was greatly reduced and famine struck in the Ukraine, the Northern Caucasus, the Volga and other regions in 1932-33.

17 Kulaks

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

18 Forced deportation to Siberia

Stalin introduced the deportation of Middle Asian people, like the Crimean Tatars and the Chechens, to Siberia. Without warning, people were thrown out of their houses and into vehicles at night. The majority of them died on the way of starvation, cold and illnesses.

19 October Revolution Day

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

20 Great Terror (1934-1938)

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

21 Victory Day in Russia (9th May)

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

22 Ispolkom

After the tsar's abdication (March, 1917), power passed to a Provisional Government appointed by a temporary committee of the Duma, which proposed to share power to some extent with councils of workers and soldiers known as 'soviets'. Following a brief and chaotic period of fairly democratic procedures, a mixed body of socialist intellectuals known as the Ispolkom secured the right to 'represent' the soviets. The democratic credentials of the soviets were highly imperfect to begin with: peasants - the overwhelming majority of the Russian population - had virtually no say, and soldiers were grossly over-represented. The Ispolkom's assumption of power turned this highly imperfect democracy into an intellectuals' oligarchy.

23 Doctors' Plot

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

24 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

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.

Güler Orgun

Güler Orgun
Istanbul
Turkey
Interviewer: Anet Pase
Date of the interview: May 2005

Güler Orgun is a small woman of 70, with small light brown eyes, short white hair, more Balkan in type than Turkish. She always has a smiling face. She looks like a gentle grandmother who always has a story to tell. She always wears a sort of loose checkered shirt on top of a high-collared T-shirt, slacks and flat-heeled shoes. She lives in the Cengelköy district on the Asian coast of the Bosphorus. She drives her own car. As she puts it, she likes to look for a different occupation, a different excitement every five years. She speaks English and French well, and Ladino and Spanish fairly well. In short, she is someone interesting, whom I always enjoy meeting and chatting with. Only after meeting with her and talking for some time, could I perceive the person beneath that soft appearance. Güler Orgun has a strong personality. She could decide to settle in Polonezköy, while living in Istanbul and being engaged in commerce. She was then able to end a lucrative business in Polonezköy and undertake something completely different. Güler Orgun now works at Shalom 1, in the publication of the monthly supplement El Amaneser 2. She also takes a course in Modern Spanish for the Sephardic Jews at the Cervantes Institute of Istanbul.

The house my mother's family lived in was situated in Sirkeci, on the European side of Istanbul. My mother's paternal grandmother lived with them. She was called appropriately 'La Senyora' [Ladino for 'the Lady'], as she was the real mistress of the household. However, I never got to know her real name. Beside my grandfather, La Senyora had also a son called Haim, who went to America and whom, therefore, those of my generation did not know.

My mother's maternal grandmother, Miryam Levi, nee Yafe, also lived with them. I believe she was born in 1847. We called her Nonika - the diminutive of nona, or grandmother. I remember her very well since I was six years old when she died. She was a tiny, dainty lady with white and wavy hair, and she always wore a 'tülbent' [muslin scarf] tied at the back of her head. Slim and small, she probably weighed no more than 45 kilograms. She must have shrunk in size with age, as many elderly people do. She always wore black.

Nonika died in 1943, probably at age 96. My mother thought that she was a real philosopher in all fields. Like many people in our society, she had a proverb or saying for every situation. Both Nonika and my maternal grandmother, who were born in Istanbul, knew French, but always spoke Ladino 3 at home.

Nonika had only one child, my maternal grandmother. When I was born, they had already moved to the neighborhood known as Bankalar [a district on the European side of Istanbul with an important Jewish population]. We, the children of my generation, never knew the house in Sirkeci. The women's days were spent doing housework. As far as I can remember, my family members then didn't go out very much, although they visited their neighbors quite a lot. The whole building was occupied by Jewish families. It was called Rashel Han and located on Bankalar Caddesi. The neighbors were indeed like close relatives. They included the Benaroyas. They went to each other's apartments with no notice at all, all the time.

My grandparents had not been able to pay their 'Varlik Vergisi' [Wealth Tax] 4 and most of their furniture, therefore, had to be confiscated. I am not sure whether I was just told about it or just remember it faintly, because I was barely five or six at the time, but I'm quite certain I saw the furniture being taken away by horse carriage, down Bankalar Street.

When the government enforcers came, only a room where Nonika happened to be in at that moment, had the door closed. When they tried to go in, they were told, 'That is a toilet and there is an old lady in there, let us not disturb her.' So they didn't go in. That is how the furniture of that one room wasn't taken away. Nonika said afterwards, 'Had I known the outcome in advance, I'd have stuffed more furniture in there.' But they had come without warning.

After that, very little furniture remained in the apartment - a few chairs, a wooden table, etc. That is why Nonika slept in an ingeniously improvised bed on chairs, as follows: She had six chairs, which she placed three by three, facing each other, and placed a plank on them and a small mattress on top. During the day, they put away the bedding and used the chairs to sit on. My cousin Meri tells me that Nonika loved her and frequently allowed her to sleep on her chair-bed together with her. Nonika had books in Ladino, written in Rashi 5 letters and read Meri stories from those books. Meri remembers this vividly.

We were lots of great-grandchildren. She had a brazier in her room. She gathered us around it, and burned cloves to exorcise us, literally. She murmured some things in the process. We sat with crossed legs around the brazier, while she exorcised us by turning her hand holding the cloves over our heads, to protect us from the evil eye. I remember her distinctly - her and those pleasant scents.

I found out recently, from family documents, that my father's father, Izak David Nassi was born in Istanbul in 1855. I believe the family moved to Romania from Istanbul, as they had cousins here, maybe children of cousins. There was a Mayir Araf and an Eskenazi family whom we used to see often. The Eskenazi family's mother was Rashel Eskenazi. She had two sons, Jak and Marsel, and two daughters, Viktorya and Suzan. Another relative of theirs, Beki Eskenazi, was married to a Yaesh. Their niece was an opera singer in Istanbul, a mezzo soprano, named Süzi Leal.

My grandfather got married in Constanza probably in 1894 and had children there. In Constanza, he worked in a bank called Marmarosh Bank, as a wheat expert, but applying his expertise to the insurance side of banking. Wheat is merchandise that is transported in bulk in big cargo ships. He could evaluate how many tons a shipment weighed just by looking at the wheat hold. Thus the bank could insure the goods. The skill strikes me as utterly extraordinary in retrospect. Later, when we looked at the documents he left us, we realized that he held the title of Doctor. I guess he was a Doctor of agriculture.

Constanza is a city on the Black Sea. My father's family used to live in a house built on steep rocks by the water. The house had a garden, nevertheless. When the family members went to bed, they fell asleep listening to the waves hitting the rocks. This was at the beginning of the 1900s. At that time, they had a horse carriage with a coachman. Their economic situation was quite good - living in a house with a garden, employing a coachman... This implies that working for the insurance department of a bank in those days paid well.

In Constanza, the family used to dress in uncovered [unveiled] fashion. In the only picture we have of my grandfather, he wears the modern clothes of a bank employee of that period, that is to say, a jacket, shirt, etc.

My father's father, my father and his sister used to speak Romanian among themselves. My father's mother, Neama Nassi, had passed away at a young age. They moved to Istanbul two or three years after her death, around 1920. My grandfather had been appointed to the Istanbul branch of the Marmarosh Bank for which he had been working.

Upon their arrival from Romania, the three of them - my aunt Viktorya, my father Henri, and their father Izak Nassi - settled in Altinci Daire [another district on the European side of Istanbul with an important Jewish population]. Afterwards, they moved to a rented apartment in the Findikli neighborhood [a district on the European side of Istanbul, on the shore of the Marmara Sea].

My grandfather worked for two years, but by that time, the Marmarosh Bank was not doing well. The management started to liquidate slowly, dismissing many of their employees. As the first to be dismissed were the elderly, Grandfather's turn came early. He did not work thereafter; he stayed at home and died in 1936 of cirrhosis of the liver.

My father always mentioned his father with respect. It was my mother who talked more about the character or other aspects of her father-in-law. She always mentioned him with love.

A silver pocket watch was passed on to us from my grandfather. My father used to take it out once a month, take it apart with care, clean it with some type of fuel and put it back in his safe. We also had another heirloom, a chiming clock, which hung on our wall. They had brought it from Romania. It was encased in carved wood, with a pendulum, and had been given to my grandparents as a wedding gift. I am lucky and proud to have both the pocket-watch and the chiming clock, which I shall cherish forever.

My father's mother was Neama Nassi. I know little about her other than her name and that she passed away in 1917, when my father was 14. According to my aunt Viktorya, she was in ill health nearly all of her life. This is why she is remembered mostly sitting in an armchair, with covers on her legs. We have a quilted baby cover she made herself - a cradle cover. The embroidery on it is unbelievably fine, with silver and colored threads. Although she was in poor health, she prepared that cover for a baby Viktorya might have one day. Unfortunately, she died in Romania at a relatively young age.

My mother's father was from Canakkale [a city on the Anatolian shore of the Dardanelles, with an important Jewish community at the time]. His name was Mose Benezra Finanser, and he must have been born, by my estimation, in 1865.

He came to Istanbul to work as a very young man. At first, I believe he owned a street stand, selling towels in the business district of Mahmutpasha [an important retail shopping district on the European side of Istanbul]. Then he married my grandmother, Ester Levi, who was only fourteen years old. They lived in a house in Sirkeci and had nine children together.

Later, my grandfather became an independent salesman of textiles; he sold textiles to shops and derived an income by getting a commission from the owner of the goods of the factory. Many of my uncles did the same or a similar job - one of them owned a wholesale textile shop himself - with the result that the textile business became the equivalent of a family profession or occupation.

At the purchasing power of that time, an earning of a golden lira by my grandfather in a given week, was enough to delight my grandmother who would say, 'This week we are fine, we'll have plenty of food to eat.' Despite their modest income, my mother told me they had a fine, merry life. In fact, she remembered those days with nostalgia. On special occasions like holidays, they would fill baskets with varied foods, hire a boat and go on picnics to the historic Kagithane [a recreation area, formerly a summer residence of the Ottoman Court], on the coast of the Golden Horn. Incidentally, the free day of the week then may have been Friday, instead of Sunday, and besides Saturday for religious Jewish folk. One year, I think they went to Beykoz on the Anatolian side for the duration of the summer.

In Sirkeci, they occupied a house with a big living room, all 16 of them. The 16 included: my grandfather's mother whom they called 'La Senyora,' my mother's grandmother, who was affectionately called 'Nonika,' my grandmother and grandfather, the nine children, plus some uncles and aunts, too, as I am sure of the number 16.

Remarkably, the only person working among those 16 people was my grandfather who, as noted, derived an income by selling textiles, on commission, to shop-owners for resale.

In the house's large living room, the family gathered around a big table, surrounded by couches with lots of cushions on them. Most evenings, after dinner, they told stories and sang songs, with special attention to the children, who dropped off to sleep, starting with the youngest, on the cushioned couches. As each child fell asleep, my grandfather would carry him or her to the upper floor in his arms, and place him or her on his bed. The children were not ordered to go to bed; they were allowed to stay right there, with the grown-ups, until they fell asleep.

My mother had a recollection about her father's military service. As my mother was born in 1900, she was 14 years old when my grandfather went to war at the outbreak of World War I 6. He was a fair man, blond, with blue eyes and pink cheeks. My mother remembered, 'One day, a certain time after he left, there was a knock on the door.' My mother answered it and saw a dark, almost black, thin man she didn't recognize. She ran to her mother saying, 'There is a soldier at the door.' It seems that my grandfather had 'dried out' while he was away and turned into someone emaciated and dark.

Incidentally, in normal times he would drink a small glass of raki 7 every evening, just one. So, when that was not possible, he lost his joy and good spirits. 'When he came back,' my mother remembered, 'he started to drink his raki again and soon regained his former weight and fair and pink- cheeked appearance.'

Although I had heard quite a bit about the house in Sirkeci from my mother, I was to learn something new concerning it years later. My uncle Izak had lost his sight due to diabetes and was about to go to Israel. We went to see him off and say good-bye properly. He gathered us around him, my children and all and Uncle Izak said, 'I remember something strange: when I was very small, we used to live in a house in Sirkeci. Another family occupied the upper floor, but we lived as if we belonged to a single household. We would go up an open flight of stairs several times a day. In the hall above, that family had at all times a big cushion, reserved for their grandfather - a blind and very old man. After feeding him in the mornings, they would place him on that cushion for the remainder of the day. A favorite pastime for us, children, was to go up and sit on that cushion with the old man, and listen to him talk to us. I never imagined that the day would come when I myself would become a blind grandfather.'

Thus, I learned that they shared that house with another family which had a blind grandfather. As time went by, the then children grew up, got married and some of them left home and that house. However, my eldest uncle Nisim never left; he always lived with my grandfather.

When the Surname Law 8 came into effect, my grandfather's family changed their surname from Benezra to Finanser, even though apparently they didn't have to. At that time, some of the registry officials accepted to register the existing surname, whereas others claimed that a new surname had to be adopted. This is why many people modified their names slightly, registering them as Tamfranko, Barmizrahi, Öztoledo, etc.

When my cousins and I were born, the family had already moved to Bankalar Caddesi. I remember the residence vividly. It was in an apartment building called Rashel Han. It had four rooms and a big hall where they ate, a kitchen, an alaturca bathroom, and a small toilet. Many people lived together in the apartment. There were ceramic-tile stoves almost in every room. In the rooms which didn't have a stove, they had a brazier.

As one entered the apartment, on the right-hand side, stood a big cupboard reaching the ceiling, where they kept their mattresses and beddings during the day. At night, they would spread them out. They could not have separate bedrooms for everyone, because they were so many.

On holidays, like the Anniversary of the Republic, one could observe from the windows the trams decorated with paper flags passing through Bankalar Caddesi. My grandfather sat cross-legged on cushions on the wooden sofa facing the street, smoked the 'narghile' [water-pipe], looking out of the window, and fondled his 'tespih' or beads on a string.

By the time I start remembering those days, my grandfather was no longer working, but he would unfailingly go to see each one of his children on a different day of the week. For example, he came to us on Tuesdays, always walking up Bankalar Caddesi, regardless of the distance. We lived in Taksim [a district on the European side of Istanbul] then, which wasn't near. We knew he would be coming on Tuesdays; so, on those days my mother cooked dry beans and pilav, his favorites, for him. On Fridays, he went to see Alber, and another child on other days, always walking and always wearing a regular suit and a tie - his uniform on those occasions.

'Sari Madam,' now a two-level road in Shishane [a district on the European side of Istanbul, at the corner of the Bankalar street], was an open-air garden/café then. My grandfather had a story about it. After he retired, and when the weather was nice, he used to go to Sari Madam to play backgammon passionately. Those familiar with the game know that backgammon is a game that often generates heated argument and even quarrel...

As grandfather's eyesight began deteriorating with age, his backgammon partners started to cheat by lying about the numbers on the dice he threw, and he started to lose. Never one to give up, he hired a young student whom he paid to sit beside him and read his dice, and he started winning again! This must have been the first and possibly the only occasion in the world when a 'dice reader' was employed... successfully, I might add, in this case.

During his lifetime, my grandfather gathered all of his children and their families in his home for the religious feasts. On a typical Passover seder, we were thirty to thirty-five people around the table. He used to read the Haggadah himself and performed all the rituals meticulously. At the conclusion of the seder, we each took turns kissing his hand. This, too, was part of the ritual. He sat at the head of the table and paid great attention to those traditions up until he passed away. When he died, that tradition died with him.

Throughout his life, Grandfather's children were very respectful, very affectionate towards him. His death and its aftermath made it clear to everyone - and certainly to me - that he, and primarily he, had been the one who had kept the family together. After his death, the various family members went their own ways. After him, there were no more festive gatherings or anything remotely like that. Some of the uncles tried to organize small reunions for a year or two, but they soon realized that it didn't work. The magic had gone with the beloved magician that he was - at least for his grandchildren like me. My grandfather died in Istanbul, in the Bankalar home, in 1952, at approximately 87 years of age.

My maternal grandmother, Ester Benezra Finanser, nee Levi, was born in Istanbul. She was 14 years old when she married Moshe Benezra. They had children immediately, twins, who didn't survive. A year later, my eldest uncle was born. My grandmother was 15 then. They had eight more children in the following years - seven boys and two girls in all - quite an achievement for my grandmother who was her parents' only child. This prompted my mother to say about her mother, 'I don't remember a time when she wasn't pregnant!' My mother was the third child, but the eldest girl.

I was told that when she was pregnant and there was no one in the room, Grandmother used to scrape the whitewash off the walls and eat it, probably to satisfy her need for calcium. Often, people would ask her which of her nine children was her favorite. She would reply, 'For me, each one of them is an only child.'

When my grandfather did his military service during World War I, my grandmother supported the members of the household - which were numerous - by sewing cloth sacks for an exporter of hazelnuts. The exporter supplied the rolls of cloth and my grandmother, with the help of the children, did the cutting up and the sewing. Grandmother knew how to sew other things very well, too, but she had enough of sewing clothes for all her children, and once told my mother, 'Don't ever learn how to sew, because if you do, you'll spend your whole life sewing.'

While they led a modest, family-centered life, they knew a certain Benbasat family, to whom they were very close. Every Thursday, my grandmother packed her children and went to spend the day with Madame Benbasat, her best friend! I believe the Benbasats lived in Sirkeci, too, in a mansion-like house, with many floors, and a large kitchen down a few steps from the street level. There, a number of servants and cooks worked seemingly endlessly. The kitchen's door was never closed, to allow them to serve food to the poor who happened to pass by.

Some of the children were probably already married when the core family moved from Sirkeci to Bankalar. They were by then a much smaller group. In the Bankalar home, there were Nonika, my grandmother Ester, my elder uncle's wife Sara, and my aunt Rashel, who was mentally disadvantaged, but could do physical work - a total of four women in one house, with no need for hired help, which they couldn't afford anyway.

They used to prepare all the traditional Sephardic dishes. I don't know if they followed the kashrut rules. Since the name of a Jewish butcher called Dalva in Shishhane was often mentioned, I suppose they bought kosher meat from him, although I am not sure if they kept a kosher house in all respects.

In the week of Chanukkah, in my grandmother's house, they used to hang a chanukkiyah on the wall. It was metallic, but I don't remember if it was made out of silver. They put oil in it. My grandmother made cotton-wrapped wicks for the occasion. Each night, the entire family gathered standing around the chanukkiyah and recited the appropriate prayer, after which they lit a wick, an additional one every night, until the seventh, when the feast was over. After the prayer and the lighting, they sat, sang songs, and told jokes. Every Friday night, too, my grandmother placed cotton wicks in a special glass, lit them and said a prayer. Once when asked why, she said it was 'for our dead.'

My grandmother stayed home most of the time. The rest of us used to go to see her. She was a tall, slender, darkish, graceful woman. She liked to wear dark clothes, brown or black house dresses, high-necked. When I knew her, her hair had already turned white. She wore her hair in a knot on the back of her head.

She owned a gold chain we called 'kolana.' Later, when she got older, that is to say, when she felt that her end was near, she broke the 'kolana' into pieces and gave a piece to each of her granddaughters, which we cherish as a reminder of her.

My grandmother's death was unusual in its speed and simplicity. One day, my aunt and my grandmother were alone at home for a few hours. Grandmother was sitting on a chair, looking out of the window. At one point she said, 'Rashel, will you fetch me a glass of water; I am thirsty.' By the time Rashel went to the kitchen and came back with the water, Grandmother had gotten up from her chair, lay down on the sofa and died. We always said, 'What a nice way to die. One minute, she was looking out of the window, a few minutes later, she was gone.'

My uncle Nisim, her eldest son, had died earlier. His death had affected her deeply and caused her to age, to become a really old woman, suddenly. It is said that the loss of a child is the worst thing for a mother. Grandmother was 83 when she died in 1968.

My grandfather had a brother called Haim. My generation didn't know or ever see him. Yet when my mother was still a child, he used to live with them. In 1907, he married Ermoza Zara. She was an aunt of the Zaras who had a shop in Galatasaray [in the center of Beyoglu (Pera), a district on the European side of Istanbul]. I heard that Haim Benezra went to America at the beginning of the 20th century, and that people wondered if husband and wife would separate as a result. However, after a while the wife joined him in America. We never heard of them again.

My father, Henri Nassi, was born in Constanza, Romania, in 1903. His family lived in a beautiful place in a farm-like setting - an independent, detached house built on steep rocks overlooking the sea. They had chicken that roamed in the garden and laid their eggs anywhere. My father, who was the youngest sibling, loved to search for the eggs, before he started going to school, and was delighted when he found some.

My father was very blond, with nearly white hair. My aunt loved her youngest brother; she used to say, 'He was like a small chick. When we wanted to call him for dinner time, we called: 'Dinner is ready, piu piu piu piu piuuu, Rikutsule!' [the Romanian diminutive for the name Henri].'

This was at the beginning of the 1900s. The family had a horse-carriage and a coachman who used to take the children to school. My father's greatest joy was to sit beside the coachman, especially when he was allowed to hold the reins and the whip.

Their mother-tongue was Romanian. My father knew a little Greek, but just picked up by ear. He came to Istanbul permanently when he was 17, but he never spoke to me about what he did in Romania until then. He was a realist; he lived in the present and thought mostly of tomorrow, never of yesterday. For him, memories were not relevant...

But this changed one special day in 1990, when my daughter was about to go to Scotland for her master's degree and doctorate. Before leaving, we went to see Grandfather and Grandmother one last time, in their home. He took my daughter aside, led her to a small room next to the living room and told her recollections of his childhood in Romania - something he had never done with anyone before, including me. I heard him tell my daughter that he used to sweep floors in a factory, worked at a printer's shop, and did other odd jobs in the summers or in the evenings after school.

My father was born and raised Jewish; I am certain, for example, that he had his bar mitzvah. He had the necessary instruction for it, which I'm sure he always remembered because he had a very good memory. However, a few years after coming to Turkey, and before getting married, he changed both his name and his religion in order to acquire Turkish citizenship. He adopted Islam on paper and the name Avni Tuncer.

When he and his father came to Istanbul, my father started working as an assistant accountant at the Marmarosh Bank, where his father was working. Both worked there for about two years, until 1922. Thanks to his gifts, such as his superior intelligence and very good memory, Father rose quickly to a good position in the bank's accounting department. But at that time, the Marmarosh Bank's financial situation and prospects started to deteriorate, forcing it to downsize, liquidate and dismiss many people, offering them an indemnity. Significantly, for our story, however, employees who resigned did not qualify for an indemnity. As they dismissed the older employees first, my grandfather's dismissal was impending.

The year was 1922, the end of Turkey's War of Independence 9, and the eve of the Republic. Father had already decided to go into commerce on his own. He felt strongly that he did not want to spend the rest of his life as a bank clerk. Besides, the bank was closing down anyway. But since father and son had both been on a fixed salary, they had not accumulated anything remotely resembling a capital.

Before my grandfather's dismissal was due, Father went to the bank's director and said, 'I would like to ask for a favor. You like me and you promoted me. I want to go into commerce on my own, and I need your help. You have been dismissing employees. Could you let me go by dismissing me, so that I can get an indemnity, which I can then use as capital, to start my own business?' At first, the director balked, asking my father not to leave, because the bank appreciated his work.

Later, Father would remember that day as 'the day I committed the greatest faux pas of my life. I told the director, 'Should I stay and remain an employee for the rest of my life?' I didn't realize that the director himself was an employee! It really was a disgraceful thing to say to the kind man. How could I do this! But the man was really mature. He didn't say anything in anger. He just repeated, 'Don't leave, stay,' etc.' But my father said, 'No, I've made up my mind, I'll go into business.' 'In that case,' said the director, 'I'll pretend I dismissed you and pay you the indemnity, but on one condition: You'll take your father along. If you both leave together, I'll give you two indemnities.' My father accepted.

So, with the three months' salary for both of them as capital, he launched his own business formally, with the proper legal registration and all. He was entirely on his own, which he liked. He rented office space in a historic building called Cermanya Han, in Sirkeci, on the corner opposite the establishment Atabek. Cermanya Han, which still exists, is a building with a round tower, which belonged to the Deutsche Orient Bank then, but is owned by the Yapi ve Kredi Bank at present. Father had two rooms on the sixth floor.

One of the first things Father did was to obtain or consult the commercial directories and yearbooks of various countries, which contain information on the manufacturing industries and companies, their products, addresses, etc. He also got himself a typewriter, and started sending 'offers of service' to those addresses.

My father had a talent for languages; he knew French, and he had also picked up some German. He contacted, among others, manufacturers of aluminum kitchenware, glassware, and injectors. There was no manufacturing to speak of in Turkey at the time; practically everything was imported. He wrote, 'I am a young man. I am applying to be your representative in Turkey.'

My father succeeded in obtaining lots of representation rights for a range of goods like thermometers, caps for carbonated-drink bottles, clasps for gloves, etc. He went to the wholesalers of such goods and got orders from them, which he, in turn, passed on to the factories abroad. After the goods arrived and the client paid the factory, the latter paid my father a commission, something like 5 percent, for his services.

Father was then twenty years of age and still a bachelor. The first years of being on his own were hard times, but he managed to support the family.

He got the representation rights of a very important essential oils producer in Switzerland, namely, Chuit, Naef et Cie., which later became Firmenich. This was a business owned by such a prominent family that, when Eisenhower visited Switzerland, he stayed at their mansion.

My father was hard-working, almost a workaholic, and was absorbed with the business day and night - just like I now think of El Amaneser day and night - and succeeded in controlling 80 percent of the market in essential oils. They called him 'Avni Bey, the Essence King.' When he earned this royal title, he hired a secretary and expanded the business. The secretary was a nice young woman called Viki Abuizak. She became like one of the family.

Incidentally, it is possible that Father took a Turkish name earlier because he thought it would help him when starting a business. I should note, however, that all his friends were members of the Jewish community; he never had any non-Jewish friends, ever.

Already while working at the Marmarosh Bank's accounting department, he was a member of the Jewish Amicale society, or club 10. On weekends, young people in pairs, a boy and a girl, used to visit the homes of members of the community, with money-boxes, and collected donations for the society. He thus took part in the social life of the community. Then he volunteered to do the accounting - a skill he had developed at the bank - for the community-run Or-ahayim Hospital 11 for no pay.

As the years went by, he was more and more busy with his commission work and could not spare time any more to work pro bono for the Or-ahayim Hospital. At that time, a young woman volunteered for the hospital job: my mother! They met as he was transferring the accounts to her. She fell in love with him immediately.

My father was not very tall, 1.74 meters, but largely built; he weighed 80 kilos. His hair, which was originally blond, progressively became light brown. He had brown eyes. He liked to dress elegantly, and had ties of all colors. My mother, Ema Benezra Finanser, was three years older than him. She was 'mignonne,' slim, 48 kilos, 1.58 meters, had bright blue eyes and light brown hair - all in all, a dainty lady.

After a few weeks, during which Mother took over the Hospital's accounting, my father was out of sight. About six months later, my mother was walking in Beyoglu - her family used to live in Bankalar caddesi - when upon reaching the Galatasaray Post Office, it started to rain torrentially. She took refuge under the eaves of a building, trying to figure out how best to cross the street.

Just then, she saw and immediately recognized my father holding a black umbrella and saying, 'Would you allow me to escort you across the street?' She promptly accepted. He opened his umbrella, gave her his arm, and they crossed the street arm in arm under the umbrella. Then my father said, 'How will you walk home? Please, let me accompany you there'... which he did.

That is the moment when it all happened. They made a date to meet again and started to see each other. This was in 1931 or 1932. In the months that followed, whenever he fetched or took her home, he would go up to her apartment and meet my grandparents, who liked him. In time, however, they started to attract people's attention, which gave way to gossip in the community. People said, 'Avni Bey is seeing a girl, but she is much too young for him.' Although my mother was three years older than my father, she was so petite and dainty that people thought she was much younger than him. My mother enjoyed relating this with a laugh.

Mother was in love with my father and probably so was he with her. He in particular was a serious person. They reportedly said such old-fashioned things to each other -always in French, their common language - that they made me laugh. For instance, my father said - we used to speak French, so I'll say it in French, because the thought and the words are so quaint: 'Je l'avais compromise: je devais lui promettre mariage." [French for: 'I had compromised her honor, so I had to promise marriage.']

But marriage was not possible. At least not yet, because he had an unmarried sister. At that time, according to tradition, as long as there were unmarried sisters at home, a man could not marry. That is why he said, 'I cannot get married until my sister does. If you accept this fact, we can live together and plan a life together, but marriage will have to wait until my sister herself gets married.'

My mother readily accepted, being so in love. My father then said to my grandmother, 'I want to ask your permission on a serious matter. Ema is my wife in the name of God, and in whose presence I gave her my word. But I cannot marry her because my sister is not yet married. However, please rest assured that I will fulfill all the obligations of a husband to her and never desert her. Please, allow her to live with me.'

Since my father had gone in and out of their house for some time, they had come to know, love and appreciate him for the serious and correct person he was. So, they trusted that he would keep his promise and granted him the permission he asked for. My mother moved to his family's home occupied also by her father-in-law and sister-in-law, and they all lived together for quite a long time, without their being married. I never heard of something so modern, especially so indicative of my grandparents' open-mindedness, in the 1930s!

This was a courageous decision, indeed. The interesting part is that the whole community, that is to say, my mother's father, a simple man who had come from Canakkale, her mother, the local Jewish community, all those who gossiped if they saw two people going out together, everybody accepted the situation. Nobody censured their living together without being married, and nobody turned their backs on them.

Their broad social life continued as before. It is noteworthy that their friendly relations with people of their own social level continued unaffectedly. Nobody seemed to care, maybe because they really considered themselves and lived like married people in every way, but just could not make it official, because of the sister's situation.

When after five years, my aunt got married, I believe - though no one ever admitted it openly - that it was just to end this untenable situation, as my mother had become pregnant with me. Also, they were not getting any younger. My mother was already 37 when she gave birth to me. So, in 1936, they had a double wedding - my father's and his sister's. I was born in 1937.

Five months after I was born, they moved to Talimhane in Taksim [a district on the European side of Istanbul]. My grandfather had already died by then. When I was maybe two, we started going to Büyükada [a summer resort on one of the islands in the Marmara Sea] for the summers. After summering in various rented houses until I reached five, we bought a house in Büyükada. We used to go to picnics there, with baskets filled with food; the grown- ups used to play cards or backgammon under the pine trees. My father also played a game called 'bezigue' at home.

My father proceeded with his business. He traveled to Europe two or three times a year; acquired more representation rights; and often went to Switzerland to visit that essential oils factory, which was still central to his business. Sales representatives came here from the Swiss factory as well; on those occasions, they visited the clients together.

My father also dealt in hardware, injectors, hot water bottles, hernia belts, etc. He imported all kinds of goods that are sold in pharmacies, other than medicines. The business was booming. He now occupied four rooms on the 6th floor of Cermanya Han. He employed an office boy and two or three qualified staff. When at work, he always wore a suit with a shirt and a tie.

In 1942, the Government imposed the so-called Wealth Tax. The Turkish name my father had acquired earlier helped him weather the infamous tax. Non- Muslims were heavily taxed, but Avni Tuncer, who had a capital of 30,000 liras, was assessed that amount. He was thus able to pay the tax and avoid being punished or fined. He struck bottom, yes, but his possessions were not confiscated. They took away from my grandmother's house, beds, cupboards, etc. but nothing from us.

On the other hand, the Anavi family I knew well did not fare as well, to say the least. They were in the paint business. Their assets, including real estate, were evaluated at 3 million liras at the time. They were taxed 1 million liras, which was not so bad, except for the sad fact that all goods and real estate had to be sold almost immediately. With everyone selling and liquidating their assets at the same time, prices plummeted. The Anavis' possessions worth 3 million liras brought just 700,000 liras, which they paid, but still owed 300,000 liras.

So, in order to force him to pay this debt, but more to punish him, Father Anavi was sent to Askale [labor camp in Eastern Turkey] to work in stone quarries, with the ridiculous daily pay of 125 kurus. How could anyone pay 300,000 liras with a daily pay of 125 kurus! But after several months, the ordeal ended when the tax was rescinded, and the Anavis did not lose their father, which was not true of all those who sent their loved ones to Askale.

Shortly after the Wealth Tax debacle, my father was drafted for the 20 Classes 12 by the Armed Forces, together with my uncles. He served for eight months in a place called Dumlupinar, planting trees. He never had anything bad to say about the treatment he received during his military service.

During the war

When World War II started, my father had a commission of 5000 franks owed him by the Swiss factory. He sent them a cable saying, 'Don't send me my commission. Don't even write me about it. Just keep it. I'll let you know when I want it.' They complied. In 1945, when the war was over, he wrote them, 'You can send it to me now.'

With that money as capital, he started his business anew, literally from zero. He was nevertheless, step by step, successful. He still had the factory representations - he had lost none of them. He started working on commission again. He had also started to import the essential oils for himself, as an importer. The customers placed their orders with him; he imported the goods on his own; and distributed, or resold them. He earned, in the process, both the commission and the profit from the import transaction.

In 1945, when my father started working again, I was eight. By 1947 or 1948, a couple of years after the war, business was doing so well that they could afford to send me to the English High School for Girls of Istanbul, which was an expensive school, and they could buy a house in Büyükada.

Father bought a car, too, a pre-war 1938 blue Nash. It was like a tank. He was the first member of the family to own a car. He hired a Greek chauffeur, to give him driving lessons. When Father was at work, the chauffeur worked the car as a taxi. At that time, the license plates for private cars and taxis were not different. In two to three months, Father learned how to drive. He used to take people for drives to the Bosphorus, to places like Tarabya [district on the shore of the European side of the Bosphorus], or on picnics to Circir [recreation area and famous drinking water source on European side of Istanbul]. We were very proud to own a car, as nobody we knew did.

The fruits of my father's hard work included then also a rowing boat, on which he installed sails after one year. He and I often went sailing together. Father learned to ride a bicycle at age 48. After that, we went touring around the island on our bicycles. We were friends, my father and I. We did all those things, including swimming, together. He taught swimming to my cousin Meri and myself by throwing us into the sea and saying, 'You'll learn to swim by splashing about.' And we did.

When we were in the city, not the island, we used to go to the cinema with the neighbors every Saturday afternoon, and had dinner somewhere afterwards. Despite his sweetness with me, Father had a hard disposition. I remember one of those post-cinema dinners with mixed feelings. When Father's order - fish with mayonnaise, I remember - arrived late, after everyone else was served, despite assurances that it was ready, Father was so upset that he dumped the plate down the waiter's head and left the restaurant in anger.

When their finances improved, my mother and father made a list of the things they wanted to do or acquire. As my father was very methodical, their wishes were prioritized: first, a house on the island, which they bought; next, a car, which they also got; and then, a trip to Europe and a diamond ring.

Post war

When the turn had come for the trip to Europe, my father could not get away from his business. He proposed to send my mother, anyway, but as she did not want to go alone, he sent her with his sister on a cruise to Italy, Nice and Marseilles. The year was 1950. The two of us, my father and I, remained behind and had a lot of fun together, as we were such good friends. He took me to eat delicacies like tripe and döner kebab, and taught me how to enjoy life. We had a splendid time, the memory of which lingers.

Then, before my mother was back from her trip, he was seized by a serious illness: meningitis. On her return, my mother found him in hospital. Meningitis is an illness with the dismal recovery rate of one in a million. If kids struck by it survive, they do so with severe brain damage; grownups simply do not survive... Then, all his friends told him, 'Avni Bey, if working all those years was worthwhile at all, it is for a day like this. Go to France.' My mother and father agreed, and they went to France. He was admitted to a hospital there, had brain surgery but came out of it in a coma. Every evening, the doctors told my mother, like a refrain: 'It is a hopeless case. Be prepared to lose him, because you probably won't find him when you return in the morning.'

He remained in a coma for 15 days straight and had to have a second brain operation. He still lay in a coma, surviving on serums, etc. On the third day after the second surgery, while still in a coma, my mother observed a faint movement on his lips. She put her ear to his mouth and heard him whisper, 'Je ne vais pas mourir, je ne peux pas mourir: J'ai une fille a marier.' [French for: 'I shall not die, I cannot die: I have a daughter to marry off.'] This shows how much he loved me, as well as his strong attachment to life.

After that, slowly, very very slowly, one eye, one lip, one finger a day, he started to recover. It took him three years to achieve a partial recovery, re-learning first sitting and then moving, first by wheel-chair and then on crutches. They stayed there for a full year, which I spent with my Tantika.

At that point, my mother came back, and my father was transferred to a rehabilitation facility in Switzerland. He remained there for about the next two years, moving about on crutches. He returned to Turkey when he was able to graduate to a walking stick and after an absence of nearly three years. He had a capital of 300,000 liras when he got ill; not a penny had remained by the time he was back.

For the third time in his life, Father had to start a business from scratch, with the added difficulty that he had lost his hearing with the meningitis. The ossicles were damaged - a condition that cannot be corrected with a hearing-aid because sounds are heard in such a distorted manner and with such interference as to cause a terrible headache. As he was very intelligent, he could communicate by guessing what people were trying to say. However, the kind of business he was in necessitated visiting customers, showing samples, and actually doing a 'selling' job.

Before Father had gone to France for treatment, the son of a cousin, Jak Eskenazi, was working for him. Jak was a very dynamic and hard-working young man, and had mastered the job. My father left him in charge, and was able to keep his representations. But he lost eventually and seriously. When my father came back, the same Jak Eskenazi, who also turned out to be clever, went to the essential oils factory in Switzerland and told them, 'Avni Bey is back, but he lost his hearing, and he is old and invalid. Take away his agency and give it to me.' And that is what happened, and this, in essence, is how my father lost the Swiss agency.

This was a terrible blow to him, because he thought of Jak as a son. He did not get over this for the rest of his life. To survive, he hired another person to continue with the other, insignificant agencies - dealing in goods like kitchenware, pots and pans, etc. - by sharing the commission fifty-fifty with him. That man followed up the contacts with the clients.

Understandably, my father's social activities practically ended after meningitis struck him at age 49, he spent three years in hospitals, and lost his hearing after that.

The year was now 1958. In the meantime, I had gotten married and divorced, and come back to live and work with my father. When we imported goods, the cases of merchandise went from Customs straight to the client's store. They would telephone and say, for instance, 'I'll pay on 20th June,' and my father would note on a small agenda, 'The firm Voreopulos-Behar will pay 3000 liras on 20th June.' I would say, 'Shouldn't we establish a contract, an IOU?' He would answer, 'Of course not. That man is a businessman in Tahtakale. If he says 20th June, there is no need for an IOU.' And come 20th June, the money would arrive at our office. Those were different times, when paying on time was a matter of honor, and a phone call sufficed.

After Taksim, we lived in a rented apartment in Shishli [district on European side of Istanbul] for a few years. In 1964, my father bought an apartment in Yeshilyurt [suburb on the European side of Istanbul, close to the airport]. It was the first time we owned our own home, not counting the small house on the island. Apartment buildings in Yeshilyurt are surrounded by gardens on four sides. Our apartment was in a three-story building, with seven dwellings. We bought an apartment away from the center of town for my sake.

After one year, I got married and moved to my husband's house, while my parents remained in Yeshilyurt. They were quite happy there. My father used to commute to his office in Sirkeci by train, which was easy for him in his condition.

Father was an authoritarian person; so, when I decided to marry a Muslim Turk, I faced the difficulty of introducing my future husband to him first, before telling my mother. I told my future husband to come to our office in Cermanya Han. Shortly before he appeared, I told my father, 'There is someone I am seeing. He wants to marry me. I invited him to come and meet you.' My father simply said, 'OK.'

Then Günel arrived; I introduced him; he sat down. There was a brief silence, after which my father said, 'I am going to ask you something.' Günel said, 'Go ahead.' My father asked, 'Do you like white [feta] cheese?' Günel was surprised and replied, 'I like it a lot.' 'Well, then,' said my father, 'I give you the girl.' My father liked to joke.

I worked with my father for nine years. By then, we represented an important Dutch factory which produced raw materials for the enamel industry, called Ferro Enamels. I worked until I became pregnant with my second child. I left in 1968, and my husband took over. He worked with my father for ten years, and the business really developed during this time, maybe owing to Günel's enterprising approach or to the business climate, or both... Yet by 1978, both of us had had enough of business life and decided to quit. We so informed the Dutch factory, and they designated another representative.

My father loved life so much, but his life was so limited after the young age of 52! Yet I never heard him complain. He had such a great personality! Only at the very end, in the last six or seven years of his life, when he could hardly see any more, due to cataracts in his eyes, and when, after a lifetime of reading, he could not even read the paper, he told me, 'You cannot imagine how bored I am, not being able to read anything.' That was the only complaint I heard from him in all his life.

After my mother passed away [in 1997], my father continued to live in Yeshilyurt. But one year before his death, his apartment was to be given to a builder, to be demolished and rebuilt. We could not take him with us, because our apartment in Cengelköy [district on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus] was too small, and my father's physically constrained lifestyle would not fit ours. He was not in a position to live by himself, either; so, he had a caretaker and a cleaning lady.

We rented two adjacent rooms for him in an old people's home on the road to Kayisdagi [district on the Asian side of Istanbul], moved his own furniture there, and arranged one of the rooms as a sitting-room with a sofa where his caretaker or I slept alternately. We furnished the second room as a bedroom for him, with his own TV set, etc. It was like a two-room suite. He lived there for seven months, until his death in 1999, at 96.

My mother's name was Neama, the name of her great aunt, but they called her Ema. Her surname was Benezra at birth but it was changed to Finanser, with the introduction of the Surname Law.

Mother was born in 1900. Birth dates were not known for sure in those times, because births were not promptly registered. My mother 'chose' the 14th of July as her birthday - the date of the French Revolution, which she loved. She had it registered and even celebrated it on occasion.

Mother attended the Alliance 13 school in her youth, reaching it from Sirkeci, where they lived, by crossing the Galata Bridge daily on foot and walking all the way to the School in Tünel. She was always the top or the second best pupil of her class. She wore to school the dresses my grandmother sewed for her, either light blue - like the color of her eyes - or white in color.

Mother had eight siblings. As she was the third child, she saw her mother pregnant most of the time and helped raise many of her siblings. She took so much care of her brother Eli, who was 18 years younger, that she loved him more like a son than a brother. She would tell me, 'He is not your uncle, he is your brother.' As I was an only child, this is how I came to have an uncle/brother.

In my mother's youth, her family had close relations with a family called Benbasat. When Mother finished the Alliance school, she started working for the wholesale drug supply company named Sisa-Benbasat, as an assistant accountant. She worked there up until she got married, and she liked to boast about knowing the place and price of some 3000 products the company sold. My mother was an all-around conscientious worker who enjoyed her work.

During World War I, when her father was drafted - possibly at the same time as a couple of his sons - Mother was the only member of the family with an outside income, which enabled the family to survive, other than the contribution of those hazelnut bags that my grandmother used to sew.

My mother carried a great responsibility, indeed, because she had to work not only to support the whole family, but also to pay all the school fees, given the importance they attached to education. She used to worry about what would happen to them if something were to prevent her from working.

The worry was to prove justified, in her eyes - at least initially. One day, she fell seriously ill and lay unconscious for five whole weeks, with a high fever. When she regained consciousness, her first thought was fear of what may have happened to the family. Then she heard people singing, children running up and down the stairs four steps at a time, on their way to play, foods being cooked and life going on. 'Right then,' said my mother, 'I realized that nobody is indispensable and that the whole burden of life is not just on one person's shoulder.' She made this her life's philosophy.

My mother liked to tell whoever would listen about her childhood in Sirkeci. With hindsight, I am so sorry we used to interrupt her. We said, 'Mummy, it's enough; you've already told us about it a hundred times.' We didn't take any notes of those gems. How I regret this now!

My mother was a member of the Amicale Society. Later, she applied to do the accounting for the Or-ahayim Hospital, a function which my father had been performing. She met my father as he transferred the books to her. My mother fell immediately in love with him, and courtship - in the form of going out together - followed.

As I mentioned earlier, tradition constrained my father from marrying, because he had an unmarried elder sister at home. Nevertheless, with my grandparents' explicit permission, my mother moved to my father's house, and they lived there as husband and wife for five years, at the end of which my aunt decided to get married - so that my father could at last get married, too - and they had a double wedding. I strongly suspect the double event was somewhat precipitated by my mother's pregnancy with me.

When my mother moved to my father's house in Findikli, my grandfather Izak Nassi and my aunt Viktorya lived there, too. My aunt used to do all the housework. When my mother joined the family, the two women started sharing the housework. They used to do the laundry by hand, then climb up to the terrace on the roof to hang it out to dry. All this manual work was difficult for my mother, who had always worked as an accountant and was not accustomed to do such housework.

Every evening, when the men came home from work, the four of them used to go to a pastry shop in Beyoglu to treat themselves to cakes. The cost came to 25 kurush. My mother would say, 'The daily wage of a cleaning woman was 25 kurush. Yet I could never convince them to give up eating those cakes in Beyoglu twice a week, and engage a cleaning lady with that money.' It is about this matter that they first fell out with my aunt.

Mother got married late, at age 36. Before getting married, she converted to Islam, together with my father. According to what she told me, they needed to go to the Mufti together to get the necessary permission. The Mufti asked them why they chose to convert to Islam. They candidly said that it was in order to get Turkish citizenship for my father, who was Romanian. The Mufti signed the necessary permission promptly without giving them a sermon or making the least difficulty. My mother was very impressed with that Mufti's maturity.

I was born in 1937, when my mother was 37. When I was five months old, my parents moved to an apartment in the Tas Apt. in Talimhane. It was a very nice apartment. It had two bedrooms, a small room for the maid or nanny, an L-shaped living-room where stood my piano, an entry hallway, a kitchen, a full bathroom, a small half-bathroom, and a closet. It had central heating and a bathtub in the bathroom, though not the built-in [encased] kind, but an enameled, self-standing one on four feet. Hot water was available just twice a week. Later, 10-15 years later, in the postwar years, we installed a gas heater.

We owned a radio, a record-player and hundreds of records. We also had a number of books at home, although we mostly borrowed books from the French Cultural Center Library at the French Consulate in Taksim. Thus, we had the possibility of reading a great number of books, which was important for Mother and I, who normally devoured a book in the span of two days.

My mother had a foot-operated sewing machine. To use it, she had to attend a sewing and machine-embroidering course at the Singer Sewing Machine shop, because her own mother had not taught her how to sew.

I don't remember Atatürk's 14 death because I was just a year old, but my parents went to the funeral and said they had never seen such a large crowd all in tears.

My parents hired an Armenian lady as a nanny for me. Her story is particularly interesting. Her husband had died during the Armenian Massacre. She fled to Istanbul from her village Keskin Maden near Ankara, with her two children of two to three years of age and worked as a servant at the Armenian Orphanage. Her children grew up there. Then she entered our service, renting a small apartment in Tarlabasi. She managed to take care of her children there and at the same time to work in various capacities in our house.

She formally lived with us, but she got up at four every morning; went to her children's apartment, which was at five minutes' distance; she made them breakfast, and prepared them for school. By the time we got up at seven, she was already back, to take care of us. I can truly say that she raised me. My mother was bed-ridden for two years with rheumatism. That lady did all the housework, cooked for the family and took care of me.

She also raised her two children, both of whom grew to become doctors. Her name was Nuritsa, and her sons, the doctors, were Jan and Minas Apkaryan. She worked for us until I was 13. Then, after they became doctors, her sons took her with them and did not let her work any more. The whole thing makes a touching story with a happy ending, I think.

As I grew up, my mother had also hired the younger sister of my Uncle Jak's wife, to act as a 'mademoiselle' [governess] for me. Vivi was 16 or 17 then. She stayed with us, and took me out for a stroll or to the park. I suppose she needed the income, and my mother took her in to help out. At one point, Vivi got married and left.

I should also note that when I was four, Madame Claire Kamhi, my Uncle Izak's mother-in-law, started giving me piano lessons at home. Then there was a Mademoiselle Nanasoff, a young White Russian woman, who also came home to give me ballet lessons. As the above shows, when I was a child, my mother made me do all those bourgeois things!

My mother treated me very well. However, as I had a nanny and a 'mademoiselle,' she didn't care for me physically and in a detailed manner. She mostly told me stories, fables and tales from the Bible. She did not feed or dress me; others did that generally.

We did not have special Friday, that is, Sabbath eve dinners. I did not have any formal religious training. The nearest thing to it occurred when my mother took me in her bed, where we sat, while she told me stories from the Bible: Moses leaving Egypt, Jacob's quarrels with his brothers, etc. She was such a great story teller; she made all those stories come to life, though more like sweet, semi-educational fiction than religious training.

We did our shopping at the corner grocery store. There were a green-grocer and a butcher, both in the neighborhood, in Talimhane. There were also a small dairy shop that sold products and eggs; and two grocery stores, the Nea Agora and the Taksim Pazari. We did not go to the open market; we didn't need to. An itinerant, street vendor used to pass by, with a horse carrying two large baskets overflowing with fresh vegetables and shout, 'Zarzavatciiii' ['vegetable man' in Turkish], and we bought what we needed from him thus: we lowered a basket tied at the end of a rope; he weighed the goods and put them in the basket, which we then pulled up.

A yoghurt vendor also passed by almost daily, with two flat containers of yoghurt from Silivri, balanced on a long stick resting on his shoulder. It was a kind of thick, solid yoghurt, which had to be cut with a spatula and placed on a dish. On winter nights, a sahlep vendor passed. All the vendors we dealt with were Muslims; the only Jewish shop owner in the neighborhood was a merchant of 'tuhafiye' [haberdashery].

Most of our neighbors were Jewish. They had close relations with my mother. They visited each other to have coffee. We, my nuclear family, spoke French at home and read the Journal d'Orient 15. My parents' common language was French, because my father, who had come from Romania, did not know Ladino when they met. My mother spoke Ladino with the neighbors.

My mother's favorite pastime activity was to play cards - a game called 'kumkam'- with the neighbors. They had set 'days' for it. They also got dressed up to do window-shopping in Beyoglu. Mother had a brooch and 'chevaliere' ring she always wore. She was always well groomed, with make- up and manicured hands. We had a Greek lady in our building, who came to our apartment for a day's work and sewed very elegant clothes.

My mother's brothers rarely came to visit us with their families. Mother, on the other hand, was very attached to them and called them often. They came to see her, but mostly by themselves.

My mother used to apply 'ventosa' [suction] cups to our back, to fight colds. The treatment worked as follows. You burned a piece of cotton dipped in alcohol and placed it in the ventosa cup, or 'cupping glass,' which sucked out the oxygen and produced a vacuum. Then and quickly, very quickly, you applied the cups to the bare back with a 'plop-like' sound, pulling the surface flesh in. She stuck five or ten of those to our back. These were kept on for a few minutes. The effect was hurtful and pleasurable, ticklish, at the same time. Then, they wrapped a piece of cotton around the end of a pencil, dipped it in iodine and drew horizontal and vertical lines two to three centimeters apart on our backs. As part of what I can call the 'ceremony,' mother also prepared infusions of linden tea or chamomile. We had hot water bottles as well.

In the summer, we went to Büyükada, where we rented a house. My mother took care of the move. The moving firm was called Emanetci Sultana but, in fact, we never saw Sultana herself, if she ever existed. A man called Leon came home, packed our stuff, transported it to the island and delivered it there. He wrapped everything in big 'harars' [large sacks made of haircloth]. Refrigerator, beds, everything traveled to the island in summer, and traveled back to town in fall.

Later, when we bought our own house, we acquired two or two sets of everything - one for each residence. Almost as a rule, everything we left in town during the summer, furniture and all was covered with bed sheets to protect them from dust.

When I turned five, my parents bought a small house in Büyükada. We spent three months a year there, coinciding with the schools' summer vacations. The house had initially three rooms; later on they added a room in part of the garden. In those years, there was no running water on the island. We had a cistern that stored rain-water, and a water-tank which we filled using a hand-pump. The house had a big, curved terrace and a small garden. A gardener came once a week to take care of the garden.

When we lived in Büyükada, we, the women, went to the Turkish Bath for Women every week. Like the rest of the children and womenfolk, in the evenings, we went to the quay, the boat landing, to meet my father returning from work by boat. Sometimes my mother would sit in an outdoor cafe by the sea and watch, with binoculars, my father and I go sailing.

After I reached school age, I attended the Aydin Okul elementary school in Taksim. We had a neighbor, Berta Rutli, who was a graduate of the English High School for Girls 16, and had a daughter, Nadya, of about my age. On her strong suggestion, my mother enrolled me in that high school when I was still in second grade. In those days, admission was through early enrolment, or registration, not through testing. Early on - as early as when I was in second grade - my mother knew in her heart that English would be an important language to learn. That's why and how I entered the English High School and learned English.

We did not eat out too often, but I remember going to Rejans, a White Russian Restaurant in Ayazpasa, to Fisher, Abdullah Efendi's and a place, I believe, called Piknik, which was a simpler, informal restaurant. In the summer, we went to a fish restaurant called Selekt on the Iskele quay by the sea, in Büyükada.

The year now was 1950. I was 13 and had started high school. My mother and aunt had gone on a trip. My father and his sister's husband were no longer on speaking terms, due to differences they had had in business. When my mother returned from her trip, she found my father in hospital with meningitis. Shortly thereafter, they went to Paris for treatment. I remained in Istanbul with my aunt for more than a year - the two of us, with my mother being far away, and no father!

When my father got ill, my mother sold the summer house in Büyükada, because they needed all the cash they could get. While they were abroad, I got engaged to Ceki Karasu. They knew nothing of it until they returned. But as both families were suitable and the people mutually acceptable, there was no objection. The result was that I got married at 17, at the Neve Shalom Synagogue 17. My parents had to sign for me because I was a minor. Three and a half years later, when I got divorced, they gave me again their full support. They were aged between 55 and 60 at the time.

I have always worked. When I was married and lived in Ankara, I worked as a secretary. In 1958, when I returned to my father's house after my divorce, one day I told my mother that I wanted to start working again. When she reported it to my father, he said, 'I need a secretary myself. Instead of working somewhere else, let her come and work for me.' That's when I started to work for my father.

We lived in that apartment in Talimhane [part of the district of Taksim, on the European side of Istanbul] until I was 23. In 1960, we left that apartment after 23 years and rented an apartment in Sisli. At that time, my mother said, 'Instead of paying two rents, let Viktorya move in with us.' And so she did. In 1964, for the first time in their lives, they bought their own apartment - in Yesilyurt, for my sake - because I had voiced the opinion that it was better to live away from the city. After about a year, I got married and left, while they remained in Yesilyurt.

In 1965, when I decided to get married to a Turk, I introduced him first to my father. Later, after I had gotten married, my mother told me one day that, when my father had heard I was going to marry a Turk, he had asked her how they ought to react, how they should take it. And my mother said then, 'We have no other alternative but to accept, because if the young ones have their minds set on something, they go ahead and do it anyway and if we oppose them, we'd be the losers. If you don't want to lose your daughter, you better say nothing.' And that is what they did, or didn't do!

The respective families did not socialize, although they paid each other a visit of courtesy. My husband Günel's mother had died when he was 14. He had been raised by his aunt. She invited us one day and we took my mother there. And the aunt came once to Yesilyurt to visit my parents.

When they lived in Yesilyurt, at first, they employed village girls as live- in maids. With time, they had help only once a week, then once in a fortnight.

In 1964, when they moved to Yesilyurt, my mother made a large circle of friends from the Jewish Community. For many years, they got together in each other's houses to play 'kumkam,' the card game I mentioned earlier. I still call them to inquire about how they are.

My mother was a lively, cheerful person, who enjoyed life. She loved telling jokes. One day, when my children were between eight and ten years of age, she called them to her side and said, 'You are old enough now; I can tell you adult jokes from now on.' My children remember her with a great deal of affection. They say, 'Who else has a grandmother who told her ten-year-old grandchildren adult no-no jokes?'

My mother also liked to have some fun on her own. When I started to go horseback riding as a sport, she started to attend the horse races at Veliefendi [racetrack of Istanbul] and do a bit of betting.

In 1995, when my parents got really old, I moved in with them. At that time, of my mother's eight siblings, only Eli, the youngest brother, was still alive. He used to visit his elder sister at least once a month. On such a visit, he said it was time to think about how they wanted to be buried. My uncle wished them to return to Judaism. For this reason, he went to the Chief Rabbinate, to inquire about what this entailed. He learned that they had to apply to the Mufti and get written permission. But they were already 95 years old and did not leave the house any more.

After thinking about it for a week, my mother told me that they had discussed the matter with my father and that, as they had a Muslim son-in- law and Muslim grandchildren, and as these were the ones who would continue the family, and while they would always remain attached to their past, with love and respect, they had decided to be buried as Muslims.

My mother lived all her life exclusively in Istanbul. She died in Yesilyurt on 16th May 1997, one Friday evening at 8 o'clock. She was exactly 97 years old. Early on Saturday morning, we applied to the Municipality of Bakirköy and got permission to bury her in the Altinsehir Cemetery, during the noon 'namaz.' The imam who conducted the service, probably understood that we were Jews in reality, because he said, looking us in the eyes: 'We now invoke all our prophets, from Moses to Muhammed.' This touched me so much that I still remember it with tears in my eyes and recall that very mature imam with gratitude.

Now let me tell you about my aunt Viktorya, my father's elder sister. Viktorya was born in 1895, in Constanza, a port city by the Black Sea. My aunt, Tante Viktorya, was very close to us. I called her Tantika. Women enjoy speaking and tend to share a lot; and so did my aunt. She spoke frequently about their house, whereas my father did not.

Viktorya was educated up to the secondary level. Interestingly, she attended a Greek school in Constanza. She knew Greek very well. Since her mother was ill most of the time, my aunt did housework from a very young age on, and was very good at it. She also knew how to sew very well. I have in my possession an old foot-operated Singer sewing machine which she had brought all the way from Romania to Turkey. It must be 100 years old, but is still in good working condition.

In 1917, when my father was 14 years old, their mother died. My aunt was 22 then. Being the only woman of the family, she had to take care of her father and three brothers, which meant keeping the house, cooking and acting as a mother to them. Of course, it is possible that they had help in the house, considering that they employed a coachman - you don't have a coachman and not afford a maid - but I don't remember any mention of helpers.

When they came to Istanbul in the 1920s, Tantika was a young girl. She loved people and established good relations with the neighbors in no time. She learned a great deal from the friends she made, yet she had some skills others didn't have and knew some things from Romania that people here did not know, like preparing chicken with dried apricots. Here's the recipe:

Put to soak 300 grams dried apricots for about an hour. Sauté pieces of chicken in a pan, in sunflower or olive oil until slightly brown. Add half a cup boiling water, salt and pepper, cover and simmer until juice is almost completely reduced. Transfer chicken to another dish. Place drained apricots in bottom of pan, add cooked pieces of chicken, cover with boiling water and simmer until only a small amount of sauce remains.

This is a typically Romanian dish. Viktorya knew and prepared Sephardic dishes Romanian style. When introducing me to certain recipes, she pointed to the differences between Istanbul and Romanian cooking. For example, she said that they never added bread crumbs to the meat when preparing meatballs, and that she had learned to do that in Istanbul.

She did all the housework herself. I know for certain that they did not employ any help in Istanbul. As I noted, she knew how to sew very well. She sewed all my clothes until I was seven or eight years old... She cooked and did the washing all by hand.

Viktorya was rather heavily built and had light brown hair. She was not particularly pretty, but walked keeping her body upright and with a self- confident allure which reflected her strong personality. She was of medium height. She valued cleanliness and orderliness, which were reflected in the way she kept herself - no hair out of place, so-to-speak. She liked to dress well, chic but on the formal side, suits in the winter, sun dresses or prints in the summer. She always wore jewelry: pins, earrings, rings. All in all, she was a doer, hard on herself. She never spent an idle moment. When she had nothing to do, she found something to sew.

My aunt was deeply sorry that her brother had to stay engaged for five years because she wasn't married. I believe this caused her to marry somebody who, under normal circumstances, would not have been her first choice, nor apparently vice versa. The groom's decision was facilitated by the lure of a small dowry and participation in my father's business. It is very likely, that Israel Levi married Tantika for the little amount of money and the job. Tantika was about 40 then, her husband a little younger.

It was not a successful marriage, to say the least. Nor did it lead to a fruitful business relationship with my father. After a few years, my father and he had a fight and separated, and were not on speaking terms. This was terrible for Tantika, who loved her brother dearly. For a long time, during the day, she would come to see us 'secretly.'

After about 15 years, the said Israel Levi found a pretty Greek woman and left my aunt, who went on living in her apartment. My father supported her. Later, we heard that he was paralyzed. I used to tease my aunt by telling her that it was a good thing she had divorced, because she would have had to care for a paralyzed man now!

When I was a child, my aunt did not live with us literally, but in practice she did, because she lived just one street away, and not having any children of her own, she came to us daily, right after sending her husband off to work and making her bed. She stayed with us practically till dinner time.

As she didn't do the shopping herself, she used to cook whatever was available, always imaginatively, always with pleasure. She loved being useful: she either did the housework or she sewed - mostly for others.

She was a most obliging person. If anything needed to be done in the house, she felt she had to do it. She worked incessantly. She was a truly good person. She lived in Lamartin Caddesi in Taksim and had a neighbor, who had to work during the day, despite having a boy of three or four. Tantika took care of that boy until he started school. She took him with her, gave him his lunch, put him to nap, and when he woke up, she dressed up and took him for a walk from Taksim to Galatasaray. All this without any pay, just to help a neighbor.

She took care of me, too - this way and much more. She was like a second mother to me.

She also loved going out a little every day. She went strolling in Pera, looking at the shop windows. Or she and my mother went to play cards, with friends. In those days, the women of our community used to meet in the afternoons to play card games like 'kumkam.' As they lived in the same neighborhood, my mother and Tantika had the same friends.

Then, in 1960, we had to leave the apartment where we had lived for 23 years, because the landlord's daughter had gotten married and needed it. Until then, we had been paying a rather low rent. When we were forced to move, our rent went up significantly. Then, as I noted before, my mother said, 'Since Viktorya comes to us everyday and only goes to her own apartment to sleep, we may as well all live together, rather than go on paying two rents.'

This appeared quite logical for economical reasons, but led to unforeseen friction between the now two ladies of the house. Viktorya was accustomed to being mistress of her own house. My mother liked to linger in bed in the mornings and got up at 10, do her housework whenever she felt like it, or just leave it for the next day. Therefore, when Viktorya got up at 8 and finished all the work, my mother got cross and said, 'I was going to do all that after I got up at 10!'

When this friction arose, my mother found that she had had enough of being together day and night with her sister-in-law and go to play cards together as well. My aunt got offended and stopped going out together. For a while, she had some friends and relatives apart from my mother. But she soon stopped seeing them and started to sit at home, seemingly unhappy, more and more.

All the hardships Tantika had suffered in her life were reflected - one might say - in her appearance, which was rather tragic. Through much of her life, she had been sad and somewhat gloomy, as opposed to my mother who had a cheerful disposition. Viktorya suffered from high blood pressure and chronic gastritis, and had to take all kinds of pills.

When I got married and had my own two children, Tantika preferred to come and stay with us and take care of them, and to help me out, which I needed because I was working. She was like a grandmother to them, came over on Monday mornings and went home on Friday evenings. She did this willingly and generously because that's the kind of person she was.

Then she got older. When my children grew up and started to go to university, I invited her over and fetched her on occasion, not to work but to spend a week with us from time to time.

All this time, she continued to live in my parents' house. In 1977, she suffered a slight paralysis, then recovered and lived another two years. Two years later, she had a relapse but did not recover this time. She was admitted to the Or-ahayim Hospital, where she passed away after three months, in the year 1979, at the age of 84.

My father's elder brother, David Nassi, who was three years younger than Viktorya, was born in 1898 and raised in Romania. The only thing I know about him is this: when he was 17, he volunteered to fight in World War I. He served in the Romanian army and fought from 1915 till 1918. When the war ended, he came home. Three months later, when he turned 20, he was called to do his military service. He tried to explain that he had served in the war as a volunteer for three years, but was told that volunteering was one thing, military service another. He got so infuriated that he ran away, deserting home, family, country, everything. They never heard of him again.

One day, 10-15 years ago, my telephone rang. Somebody speaking Spanish - almost as little as me then - said, 'I am Moshe Nassi.' I got terribly excited: it was my uncle David's son calling! He and his wife had come from Israel and were staying at a hotel in Aksaray. I immediately went to fetch them and took them to see my father. Their meeting was very emotional. My father told his newly-found nephew all the things he did not know about our family. He didn't even know that our grandfather's name was Izak, nor that he himself was named after a younger brother of his father, who had died at a young age. We gave him photographs.

Moshe, on his part, told us what had happened to David after he left Romania. David crossed to Bulgaria, where he started to work on a farm and married Blanca, the daughter of a Jewish family who also worked there. They had a boy and a girl, whom they named Moshe and Nehama. They emigrated to Palestine before World War II. My cousin Moshe is exactly my age, his sister Nehama seven years younger.

When Moshe turned ten, his father died. Their mother raised the children. As they lost their father at a very young age, they did not know much about his family background. I don't know how he found out that we were in Istanbul; apparently, he got our name and address from the Chief Rabbinate.

A year after Moshe's visit, his sister Nehama also came and met my father. That encounter was as, if not more, emotional as the earlier one with her brother. Nehama was only three when she lost her father. When she saw my father, therefore, she clasped both his hands and held them for the duration of the meeting. Now, we keep in touch with them by telephone and e- mail.

My father's second brother, Moiz Nassi, born in 1900, worked in the same bank as his father, as 'cash collector.' Every Friday evening, he would go to the various villages where the Marmarosh Bank had branches, by horse- carriage driven by a coachman, collect the cash, bring it to the main branch, and lock it in the main safe. On a winter day, when passing through a forest, his party was attacked and robbed by brigands, who killed the horse and the coachman, and left Moiz for dead. He remained lying in the snow for three days. When they finally found him, he had pneumonia and died three months later. He was about 18.

My eldest uncle, Nisim Finanser, born circa 1896, was in the wholesale textile business on commission, in Sirkeci, like his father. He was married to Sara Baruh and had two sons. He died in 1958 of a brain hemorrhage. His elder son Moris moved to Israel and died there. His younger son Alper is exactly my age. He still lives in Istanbul. Both Moris and Alper attended the St. Benoit French School.

Pepo Finanser was also in the same business. He was married to Rashel Tovi. They had a daughter, Esterika. They lived in Istanbul but emigrated to Israel towards the end of their lives. Pepo died there in 1971, as did his wife shortly after. Their daughter still lives in Israel.

Alber Finanser opened a wholesale textile shop in Asirefendi caddesi. He had a partner called Katalan. Alber's first wife died when she was only 23. They had a daughter, Meri, who lives in the USA currently. Alber got married again - to Estrea from Kadiköy. They had a daughter, too, Ayten. They lived in Yazici sokak, two or three buildings away from the famous Dogan Apt., which used to be called Botton Han then. They did their shopping from the window, with a basket tied to a rope.

Concerning the laundry, Meri told me that all the neighbors gathered on the roof terrace [taraca], lit up fires in the open, on which they heated water in enormous cauldrons, and did their washing all together. They then hung the washing to dry on ropes that were extended from each other's windows on opposite sides of the street, from one end to the other. I witnessed the laundry hanging in the streets thus all the time. Lots of photographs of this exist and attest to it, too.

Meri and Ayten attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. After a long and successful career of 40 years as a dress-maker - she had an atelier in a part of her house, with 5 Mexican girls helping with the sewing. She made haute-couture 'sur commande' clothes for fashionable ladies who came to her house for the fittings - Meri went to university at the age of 69, got her BA in French, then went on and obtained her master's degree from Wake Forest University in North Carolina.

Alber Finanser lived in Istanbul, but moved to the US, to live with his daughter Meri, after his wife died. He died there in 1988.

My uncle Alber had many books written in Rashi letters, which were passed on to him from his father's household. Before going to America, he donated them to the Chief Rabbinate. I hope they kept them well.

Leon Finanser was a customs agent. He adopted the name Cemil Finanser. He was married to Süzan from Edirne. They didn't have any children. They moved to Israel in the 1970s. There, Leon adopted the name Ari Finanser. He died there in 1989. As far as I know, his wife Süzan still lives in Israel.

Rashel Finanser had typhus at the age of two and a half. The terrible disease, with its very high fever, caused brain damage. She did not develop well mentally due to that, but was able to learn housework, which she did very well. She worked at home every day until noon and went to the Sari Madam Tea Garden in the afternoons. All the women of the neighborhood who frequented that garden were very fond of her. She was a good, simple person. Maybe because of that, she was our favorite aunt, when we were children, because she liked to play with us.

Aunt Rashel lived with my grandmother, until my grandmother's death in 1962. Then she went to live with her younger brother Jak. Grandmother had made my mother responsible for Rashel's welfare after her own death. So, my mother arranged for all the brothers to contribute to her upkeep. Rashel was of great help at Jak's house, as she knew how to do housework, including cooking, ironing ... everything. She continued going to have tea at Sari Madam in the afternoons. But Jak died relatively young, of cancer.

After that, still on my mother's initiative and with her organizational skills, all the brothers contributed to pay for her to stay at the Old People's Home at the La Paix French Hospital. She was already quite ill with diabetes. She lived for about two years at the La Paix and died there of diabetes, in 1976.

Izak Finanser had a wholesale drug supply company, buying drugs from the various producers and distributing them to the pharmacies. He attended the St. Benoit French School. He married Naile Kamhi and had a daughter named Aysel, who attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. Towards the end of his life, he lost his eyesight due to diabetes. His daughter Aysel, who lived in Israel, came to Istanbul in 1984 and took him there. Izak died there in 1986.

I don't know what Jak Finanser did for a living. He was married to Öjeni and had two sons, Moris and Viktor. Jak died in Istanbul in 1974. His wife and sons still live here.

The youngest brother Eli Finanser also attended the St. Benoit French School. He had a wholesale business of pharmacy equipment. He was married to Vilma Bubic and had two daughters, Etel and Rozi, both of whom attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. Rozi then went on to the St. Michel Lycée and the Academy of Fine Arts, where she studied Textile Designing. Eli died in Istanbul in 1997. His wife and daughters still live here.

Most of my uncles' children are businessmen.

My mother's brothers went to the synagogue most Saturdays as well as on religious holidays.

I was born in Istanbul on 23rd February 1937. I am an only child. My mother was 37 years old when she gave birth to me. When I was five months old, we moved to the Tas apt. at No. 33/1 in Taksim, Talimhane, Sehit Muhtar caddesi. I remember this well because we lived there till I was 23.

When mother suffered from a severe case of rheumatism, my parents hired an Armenian nanny called Nuritsa for me. She always used to tell me two stories when she put me to bed; one was 'Tas Bebek' [The Stone Doll] and the other 'Asik Garip' [The Wandering Minstrel]. Unfortunately, I never heard the ending of these stories because she was so tired that she fell asleep before me. Apart from a nanny, I had a 'mademoiselle' who took me out to the park. I also took piano and ballet lessons then, thus fulfilling all bourgeois requirements.

When I was about two years old, we started going to Büyükada to spend the summers. There, in the evenings, we used to meet my father at the 'débarcadaire' [quay]. We hired a rowing boat and my parents swam.

When World War II started, I was barely three. What impressed me most then and has stuck in my memory, were the dark blue spring-roller blinds - we called them 'stors' - on the windows, which we had to pull down in the evenings in order to block out the lights. This was part of everyone's routine called 'black-out.' I still have those 'stors' which I keep in case they come in useful some day, because they were made of a very strong tarpaulin-like material.

Of course, basic foods like bread and sugar were rationed, but - thanks to my parents' care - I was not affected by that.

I never attended kindergarten, which made me feel deprived and was a source of frustration, because all my friends did.

The year 1942 saw the imposition of the 'Varlik Vergisi' [Wealth Tax]. My father's situation was affected less by the tax than by the war itself, but improved on the whole after the war. After several years of being a seasonal renter in Büyükada, he bought a house there, as well as a boat. After using it as a rowing boat for a year, he installed sails on it and took me sailing with him. We learned to ride a bicycle together, my father and I. He was 45 then, and I was eleven. We toured the island on our bikes, sailed and swam together.

During the summer, in Büyükada, my mother and I went to the women's Turkish Bath. It was a small hamam. There was a central place where everyone washed together, and three small, private cubicles on one side. Skinny women wearing bath-wraps made of thin cotton cloth, from the waist down, called 'peshtamal,' used to massage and scrub us, literally, with rough mitts that felt like steel wool.

We used to go to my grandparents' house every holiday without fail. My grandfather was very particular about that. We were a crowd of 35 people around the Pesach table. He read the Haggadah himself and performed all the Seder rituals.

In my parents' house, there was no observance of religious or traditional customs. We went to the synagogue only for weddings or funerals.

When I was a child, my father's elder sister Viktorya, who I called Tantika, did not live with us, but she came to our house every day and stayed until just before dinner time. She took great care of me and was like a second mother.

I attended the Taksim Aydin Okulu elementary school and the English High School for Girls.

My father was an authoritarian person but always indulgent with me. He was very fond of me; he talked with me and was concerned about me. I trusted him implicitly. Once, while in elementary school, I was having difficulties with my 'Yurttaslik Bilgisi' [Citizenship course] homework. I asked for his help. He sat with me for a couple of hours and explained it to me. He did it so well that I always got 'Pek Iyi' [a 'Very Good' mark] on that subject after that day.

Most of our neighbors were Jewish. Relations were very close. They all visited each other for coffee, coming to us frequently. They spoke Ladino among themselves. I consider French my mother tongue, because that was what we spoke at home.

I never spoke Ladino myself. My cousin Meri tells me that when our grandmother spoke to me in Ladino, I answered in French, being so stubborn. And they thought I did not know or understand it!!! But I did understand everything. One day, I must have been around eight, during a neighbors' gathering, they told a somewhat spicy story, and I burst out laughing. Then they realized that I understood - and that put an end to it: they stopped telling spicy stories in my presence!

When I was eleven, we traveled to Izmir by train. Trains were very chic then, with sleepers known as 'Wagon-lit' and 'Wagon-Restaurant.' The trip lasted a whole day. My father was in the essential oils business. He had agents in Izmir, namely, two partners who were called Sadi and Krespin. We were invited to Krespin's house where I stayed for a month. They had a boy of my age, Daviko. This David had kites that he put together himself, with long tails made of newspapers. For the first time in my life, I flew kites in the fields, whirled tops, ran and played in the streets with other children, got tired, sweaty and flushed, in short, I learned how to be a child in Izmir. As an only child, I had been a quiet child at home, with my books. That is why Izmir has had and will always have a very special meaning for me.

At eleven, after finishing elementary school, I started attending the English High School. It was for girls only at that time. It was situated between Galatasaray and Tünel, in Beyoglu [Pera]. It still exists, but as the Beyoglu Anadolu Lisesi for boys and girls. I used to go back and forth by tramway. Those days, I received one lira per week from my parents as pocket money, which I tried to save by sometimes walking - or running - to school, because the tram cost 3 kurus, and I used that saved money to buy books.

In high school, all subjects were taught in English - sciences and math, literature, language, grammar and all. In the afternoons, Turkish Language and Literature, Grammar, History and Geography were taught in Turkish. The pupils were Turkish, Greek, Armenian, and Jewish. Foreign nationals could attend the elementary school and did. Among these, there were English, Italian and Greek nationals. The elementary school was for foreign nationals only, but when they reached high school, they joined in the 6th grade, with the Turkish nationals who came from the prep classes where they had learned English.

The subjects taught in English had foreign teachers, and those taught in Turkish had, understandably, Turkish teachers. There were no Jewish teachers. Most of the teachers were English and came from England under two to three-year contracts. Only in the preparatory classes, there were two woman teachers who seemed to have been there forever. My colleague Karen Gerson Sarhon, who is 20 years younger than I, learned English from the same teacher as I, 20 years later.

My friends and I used to visit each other in our homes after school hours. Of course, normally one has only two or three close friends.

On weekends, I went out with my cousins, especially with my uncle Alber's daughter Ayten who was my age, and her friends, because I was not an outgoing person and did not make friends easily when left to myself. Ayten went to Ste. Pulchérie French High School and had lots of friends from her class. I joined them and we went to the cinema at 4:30 on Saturday afternoons. We ate Profiterol chocolate cakes at the Inci patisserie. Hot dogs had just started to be popular then. We went to a place called Mandra in Tünel to eat hot dogs, and to drink 'tursu suyu' [pickle veggies' water] at a place in Sishane. In Beyoglu, across from the Saray Muhallebici, there was a place called Atlantik, which had started selling hot toast sandwiches with cheese.

We had books at home, but we borrowed many more from the French Cultural Center Library at the French Consulate in Taksim. In this way, my mother and I could read a great number of books, about a book every couple of days. Reading was my hobby; in contrast, playing the piano was a chore. I remember reading in bed, at night, with a small lamp, under the cover, till three or four in the morning.

When I became aware of what had been done to the Jews in Europe, I could not believe how such a thing was possible. Later, from books, I learned that similar treatment had occurred all along the centuries. For instance, in a book called 'The Last of the Just' [by André Schwarz-Bart (1928-2006), French author of Polish-Jewish origins]. I read in detail all the horrible things that had been done to Jews through one to two thousand years in different parts of the world. Then I realized that the mass killing was not new, just that it had gotten worse and worse as time went by.

After World War II, when there was a wave of Zionism, there emerged several secret societies in Istanbul. I joined one of them called Betar 18, together with some friends. We used to meet secretly, once or twice a week, in the houses of some of the members, about 10-15 young people. They taught us Zionism and a few words of Hebrew.

After attending a few times, a close friend and I thought, 'They tell us to go to Palestine. Why don't they go themselves?' This got on our nerves and we stopped going. Among all those people, I know only one who actually went to Palestine. But, of course, they say that about 35,000 people went when Israel was founded 19.

In 1950, when my father got ill and went to Paris with my mother, to be operated on, I remained a whole year with Tantika at the age of 13.

I met my first husband at a birthday party. I was 15. The party was five to ten minutes away from our apartment in Taksim, but when I left, he accompanied me home. Then we started seeing each other, meeting in Taksim and chatting. His name was Ceki Karasu. I was in the 8th grade.

That summer, Tantika and I went to Büyükada. Although his family did not normally go to Büyükada, Ceki insisted and they did that year. We continued seeing each other on the island. One day, we were strolling in the street when we saw someone Ceki knew. He said, 'Let me introduce you my fiancée.' He had not proposed, formally or otherwise, before then, but through his act of introducing me as his fiancée, we became engaged - almost out of the blue.

Being away in Paris, my parents became aware of all this only upon their return. But as the families were suitable, there was no objection; and all was well. I got married at 17, with my parents' authorization, which I needed because of my age.

We got married at the Neve Shalom Synagogue. As my parents had converted to Islam before they got married, I was born Muslim. In order to get married at the Neve Shalom, I had to go through the process of becoming Jewish. For this, I needed to get the Mufti's permission. He asked me why I wanted to change my religion. I said that it was in order to get married. He then asked, 'Have you thought it over carefully?' I said, 'Yes,' and he signed the permit.

On the other hand, in a ceremony prepared by the Chief Rabbinate, I had to undress and get completely immersed three times in a bath [mikveh] in the presence of several women, and repeat certain words in Hebrew, which I did not understand. I gather that, coming from a family who was originally Jewish, still registered with the Community and paying Kizba 20, I did not need to take any lessons about my 'new' religion. Afterwards - after my Jewish identity was officially noted in my revised identity card - I could get married at the Neve Shalom.

Then Ceki went to do his military service in Ankara and I went with him. We stayed there for one and a half years, then returned to Istanbul.

I had left school in the middle of the 8th grade in order to get married. Later I came to regret this. While Ceki was doing his military service in Ankara, I started studying in order to take the secondary school graduation exams by working at home, without attending any classes, which was allowed. When we were back in Istanbul, I took the exams at the Galatasaray Lycée and passed.

I remember the events of 6th -7th September 21 because I had to take an exam on that day. We were in Caddebostan, so we did not hear or notice anything. When later in the morning I went to Beyoglu, I was quite shocked to see the streets covered in broken glass, torn furs and destroyed goods. We had to step on all that to be able to walk. By that time, the disturbances had ended, but all the shop windows were broken and the entire street of Beyoglu was covered, to a depth of 30-40 centimeters, with destroyed goods. I can't remember if the exam did take place or not that day.

Ceki tried to work in my father's office for a while, but they did not get along well. He found an interpreting job in Ankara; so we went back and lived there for another two years.

Strangely enough, the only anti-Semitic incident that happened to me in all my life occurred in Turkey but not through Turks. During my first marriage, while I was living in Ankara, I was looking for a secretarial job. At that time, many international petroleum companies were establishing operations in Turkey to search for oil, and I applied to all of them.

That anti-Semitic incident I mentioned before happened at the British Petroleum Oil Company. They gave me a form to fill, which asked for my religion. None of the other applications had asked for that. I wrote 'Jewish,' upon which they called me for an interview and said bluntly and unapologetically whatsoever, 'We cannot employ you because you are Jewish.' I was shocked and asked, 'So what?' They replied that they were careful not to employ people from different ethnic groups. And I said, 'I was born and raised in this country, and this is the first time in my life that I am told that there is something I cannot do because my religion is different.' They said, 'Sorry, this is our company's policy' and I didn't get the job, although I was fully qualified. I got a job, nevertheless, at the Tidewater Oil Co., which was an American company belonging to Paul Getty.

Later, my first husband decided to go to the US to study and stay there. I helped him actively to apply to numerous universities, but when he got accepted, I did not wish to go with him and decided to separate. He left, and I stayed in Turkey. We had been married for three and a half years, without having children. I got married at 17 and divorced at 21.

This was not a particularly courageous thing to do, for it was fairly common to divorce. But in my case, it was an uncharacteristically courageous act, because Ceki had been a manipulative person, guiding me in every aspect of life. In time, I rebelled against this, being perhaps somewhat harsh because he refused to let me go. At that stage, my character, which was on the timid, docile and introverted side, had to change, and it did.

Then I returned to Istanbul, lived with my family and worked with my father, went horseback riding, traveled, had a wider and expanding social entourage, or circle of acquaintances and friends.

My parents were very supportive, although they probably were a bit sorry and would have wanted the marriage to have succeeded. But I could not bring myself to go to America with someone I did not love, leaving my family, and living under suppression. My close family consisted of three elderly people: my parents, who were already nearing their sixties, and the older Tantika. They would have had nobody had I left them, which I just could not do.

In fact, after I started working for my father, the last company I had worked for in Ankara, had a meeting at the Istanbul Hilton Hotel, and asked me to do some secretarial work for it. Then and there, one of the persons for whom I acted as secretary, someone from Italy, offered me a job in Italy at a salary sufficient to live decently there: 250 dollars per month, which was attractive and consistent with prevailing salaries in the West.

I thought about it a lot, but did not take the job. Maybe if I had, my whole life would have been altered, but I could not abandon my people here. Eventually, they all died practically in my arms, which makes my decision, in retrospect, appropriate.

When I started to work for my father in 1958, I learned the business. After a year, Mr. Grünstayn, who had acted as our sales person, that is, took the orders, left us and I started to visit the customers myself. By that time, we had obtained the agency of the Ferro Enamels Company of Holland, which produced raw materials, installations, machinery and equipment for the enameling and ceramic industries. I went to Holland to learn the business.

In those years, 1958-1959 maybe, I was the only woman who drove herself to factories to sell raw materials and machinery. I was extremely well received. Even in Holland, when we visited factories and foundries, they were surprised to see me, because even there, there were no women in this line of work, and it surprised them all that the first woman to do this should come from Turkey.

After my divorce, I went to the Istanbul Atli Spor Kulübü [Istanbul Horseback Riding Club] with a friend from elementary school, Rozi Arditti. Thereafter, between my two marriages, from the age of 21 to 28, I went horseback riding and on vacations frequently with friends.

In 1964, my family had already moved to Yesilyurt.

I met my second husband in 1965 through a friend, Sehnaz Akinci, at the horse-riding club. She lived on the same floor, in the same apartment, as a lady called Mina Urgan. I met her for the first time when I went to Sehnaz's apartment. Mina Urgan had had a beloved classmate at the American College, Saffet Orgun, who had passed away, and had a son, Günel Orgun. He was a young man of about my age, who had been married and divorced after three years. Mina thought that we should be compatible, and that being both divorcees, we could have some good time together. So, she introduced us. Günel had a motorboat. Mina asked my friend Sehnaz and me to a boat ride on a Sunday. We went and that is how we met.

At that time, Günel was on the verge of buying a farm by the sea in Datca [a town in southwest Turkey], together with four friends. The farm was called Mersincik and was situated at 18 kilometers from Bodrum, on the opposite shore, and could only be reached from there by sea. It was a dream- like place of 5000 dönüms [approx. 1250 acres]. Some 500 dönüms of it was flatland by the sea; the rest consisted of hills covered with trees that reached 800 meters. There were 1500 tangerine, orange and grapefruit trees, and a flock of 150 goats. The hills were full of olive trees of the variety grown for their oil.

Everyone dreams of owning a farm at some time or another, but the fact that Günel was about to realize that dream was one of the things that impressed me the most about him. Our mutual love of classical music also drew us to each other. We got married three months after we met, in 1965, and have been together for 42 years.

Mina Urgan, who had brought us together, was a retired professor of English Literature at the University of Istanbul. She later became famous with her best-selling book 'Bir Dinozor'un Anilari' [Memoirs of a Dinosaur] and its sequel, 'Bir Dinozor'un Gezileri' [Travels of a Dinosaur], where she mentions us, our family and our children.

We got married at the Üsküdar Registry Office. Günel is a graduate of Robert College 22. He had lots of friends from school, Turkish, Jewish, Greek, Armenians, etc., reflecting the diversity of RC's student body. His family was very Westernized. He teases me to this day by saying that my family is far more 'a la turca' than his. After all, my grandfather was from Canakkale, used to smoke the 'narghile' sitting cross-legged on the sofa, on top of cushions, played with worry beads, etc. In comparison, Günel's relatives were the avant-garde of the day, having been to Europe, studied at the Galatasaray Lycée, in short, much more Western than my relatives.

Shortly after we got married in 1965, Günel and I drove to Bodrum in my car. On the old highway, going from Milas to Bodrum, there was a very steep and curved road, winding through the pine forests, with a precipice on one side and a mountain on the other. That road was called 'Avram Yokusu' [Avram's Slope]. It must have been named after Avram Galante [Jewish historian who was also one of the first members of parliament after the Turkish Republic was founded], who was born in Bodrum. That road is no longer used, because there is a new highway going to Bodrum by the coast. A real pity.

From Bodrum, we crossed to Mersincik by boat and spent our honeymoon there. We had 2500 olive trees - of the eating-olives variety - planted. We did this by hiring 45 workers from the surrounding villages. They worked on daily wages and slept in caves that were around the farm. The wives of the 'kahya' and the workers cooked food in big cauldrons and baked bread in the oven situated in the garden. In 1965, Datca was a largely undeveloped place. As a result of the work we provided, a traveling open-air cinema came there, for the first time, because they got informed that our 45 workers had earned some money. Nothing like that had ever happened in the surrounding villages at that time.

When we got back, we rented a house on the Bosphorus, on the Asian coast. In those years it was cheaper to live in a 'Yali' [sea-side villa] than in an apartment in town. Günel worked in an automotive company called Tatko. He was in charge of the spare parts department.

Then we had two children: my son Orhan, born in 1966, and my daughter Gün, born in 1968. I worked in my father's office. My aunt Viktorya, who was like a grandmother to them, came to stay with us on Monday mornings and went back on Friday evenings. This continued until my son turned two. I stopped working when my daughter was about to be born, because Tantika had become too old to take care of two small children.

One day, my husband and I had a serious talk and considered the two alternatives open to us: either we moved near my parents' home in Yesilyurt and left the children with them when I went to work, or he quit his job and went to work with my father. We chose the latter because my father had a good business; we also reasoned that we could not leave him alone, as he could not hear well, could not drive, could not talk with the clients on the phone and that, in short, the business would collapse if we left.

I remember the particulars well: Günel used to earn 4000 liras per month, plus a bonus, at Tatko. He came to work with my father for 2500 liras per month. He worked there for about ten years, and the business prospered, thanks to his ability, regardless of how much the market situation may have contributed to it.

By the year 1971, we had saved up enough money to buy an apartment. But we had always lived in nice houses by the sea, with gardens, and could not envisage being squeezed in a town apartment. We looked at the choices a little away from the city in order to afford a house with a garden. We were lucky to buy a farm in Polonezköy [a village 15 km north of Istanbul, on the Asian side, founded by refugees of Polish origin, after the Crimean War] 23 for the price of an apartment in town.

We then started a poultry farm. Our intention was to stop working in business, as soon as the farm would support us because, by that time, Günel had had enough of city life in general and business life, in particular. The children, who were two and four when we moved to Polonezköy, later attended the village elementary school, which consisted of a single room where all 5 grades were taught by a single teacher. We had a very good life there. We owned cows, a few sheep, ducks, cats and dogs, and some 6000 chicken. Four families worked for us. We made a living by selling eggs.

There we lived a life completely different and removed from Jewish culture. We lived after all in a Catholic village populated by people of Polish origin. But my children have always been aware of my being Jewish, from what I told them and from visiting my parents' home frequently. They went to synagogue with me for weddings. After attending the wedding of one of my cousins, my daughter who was four, was so impressed that she said she wanted to become a bride when she grew up, thinking that it was a profession. Also, I usually cooked, and still do, Sephardic dishes like gratinated spinach and squash. As for circumcision, my son was circumcised at the age of eight, by a medical specialist.

We lived all year long in Polonezköy, summer and winter, for ten years. After elementary school, my children attended for one year a secondary school called Kültür Lisesi. I stayed with them in Yesilyurt, at my parents', and Günel stayed in Polonezköy, where I went with the children to spend the weekends. At the end of that year, the Kültür Lisesi was closed down. Then, the children went to boarding school, at the Esenis Lisesi, for three years.

However, we would have had to move to town, when the time came to attend university. So, we decided to get an apartment in town and bought one in Cengelköy, before they finished the lycée. Eventually they both succeeded in being accepted to the Bogazici University [24 ]. It's then that we sold the chickens, and stopped the poultry farming.

We always spoke Turkish at home, but I spoke French with Tantika, and hearing the language almost daily no doubt helped the children a lot. Proof is that while at the university, they took French courses at the French Cultural Center, and were able to speak it after just two months.

During the four years when the children were in university, we drove to the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts, the four of us, during the semester holidays.

While I managed the poultry farm in Polonezköy, my husband commuted daily by car to the office in Sirkeci. In 1978, he decided to quit commerce for good and informed the Ferro Enamels factory in Holland of his decision. They appointed a new representative, who was the technical manager of one of our customers. We offered to help him by transferring all our know-how and introducing him to all our customers. In fact, my husband worked with him for several months. Business turned out to be quite good the first year and the new rep earned a lot of money.

However, by the end of the year 1978 or 1979, Turkey was in a severe economic crisis, as a result of which imports stopped completely. Turkey had to reschedule its heavy external debt, accepting to repay it in installments in ten years. This affected us, too, since we had a commission due to us which we could not receive until the end of these ten years.

On the whole, though, our decision to stop the business when we did was quite fortuitous, as we would have been out of work at the end of one year. People who knew us thought that it was all pre-planned - that we had foreseen the situation and stopped in time. The truth is that is was just a matter of pure luck.

We had a similarly positive experience at a later date. In 1981, we sold our 6000 chickens and moved to town to prepare for our children's university studies. We had to do that because there were no dormitories available for people who were residents of Istanbul. So, we liquidated our poultry farm and bought an apartment in Cengelköy. Within a year after that, the poultry business collapsed, and people in it went bankrupt. In one case, the entrepreneur concerned - the Jewish owner of the Yupi poultry farm in Izmir - committed suicide. As things turned out, we stopped the poultry business just in time, again by pure chance.

My husband was 42 years old when he retired. His hobby was skin-diving and spear-fishing. When we moved to Cengelköy, he also started line-fishing with a friend who was a professional fisherman. They went out fishing by boat in the Bosphorus, the Marmara and Black Seas. Günel didn't engage in it for profit; he gave his friend all his catch but had a splendid time, which is what drove him to this activity. This he did for about four or five years.

After moving to Cengelköy, I, on the other hand, took a five-week course in hand-weaving rugs and kilims. After acquiring the necessary skill and familiarity with the business, I bought some looms and started a cottage industry, together with a friend, Belkis Balpinar, who was a graduate in Textile Designing from the Academy of Fine Arts. We worked together for eight years, Belkis doing the designing and I supervising the weaving. Our workers consisted of housewives from Malatya, who lived in a district called Kavacik.

We bought the raw wool [fleece] from Konya and had it carded and spun by hand. Then we dyed it ourselves by boiling it in big cauldrons on open fires in the garden. We produced many valuable kilims in this manner, only one of each design. I took care of the production end on my account, that is, Belkis paid for the preparation of the yarn and I, who owned the looms and employed the workers, produced the final product - the kilims themselves.

According to this arrangement, known as 'sur façon,' I financed the whole process of manufacturing and charged so much per square meter. In turn, Belkis, who paid me by the square meter produced, sold the kilims in exhibitions she organized in places like New York, Washington, San Francisco, London, Milan, and even Tokyo. She still does this; I, on the other hand, had to stop when my parents became too old and I had to move in with them.

The truth is that I never earned anything from the weaving business, because I felt that the workers were not paid enough, and kept raising their wages. I had, nevertheless, a wonderful time during those eight years, thanks to all those beautiful exhibitions, and meeting all those interesting collectors.

In 1988, my son Orhan graduated from the Mechanical Engineering Department of the Bogazici University and went to the University of California at Berkeley for his master's degree. When he was about to start on his doctorate, he changed subjects and studied Linguistics instead.

In 1993, he married Sharon Inkelas, a linguist like himself, and they had two sons, Jem in 1995, and Eli in 1998. Unfortunately they were divorced, though amicably, in 2006. The boys live with their mother, but my son takes them a couple of days a week, when they spend some time together.

In 1989, my daughter Gün graduated from the English Language and Literature Department of the Bogazici University. She went for her master's degree to the University of Edinburgh, and then for her doctor's degree to the University of Glasgow. In 1994, she married Stewart Carruth, a housing expert. They had a son, Jamie, in 2000, and a daughter, Lisha, in 2003.

After closing the business and the poultry farm, we rented out our office space and have been living off the income. We also have our retirement salaries. We still have the property in Polonezköy and spend eight months of the year there and only the four winter months in Cengelköy.

Every year, we visit our children in the USA and Scotland; they, in turn, often come to visit us in Turkey. Sometimes we all get together at my daughter's home in Scotland.

Jem and Eli, our American grandchildren, go to an elementary school which teaches half day in English and half day in Spanish. In 2002, I saw an ad of the Cervantes Institute about a course of Modern Spanish for Sephardi, and I immediately enrolled in it. Thanks to that decision, I can now speak Spanish with my grandchildren.

That course had another interesting outcome: It helped me remember the Ladino language I had heard and understood, but never spoke as a child. In that course, we started to prepare a dictionary in Ladino-Spanish-English- Turkish, which, in time, Antonio Ruiz Tinoco, who is a Professor of Spanish in Japan, installed on the Internet.

One day, I visited the offices of the Shalom periodical in order to buy a book in Ladino called 'En Tierras Ajenas Yo Me Vo Murir.' Gila Erbes, who was in charge of the bookstore, proposed that I should write a piece in Ladino. I wrote a couple of pieces in my free time, and thus met Karen Gerson Sarhon there. Karen was at that time organizing the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center. She asked me to talk about our Internet Dictionary at the opening reunion. This was the beginning of a deep friendship and fruitful collaboration.

Now, since 2004, we are publishing El Amaneser, which is a monthly supplement in Ladino of the Shalom Newspaper. Karen is the editor-in-chief of the publication, and I am the co-editor and coordinator. We receive by electronic mail articles from the whole world, largely from people who have not forgotten the language, and we publish them. Those people who see their pieces published become incredibly emotional and happy.

I am very pleased to be doing such a sentimental job at this stage of my life. My mother loved the Judeo-Spanish language very much. Although we always spoke French at home, she went back to speaking Ladino in the last two years of her life. And I feel that, with this activity, I do something that would have pleased her a lot.

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

1 Shalom

Istanbul Jewish weekly, founded by Avram Leyon in 1948. During Leyon's ownership, the paper was entirely in Ladino. Upon the death of its founder in 1985, the newspaper passed into the hands of the Jewish community owned company Gozlem Gazetecilik. It then started to be published in Turkish with one or two pages in Ladino. It is presently distributed to 4,000 subscribers.

2 El Amaneser

Istanbul Jewish monthly supplement to the Shalom newspaper. Founded as part of the activities of the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center in March 2005, it is published wholly in Ladino with subscribers and writers from all over the world. It is presently distributed to all Shalom subscribers plus an additional 250 who have subscribed only to El Amaneser.

3 Ladino

Also known as Judeo-Spanish, it is the spoken and written Hispanic language of Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin. Ladino did not become a specifically Jewish language until after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 (and Portugal in 1495) - it was merely the language of their province. It is also known as Judezmo, Dzhudezmo, or Spaniolit. When the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal they were cut off from the further development of the language, but they continued to speak it in the communities and countries to which they emigrated. Ladino therefore reflects the grammar and vocabulary of 15th-century Spanish. In Amsterdam, England and Italy, those Jews who continued to speak 'Ladino' were in constant contact with Spain and therefore they basically continued to speak the Castilian Spanish of the time. Ladino was nowhere near as diverse as the various forms of Yiddish, but there were still two different dialects, which corresponded to the different origins of the speakers: 'Oriental' Ladino was spoken in Turkey and Rhodes and reflected Castilian Spanish, whereas 'Western' Ladino was spoken in Greece, Macedonia, Bosnia, Serbia and Romania, and preserved the characteristics of northern Spanish and Portuguese. The vocabulary of Ladino includes hundreds of archaic Spanish words, and also includes many words from different languages: mainly from Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, French, and to a lesser extent from Italian. In the Ladino spoken in Israel, several words have been borrowed from Yiddish. For most of its lifetime, Ladino was written in the Hebrew alphabet, in Rashi script, or in Solitreo. It was only in the late 19th century that Ladino was ever written using the Latin alphabet. At various times Ladino has been spoken in North Africa, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, France, Israel, and, to a lesser extent, in the United States and Latin America.

4 Wealth Tax

Introduced in December 1942 by the Grand National Assembly in a desperate effort to resolve depressed economic conditions caused by wartime mobilization measures against a possible German influx to Turkey via the occupied Greece. It was administered in such a way to bear most heavily on urban merchants, many of who were Christians and Jews. Those who lacked the financial liquidity had to sell everything or declare bankruptcy and even work on government projects in order to pay their debts, in the process losing most or all of their properties. Those unable to pay were subjected to deportation to labor camps until their obligations were paid off.

5 Rashi alphabet

A Hebrew alphabet traditionally used for Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, 1040-1105) commentaries of the Bible and the Talmud, it is also the traditional alphabet of Judeo-Spanish. The Judeo-Spanish alphabet also used certain characters to denote the Spanish sounds that are alien to the Hebrew phonetics. Judeo-Spanish religious as well as secular texts were written in Rashi letters up until the introduction of the Latin alphabet, first by Alliance Israelite Universelle after 1860.

6 The Ottoman Empire in World War I

The Ottoman Empire entered the war on the side of the Central Powers in October 1914, as they were the ones fighting the traditional Ottoman enemy: the Russian Empire. During the winter of 1914-15 the Ottomans launched an ill prepared campaign in the Caucasus against Russia with the hope to be able to turn the local Turkish- speaking Russian subjects (Azerbaijan) to their sides. Instead, the Russian counter-offensive drove the Ottomans back behind the borders and Russia occupied North Eastern Anatolia. In the spring of 1915 the Entente was to occupy the straits (Bosphorus and Dardanelles) and ensure the passage of supply to the Russian Black Sea ports. British troops landed in Galippoli (Dardanelles) but were not able to expand their beachheads against the army of Mustafa Kemal Pasha (later Kemal Ataturk); they evacuated in February 1916. Although the Ottomans were able to resist the British in Mesopotamia (Iraq) in 1915, they finally took Baghdad in 1917 and drove the Ottomans out of the entire province. Although the Russians made further advance in Eastern Anatolia they left the war after the October Revolution and according to the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk (March 1918) the Ottomans were able to regain Eastern Anatolia. Due to the Arab Revolt supported by the British as well as the direct British military intervention the Ottomans lost both Palestine and Syria; Mustafa Kemal was able only to withdraw his forces intact to Anatolia. Sultan Mohammed VI (1818-22) was forced to sign an armistice with the Entente (October 1918) and as a result British and French battle ships reached the port of Istanbul. The Sultan finally signed the Peace Treaty in Sevres in August 1920, according to which the Arab and Kurdish provinces and Armenia were lost as well as the whole of European Turkey with Istanbul, and the Aegean littoral was to be given to Greece.

7 Raki

Anise liquor, popular in many places in the Balkans, Anatolia and the Middle East. It is principally the same as Greek Ouzo, Bulgarian Mastika or Arabic Arak.

8 Surname Law

Passed on 21st June 1934, in the early years of the Turkish Republic, requiring every citizen to acquire a surname. Up to then the Muslims, contrary to the Jews and Christians, were mostly called by their father's name beside their own.

9 Turkish War of Independence (1919-1922)

After the Ottoman capitulation to the Entente, Mustafa Kemal Pasha (later Kemal Ataturk) organized the Turkish Nationalist Party (1919) and set up a new government in Ankara to rival Sultan Mohammed VI, who had been forced to sign the treaty of Sevres (August 1920). He was able to regain much of the lost provinces; stopped the advancing Greek troops only 8 km from Ankara and was able to finally expel them from Anatolia (August 1922). He gained important victories in diplomacy too: he managed to have both the French and the Italian withdrawn from Anatolia by October 1921 and Soviet Russia recognize the country and establish the Russian-Turkish boundary. Signing a British-proposed armistice in Thrace he managed to have the Greeks withdrawn beyond the Meric (Maritsa) River and accepted a continuous Entente presence in the straits and Istanbul. In November 1922 the Grand National Assembly abolished the Sultanate (retained the Caliphate though) by which act the Ottoman Empire 'de jure' ceased to exist. Sultan Mohammed VI fled to Malta and his cousin, Abdulmejid, was named the Caliph. Turkey was the only defeated country able to negotiate with the Entente as equal and influence the terms of the peace treaty. At the Lausanne conference (November 1922- July 1923) the Entente recognized the present day borders of Turkey, including the areas acquired through warfare after the signing of the Treaty in Sevres.

10 Amical

Jewish youth club, formerly located on the first floor at the back of the Sisli Beth Israel Synagogue in Istanbul, and frequented by university students, who took part in social and cultural activities like theater performances, conferences and dance parties.

11 Or Ahayim Hospital

Istanbul Jewish hospital, established in 1898 with the decree of Sultan Abdulhamit II and the help of idealistic doctors and philanthropists. As a result of various fundraising activities the initially small clinic was expanded in 1900. Today, the hospital is still operating, serving both Jewish and non-Jewish patients with the latest technologies and qualified staff.

12 The 20 military classes

In May 1941 non-Muslims aged 26-45 were called to military service. Some of them had just come back from their military service but were told to report for duty again. Great chaos occurred, as the Turkish officials took men from the streets and from their jobs and sent them to military camps. They were used in road building for a year and disbanded in July 1942.

13 Alliance Israelite Universelle

An international Jewish organization based in France. It was founded in Paris in 1860 by Adolphe Gremieux, as a response to the Damascus Affair, with the goal to protect human rights of Jews as citizens of the countries where they live. The organization was created to combine the ideals of self defense and self sufficiency through education and professional development among Jews around the world. In addition, the organization operated a number of Jewish day schools and has done a lot to standardize the Ladino language. The Alliance schools were organized in network with their Central Committee in Paris. The teaching body was usually the alumni trained in France. The schools emphasized modern sciences and history in their curriculum; nevertheless Hebrew and religion were also taught. The Alliance Israelite Universelle ideology consisted in teaching the local language to Jews so they could be integrated to their country's culture. This was part of the modernization of the Jews. Most Ottoman Jews, however, did not take up the Turkish language (because it was optional), and as a result a new generation of Ottoman Jews grew up that was more familiar with France and the West than with the surrounding society. In the Balkans the first school was opened in Greece (Volos) in 1865, then in the Ottoman Empire in Adrianople in 1867, Shumla (Shumen) in 1870 and in Istanbul, Smyrna (Izmir), and Salonika in 1870s. In 1870, Carl Netter of the AIU received a tract of land from the Ottoman Empire as a gift and started an agricultural school, Mikveh Israel, the first modern Jewish agricultural settlement in the Land of Israel. The modernist Jewish elite and intelligentsia of the late 19th-century Ottoman Empire was known for having graduated from Alliance schools; they were closely attached to the Young Turk circles, and after 1908 three of them (Carasso, Farraggi, and Masliah) were members of the new Ottoman Chamber of Deputies.

14 Ataturk, Mustafa Kemal (1881-1938)

Great Turkish statesman, the founder of modern Turkey. Mustafa Kemal was born in Salonika; he adapted the name Ataturk (father of the Turks) when he introduced surnames in Turkey. He joined the liberal Young Turk movement, aiming at turning the Ottoman Empire into a modern Turkish nation state and also participated in the Young Turk Revolt (1908). He fought in the Second Balkan War (1913) and World War I. After the Ottoman capitulation to the Entente, Mustafa Kemal Pasha organized the Turkish Nationalist Party (1919) and set up a new government in Ankara to rival Sultan Mohammed VI, who had been forced to sign the treaty of Sevres (1920), according to which Turkey would loose the Arab and Kurdish provinces, Armenia, and the whole of European Turkey with Istanbul and the Aegean littoral to Greece. He was able to regain much of the lost provinces and expelled the Greeks from Anatolia. He abolished the Sultanate and attained international recognition for the Turkish Republic at the Lausanne Treaty (1923). Under his presidency Turkey became a constitutional state (1924), universal male suffrage was introduced, state and church were divided and he also introduced the Latin script.

15 Journal d'Orient

The main newspaper of the French-speaking Sephardi Jews in Turkey, it was published between 1917 and 1971 by Albert Karasu, his wife Angele Loreley and Jean de Peyrat idi. It consisted of four pages of daily news. The paper ceased publication on 25th August 1971, when Albert Karasu retired.

16 English High School for Girls

It was established by Lady Redcliffe, the wife of the British Ambassador, in 1849 on Bursa Street, Beyoglu, Istanbul. In 1979 Great Britain stopped subsidizing the school and the Turkish government took it over; it was renamed English Secondary. In 1980 new classes were introduced and it was renamed again and called Beyoglu Anatolian High School.

17 Neve Shalom Synagogue

Situated near the Galata Tower, it is the largest synagogue of Istanbul. Although the present building was erected only in 1952, a synagogue bearing the same name had been standing there as early as the 15th century.

18 Betar

Brith Trumpledor (Hebrew) meaning Trumpledor Society; right- wing Revisionist Jewish youth movement. It was founded in 1923 in Riga by Vladimir Jabotinsky, in memory of J. Trumpledor, one of the first fighters to be killed in Palestine, and the fortress Betar, which was heroically defended for many months during the Bar Kohba uprising. Its aim was to propagate the program of the revisionists and prepare young people to fight and live in Palestine. It organized emigration through both legal and illegal channels. It was a paramilitary organization; its members wore uniforms. They supported the idea to create a Jewish legion in order to liberate Palestine. From 1936-39 the popularity of Betar diminished. During WWII many of its members formed guerrilla groups.

19 Creation of the State of Israel

From 1917 Palestine was a British mandate. Also in 1917 the Balfour Declaration was published, which supported the idea of the creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Throughout the interwar period, Jews were migrating to Palestine, which caused the conflict with the local Arabs to escalate. On the other hand, British restrictions on immigration sparked increasing opposition to the mandate powers. Immediately after World War II there were increasing numbers of terrorist attacks designed to force Britain to recognize the right of the Jews to their own state. These aspirations provoked the hostile reaction of the Palestinian Arabs and the Arab states. In February 1947 the British foreign minister Ernest Bevin ceded the Palestinian mandate to the UN, which took the decision to divide Palestine into a Jewish section and an Arab section and to create an independent Jewish state. On 14th May 1948 David Ben Gurion proclaimed the creation of the State of Israel. It was recognized immediately by the US and the USSR. On the following day the armies of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Syria and Lebanon attacked Israel, starting a war that continued, with intermissions, until the beginning of 1949 and ended in a truce.

20 Kizba

(Hebrew for 'taxation') Turkish Jewish community organization, which collects annual taxes from community members.

21 Events of 6th-7th September 1955

Pogrom against the ethnic Greeks in Istanbul. It broke out after the rumor that Ataturk's house in Salonika (Greece) was being bombarded. As most of the Greek houses and businesses had been registered by the authorities earlier it was easy to carry out the pogrom. The Greek (and other non-Muslim communities) were hit severely: 3 people were killed, 30 were wounded, also 1004 houses, 4348 shops, 27 pharmacies and laboratories, 21 factories, 110 restaurants and cafes, 73 churches, 26 schools, 5 sports clubs and 2 cemeteries were destroyed; 200 Greek women were raped. A great wave of immigration occurred after these events and Istanbul was cleansed of its Greek population.

22 Robert College

The oldest and most prestigious English language school in Istanbul since the mid-19th century, providing education to the elite of Turkey as well as other countries in the region. Robert College was born in 1863 in the village of Bebek by the Bosphorus, when Christopher Robert approached Cyrus Hamlin with his desires and found a receptive audience. Hamlin, an American schoolmaster, had been running a school, a bakery and a laundry in Bebek at the time. Robert was a wealthy American industrialist desiring to establish in Turkey a modern university along American lines with instruction in English. These two men, an educator and a philanthropist, successfully collaborated to found Robert College. Until 1971, it included two campuses: the actual Robert College exclusively for boys and the American College for Girls. In 1971, the American College for Girls and the Robert College boys' school united and co-education started under the name of Robert College at the previous American College for Girls campus. At the same time the Turkish government took over the boys' campus, which became Bogazici University (Bosphorus University). Robert College and today's Bogazici University were and still are the best schools in Turkey. Through the years, these schools have had graduates occupying top positions in Turkey's business, political, academic and art sectors.

23 Crimean war

1853-1956, in many respects the first modern war in History. The Russian Empire with aspirations concerning the Balkans occupied the Ottoman principalities of Moldova and Walachia in July 1853. The great powers fearing from a Russian advance in the region and wanting to preserve the European equilibrium sided with the Ottoman Empire in the conflict: Great Britain and France declared war on Russia in March 1854. Although the Habsburg Empire remained neutral its threats to enter the war forced the Russians to evacuate the two Ottoman principalities and they were occupied by the Austrians. In September 1854 allied troops landed on the Crimea in order to capture Sevastopol, the major Russian Black Sea port. The Russians defended the city heroically for 11 months under the command of V. Kornilov and P. Nakhimov. Allied commanders were Lord Raglan for the British and Marshal Saint-Arnaud, succeeded later by Marshal Canrobert, for the French. Military operations, which were marked on both sides by great stubbornness, gallantry, and disregard for casualties, remained localized. Famous episodes were the battles of Balaklava and Inkerman (1854) and the allied capture (1855) of Malakhov and Redan, which preceded the fall of Sevastopol. The accession (1855) of Tsar Alexander II and the capture of Sevastopol led to peace negotiations that resulted in the Treaty of Paris (February 1856). The Crimean war stopped Russian aspirations towards the Balkans and the Straits for another 22 years and rescued the position of the Ottoman Empire as a great power. It also resulted in spoiling the previously very good Habsburg-Russian relation.

24 Bogazici University

Successor of Robert College, the old and prestigious American school, founded in Istanbul in 1863. With the consent of the administration of Robert College it was founded jointly with the Turkish state in 1971. Since then the university has expanded both physically and academically and today it is growing in popularity.

Sarra Shpitalnik

Sarra Shpitalnik
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Nathalia Fomina
Date of interview: June 2004

Sarra Shpitalnik is an intelligent and gentle lady of average height. She has a nice low voice and wears her hair in a knot. During our conversation she looks at me intently through her glasses. I enjoyed talking to her very much. Sarra is a wonderful story teller. She willingly answered my questions. She is a person of great erudition. Sarra lives in one half of a one-storied house in Bayukany, a district of private cottages in Kishinev. There is a small garden near the house and a few fruit trees, which had been planted by Sarra's husband Moisey Shpitalnik. Sarra's husband died about a year ago, in 2003. Bianka, a sweet little dog, keeps Sarra company. The dog is infinitely devoted to her mistress. There are two rooms and a kitchen in the house. One room serves as a living room. There are bookcases, a TV, a small sofa and a table by the window. There is a collection of dolls in national costumes, which Sarra and her husband collected, in two huge glassed stands in the room. Sarra and her husband bought some of them on their trips and their friends gave them some as well. Sarra treats me to sweet cherries from her garden.

My family background

My maternal grandfather, Srul Orentlikher, came from the town of Starokonstantinov in Ukraine [a district town in Volyn province; according to the census of 1897 it had 16,300 residents and 9212 of them were Jews]. I even have a document confirming that he was a common citizen of Starokonstantinov. Grandfather Srul finished a private Russian gymnasium as an external student and was a private teacher of the Russian language. My mother told me that my grandfather was a follower of Baal Shem Tov 1. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, my grandfather perished during the Russian-Japanese war in 1905. He only left a message to call the baby Beila, if it were to be a girl.

My grandmother, Hava Orentlikher, daughter of Shmuel Brick, was born in Bessarabia 2, in Kishinev, in 1878. She had many brothers and sisters, but I only knew two of them: sister Sura-Feiga and brother Srul Brick. Srul suffered from diabetes and had his arms and legs amputated. I remember my father carrying him on his back. He died, when I was a young girl. Srul had a son, who was an actor of the Jewish theater. He lived in Dnepropetrovsk [today Ukraine] in the USSR.

My grandmother's older sister Sura-Feiga Zilberman had a dairy farm near Kishinev. During a pogrom in 1905 the pogrom-makers drowned their cows in the Byk River [this river flows in Kishinev] which was deep at that time. [Editor's note: a lot of pogroms took place all over the western provinces of Russia after 1905. When the Kishinev pogrom broke out in October, the first Jewish self-defense groups [see Jewish self-defense movement] 3 stood up to pogrom-makers.] Afterward, Sura-Feiga moved in with her daughters, whose names I didn't know, in Odessa. However, this wasn't the end of her misfortunes. Her daughters died during some epidemic. Sura-Feiga returned to Kishinev. One winter day she fell on the street and died. It must have been a heart attack. Sura-Feiga had many children, but I didn't know them. Her daughter Sonia was very close to our family. My mother loved her like her own sister.

I don't know how my grandparents met. I think they took things closer to heart in their time. When my grandfather perished, my grandmother lost her hair and forgot how to read and write: she suffered so much. She already had a son and was pregnant again. The tsarist government paid her a pension of three rubles. After Sura-Feiga died, she entered into a marriage of convenience with Zilberman, who worked at the slaughter house Beit-ha- Shkhita on Popovskaya Street, present-day Tsyrelson Lane; this building no longer exists. This is what my mother told me, I don't know any details about this marriage. All I know is that my grandmother didn't change her surname. Zilberman helped my grandmother to get a job as a cashier in the slaughter house. She lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the slaughter house which the community gave her.

My mother's older brother Haim was born in 1897. At the age of 17 Haim moved to Palestine. He secretly took a train to Constanza and from there took a boat to Palestine where the British drafted him into the army. He was to fight against strikers, but he couldn't fight against his own people and from there he escaped to France. He married Fira, a Jewish girl, who had come from Odessa. He changed his name to Philip. In 1928 his son Serge, who was a few months younger than me, was born. I've never seen any of them, but I remember that in 1937 my grandmother Hava visited Philip in Paris: there was a world exhibition there at the time. I was nine years old and remember this well.

My mother, Beila Molchanskaya [nee Orentlikher], was born in Kishinev in 1905. Since she had lost her father she was entitled to free education. At first, she finished an elementary Jewish school and then studied at the Skomorovskaya private gymnasium. They studied in Russian, but there was Jewish history and Jewish traditions taught at the school. My mother spoke Yiddish at home. Old Zilberman loved my mother more than his own children as she was a very kind and sweet child. My mother returned his feeling. During her exams to the eighth grade at the gymnasium she signed her first written work with the surname of Zilberman. Unfortunately, she failed her exams and didn't take other exams and so it happened that she finished only seven grades of the gymnasium.

My mother got a job as a cashier in a store. She was very sociable and had many friends. My grandmother leased one room to make ends meet. Once, a young provincial man came in. He wanted to rent a room. At first he didn't quite like the room with its ground floor, a trestle bed covered with a clean white sheet, and plain curtains on the window. He left, but returned some time later: something drew him back to this house. He was my father, Shlomo Molchanskiy.

My paternal grandfather, Meir Molchanskiy, was born in Bessarabia in 1854: I don't know the exact location. He lived in the Jewish farming colony in Dombroveni [Jewish farming settlement in Soroki district, founded in 1836. They grew tobacco and sheep. According to the census in 1897 there were 1,815 residents, of them 1,726 were Jews]. My grandfather Meir rented and later purchased a plot of land. I don't know any details of their everyday life, but I know that Grandfather Meir was deeply religious. When he visited us in Kishinev I always went to the prayer house in the yard of our house to call him for dinner. He prayed there with his head and shoulders covered with a tallit and had a tefillin on. He wore a long black tunic and a cap on his head. My grandfather had a big white beard and a moustache. His sons studied in cheder. I think that my grandmother, Haya Molchanskaya [nee Tsukerman], was the head of the family.

My grandmother Haya was born in Vertyuzhany near Dombroveni in 1860. She observed Jewish traditions and wore a wig. I remember when Grandmother Haya visited us in Kishinev, she used to press her hands to her cheeks while she watched Grandmother Hava and my mother do the housework, and she would say, 'Women, women, how you live and how I live' She had a very hard life: cooking, washing and fixing her husband and sons' clothes. My grandmother came to Kishinev wearing her only velvet dress. She also said when she died and the Lord asked her, 'Haya, what did you do on Earth?' she would say, 'Before the potatoes got cooked my sons ate them and when I baked loaves of bread, they were gone before I put them on the table.'

I visited Dombroveni twice when I was a child. My grandparents lived in a big village house with a big yard and a well in the yard. There were trestle beds covered with Moldovan hand-woven rugs. There was a good library of Jewish books in Dombroveni. Some residents were advanced readers in Yiddish and they almost arranged readers' conferences. I remember playing with other children there. I don't know whether there was a synagogue, but there was a cheder and a rabbi. His name was Steinberg and he perished during the Holocaust. Grandmother Haya died in 1939. She had problems with her liver, perhaps, it was cancer. My father went to see her in Dombroveni before she died.

My father had six brothers. They were farmers like their father. In the 1920s four of them moved to America. Srul lived in Pittsburgh in the United States. Brothers Velvel and Shmuel moved to Argentina. Leizer, the youngest one, lived in Sao Paulo in Brazil. I know little about them. Leizer made his way in life, but the others were very poor. Srul bought a house in Pittsburgh, but failed to pay for it and lost it. He was the only one who found us after World War II, and sent parcels with clothes and food through the Red Cross.

Haim, the oldest son, and his wife Montia lived in Dombroveni with my grandparents. They had five children: Iosl, Leib, Huna, Shyfra and Perl. In the late 1930s Iosl illegally crossed the Dnestr [the border between Romania and USSR] to the USSR and we didn't hear from him for a long time. My father's brother Avrum and his wife Golda lived in Vertyuzhany. I don't know what Avrum did for a living. He had eight children. The family was very poor. Rachil, one of his daughters, also moved to the USSR in the late 1930s. Grandmother Haya tried to help them and sometimes she even sold a piece of land.

My father, Shlomo Molchanskiy, was born in Dombroveni in 1897. My father was a very interesting person. He wanted to study instead of farming. He went to cheder where his teacher was Steinberg. At the age of eleven he became an atheist based on some conclusions that he made after studying some discrepancies in the Tanakh. His teacher Steinberg use to say that even if such a decent person was an atheist, it was alright. My father's brothers were against my father's intentions to continue his studies. He had a conflict with them and moved to the neighboring village where he taught Hebrew, the Torah and prayers that he already knew. He stayed one week with one family, and the next week with another, having meals with them. He was paid little, as one year later he visited home with just a bag of prunes and two new shirts.

Later, my father moved to Soroki and entered a Jewish gymnasium there. He rented a room from the Kerchman family. Mr. Kerchman owned a mill. My father told me that this mill was damaged during a flood. He had an affair with one of his landlord's daughters. My father didn't like to talk about it, but I know that this girl, I think her name was Mina, was a communist and an underground activist. She involved him in studying Marxism. In Vertyuzhany and Dombroveni there was a teacher. His name was Samuel Abramovich Magin and he came from Kherson, and propagated Marxism. He and his wife, Liya Isaacovna, were popular people in this area. My father remained life-long friends with them.

In 1918 Romanian forces came to Bessarabia. [see Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania] 4 Some were marauders. One soldier took away a watch and some other belongings from the Kerchmans, but my father remembered him and when he saw this soldier on a military parade in Soroki, he pointed out this soldier to the officer: 'This soldier robbed my landlords.' I don't know what happened to the soldier, but the officer told my father, 'You must leave Soroki within 24 hours.' My father came to Kishinev with no money, but he found his fellow countrymen there and they helped him. One of them was Samuel Abramovich Magin, who was living in Kishinev. He was an official in the EKO 5 Jewish colonization association funded from London. Samuel Abramovich hired my father to teach his sons, Dodik and Nyuka, Hebrew. He had always wanted to be a teacher and enjoyed teaching the boys, but to be able to earn more he took up a course in accounting. He hated accounting, but worked as an accountant till he died.

Shortly after he rented a room from Grandmother Hava, my parents fell in love with each other and got married in 1927. When I was born in 1928, my parents rented an apartment in the house across the street from where my grandmother lived on the corner of Tsyrelson Lane and Oktavian Gog Street. This house belonged to former Russian aristocrats: the Meche-Nikolaevichs. Maria Petrovna Meche-Nikolaevich liked our family, and I was her favorite. She had two good-for-nothing sons. Though I was only three years old, I remember how adults said that one was gay and the other one a card gambler. To cut a long story short, they brought their mother to bankruptcy. Fleshel, a Jewish man, bought this house and the annex in the yard. We lived there till I turned seven.

Those were happy years. There was a neglected garden near the house where our neighbors' children and I played Indians and made a great wigwam in the bushes. There was also beautiful 'bull-de-neige' in the garden [decorative bushes with ball-shaped white flowers], very rare in Kishinev. In the backyard there was a big scary dog on the chain. When I was two I once wandered there alone and the dog bit me on my cheek. My mother and her friend, who also rented a part of the house, soaked my cheek with a wet towel while they waited for the doctor. The doctor was everybody's favorite in Kishinev, Doctor Slissel, he said, 'Great that you didn't call for me at once, or I would have seamed the injury and she would have a scar, but now it will heal all right'. My father always tried to raise me as a brave child. Since the doctors told my mother that she could have no more children, he saw in me all of his unborn children: he loved children. For example, he put me on a two-wheel bicycle in my early childhood. By the way, I never learned to ride a bicycle. Well, my father wanted me to get rid of this fear of the dog and about a year later he took me to the back yard: 'Don't fear this dog, it's a good dog and you might have just slipped on the chain.' Well, then the dog almost tore off my father's lip and this time the doctor had to seam it.

I was a rather capricious and naughty child. I gave my mother a hard time and she sent me to various children's institutions. I went to a Jewish kindergarten for a year: for some reason it was called a 'Hebrew' kindergarten. All I learned there was counting to four. There was no Hebrew there. They taught us music. Once I conducted a noise orchestra where the children played various wooden trinkets on the stage of a club. I had a lovely marquisette dress on, which was pinned. Well, I gesticulated so hard that it got unpinned and fell off me leaving me in my panties in front of everyone. They drew the curtain, but I was so distressed about all the shame, particularly in front of the boys whom I liked: Boria Fleshel, our landlord's son and his friend, Syoma Leiderman.

My mother's health condition was very poor. She had problems with my birth: she suffered three days before the doctors pulled me out with forceps. As a result of this hard delivery she almost lost her sight. She took treatment in the Tumarkin private eye clinic. Doctor Faina Chegorskaya gave her injections in her eye: they were very rare at the time. To distract my mother's attention she told her various stories. She became a friend of our family. The doctors in Kishinev advised my mother to go to Vienna with her sight problems. My father somehow managed to get some money and we all went there and stayed there for a few weeks. I was five then.

I remember Schonbrunn [palace], Prater [amusement park in Vienna], and the bed of Maria Theresa [Austrian Archduchess (1717-1780) of the Habsburg family] in a museum. My parents went to the Vienna Opera House and I stayed in the hotel room. I remembered Vienna very well. When we went to Chernovtsy after the war I said right away that it resembled Vienna a lot: and this was true since it was an Austro-Hungarian town, too. In Vienna my mother was told that she could continue her treatment with doctor Chegorskaya, who went to Vienna for annual trainings.

My father worked as an accountant in a few offices to make ends meet. He also took part in public activities and worked for a number of Jewish organizations: he was a member of ORT 6, and worked for the League of Culture - Kulturliga [Jewish Kulturliga in Kishinev - public organization. It was spreading modern enlightenment among Jews.] My father had some ties with the communist underground movement. He wasn't a member of the communist party, but he supported communists: they used to type some communist posters on the hectograph in the slaughter house. It was said at home that even Anna Pauker [one of the leaders of the Romanian communist movement, Jewish] was hiding in the slaughter house.

My father also had some contacts with Zionists. He subscribed to a Zionist newspaper in Yiddish in Kishinev, 'Unzere Zeit' [Our time]: it was a must in each Jewish house to have it. We spoke Yiddish and Russian at home. I also remember that my father always somehow got the 'Izvestiya' [News, daily communist newspaper issued in Moscow]. I learned to read from this newspaper asking him, 'Which is this letter? And this one?' At the age of three I could read in Russian. My father was a sociable man. When we took a walk in the town, every minute someone stopped to talk to him. Somehow all kinds of people, craftsmen or very educated people, knew him. Our acquaintances from Dombroveni and Vertyuzhany always knew that they would find food and accommodation in our home. Our home was like a caravanserai.

My mother was very kind and found good in all people. If someone called another a complete fool, she commented, 'Right, but how nicely he treats his wife's relatives.' She never felt jealous or angry. I called her a 'Tolstoy follower' because she was so fond of Tolstoy 7. My mother was five when Tolstoy died and she remembered that day for the rest of her life. All the people in Kishinev repeated, 'Tolstoy died, Tolstoy died.' She didn't know then who he was, but remembered this. Despite her poor sight she used to reread his work, 'War and Peace,' and knew various extracts by heart. She was also fond of Galsworthy [John (1867-1933): English novelist and playwright, best known for his novel series, 'The Forsyte Saga'] and 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte. My mother was a kind and jolly woman. She used to burst into a loud laughter which sometimes grew almost into hysterics. She and my father had a smooth loving relationship. I think if somebody had hurt my mother, my father would have killed him. Grandmother Hava treated her son-in-law with respect. In general, we were respectful towards each other in the family.

At the age of six I went to a Romanian elementary school. I had a very good first teacher. Her name was Yelena Bogos and I think she belonged to the local Russian aristocrats. On the first day she called my mother to school and indicated to her that the only thing I could say in Romanian was a greeting. My mother replied, 'Let her stay and then we shall see. Unfortunately, I can't help her since I don't know Romanian, and her father has no time to teach her.' People in smaller towns knew only Moldovan. Grandmother Hava knew Moldovan, but my mother didn't. However, I picked up the language promptly. I was much better at languages than my mother. After finishing the first grade I was awarded for being the best pupil.

By that time my father was earning well. When I was seven, we bought an apartment in the building in the yard connecting Yekaterininskaya Street and Chasovennyi Lane. There was running water, electricity and gas in the house. There were 26 apartments in the building and all tenants were Jews by some coincidence. It was a whole Jewish settlement: a real eshuv. There were all classes of Jews: from one who married a prostitute to very intelligent educated families. They spoke Yiddish, but knew Russian and many spoke Romanian. We had an apartment on the second floor which comprised four rooms: two had windows on the ceiling, always dirty. My grandmother, who worked and lived with us, had her own room, my parents had a bedroom and there was a living room. I slept in the living room, and had a desk covered with green cloth in my parents' bedroom. One of our relatives, who later perished during the Holocaust, had made this desk. My parents had a nickel-plated bed decorated with shining balls. The rest of the furniture was plain. We had many books in Russian and Yiddish at home. I had my own collection of books in Romanian and Yiddish.

My mother's cousin sister Sonia Gerstein, nee Zilberman, her husband and sons lived on the first floor. Her husband Haim was a bookbinder. Her sons Shmuel and Ershl were much older than me. Aunt Sonia was a housewife. She was a cheerful and charming dame. She and her husband took no interest in politics whatsoever. The Gersteins liked parties, guests and playing poker. We celebrated Jewish holidays together and were friends before and after the war. In late 1930, when Hitler came to power a depressing atmosphere settled all over Europe. There were fascists in Romania. Anti-Jewish laws were issued: Jews could only work for Jews, Jews couldn't have Christian servants and there were other restrictions. We heard about what was going on in Europe. We knew that Mr. Baron, the owner of the hotel in which we stayed in Vienna committed suicide before the deportation of Jews. Then my father said we had to move closer to the Gersteins.

At first, the Cuzists 8 failed with their first putsch. On our way to the gymnasium we saw dead bodies of Iron Guard 9 members, on the corner of Pushkin and Alexandrovskaya Streets. There was also a poster with the inscription threatening that this was what was to happen to all traitors. We were very inspired thinking that this was the end of fascism, but unfortunately, it wasn't. My parents' friends had continuous political discussions, debates and arguments at home. Some were anglophiles and some Zionists, but all of them liked the USSR and believed it to be the country of happiness. Most of our friends were Jewish. The Goldstein family was the closest to us. Zalman Goldstein was a printer and an active underground communist. In 1928 he took part in the trial of 114 that started in Cluj on 10th September. He and other prisoners went on a 45-day-long hunger strike to get amnesty. One of the political prisoners, Haya Lifshitz, starved to death. After the war, when I grew up, I asked Zalman, 'Why were there so many Jews among the communists?' and he replied, 'We just involved our friends in this underground movement, but there were Romanians and Russians there, too'.

Though my father was an atheist, he knew and honored Jewish traditions. He was a real Jew deep in his heart. He had a good conduct of Hebrew and Yiddish and was interested in everything Jewish. He read books mainly in Yiddish: Mendele Moiher Sforim 10, Sholem Aleichem 11, [Itshack Leibush] Perez 12. My father was friends with Yakov Sternberg, a wonderful Jewish poet, who lived in Bucharest [today Romania]. Yakov Sternberg was born in Lipkany, and so were other writers and poets like Eliezer Steinberg, Moshe Altman. Bialik 13 called this group 'Lipkany Olympus.' Yakov Sternberg was also one of the founders of the Jewish [State] Theater in Bucharest 14. He visited us whenever he came to Kishinev. I remember how he taught my mother to make coffee the Romanian way.

We celebrated Jewish holidays at home, though my father didn't go to the synagogue. Grandmother Hava played an important role here. She was very religious and observed all Jewish traditions: she followed the kashrut and didn't work on Sabbath. The rest of the family didn't follow the kashrut. We ate treyf food. On Jewish holidays my grandmother went to the choral synagogue. She fasted on Yom Kippur and spent a whole day at the synagogue. I would run there to see how she was feeling. My mother also fasted.

On Pesach we always had matzah at home and celebrated seder with the Gersteins. Aunt Sonia's husband, Haim Gerstein, conducted seder according to the rules: He read the Haggadah; his sons Shmuel and Ershel posed the four questions [mah nishtanah] and searched for the afikoman. I remember my father muttering that Haim messed it all up on our way back home. I also remember learning these four questions in Yiddish, I remember I had asked them somewhere, but I can't remember the place.

We celebrated Rosh Hashanah. My parents had many friends, they visited us for a meal and then we went to the town park. This was the season of nuts and grapes. We drank freshly squeezed grape juice. It foamed and was wonderfully delicious.

We also celebrated Chanukkah with Aunt Sonia: this was her birthday. I don't remember money, but Grandmother Hava always made latkes and dumplings filled with cottage cheese and potatoes.

On Purim we made shelakhmones, filled baskets with hamantashen, and other sweets, to take them to our relatives and acquaintances, but there were no performances.

I also remember Khamishoser bishvat, called Tu bi-Shevat at present. We always had Israel fruit on this holiday: raisins, dates, almonds, figs and horn tree pods. Pods had a divine taste, and they looked like acacia pods.

My grandmother and mother cooked delicious food: clear soups, borsch [a traditional Ukrainian beet soup], green soup, dumplings and of course, gefilte fish. My grandmother went to the market, but my mother went to the shops and took me with her. I remember the posh Fishman's store on Alexandrovskaya Street where we bought two sardines for my sandwich. We also bought sausages and I enjoyed watching them slice it. Alexandrovskaya Street changed its name several times. Now it is Stefan cel Mare Street [named after Stephan the Great, the ruler of the Moldova principality between 1457-1504. He conducted the policy of centralization]. In Moldova and Bessarabia everything changed with the arrival of new leaders: names of streets, leaders, regime and the country.

There was a big shoe store of Lapshuk on Alexandrovskaya Street. On Pushkin Street, Karaims [followers of the sect of Judaism founded in the 8th century] owned a 'Pamona' store, which sold citrus and other exotic fruits. There were smaller stores in the lower tower i.e. the haberdashery store of Matracht owned by Lukstick, and another store owned by Leiderman. There were excellent confectioneries in Kishinev. There was one owned by Gohman near where we lived. This building still stands on the corner. They served orange juice and Italian 'tutti-frutti' wrapped in aluminum foil, and also chocolate chestnuts. We went there occasionally, but I didn't have a sweet tooth. I liked bananas, which were expensive, but my parents used to buy me one banana.

There were horse-drawn carts and trams in Kishinev. Only wealthy plant owners like Shor had cars. Shor, a Jew, owned a distillery. There were a few libraries in the town: a municipal library in primaria, the Moldovan National Library was based in it. There is a rare books department in it. There was a Russian library of clerks on Mikhailovskaya Street: I used to read books in Russian there, when studying at the gymnasium. There were school libraries. There were two vocational Jewish schools for girls and many Jewish schools for boys: and all of them had libraries. People read a lot due to lack of other entertainment. There were two big cinema theaters: Odeon and another cinema; I don't remember the name. We even watched Soviet movies during the Romanian rule, 'Merry guys', 'Alexandr Nevskiy' and 'Happiness hunters' [(1936), about the establishment of Birobidzhan 15 in the Far East] that was shown under the title of 'Emigrants'.

In my childhood I used to spend my free time in the park near our house where there was a Christian church. We played 'one tsar gave another soldiers', and 'geese, geese, come home.' We also went to the town garden where there is a monument of Pushkin 16, but after 1938 it became dangerous for Jews, as young Romanian fascists, and Cuzist followers, had gatherings there. They were aggressive. Theaters from other towns came on tours to Kishinev: for example, the 'Vilner Truppe' from Vilnius. My parents went there, but I stayed at home. Jews lived everywhere in the town, but there were many in the lower part: the poorer part of town. Wealthier Jews resided uptown.

After finishing the fourth grade I entered Regina Maria, a Romanian gymnasium. We had good teachers. 25 percent Jewish children were allowed. There were 100 students in our 'A' and 'B' classes and among them, twelve Jewish girls in the A class and 13 in the B. We had strajer 17 uniforms. Strajeria was a student movement, something like boy-scouts. We wore dark blue culottes which were knee-length, white blouses and dark blue sweaters, belts with steel badges like the military had and many other badges: the Romanian emblem, etc. Every morning my grandmother helped with my clothes: pinning the badges and muttering in Yiddish 'noch a zwod, noch a zwod': 'one more nail and another one'.

We had religious classes. Christian girls had their own classes, one Catholic girl had a Catholic teacher and we, Jewish girls, studied prayers with a rabbi. We studied double Italian accounting from the first grade. Boys studied Latin and Ancient Greek, but we didn't. We studied French from the first grade and German from the third grade. In 1940 my father decided I had to study Hebrew. Since he had no time to teach me my parents hired a private teacher. Her name was Hana Levina. I often recall her. When my parents asked her how talented I was she replied, 'She has no special talents, but she is a very intelligent child.' I studied the Hebrew alphabet, but soon we had to terminate our classes. In summer 1940 the Soviets came to power. [see Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union] 18

In 1940 the Jewish population of Kishinev increased significantly: many Bessarabians working in Romania returned to Bessarabia and many arrived from Transylvania 19. We had to share our apartment with Jews from Transylvania. They spoke Hungarian and didn't know a word in Yiddish and my mother couldn't talk to them. Many Jews arrived from Russia [then USSR] and from Tiraspol, Odessa [today Ukraine]. We had no fear of the Soviet power: we were rather sympathetic. My father's acquaintances used to say a long time before this happened, 'Ours will be here soon,' and some tradesmen thought, 'when ours will come, we will become clerks in our stores.' However, my father got disappointed with the Soviet power pretty soon. He went to work in the Glavlessbyt timber sale office. When his new boss saw his new ball pen that Uncle Philip had sent him from Paris, he took it away saying, 'Is this a ball-point pen? It used to be yours, but now it is ours'. My father found this very strange.

Then arrests began. Our acquaintance Milstein, a tradesman, was arrested. The main cause of his arrest was that the new authorities liked his mansion. My father was a brave man. He went to the NKVD 20 office and said that Melstein had contributed money to the communist party, but they responded, 'Just be grateful that you are free and take your good leave.' About 60 years later a French-speaking man came to the Jewish library where I worked. He introduced himself: 'I am the artist Milstein.' He turned out to be the son of this man that my father had stood up for. He lives in Paris and recently sent me an album of his pictures.

Everything was new in 1940. Adults talked in whispers and the kids were like Pavlik Morozov 21 seeing kulaks 22 in all people. Our gymnasium like all others became a school. Students who finished the second grade of the gymnasium went to study in the sixth grade. I made one mistake in my first Russian dictation: I wrote the Russian word 'redka' ['turnip'] with a 't'. I got an 'excellent' mark. The teaching switched to the Russian language. Our French teacher moved to France, as she said: for religious motives. Some teachers arrived from the USSR. I was eleven and a half and I fell in love with our teacher of history, Pyotr Demianovich, from the USSR. He taught ancient history: it was fabulous; it's hard to describe his classes.

In 1941 the war began [see Great Patriotic War] 23. My father wasn't subject to recruitment any longer. Grandmother Hava, my parents and I decided to evacuate. At first we went to Vadul lui Voda with our luggage, but we had no passes and weren't allowed there. Then my father stood in line to obtain these passes that nobody ever looked at. I need to mention here that it was possible to evacuate from Kishinev. Only those who remembered World War I and thought that the Germans weren't going to do any harm stayed there. Many others were confused by receiving letters from Romania where their acquaintances wrote, 'We get along well with our new neighbors.' Many of my classmates stayed and perished with their families. After the war I only met two or three of them: Zlata Tkach, nee Berehman, from the parallel class, she is a composer in Kishinev, and Tova Nemirovskaya, nee Kalekstein, she lives in Los Angeles and calls me every second week since I became a widow.

Well, we evacuated. At first we stopped in Tiraspol where my father's office gave him his last salary and then we started on our long journey to the Northern Caucasus, literally under the falling bombs. We got to Ordzhonikidze, present Stavropol Krai. We stayed in a village in the house of very nice people, whose son was at the front. They gave us food saying, 'Perhaps, somebody will help our son as well.' We stayed with them for a month, but my parents didn't want to overburden them: 'We have to support ourselves.' And we went to a sovkhoz 24. There was a possibility to go to work. My father and grandmother worked in a field. My mother did the housework and I went to school, but then the front line approached and we moved on. From Makhachkala [today Russia] we took a boat across the Caspian Sea and farther to Uzbekistan from the coast.

We spent the winter in Fergana. My father worked as a loader at a plant. We rented an apartment from a Moldovan family. There were many Moldovan people there [Editor's note: nationality in the European part of Russia, Orthodox Christians]. My mother fell ill with pneumonia, but since they had icons in the house they didn't allow her to do her toilet in the house and having high fever she had to go outside. In spring, we found out that the Gersteins were in Bukhara and we moved there. We rented a room in the women's part of an Uzbek house, and our landlords moved to the men's part. The Gersteins lived in another room. My father was recruited to the Labor army and sent to the railroad construction in Cheliabinsk region [today Russia]. He sold his bread ration and sent us this money to support us. He ate his potato ration. My mother went to work as a cook in an office where she received white flour and no food products. We made noodles and 'zatirukha' [water added to flour cooked in the frying pan] from this flour.

My father respected my grandmother a lot and believed her to be a strong woman. He sent her a letter in Yiddish: 'Please take care of my family.' Grandmother Hava was very weak at the time. She was a diabetic like her older brother Srul. She had gangrene and then dysentery. She looked terrible and had lice, but she still gave us her bread ration which she was given in hospital. My grandmother died in 1942, we buried her in the Jewish cemetery before Yom Kippur. During the season of rain we found my mother's cousin brother, my grandmother's brother Srul Brick's son. He was an actor at the Jewish Theater in Dnepropetrovsk [today Ukraine]. He had a beautiful wife, also a Jewish actress, and a daughter of my age, but she was so arrogant that I couldn't be friends with her. I believe the subject of her pride was that they were wealthier than us.

I studied in a Russian school during evacuation. Our teachers were either evacuated or those who had been exiled in the 1930s, [during the Great Terror] 25, which wasn't to be mentioned aloud. There were local and evacuated children. I made close friends with Salomeya Kapor, a Jewish girl from Kaunas [today Lithuania]. Her parents were doctors. She was very talented and intelligent. Twenty years after the war my husband and I met with her in Kaunas. Salomeya was a good pianist. Her husband was Lithuanian and they had a son. Several years later Salomeya moved to England and I never heard from her again. I also remember my classmate Sima Zhytomirskaya. They were Ashkenazi Jews, but had lived in Bukhara for a long time. There was also a group of Bukhara Jews 26.

I also remember a very pretty girl, whose last name was Dolidze. Her mother was Georgian and her father was a German, who had been deported from the European part of Russia during the war. I don't know whether anti-Semitism existed in Uzbekistan at the time. Of course, some boys ran after my grandmother shouting 'zhydovka' [abusive word for Jewish females]. This might have happened, but generally one needs to understand that the locals gave us accommodation and food. I think they were rather loyal and tolerant. As for school, almost all the teachers and students were Jewish, so there was no question of anti-Semitism. I joined the Komsomol 27 in Bukhara.

The death rate in Bukhara was high. At one time I worked as a statistics operator in Bukhara. Each morning I received information about the number of people who died of typhus or enteric fever. I was only 15 years old and I couldn't bear to work there. It was hard to know this. My father returned to Bukhara in 1945, after the victory. He was sent to work as a manager for straw stocks for the front at a station in the Bukhara region where the trains stopped for one minute. I worked for him as an assistant accountant and there were two Uzbeks pressing straw. Our friend Doctor Bregman sent us an invitation permit to go back to Kishinev and we went home. The town was ruined: one could walk across yards from the railway station to Alexandrovskaya Street. The uptown was in better condition, but the lower part, which was a ghetto during the war, looked awful [see Kishinev Ghetto] 28. Our house had been torn apart. We stayed at Doctor Bregman's hospital at first, but it was impossible to live like that much longer.

My father got information about his relatives. Grandfather Meir was 80 when the Great Patriotic War began and he refused to evacuate. He said to his older son Haim, 'Whether one is poor or dead doesn't matter. I will stay.' We don't know any details about how my grandfather perished. The whole population was Jewish and all local residents were killed. Haim, his wife Montia and their younger daughter Perl left Dombroveni with a horse-drawn cart, but the Germans captured them. Our neighbors said they made them dig their own graves. Leib and Huna perished at the front near Stalingrad. Iosl perished in the Gulag 29. His daughter lives in Bochum in Germany. Haim's daughter Shyfra lives in New York.

Avrum and his wife perished. Only three of their eight children survived. Rachil was taken to jail in Tiraspol and sent to the Gulag. In the Gulag a Jewish doctor employed her as an attendant at the hospital and thus saved her life. Rachil got married in exile and had two daughters: Sofa and Muza. Rachil is 90 now. She lives in Israel, in the town of Ashdod. Avrum's daughter Ida lived in Kurgan in the Urals where she worked at a mine. This is all I know about her. Efraim moved to Israel in the late 1940s. He has passed away already. After the war the sovkhoz board moved into my grandfather's house in Dombroveni. Everybody told my father, 'You are an heir: go get what is yours,' but he replied, 'I don't want to go there, when there is no one there.'

The fate of our relatives in France during World War II was also tragic. Uncle Philip took part in the Resistance. His wife Fira perished in Auschwitz, her English citizenship didn't save her. They left their son Serge with a French man and he survived. Philip married a French woman who was in the movement with him after the war. We didn't know her. They lived in the south of France. Philip died in the 1960s. His son Serge lived with his mother's sister. After his father died they moved to America where he left the Orent part of his surname. I know that he lives in New Jersey State, and he is married with three children. He is a computer manager. My mother died 15 years ago, and Serge and I have lost contact since then.

Post-war

In 1946 I finished the tenth grade and wanted to study languages. I entered the French department of the Philological Faculty of Chernovtsy University. My parents and I moved to Chernovtsy. At the end of the war many Ukrainian families left the town following the retreating Germans and there were vacant apartments available. After the liberation of Transnistria 30, Jews from the ghetto rushed to Chernovtsy: we were a little late having stayed in Kishinev for a year. Those who came there in 1945 lived in nice apartments. Chernovtsy is a beautiful town. Our faculty resided in the former Metropolitan's residence, in the beautiful building of red bricks.

I lived the best years of my life when I was a student. We were divided into two groups. I was in a stronger group where all students were Jews and only two Ukrainians. Almost all students in our group were either veterans of the war or former inmates of ghettos in Transnistria. The political situation was rather severe: there were Bandera 31 gangs in the area. One day we went to the university and got to know that all third-year students had been arrested. The authorities had found out that they had Bandera flyers. At this time the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 32 began. Ilia Gordon, a Jewish lecturer on foreign literature was sent away from Kiev [today Ukraine] to work in our town. The Party Bureau taped his lectures to review them later. We felt sorry for him and did our best to study his subject and obtain good marks in it.

Another demonstration of state anti-Semitism was that they closed the Jewish Theater in Chernovtsy. Actually, this was the Kiev Theater [founded in 1928], but after the war they weren't allowed to return to the capital and had to move to Chernovtsy. They were always sold out since Chernovtsy was a Jewish town then. Some actors went to work in Russian and Ukrainian theaters, but many lost their jobs after it had been closed down. I also remember another incident: the university announced a party for local young people. I thought since I was a Bessarabian girl I was to be a local resident, but they didn't let me in, or any Jew for that matter. Only Ukrainians were allowed to attend it. However, there wasn't much impact of this kind on our studies. Our group was very close. We often had parties, celebrated birthdays, went to the theater and cinema. Our groups welcomed the establishment of Israel. We were ready to move to Israel as volunteers. Our co-student Anatoliy Kogan, who later became a writer in Kishinev, could play the piano very well. He occasionally played the 'Hatikva' 33: there was a piano in the corridor of our faculty. Of course, we were a little afraid, but we were young and we were happy about Israel. Later, twelve former students of our group moved to Israel. Four still live there.

When I was in my fifth year of studies I went to Kishinev on vacation. I stayed with my aunt Sonia Gerstein. When I visited my acquaintance, I met a fifth-year student of the Agricultural College, who rented a room from her. His name was Moisey Shpitalnik. We liked each other and began to correspond. Moisey finished his college: students of the Agricultural College had graduate exams before we did since they were to do seeding in the fields, and received a job assignment to Floreshty [see mandatory job assignment in the USSR] 34. He came to Chernovtsy and said we had to get married immediately, so that I could get my job assignment in the same town. So we did.

My husband's father, Girsh Shpitalnik, was the manager of a timber storage in Rybnitsa; he was a high-skilled specialist in the woodworking industry. His mother, Sura Shpitalnik, was a housewife. Moisey's older brother, Israel, born in 1919, finished the Railroad College in Dnepropetrovsk. In May 1941 he got married, and in June the war began. Israel was a lieutenant during the war, taken into captivity and executed. His wife Tania and his parents were taken to a ghetto. My husband's sister Hana was born in Rybnitsa in 1922. My husband was born in Rybnitsa in 1928. Moisey went to a Jewish school. In 1937 the school was closed down and its director was arrested. The children were taken to a Ukrainian school. During the war the family made an effort to evacuate. They moved on foot and had a cow with them. Near Balty in Odessa region, they got in encirclement and were taken to a ghetto with other Jews where they were kept until 1944.

My husband told me that once Romanians beat him hard for having dropped a beam that was too heavy for him. He stuttered for a long time afterward. Later, he worked in a shop where they made valenki boots [traditional Russian winter felt boots]. He had a trophic ulcer from the sulfuric acid used for valenki making. Moisey said there were underground activists, who made valenki in such a manner that they fell apart promptly in the frost, but the Germans couldn't tell the difference. Israel's wife Tania died from typhus in the ghetto and the rest of them survived. Moisey's mother died in 1948 and his father died in 1955. His father came to our wedding with his second wife: she was a relative, who survived in the Odessa ghetto, while her family perished in the ghetto. Moisey's sister, Hana Vapniar, lived in Rybnitsa and worked as a medical nurse. She had no children. Hana died in 2001.

We got married in 1951 and moved to Floreshty where we lived for five years. I was a French teacher at school and my husband was a senior agronomist. There were 90 Jewish families in Floreshty at that time: a significant number considering that this was the postwar period. In our Moldovan school almost all the teachers were Jews: Lev Shoichet, mathematics teacher, he had graduated from a university in Bukhara, Shapiro - the Russian language and literature teacher, Schwartzman - biology teacher, Riva Chamelis - chemistry teacher, and Liya Darkhova - history teacher. Only one Moldovan teacher and a history teacher in the senior classes were non-Jewish. I don't think that I was a good pedagog: my students walked over me. When writing my diploma thesis in our university library, I got acquainted with bibliography and I started thinking about it. After I went to Floreshty my parents returned to Kishinev. At first, they stayed in a through room in their relatives' apartment, but later they collected some money. I translated the novel by Polevoy, Boris 35, 'Gold', into Moldovan and received a significant fee for this work. We paid this money to the owner of an unfinished house in Bayukany, as he needed money to finish the construction, and we bought half of this house from him.

We lived in Floreshty, when in 1953 the Doctors' Plot 36 began. However, it wasn't so severe in Moldova. Brezhnev 37, secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Moldova at that time, was rather mild. There were a few arrests, but they resulted from actual medical mistakes. Though the general atmosphere was depressing, it was still not as severe as in Moscow and Leningrad. However, there appeared rumors that Jews were to be taken to live in barracks in Siberia and Altayskiy Krai. When Stalin died in spring 1953, there was a meeting in Floreshty and I cried, of course. We were very concerned about our future. We knew a lot about 1937 and we weren't so shocked, when in 1956 the Twentieth Party Congress 38 took place and Khrushchev's 39 report was published afterward, though of course, it brought us hope for a better life and more democracy.

In 1956 my husband and I moved to Kishinev, to my parents. I had a higher education, five-year teaching experience and I also finished an extramural course in English. I went to district education departments, but they refused to employ me due to my nationality [see Item 5] 40. They just replied that they had no vacancies, even though they did have them. Then a friend of mine who worked at the Medical College, called me: 'You know they need a person who knows foreign languages in our library.' The Kishinev Medical College was founded on the basis of the Leningrad Medical College that had evacuated to Piatigorsk during the war. After the war they weren't allowed to return to Leningrad. The college functioned during the German occupation for half a year, and then the authorities blamed its employees for this. It moved to Kishinev.

This library had a good collection of foreign books that the college partially received as part of German reparations: a significant part of it belonged to Richard Koch, a Jewish doctor, who got political asylum in the USSR before World War II and lived in Piatigorsk. When I went to see the human resources manager, he got indignant, 'Who is this you've brought in here? Israel has attacked Egypt' [After Egypt entered into a military pact with Syria and Jordan for aggression against Israel, on 29th October 1956 Israeli forces attacked the Egyptian positions on the Sinai Peninsula]. Can you imagine any links between me and the Israeli attack on Egypt? However, he employed me, as he didn't have an alternative because I knew French and English, and had a rather good conduct of German. Later, I was sent to a two-year extramural training course for librarians and after finishing it began to work as a bibliographer.

We lived with my parents and I built up my marital life: my husband and I were friends. We managed to provide for ourselves and we remembered about 'cutting your coat according to your cloth.' In the late 1950s the situation with food was bad: I remember bread with peas. My husband worked as an agronomist in a sovkhoz in Gratieshty where he could buy cheap vegetables and fruits. My father worked as an accountant in hospitals or kindergartens. I worked and received additional income for my knowledge of foreign languages. We were given our first television as a housewarming party gift in 1958; it had a lens.

My husband and I were fond of classical music and had season tickets to the Philharmonic. When the opera theater opened in Kishinev we went to all the premieres. We also went to drama performances and the cinema. My husband and I often went on vacations together to Northern Caucasus, Poland, the Volga and to Pushkin's places. We particularly enjoyed this tour since we were both very fond of Pushkin. My husband was rather a prosaic man, but there he couldn't help reciting poems. This was at the time when Geichenko was director of the Pushkin preservation and he organized everything in the best way. We visited Mikhaylovskoye and Trigorskoye, the Sviatogorsk monastery where Pushkin was buried. This tour ended with spending ten days in Leningrad. Our friends in Kishinev comprised about ten Jewish couples. Moisey and I were the youngest in this company. We were more Soviet-minded while the others came from former Zionist organizations during the Romanian rule: Betar 41, Gordonia 42.

We often got together, celebrated birthdays, Jewish holidays and the European New Year. We always followed the events in Israel closely on television and radio. I remember when the Six-Day-War 43 began, my father turned 70 and we wanted to celebrate this birthday, but he said, 'Not while this is happening in Israel.' We were very concerned and couldn't believe that a small country like Israel could win. When all of a sudden victory came! Our friends got together in our home without any pre-arrangements and we had a feast. Moisey was quite a phenomenon in this respect: he could lay the table within 15 minutes and there was plenty of food on it. Moisey was very good at making great cakes. Our friends called one of his cakes 'shpitalnyi' [Shpitalnik's cake] after him. His gefilte fish was particularly popular. I wasn't as good in the kitchen as he was. In the circle of our friends we often said that when we move to Israel, Moisey would be a chef there, but he replied, 'I only like to cook for my friends.'

My father died in 1970. This happened on 22nd April, on the 100th anniversary of Lenin's birthday. My father fell very ill and we sent him to hospital where he died on the night of 1st May. We buried him in the Jewish cemetery. When in the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel, most of our friends left. At that time I was the director of the bibliographic department and I was so fond of the Medical College that I couldn't even think of quitting. Moisey couldn't leave his sovkhoz, and my mother didn't want to leave home. She used to say, 'I won't have sufficient space there.' Why did she say so, when she hardly ever went out at all? There was no logic in it, but her point of view was important for us and we decided to stay.

I worked at the Medical College for 34 years as director of the bibliographic department and I also held the position of junior employee translating articles from foreign magazines after work. I was good at foreign languages, and even translated from Dutch. One of my friends in college used to say, 'She knows everything, but Hungarian.' Many lecturers in the college are still very grateful to me: many candidates and doctor dissertations [see Soviet/Russian doctorate degrees] 44 went through my hands. I remember one of them: he suddenly bumped into a medical book in Japanese and somebody told him, 'Well, why don't you talk to Sarra Shpitalnik.' My reputation was working for me.

I liked literature and often conducted reviews of literary works in senior groups of students: curators of groups invited me. Most often I spoke on the subject of 'The character of doctors in fiction.' Later, I prepared and issued an annotated guide: 'Medical workers in fiction literature.' My second big bibliographic work in the Medical College was: 'Writers-doctors' about Russian, Soviet and foreign writers, who were doctors. Later, I published articles about fiction literature, medical workers during the Great Patriotic War in the 'Medical worker' the institute paper, articles in our professional magazine, 'Sovetskaya bibliografiya': 'Soviet bibliography' [published in Moscow since 1933] and other periodicals. I liked my work. It distracted me from thinking about our problem: we had no children.

We were a team in the library and there was no anti-Semitism. We celebrated birthdays and Soviet holidays together. The library wasn't far from my house and I walked to work. There was an affiliate of our library in Malaya Malina, a distant district. Once someone told me that our director said, 'We shall send this zhydovka to Malaya Malina and get rid of her.' She worked in my bibliographic department at first and was a party member and when the director of the library retired she replaced her. She was a little jealous that all the lecturers addressed me with their problems: just because I knew medical definitions, and languages. When she said, 'Sarra, you will go to work in Malaya Malina', I was prepared and replied, 'Great, there is bus 9 stopping by my house: it goes straight there,' and she was discouraged. Later, I returned to the central department and retired from there.

In 1984 I became a pensioner, but I stayed at work part-time. My mother broke her hip and could only get up from her bed when Moisey and I supported her. She spent most of the time in her room reading and watching television. When perestroika 45 began, my mother watched all information programs, particularly, when Gorbachev 46 spoke. She treated him with great sympathy and when he appeared on the screen, she said, 'It's like one's own father comes into the room.' As for me, I lost my respect for him, when he interrupted Sakharov 47 at the congress of deputies [The Congress of People's Deputies, founded in 1989, voted to end the Communist Party's control over the government and elected Gorbachev executive president.] However, we were enthusiastic about perestroika. There were many interesting publications in the press, something that we could only discuss with our closest friends, and there were books published which had been banned before.

My mother died of cancer in 1989. We buried her in the Doina, in the Jewish sector since the Jewish cemetery had been closed by then.

By this time the Jewish society appeared in Kishinev. It was something very different for us. There were lectures on Jewish traditions where material and courses in Hebrew were available. In the 1990s the rest of our friends moved to Israel. In 1990 my husband and I decided to move to Israel. We studied Hebrew for half a year. We obtained a visa, when all of a sudden I was overwhelmed with fear. Our friends weren't very encouraging: 'You have no children. You won't have anything to do here. Moisey wouldn't be able to find a job with his occupation, and you wouldn't get any allowances since you've not come of proper age.' This had such an impact on me that when we went to the cemetery to visit the graves of our dear ones, I said, 'Whatever you decide I'm not going.' He said, 'All right, if you don't want to go.' He went back to work though he was a pensioner, and I saw an announcement that our library needed a person who knew Romanian and Yiddish. I went to work there.

My husband and I visited our friends in Israel twice: in 1996 and 1999. We lived in Bat Yam near Tel Aviv. The telephone kept ringing: my former fellow students from Chernovtsy University and our friends from Kishinev wanted to talk to us. We went on tours to Jerusalem, Haifa, Zefat, on the Kineret Lake and I sobbed by the Wailing Wall. My husband was shocked that they managed to grow a garden on stones. Besides, our friend took us to the cactus garden in Holon. This was an amazing view: there were little cactus plants and huge trees and they were blooming beautifully. We took our second trip on a boat from Odessa since my husband could obtain a free ticket as a former ghetto inmate. We bought a ticket for me. We stayed with our friends in Haifa. During our first trip we were in Yad Vashem 48 late in the evening and didn't see anything. In 1999 we went there for the second time. When the tour guide heard that my husband was in the ghetto, she treated us particularly warmly. Israel is very impressive; I believe one has to visit there.

When the charity center Hesed 49 Jehuda opened in Kishinev, I went to work there as a volunteer. Before they got their own building they worked in our library partially. They generated the lists of needy Jews, distributed matzah, or clothes. Every month I lecture on Jewish literature for them. Now I'm working on a lecture on Kanovich, a Jewish Lithuanian writer, who lives in Israel now. We've had a club of pensioners in Hesed for ten years and I'm an active member there. In 1995 I celebrated the presentation of my book 'Jews of Moldova' at the library; it's an annotated guide in Romanian. In 2000, its extended and added edition was issued with a resume in English. Here in the library we celebrated my 70th anniversary [1998] and my husband and my golden wedding [2001]. Our colleagues asked Moisey to make his outstanding gefilte fish, and it was great. Moisey died two years after this anniversary. I buried him in the Jewish cemetery near my father and bought myself a place there.

My family background
Growing up in wartime
My school years
My husband
Our children
Glossary

1 Baal Shem Tov (The Besht) (1698-1760)

The founder of the Jewish mystic movement called Hasidism. Born in Okup, a small village in Western Ukraine, he was orphaned at the age of 5 and was raised by the local community. He would often spend his time in the fields, woods and mountains instead of school. He worked as a school aid and later as a shammash. He got married and settled in the Carpathean mountains not far from Brody. He studied alone for seven years and began to reveal himself in 1734. Moving to Talust, he gained a reputation as a miracle worker and soul master. Then he moved to Medzhibozh in Western Ukraine where he lived and taught for the remainder of his life. His teachings were preserved by his disciple Yakov Yosef of Polonoye.

2 Bessarabia

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

3 Jewish self-defense movement

In Russia Jews organized self-defense groups to protect the Jewish population and Jewish property from the rioting mobs in pogroms, which often occurred in compliance with the authorities and, at times, even at their instigation. During the pogroms of 1881-82 self-defense was organized spontaneously in different places. Following pogroms at the beginning of the 20th century, collective defense units were set up in the cities and towns of Belarus and Ukraine, which raised money and bought arms. The nucleus of the self-defense movement came from the Jewish labor parties and their military units, and it had a widespread following among the rest of the people. Organized defense groups are known to have existed in 42 cities.

4 Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania

During the chaotic days of the Soviet Revolution the national assembly of Moldavians convoked to Kishinev decided on 4th December 1917 the proclamation of an independent Moldavian state. In order to impede autonomous aspirations, Russia occupied the Moldavian capital in January 1918. Upon Moldavia's desperate request, the army of neighboring Romania entered Kishinev in the same month recapturing the city from the Bolsheviks. This was the decisive step toward the union with Romania: the Moldavians accepted the annexation without any preliminary condition.

5 EKO

Short for 'Yevreyeiskoye Kolonizatsionnoye Obshchestvo', the Jewish Colonization Association, founded in London in September 1891. At first its aim was to help in the colonization of Argentina by Jews from the European East. In 1893 EKO opened its branch in St. Petersburg, Russia (Central Committee). At the beginning of the 1890s an EKO committee was established in Kishinev. Starting in 1898, unlike in the first years, when the main aim of the EKO activities was to move Jews out of Russia, the association began to work among the Jewish population inside Russia. The Central Committee of EKO in Russia tried to stimulate agricultural work, to develop professional education, to secure loans and to help Jews to emigrate from Russia.

6 ORT

(abbreviation for Rus. Obshchestvo Rasprostraneniya Truda sredi Yevreyev , originally meaning "Society for Manual [and Agricultural] Work [among Jews]," and later-from 1921-"Society for Spreading [Artisan and Agricultural] Work [among Jews]") It was founded in 1880 in St. Petersburg (Russia) and originally designed to help Russian Jews. One of the problems which ORT tackled was to help the working Jewish youth and craftsmen to integrate into the industrialization. This especially had an impact on the Eastern European countries after World War I. ORT expanded during World War II, when it became a world organization with branches in France, Germany, England, America and elsewhere, in addition to former Russian territories like Poland, Lithuania and Bessarabia. There was also an ORT network in Romania. With the aim to provide "help through work", ORT operated employment bureaus, organizes trade schools, provided tools, machinery and materials, set up special courses for apprentices, and maintained farm schools as well as cooperative agricultural colonies and workshops.

7 Tolstoy, Lev Nikolayevich (1828-1910)

Russian novelist and moral philosopher, who holds an important place in his country's cultural history as an ethical philosopher and religious reformer. Tolstoy, alongside Dostoyevsky, made the realistic novel a literary genre, ranking in importance with classical Greek tragedy and Elizabethan drama. He is best known for his novels, including War and Peace, Anna Karenina and The Death of Ivan Ilyich, but also wrote short stories and essays and plays. Tolstoy took part in the Crimean War and his stories based one the defense of Sevastopol, known as Sevastopol Sketches, made him famous and opened St. Petersburg's literary circles to him. His main interest lay in working out his religious and philosophical ideas. He condemned capitalism and private property and was a fearless critic, which finally resulted in his excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church in 1901. His views regarding the evil of private property gradually estranged him from his wife, Yasnaya Polyana, and children, except for his daughter Alexandra, and he finally left them in 1910. He died on his way to a monastery at the railway junction of Astapovo.

8 Cuzist

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

9 Iron Guard

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

10 Mendele Moykher Sforim (1835-1917)

Hebrew and Yiddish writer. He was born in Belarus and studied at various yeshivot in Lithuania. Mendele wrote literary and social criticism, works of popular science in Hebrew, and Hebrew and Yiddish fiction. In his writings on social and literary problems Mendele showed lively interest in the education and public life of Jews in Russia. He was preoccupied by the question of the role of Hebrew literature in molding the Jewish community. This explains why he tried to teach the sciences to the mass of Jews and to aid the people in obtaining secular education in the spirit of the Haskalah (Hebrew enlightenment). He was instrumental in the founding of modern literary Yiddish and the new realism in Hebrew style, and left his mark on the two literatures thematically as well as stylistically.

11 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.

12 Perez, Itshack Leibush (1851-1915)

Yiddish outstanding writer and essayist. He was brought up in traditional Jewish family in Poland. Perez wrote first in Hebrew, since 1888 - in Yiddish. Poem "Monish" (1888), bock of stories "Familiar pictures" (1890) and "Travel notes" ((1891). Stories "Silent Bontsy", "The messenger", "In basement", "Weaver's love" (1890s), "Hasidic Stories", "Folk legends" (1904-1909). Died in Warsaw in 1915.

13 Bialik, Chaim Nachman (1873-1934)

One of the greatest Hebrew poets. He was also an essayist, writer, translator and editor. Born in Rady, Volhynia, Ukraine, he received a traditional education in cheder and yeshivah. His first collection of poetry appeared in 1901 in Warsaw. He established a Hebrew publishing house in Odessa, where he lived but after the Revolution of 1917 Bialik's activity for Hebrew culture was viewed by the communist authorities with suspicion and the publishing house was closed. In 1921 Bialik emigrated to Germany and in 1924 to Palestine where he became a celebrated literary figure. Bialik's poems occupy an important place in modern Israeli culture and education.

14 Jewish State Theater in Bucharest

It was founded in 1948 as a result of the nationalization of all performing institutions, including the Jewish theater. It staged classic plays of the Yiddish repertoire, but also traditional Jewish dance performances. Nowadays, because of emigration and the increasing diminishment of the aging Jewish population, there is only a small audience and most of the actors are non-Jews. Great personalities of the theater: Israil Bercovici (poet, playwright and literary secretary), Iso Schapira (stage director and prose writer with a vast Yiddish and universal culture), Mauriciu Sekler (actor from the German school), Haim Schwartzmann (composer and conductor of the theater's orchestra). Famous actors: Sevilla Pastor, Dina Konig, Isac Havis, Sara Ettinger, Lya Konig, Tricy Abramovici, Bebe Bercovici, Rudy Rosenfeld, Maia Morgenstern.

15 Birobidzhan

Formed in 1928 to give Soviet Jews a home territory and to increase settlement along the vulnerable borders of the Soviet Far East, the area was raised to the status of an autonomous region in 1934. Influenced by an effective propaganda campaign, and starvation in the east, 41,000 Soviet Jews relocated to the area between the late 1920s and early 1930s. But, by 1938 28,000 of them had fled the regions harsh conditions, There were Jewish schools and synagogues up until the 1940s, when there was a resurgence of religious repression after World War II. The Soviet government wanted the forced deportation of all Jews to Birobidzhan to be completed by the middle of the 1950s. But in 1953 Stalin died and the deportation was cancelled. Despite some remaining Yiddish influences - including a Yiddish newspaper - Jewish cultural activity in the region has declined enormously since Stalin's anti-cosmopolitanism campaigns and since the liberalization of Jewish emigration in the 1970s. Jews now make up less than 2% of the region's population.

16 Pushkin, Alexandr (1799-1837)

Russian poet and prose writer, among the foremost figures in Russian literature. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many of his works. His masterpiece is Eugene Onegin, a novel in verse about mutually rejected love. The work also contains witty and perceptive descriptions of Russian society of the period. Pushkin died in a duel.

17 Strajer (Watchmen), Strajeria (Watchmen Guard)

Proto-fascist mass- organization founded by King Carol II with the aim of bringing up the youth in the spirit of serving and obedience, and of nationalist ideas of grandeur.

18 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.

19 Transylvania

Geographical and historic area (103 000 sq. kilometre) in Romania. It is located between the Carpathian Mountain range and the Serbian, Hungarian and Ukrainian border. Today's Transylvania is made up of four main regions: Banat, Crisana, Maramures and the historic Transylvanian territory. In 1526 at the Mohacs battle medieval Hungary fell apart; the central part of the country was incorporated into the Ottoman Empire, while in the Eastern part the autonomous Transylvanian Principality was founded. Nominally Transylvanian belonged to the Ottoman Porte; the Sultan had a veto on electing the Prince, however in reality Transylvania maintained independent foreign as well as internal policy. The Transylvanian princes maintained the policy of religious freedom (first time in Europe) and recognized three nationalities: Hungarian, Szekler and Saxon (Transylvanian German). After the treaty of Karlowitz (1699) Transylvania and Hungary fell under the Habsburgs and the province was re-annexed to Hungary in 1867 as part of the Austrian-Hungarian compromise (Ausgleich). Transylvania was characterized by specific ethno-religious diversity. The Transylvanian princes were in favor of the Reformation in the 16th and 17th century and as a result Transylvania became a stronghold of the different protestant churches (Calvinist, Lutheran, Unitarian, etc.). During the Counter- Reformation and the long Habsburg supremacy the Catholic Church also gained significant power. Transylvania's Romanian population was also divided between the Eastern Orthodox and the Uniate Church (Greek Catholic). After the reception of the Jewish Religion by the Hungarian Parliament (1895) Jewish became a recognized religions in the country, which accelerated the ongoing Jewish assimilation in Transylvania as well as elsewhere in Hungary. After World War I Transylvania was given to Romania by the Trianon Treaty (1920). In 1920 Transylvania's population was 5,2 million, of which 3 million were Romanian, 1,4 million Hungarian, 510,000 Germans and 180,000 Jews. According to the Second Vienna Dictate its northern part was annexed to Hungary in 1940. After World War II the entire region was enclosed to Romania by the Paris Peace Treaty. According to the last Romanian census (2002) Hungarians make 19% of the total population, and there are only several thousand Jews and Germans left. Despite the decrease of the Hungarian, German and Jewish element, Transylvania still preserves some of its multiethnic and multi-confessional tradition.

20 NKVD

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

21 Morozov, Pavlik (1918-1932)

Pioneer, organizer and leader of the first pioneer unit in Gerasimovka village. His father, who was a wealthy peasant, hid some grain crop for his family during collectivization. Pavlik betrayed his father to the representatives of the emergency committee and he was executed. Local farmers then killed Pavlik in revenge for the betrayal of his father. The Soviets made Pavlik a hero, saying that he had done a heroic deed. He was used as an example to pioneers, as their love of Soviet power had to be stronger than their love for their parents. Pavlik Morozov became a common name for children who betrayed their parents.

22 Kulaks

23 Great Patriotic War

24 Sovkhoz

state-run agricultural enterprise. The first sovkhoz yards were created in the USSR in 1918. According to the law the sovkhoz property was owned by the state, but it was assigned to the sovkhoz which handled it based on the right of business maintenance.

25 Great Terror (1934-1938)

26 Bukhara Jews

Bukhara Jews are an ethnic group of Jews residing in Central Asia. They are descendants of Mesopotamian Jews and speak the Bukharan language which is basically Judeo-Tadzhik. Their religious rite is Sephardic. Most of them repatriated now to Israel.

27 Komsomol

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

28 Kishinev Ghetto

The annihilation of the Jews of Kishinev was carried out in several stages. With the entry of the Romanian and German units, an unknown number of Jews were slaughtered in the streets and in their homes. About 2,000 Jews, mainly of liberal professions (doctors, lawyers, engineers), and local Jewish intellectuals, were systematically executed. After the wave of killings, the 11,000 remaining Jews were concentrated in the ghetto, created on 24th July 1941, on the order of the Romanian district ruler and the German Einsatzkommando leader, Paul Zapp. The Jews of central Romania attempted to assist their brethren in the ghetto, sending large amounts of money by illegal means. A committee was formed to bribe the Romanian authorities so that they would not hand the Jews over to the Germans. In August about 7,500 Jewish people were sent to work in the Ghidighici quarries. That fall, on the Day of Atonement (4th October), the military authorities began deporting the remaining Jews in the ghetto to Transnistria, by order of the Romanian ruler, Ion Antonescu. One of the heads of the ghetto, the attorney Shapira, managed to alert the leaders of the Jewish communities in Bucharest, but attempts to halt the deportations were unsuccessful. The community was not completely liquidated, however, since some Jews had found hiding places in Kishinev and its vicinity or elsewhere in Romania. In May 1942, the last 200 Jews in the locality were deported. Kishinev was liberated in August 1944. At that time no Jews were left in the locality.

29 Gulag

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

30 Transnistria

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

31 Bandera, Stepan (1919-1959)

Politician and ideologue of the Ukrainian nationalist movement, who fought for the Ukrainian cause against both Poland and the Soviet Union. He attained high positions in the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN): he was chief of propaganda (1931) and, later, head of the national executive in Galicia (1933). He was hoping to establish an independent Ukrainian state with Nazi backing. After Germany attacked the Soviet Union, the OUN announced the establishment of an independent government of Ukraine in Lvov on 30th June 1941. About one week later the Germans disbanded this government and arrested the members. Bandera was taken to Sachsenhausen prison where he remained until the end of the war. He was assassinated by a Soviet agent in Munich in 1959.

32 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'.

33 Hatikvah

Anthem of the Zionist movement, and national anthem of the State of Israel. The word 'ha-tikvah' means 'the hope'. The anthem was written by Naftali Herz Imber (1856-1909), who moved to Palestine from Galicia in 1882. The melody was arranged by Samuel Cohen, an immigrant from Moldavia, from a musical theme of Smetana's Moldau (Vltava), which is based on an Eastern European folk song.

34 Mandatory job assignment in the USSR

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

35 Polevoy, Boris Nikolaevich (pen name of Boris Kampov) 1908-1981)

Soviet writer, participated in the Soviet-Finnish War (1939-40). During World War II Polevoy was a war correspondent for Pravda. Polevoy's most famous work is 'The Tale of a Real Man' (1946) which was later made into a film, a true story about Hero of the Soviet Union pilot Meresyev who returned to active service on a flying fighter aircraft after his feet were amputated.

36 Doctors' Plot

37 Brezhnev, Leonid, Ilyich (1906-82) Soviet leader

He joined the Communist Party in 1931 and rose steadily in its hierarchy, becoming a secretary of the party's central committee in 1952. In 1957, as protégé of Khrushchev, he became a member of the presidium (later politburo) of the central committee. He was chairman of the presidium of the Supreme Soviet, or titular head of state. Following Khrushchev's fall from power in 1964, which Brezhnev helped to engineer, he was named first secretary of the Communist Party. Although sharing power with Kosygin, Brezhnev emerged as the chief figure in Soviet politics. In 1968, in support of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, he enunciated the 'Brezhnev doctrine,' asserting that the USSR could intervene in the domestic affairs of any Soviet bloc nation if communist rule was threatened. While maintaining a tight rein in Eastern Europe, he favored closer relations with the Western powers, and he helped bring about a détente with the United States. In 1977 he assumed the presidency of the USSR. Under Gorbachev, Brezhnev's regime was criticized for its corruption and failed economic policies.

38 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.

39 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.

40 Item 5

This was the nationality factor, which was included on all job application forms, Jews, who were considered a separate nationality in the Soviet Union, were not favored in this respect from the end of World War WII until the late 1980s.

41 Betar

Brith Trumpledor (Hebrew) meaning the 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. In Poland the name 'The J. Trumpledor Jewish Youth Association' was also used. Betar was a worldwide organization, but in 1936, of its 52,000 members, 75 % lived in Poland. Its aim was to propagate the program of the revisionists in Poland 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. From 1936-39 the popularity of Betar diminished. During the war many of its members formed guerrilla groups.

42 Gordonia

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

43 Six-Day-War

The first strikes of the Six-Day-War happened on 5th June 1967 by the Israeli Air Force. The entire war only lasted 132 hours and 30 minutes. The fighting on the Egyptian side only lasted four days, while fighting on the Jordanian side lasted three. Despite the short length of the war, this was one of the most dramatic and devastating wars ever fought between Israel and all of the Arab nations. This war resulted in a depression that lasted for many years after it ended. The Six-Day-War increased tension between the Arab nations and the Western World because of the change in mentalities and political orientations of the Arab nations.

44 Soviet/Russian doctorate degrees

Graduate school in the Soviet Union (aspirantura, or ordinatura for medical students), which usually took about 3 years and resulted in a dissertation. Students who passed were awarded a 'kandidat nauk' (lit. candidate of sciences) degree. If a person wanted to proceed with his or her research, the next step would be to apply for a doctorate degree (doktarontura). To be awarded a doctorate degree, the person had to be involved in the academia, publish consistently, and write an original dissertation. In the end he/she would be awarded a 'doctor nauk' (lit. doctor of sciences) degree.

45 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

46 Gorbachev, Mikhail (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.

47 Sakharov, Andrey Dimitrievich (1921-1989)

Soviet nuclear physicist, academician and human rights advocate; the first Soviet citizen to receive the Nobel Peace Prize (1975). He was part of the team constructing the Soviet hydrogene bomb and received the prize 'Hero of the Socialist Labor' three times. In the 1960s and 70s he grew to be the leader of human rights fights in the Soviet Union. In 1980 he was expelled and sent to Gorkiy from where he was allowed to return to Moscow in 1986, after Gorbachev's rise to power. He remained a leading spokesman for human rights and political and economic reform until his death in 1989.

48 Yad Vashem

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

49 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.

Márkus Klára

Életrajz

Márkus Klára alacsony, sovány, kissé púpos asszony. Nagyon kedves és jó kedélyű, túl van a kilencvenedik életévén. A lányával és annak férjével lakik egy családi ház emeletén, a földszinten pedig a fia él a családjával. Klári néni a házból csak nagyon ritkán jár ki. Külön szobája van, de leginkább a szobájából nyíló beüvegezett, világos erkélyen szeret üldögélni. Kedvelt időtöltése a keresztrejtvényfejtés és az olvasás, mind magyar, mind német nyelvű könyveket láttam a kezében, és nem mulasztja el megnézni a „Fiatal és nyugtalan” című szappanopera egyetlen részét sem.

Az apai nagyapám, Kaufmann Jakab az 1830-as években születhetett Nagykárolyban. Ő pont akkor halt meg, mikor én születtem, ezért róla csak azt tudom, hogy fűszeráru nagykereskedése volt Nagykárolyban, a Kaufmann Jakab és fia cég. A cég abban a házban volt, amelyikben mi is laktunk Nagykárolyban, annak idején a Deák Ferenc tér 10. szám volt, a főtéren, a kastéllyal szemben. A kastélyban a Károlyi grófok éltek annak idején, míg el nem vették a kastélyt [az államosításkor]. Én már nem emlékszem rájuk, lehet, hogy amikor egész kicsi voltam, még voltak ott, csak azt tudom, hogy az egyik grófnak tetszett az én nagynéném, a Kaufmann Mariska. [A nagykárolyi kastély most múzeum. – A szerk.] A ház, ahol laktunk, még mindig megvan, azt már én adtam el, mikor ide jöttem, Máramarosszigetre.

Kaufmann Jakabnak a testvére volt Kaufmann Adolf és Kaufmann Ignác. Kaufmann Adolfnak földje volt, vagy ki tudja, mi volt, öröklött vagyonok. De Adolf nem volt diplomás, szóval nem volt ügyvéd, az biztos. Neki a gyereke volt Annus, Sanyi és Imre. Annus Antal Istvánné volt, a férje ügyvéd volt Nagykárolyban. Volt egy fia, Antal Pali és egy lánya, Antal Zsófi, aki lett Spicc Lászlóné. Kaufmann Sanyi az ivott nagyon, de gyönyörűen zongorázott. Jómódúak voltak, úgy látszik, hogy nem kellett dolgozni menjen. És Kaufmann Imre az fogorvos volt. Kaufmann Ignác leszármazottja volt Kaufmann Bandi [Nem derül ki, hogy Endre, Andor vagy esetleg András volt-e a keresztneve. – A szerk.], aki Nagykárolyba visszajött még a deportálás után, de aztán nem tudom, mi lett vele, kiment [kivándorolt] vagy nem tudom. Bandinak volt még egy testvére, Pali. És volt még egy Kaufmann Ignác, aki Nagykárolyban lakott, már nem tudom, pontosan kinek volt a fia, de egy kicsikét, azt hiszem, valami hiányzott az agyából. Olyan csendes bolond volt.

Apámnak volt egy unokatestvére, Kaufmann Gyula [Tehát ő is a nagyapa valamelyik testvérének volt a fia. – A szerk.]. Az ő lánya volt Kaufmann Erzsi, úgyhogy én Erzsivel csak második unokatestvér voltam. Ennek az Erzsinek volt a férje Achile Fălticineanu, aki aktív tiszt volt a román hadseregben, ők Bukarestben laktak. Mihály [román] királynak volt valami szerencsétlensége, amikor gyerek volt, beleesett a tengerbe, vagy lehet, hogy valami tóba, nem emlékszem, de ez a Fălticineanu beugrott, és kihozta, megmentette. Aztán előléptették, az nagy szó volt akkor, beugrani valamibe, felöltözve, minden, hogy ő kimentse a trónörököst. Egyik se ment, ő ment egyedül, a zsidó. Két lánya volt Fălticineanunak, nem tudom, hogy nem Nóri volt-e a nagyobbik, és a kicsi Ani.

Lujza néni, Cukor Lajosné is édes unokatestvére volt az édesapámnak, de ő, azt hiszem, a nagymama, Braun Hani részéről. Hogy milyen Lujza, nem tudom. Nem tudom, hogy csak a Lujza néni révén lettünk rokonok, vagy külön a Cukor is rokon volt. Cukor Lajos orvos volt, jaj de drága egy ember volt, Istenem! És azt hiszem, ő az anyám részéről is rokon volt. Lajos bácsinak volt még egy testvére, Márton, annak is volt lánya, ezek mind Magyarországra mentek. Az amerikai Cukor György az nekünk rokon, az ő családja is Nagyszőlősről vándorolt ki vagy honnan [George Dewey Cukor (New York, 1899 – Los Angeles, 1983) – filmrendező, magyar zsidó emigráns család (Viktor és Helén Cukor) gyermeke, ismertebb filmjei: „David Copperfield” (1935), „The Philadelphia Story” (1940), „Gaslight” (1944), „Adam's Rib” (1949), „A Star Is Born” (1954), „Rich and Famous” (1981). Megkapta a legjobb rendező Oscar-díjat a „My Fair Lady” (1964) című filmjéért. – A szerk.]. Anyunak egyszer volt egy nikotinmérgezése, mert cigarettázott annak idején, és rögtön Lajos bácsit hívtuk, hát orvos ugyebár, rokon. És akkor jött a felesége is, nem engedte Lajos bácsit egyedül, pláne, hogy rokonhoz hívták, és Lujza néni annyira sietett, hogy a kalapját fordítva tette fel. Kalap nélkül nem jöhetett az urával, ugyebár, este tíz órakor, késő volt már. Ilyen emlékek! Fordítva vette fel a kalapját. És a német kisasszonyunk röhögött, hogy Lujza néni fordítva vette fel a kalapot. Régen egy orvosnak a felesége az minden lében kanál volt. A Lujza néni gyerekei voltak: Elluska, Irénke és Pista. Ellus süketnéma volt, Irénke nem tudom, hogy hol is volt, kinél volt férjnél. Pista orvos volt, amikor én kislány voltam, még Pesten volt. És úgy, ahogy most emlékszem, parkinsonos volt, mert mindig reszketett a feje. De gyönyörű szép ember volt, egy magas, jó kinézésű. És egy nagyon szép felesége volt, a Lenke néni, gyönyörű felesége volt.

Az apai nagyapám felesége Braun Hani volt, az 1840-es években született. Ott lakott abban a házban, amit aztán mi örököltünk, szóval ahol mi is laktunk. Kapisont hordott – ez nem kendő, keményebb, de nem is kalap, úgy mondták, hogy kapison – ami eltakarta az egész haját, és lejött a fülére. Zárt ruhái voltak és mindig feketék, én úgy emlékszem, hogy fekete, sötét volt. Ő nem főzött, mert volt szakácsné és szobalány, még az ő életében jómódúak voltak, akkor még volt a „Kaufmann Jakab és fia” cég. Nagymama az 1920-as évek végén halt meg, Nagykárolyban van eltemetve a zsidó temetőben.

Az édesapámnak volt egy csomó testvére: Rezsinke, Gizella, Mariska és Ignác. A legidősebb Rezsinke volt, Róna Jakabné. Cegléden éltek, volt három gyermeke: Róna Pista, Ilus és Inci, aki Amerikába ment férjhez, és valószínűleg ott is halt meg.

Rezsike után Gizella következett, Kandel Móricné, ő is Ceglédre ment férjhez, nagyon jóban voltunk velük. Négy lánya volt: Rózsika, Kati, Magdi és Boris, az [Boris] Dunapentelén volt férjnél [Dunapentele – nagyközség Fejér vm.-ben (ma: Dunaújváros); 1891-ben 3600, az 1910-es népszámlálás idején 3900, 1920-ban 4200 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.]. Rózsika, Taub Imréné volt a legidősebb. Taubék [Alsó]Szoporon laktak, az Szilágy megyében van [Alsószopor – kisközség volt Szilágy vm. Tasnádi járásában, 1891-ben, 1900-ban 1300, 1910-ben 1500 román és magyar lakossal. Trianont követően Romániához került, ma Supuru de Jos, jelenleg Szatmár megyéhez tartozik. – A szerk.], ők malmosok voltak. Taubék hárman voltak testvérek: Taub Imre, Taub Miska és Taub Endre, Endre volt a legkisebbik. Taub Imrének tehát Kandel Rózsika volt a felesége, az ő fiuk volt Saci [Sándor], aki visszajött a [II. világ]háború után Szoporra, de öngyilkos lett. Elvitték szegényt a Securitátéra, merthogy olyan gazdag ember volt, egy csomót örökölt, ott nagyon megverték, és miután kiengedték, öngyilkos lett. Borzalmas, milyen idők voltak [a kommunizmus ideje alatt], borzasztó. Taub Miskának a felesége Fischer Etus volt, két gyerekük volt, az egyik deportálva volt, és meghalt, a másik, Taub Laci meg kiment Amerikába vagy hova az unokatestvérével, Fischer Lacival. Ez a Fischer Laci Fischer Gyulának, a Fischer Etus testvérének volt a fia [Ők nem rokonok, csak az egyik Taubnak volt a felesége Fischer lány, és Taubék is csak beházasodás útján lettek rokonok Kaufmannékkal. – A szerk.]. Fischerék királydaróciak [ma Craidorolţ] voltak.

Mariska Kaufmann Dávidné volt, ő Kaufmann lány is volt, és Kaufmann-né lett a férje után is, de nem volt rokona a férje. Mariska néni gazdag volt, de a legolcsóbb csokoládét hozta mindig. Fűszerboltjuk volt Szatmárnémetiben, de óriási nagy, és az alatt volt egy óriási nagy pince. Egy óriási nagy üzlethelyiségük és egy óriási nagy kertjük volt, a másik utcáig nyúlt ki a kert. Nagyon gazdagok voltak! Egyszer ez a Mariska néni ott volt nálunk [Nagy]Károlyban, és ott volt egy Fermann Majsi nevű ember, akinek az volt a ticje, hogy folyton cvinkkerolt [pislogott] a szemével. És a nagynéném azt hitte, hogy neki kacsintgat, ki akar kezdeni vele, és megkérdezte: „Mondja, mit akar?” Jaj, [milyen emlékek]! Mariska néniéknek volt egy fiuk, Jenőke, akinek a felesége, Margitka mindig azt mondta: „Jenőke, akiből Jenő sose lesz.” Egy könnyelmű, léha ember volt, nagyon szerette a nőket. Két fiuk volt, Bandi és a Laci. Laci meghalt Oroszországban, munkaszolgálatos volt. Bandi az kint van Ausztráliában, ő megmenekült, talán még él, fiatalabb volt nálam. Nem tudok semmit róla, mert ez a Bandi olyan zsugori volt, mindig félt, hogy valamit adni kell. Az első feleségét deportálták, ő nem jött vissza, még egyszer megnősült, és avval ment ki Ausztráliába. Nem tudom, aztán mi lett a házukkal, ott van a Heim János utcában Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben]. Hogy Bandi visszajött, gondolom, ő likvidált meg minden, mert nem voltunk csak két örökös, ő meg én. De én nem aspiráltam a szatmári vagyonra.

Mariska néni után következett az apám, és a legkisebb volt Ignác, Náci, aki ott élt Nagykárolyban, voltak gyerekei, de azokra már nem emlékszem.

Az apám, Kaufmann József Nagykárolyban született 1870-ben. Kereskedelmi iskolát végzett Nagykárolyban, és ő vette át az apja cégét. 1905-ben nősült, összehozott parti volt, nagyon sok volt akkoriban a házasságközvetítő, ezzel direkt foglalkoztak emberek, úgy hívták őket zsidóul, hogy sáthen [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen]. Anyu jómódú volt, tudom, hogy egy nagy pénzbeli hozományt kapott. Azért ment férjhez, merthogy nagyapának nőügyei voltak, mostohát hozott a házhoz. Biztosan volt [a szülőknek] vallásos esküvőjük, biztosan.

Schöngut Jakab anyai nagyapám csernovici volt, de elszöktek, mikor ott zsidóüldözés volt. Pocakos volt, kis körszakálla volt, de már ezüstös, mikor én emlékszem rá, akkor már idős volt. Nagyon rendes, vallásos zsidó volt, de nagyon okos. Kalap mindig volt a fején, de egy furcsa kalap volt – filcből csinálták akkor a kalapokat –, kicsi, nem olyan rendes férfikalap. A ruházata rendes volt, nem járt kaftánban vagy ilyesmi, mert nem volt olyan vallásos [Azaz nem volt haszid. Kaftánt Magyarországon, ill. Erdélyben a 20. században a haszidok viseltek. – A szerk.]. A neológ templomba járt. Péksége volt Máramarosszigeten, amit aztán az egyik fia, Schöngut Imre vett át. Abban a házban laktak, ahol a Schöngut-pékség is volt, az udvaron volt egy ötszobás lakás, elöl meg az emelet. Az ötszobás lakásban lakott nagyapa, és fent lakott Schöngut Imre a feleségével és a három gyerekkel.

Nagymamát, Sternberg Jozefint én nem ismertem már, mert mikor anyu férjhez ment, már akkor a nagymama nem élt. Máramarosszigeten született, testvére volt Pali bácsi, Sternberg Pál, egy öreg, kicsi, vékony kis ember, Máramarosszigeten lakott, nem volt felesége, és Sternberg Jancsi, ő is Máramarosszigeten élt, neki se volt családja. Akkor volt Berta néni Nagyszőlősön, akinek szintén volt két lánya, a Rózsi és még egy. Elza, Mimi és Zsófi is három Sternberg lány volt, a nagymama valamelyik testvére volt az apjuk, itt [Máramaros]Szigeten éltek, csak azután elkerültek Magyarországra, már azt nem tudom, hogy, mindenesetre innen elmentek. Mimi szegény az meg volt bénulva vagy mi volt vele, úgy emlékszem, hogy nem tudott járni, valami baja volt, nem tudom, mi. Csak arra emlékszem, hogy Mimivel találkoztunk, amikor én gyerek voltam, és oda akartam menni, hogy megcsókoljam, és anyu úgy félrehúzott. Ki tudja, hogy mi baja lehetett, hogy nem akarta, hogy megcsókoljam, vagy hogy ő engemet. De ez a Mimi egy nagyon finom, úri teremtés volt.

Nagymamának epeköve volt, Karlsbadba ment kezeltetni, és ott halt meg 1905-ben, inoperábilis volt, óriási köve volt. Itt, Máramarosszigeten van eltemetve a zsidó temetőben. Rögtön miután meghalt nagymama, már nem tudom, hogy kit vett oda nagyapa, mindenesetre voltak nőügyei, amiért anyuka 1905-ben férjhez ment. Aztán amikor én már emlékszem, volt nagyapának egy német kisasszonya, fräulein Ida, akivel együtt élt. Ida kisasszony azelőtt a házvezetőnő volt. Nem vette feleségül, mert mindig mint Kóni Ida szerepelt. De egész utolsó napjáig vele élt nagyapa, és Ida őt ápolta. Tudom, aztán adtak valami végkielégítést Ida kisasszonynak, valami ilyesmi. De ez egy nagyon rendes nő volt, németül beszélt, Schöngut nagyapa is németül beszélt vele, az volt az anyanyelvük. A zsidók abban az időben mind tudtak németül. Nagytata 1931-ben halt meg Máramarosszigeten.

Schöngut nagyapáéknak öt gyerekük volt: Schöngut Sándor, Schöngut Emil, az anyám, Ernő és a legkisebb, Imre. Schöngut Sándornak ügynöki irodája volt Máramarosszigeten, ilyen kijáró volt, szóval üzleteket csinált, összehozott embereket. De borzasztó becsületes volt, korrekt. A felesége volt Gitta néni, és volt két gyerekük, a Klári és a Laci. Klári egyidős volt a nővéremmel, négy évvel volt idősebb nálam, ő volt a nagy Klári, én voltam a kis Klári. Ő doktor Grossmann Sándorné lett Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben]. Laci két évvel volt idősebb nálam, Párizsban végezte az orvosi egyetemet, aztán ott is maradt, Montpelier-ben lett orvos, neki egy festőművésznő volt a felesége, Gross Erzsi.

Dr. Schöngut Emil Pesten volt ügyvéd, a felesége, Heller Vilma, meghalt vakbélgyulladásban, amikor a kisebbik lánya kilenc hónapos volt. Emil bácsit belelőtték a Dunába 1944-ben [lásd: zsidók Dunába lövése]. Két lányuk volt, Jutka és Ági. Jutka fiatalon meghalt, a szívbillentyűjével volt baj. Ági, Grossné még él Pesten, már rég nem hallottam róla, pedig mindig szokott telefonálni.

Dr. Schöngut Ernő orvos volt, ő is Pesten élt, feleségül vette Bérczi Gizit, a nagy Bérczi kézimunkaüzlet [Bérczi D. Sándor kézimunkaüzlet] tulajdonosának a lányát.

Schöngut Imre, a legkisebbik nagybátyám vette át a pékséget. A nagybátyáim közül ő volt vallásos. A felesége Szmuk Berta volt, és három gyerekük volt, Zsófi, Öcsi és Sanyika. Sanyika volt a legkisebb, ő meghalt Auschwitzban gyerekként, Zsófi és Öcsi megmenekült, a máramarosszigeti rokonok közül csak ők ketten jöttek vissza a deportálásból. Zsófi fiatalabb nálam vagy nyolc-tíz évvel, a második világháború után férjhez ment, úgy vette el őt Berger Cáli, hogy azt hitte… [jó partit csinál], de közben mindenüket elvették az államosításkor, és maradtak pucér fenékkel. Ők kimentek Izraelbe. Van egy fiuk, Imi, akinek van egy felesége. De mikor kint voltak Viktorék [Márkus Klára fia], nem akarta fogadni Viktort meg a fiát, mert gondolom én, hogy egy olyan idegbaja lehet a nőnek, a feleségének. Öcsinek, Schöngut Lázárnak a felesége Lili, és ott van Nomika és Kobi. Kobi meg van nősülve, és van három gyereke. Nominak volt egy általános vérmérgezése gyerekkorában, amiből kifolyólag rövidebb lett az egyik keze meg az egyik lába, úgyhogy sántít. De nagyon édes gyerek volt. Férjhez ment, a férje is mozgássérült, ő is sántít.

Az édesanyám, Rózika Máramarosszigeten született 1885-ben. Anyunak volt négy elemije, hat felsőbb leányiskolája [lásd: leányiskolák], és utána egy évre kiküldték Bécsbe, egy iskolába, „Hochschule” [felső iskola] vagy mi volt, hogy tanulja a nyelvet. Az akkor nagy dolog volt! Anyukám perfekt beszélt németül és magyarul, de románul nem bírt megtanulni. Egy jóság volt, csupa szív. Ha valaki elkért tőle valamit, azt odaadta. Nem számított, hogy aztán nekünk nem lesz, mindenkinek adott. Habár nem voltunk gazdagok, mert már le voltunk szegényedve, de olyan nem volt, hogy valaki bejöjjön hozzánk, és ne kapjon enni, vagy nem tudom, mit. Régebben úgy volt, hogy a fodrásznő ment mindennap haza a nőkhöz, és csinálta a frizurákat. Anyuhoz is járt mindennap egy fodrásznő, úgy hívták, hogy Goldberger Lilike, s mi gyerekek úgy csúfoltuk, Goldberger Dilike. Akkor még hosszú haja volt anyunak, és azt be kellett fonni, és kontyba rakni, mikor hogy.

Édesapámra nem emlékszem, mert meghalt 1917 augusztusában, szívbajban, én akkor csak három éves voltam. Régebben a hordókat egy hosszú, kétágú fasínen gurították le a pincébe, és egy hordó ráesett a szívére. Felvitték Pestre, ott halt meg, de hazahozták vonaton. Tudom, hogy érckoporsóban van eltemetve Nagykárolyban, csak abban lehetett szállítani, hogy hermetikusan le legyen zárva. Nehéz élete volt édesanyámnak, 1917-ben három gyerekkel özvegyen maradt, akkor ott volt egy üzletvezető, az elvezette az egész üzletet.

Anyuka nem akart férjhez menni, de nagyapa mindig ment Bécsbe, és ott találkozott egy bécsi emberrel, Erdős Istvánnal, aki egy olyan „hochstapler”, egy olyan vagány volt, és nagyapa el volt ragadtatva, mert olyan jó dumája volt. Úgyhogy anyunak egész egyszerűen hozzá kellett mennie, hogy az aztán teljesen tönkretegye. Akkor még nekünk megvolt a fűszerüzlet, a „Kaufmann Jakab és fia” cég, csakhogy aztán ez a bécsi ember mindennek a nyakára hágott. Az egész céget eladta, elherdálta az egész vagyont, s olajra lépett utána. Úgy mentünk tönkre, hogy ez az Erdős István küldött a volt feleségének meg a lányának mindent – Erdős Ilusnak volt az apja, aki színésznő lett –, és kifosztotta a mi kis vagyonkánkat. S egyszer csak észrevettük, hogy már nincs semmink sem, az üzlet se, semmi, mert mindennek a nyakára hágott. Akkor aztán totál szegények lettünk, én olyan öt-hat éves lehettem, nem emlékszem, hogy iskolába jártam volna. Csak annyi volt, hogy a família nagyon jó volt, és hogy megvolt a ház, amiben laktunk. Az adósságot Schöngut nagyapa fizette ki, így maradt meg a házunk [Nagy]Károlyban. És maradtunk minden nélkül. Zsidó tragédia. Anyuka rövidesen el is vált. Utána a nagybátyáim, Schöngut Ernő és Schöngut Emil segítettek, küldtek minden hónapban száz pengőt vagy mennyit.

A házunk egy hosszú-hosszú ház volt. Kívül voltak az üzlethelyiségek, ide csak kívülről lehetett bemenni. Miután a „Kaufmann Jakab és fia” cég tönkrement, az üzlethelyiséget kiadtuk bérbe. Volt egy szőrmés, Károlyi Károly, aki bérelte. Utána, a szőrmés után volt rögtön egy másik üzlet, egy kisebb, ami a nagyobbik nővéremé volt, mielőtt férjhez ment, a Hattyú áruház. Harisnyát, kesztyűt meg ilyesmiket árultak. Közben a nővérem férjhez ment Szatmárra [Szatmérnémetibe], akkor aztán ez megszűnt, és akkor ki lett adva, már azt se tudom, hogy kinek. Egy másik bérlő Gózner volt, neki férfi rövidáruüzlete volt a Hattyú áruházzal egy időben. Volt két fia, az egyik meghalt fiatalon, a másik Eli, Elek, orvos volt. Ugyancsak kint az üzlethelyiségben volt a Kefes Olga férje, aki ékszerész volt.

A lakás belül volt, az udvar egyik oldalán. Három szobánk volt, konyha és fürdőszobahely. Nem volt felszerelve, de aztán csináltatott szegény anyu egy nagy kádat bádogból, és mellette volt egy kicsi kazánszerűség, ott melegítettük a vizet fával. Lila hálószobánk volt, halványlila, vastag selymes anyagból volt a két függöny, az ágytakaró, minden. Gyönyörű volt!

Az udvar másik oldalán, az üzletek után voltak a fáskamrák, mindegyik üzletnek volt egy fáskamrája. Utána volt egy kárpitos műhely, felette volt a szénapad [szénapadlás], a szénapadnak az oldalában volt a klozet, a két sötét vécé, ahol nem volt se ablak, semmi, de volt villany. Csak vécégödör, pöcegödör volt benne, mindig jöttek, ürítették, na de nem gyakran, és fából voltak a széles ülők. Aztán anyu megcsináltatta cementből a gödröt, de hogy miért? Mi is oda jártunk, mert nem volt rendes vécénk. És aztán az már nagy szó volt, amikor anyu oda előre csináltatott egy másik, külön vécét, az már világosabb volt. Azon az oldalon volt még a cselédlakás, cselédszoba és a műhelyek. Volt Kepecs Miklósnak [a műhelye], aki órás volt. Akkor volt egy másik, akinek a felesége Kler Sári volt, Schreiner vagy hogy hívták szegény fejét, szegénynek az arca tele volt kiütésekkel, dudorokkal, amik himlő után maradtak. Borzalmas volt! Ő mindenfélét árult, elektromos dolgokat, villanykörtéket, de kerékpárokat meg hozzávalókat is árult, az üzlete kint volt, de tudott javítani is, bent volt az udvaron a műhelye. Az udvaron volt a szemüveges Kukinak a műhelye is, aki bicikliket, gépeket javított. Ő aztán eltűnt valahova, nem tudom, hova. Volt egy sánta felesége, de jóérzésűek, becsületesek voltak. És volt egy suszter is, Roth, meg egy kárpitos, Schwartz Károly. Mind nagyon rendesek voltak. Egyszerű emberek, de becsületesek. A műhelyek után volt a mi konyhánk meg a spájz, és jött aztán a fényképészeti műterem. A műteremnek egy óriási nagy üvegfala volt. Ez eredetileg az üzletnek a vége volt, a fényképész, aki odajött, alakította át műteremmé. Két pincéje volt az üzletnek, de nem volt a két pince egyben, és betonozva voltak, nem földesek. Egy pince elöl, és egy pince hátul, ahol lett a műteremnek a sötétkamrája, az alatt is volt egy pince.

Egy óriási kapunk volt fából, beépített, hogy nem lehetett belátni. Hogy még több házbért kapjunk, Schreiner csinált egy üzletet a bejáratnál, és akkor a kapu megkisebbedett, fél kapu lett. És most is úgy van, fél kapuval. Az udvar ki volt kövezve egész végig nagy, de nem egyforma kövekkel, hanem olyan összevisszaságban volt kikövezve. Mikor még én ott voltam, akkor is úgy volt. És középen volt egy nagy-nagy kerek grupp [virágcsoport ültetve], az egyik oldalán, ahol volt a műterem, ott volt egy akácfa, és a másik oldalán volt egy vadgesztenyefa. Volt egy tyúkketrec is az udvaron, és abban volt mindig csirke, öreg tyúk, kacsa, liba – mondjuk, amikor volt liba, de mi nem nagyon vettünk libát, az nekünk sok volt, mert csak nők voltunk [a családban]. Mindenre világosan emlékszem! És nem merek [vissza]menni már, pedig nagyon szeretnék még egyszer elmenni Nagykárolyba. Sorin, az unokám mondta, elvisz, de nem merek menni, és kész. Mit hívjam ki a sorsot? Örülök mindnek, amennyi vagyok.

Juliska, egy zsidó lány volt a házvezetőnő, és voltak cselédek is mellette, szakácsné és szobalány. Miután tönkrementünk, Juliskát férjhez adtuk Királydarócra Stark Elekhez, csak hogy szabaduljunk tőle. De őneki nem kellett fizetni, ő valahogy úgy volt, mintha a nagymamának a nevelt lánya lett volna, de cselédnek használta. Ez a Juliska olyan mindenes volt, de nagyon rendes volt, nagyon szeretett minket. Amíg megvolt az üzlet, volt ott egy kiszolgálólány, azt is Juliskának hívták, egy nagyon drága teremtés volt, és mi elneveztük őt Boltikának, mert a boltban szolgált ki, Túrócziné [lett], annak megvannak a leszármazottai most Nagykárolyban. Ő keresztény volt, de akkor a zsidók és a keresztények nagyon jóban voltak. Akkor volt egy öreg-öreg szakácsné, Schiff néni, úgy hívták. A fia az első háborúban elvesztette a lábát, úgyhogy bottal járt. Schiff néni főzött, de aztán már nem volt, hogy miből fizessük, és akkor ő elment.

Ameddig a második férje anyámnak tönkre nem tett, kocsis is volt. Volt egy lovunk, úgy hívták, Sárga. Sárga színű volt, és sárga színű volt a kocsi is. Nagyon érdekes kocsi volt, nem egy bricska, hanem jó kényelmes nagy kocsi volt. A főülésen ketten ülhettek, legfeljebb még egy kisgyerek ölben, és szemben volt egy másik [ülés], úgy hívták, kisülés, ott ültek a kisebb gyerekek, [például] én. És elöl volt a bak, ahol ült Miklós, a kocsis. „Miklósz, Miklósz” – így mondta ő a nevét, Oroszországból jött, az első világháborúkor nagyon sok orosz maradt ott [Nagykárolyban], és aztán megtanult magyarul, ott nősült meg, [Nagy]Károlyban.

De anyu mindig tartott még egy cselédet is. Úgy, amilyen szegények voltunk, de volt cseléd. A cselédnek, Terinek volt külön egy szobája ott az udvaron. Volt egy férfi, akivel együtt lakott, már nem tudom, hogy hívták, de egy borzalmas ember volt, folyton csak püfölte Terit. Annyi püfföt kapott Teri, amennyi beléfért, és mindig tűrt neki.

Egy német kisasszony volt nálunk tizennégy évig. Otilia Passonnak hívták, volt vagy három fiútestvére. Katowicei volt az apja, Ludwig Passon, mozdonyvezető volt. Oti egy drága teremtés volt. Szőke volt, de hidrogénezte, mert eredetileg barna haja volt. Németül beszéltek velünk annak idején. De aztán ő megtanult perfekt magyarul, és akkor magyarul beszéltünk az egész házban. Ő mindent csinált [a háztartásban]. Nagyon vallásos, római katolikus volt, nem létezett, hogy vasárnap ne menjen a misére. Egyszer elment, de túl szűk volt a cipője, szorította, és elájult. A drága! Mert olyan kokett akart maradni, és vett egy kis szűk cipőt. Elájult a templomban! Felpofozták, persze biztos sántítva jött haza, vagy hozta a cipőt a kezében, ezt már nem tudom, de tudom, hogy nagy szenzáció volt, hogy Oti elájult a templomban. És aztán anyuka férjhez adta ide, Máramarosszigetre egy Valian Sándor nevű idősebb emberhez, aki sérvkötőkészítő volt, nagyapának készített egy sérvkötőt, úgy ismerte meg. De egy becsületes, egy rendes ember volt. 1930 karácsonyakor ment Oti férjhez, mikor már én ide kerültem a hatodik és hetedikbe, 1931–32-ben, akkor ő már itt volt, Máramarosszigeten. Meghaltak mind a ketten, itt van a sírjuk.

Az idősebbik nővérem, Anci [Kaufmann Anna] 1906. szeptember tizenegyedikén született. Nagyon rendes, komoly teremtés volt. Egyszer szegény kapott egy borzasztó kiütést az arcára, hogy mitől, nem tudni. Akkor felment Pestre vagy hat hónapra, tizenöt éves lehetett, ott kikezelték. Először egy nagybátyámnál lakott, Schöngut Ernőnél, az orvosnál, de aztán a felesége nem engedte, borzasztó féltékeny volt rá, mert nagyon jó viszony volt nagybácsi és unokahúg között, egy igazi rokoni viszony. És őnagysága ezt félreértette, hogy mennyire szereti Ernő bácsi Ancit. Pedig nem úgy szerette, annál egy sokkal korrektebb ember volt, de hát milyenek a nők, féltik [a férjüket]. Úgyhogy vett ki szobát aztán a nővérem. Közben Pesten kitanulta a fűzőséget [fűzőkészítést] – régebben a nők fűzőt hordtak. Aztán hazajött, fűzőket varrt, még ment is valamennyire, aztán kiment a divatból, de utána csinált melltartókat. Nagyon ügyes volt. Még megvan a varrógép, Neumann ipari gép, amelyiken dolgozott. Remekül megy, csak hát én már nem használom. Részletre vettük annak idején. Haj, kínlódás volt az élet! De visszatérült az ára, mert gyönyörűen dolgozott, gyönyörű munkája volt, jöttek házhoz a nők, és méretre varrt.

Anci 1935. április hetedikén ment férjhez, összehozott parti volt [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen]. Fuchs Bertalannak hívták a férjét, vasúti tiszt volt, szatmári [Szatmárnémeti] születésű. A szülei Szatmárnémetiben laktak, és Bertinek volt egy nővére Pesten, Fábián Gyuláné, egy mérnöknek a felesége, akinek nagyon tragikus élete volt, mert volt egy hatéves kislánya, aki leukémiában meghalt. Nagyon rendes volt ez a Lili, amikor én Pestre kerültem, odamentem hozzá, adott enni, pénz nélkül [ingyen], pedig szegény volt. De én is szegény voltam. A nővéreméknek délelőtt volt a polgári, és délután vagy egy órakor volt az egyházi esküvőjük, mert aznap délután valamikor ment már a vonat, elmentek nászútra Debrecenbe. A vallásos esküvőjük otthon volt, baldachint hoztak ki a házhoz, négy lábon volt, bordó bársony, arannyal átszőve [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás]. Nagyon egyszerűen zajlott le az egész, csak a rabbi volt jelen, a sakter és a közvetlen rokonok, a Berti szülei és mi. Utána kellett adni egy ebédet otthon. Esküvő után Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben] vettünk Ancinak házat a Jókai úton, a tisztviselőtelepen, a két Budapesten élő nagybátyám [Schöngut Emil és Schöngut Ernő] fizette. Mindent a nagybátyámék fedeztek, nagyon rendesek voltak. A nővérem dolgozott az után is, hogy férjhez ment. Egyelőre otthon voltak, Nagykárolyban, amíg megvették a szatmár[német]i házat, csak azután költöztek át Szatmárnémetibe. Majd Krajovába [Craiova, Dolj megyében van, a 19–20. század fordulóján 45 400, 1915-ben már 52 000 lakossal. – A szerk.] költöztek, mert a sógorom oda lett helyezve. Nagyon szépen éltek, a sógorom korrekt, becsületes, nagyon rendes volt. A kislányuk 1937. szeptember huszonkettedikén született. Gyönyörű volt! Barnásvörös, selymes szálú haja volt. De gyönyörű szép haja volt! A feje tetején rolniban volt a haja, az édesanyja mosás után becsavarta papírba, hogy tudjon aludni, hogy ne legyen kemény, és reggel, amikor kivette, az állt. 1940-ben, amikor újra Magyarország lett itt [lásd: második bécsi döntés], akkor siettek haza, és visszajöttek Nagykárolyba. Bár maradtak volna Krajovában! Ha ők akkor ott maradnak, akkor… [túlélik a deportálást].

A kisebbik nővérem, Manyi [Kaufmann Margit] 1910. június huszonhatodikán született. A nővéremnek volt egy keresztény fiú udvarlója, Fluch Micu, Fluch Miklós. Egy aranyos, szőke fiú volt, egy elszegényedett úri, dzsentri családból származott. Egy úrigyerek volt, Istenem, de bájos! Volt egy lánytestvére, Fluch Irén, Pécsiné – neki volt egy lánya, Kati, de borzasztó csúnya volt szegényke –, és a legidősebb fiútestvért már nem tudom, hogy hívták, az futóbajnok volt. Járt haza is, a házhoz, Micu, ilyenkor hozott virágot. Emlékszem, csináltak a többiek, a barátok egy verset, hogy „Manyi, Micu szeme ragyog”. Mert látták, hogy nagyon szeretik egymást. Abban a társaságban volt Niedermann Feri, Niedermann Pisti is, ezek az én tanító nénimnek, Irénke néninek voltak a fiai. Pisti talán nem, de Feri az idősebb volt a nővéreméknél. Feri volt az idősebb, az nagyon okos volt, író lett. Pisti is egy okos gyerek volt, és szép, vele még a háború után mintha találkoztam volna, ott volt [Nagy]Károlyban, és aztán átment Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe]. Pisti is író vagy valami hasonló lett. Szóval, nagy koponyák voltak [A Niedermann fiúkról: apjuk, N. Sámuel (Munkács, 1866 – Nagykároly, 1943) könyvelő, anyjuk N.-né Baján Irén (Felsőbalog, 1871 – Nagykároly, 1937) tanítónő volt, a helyi Izraelita Nőegylet elnöke. Niedermann Ferenc 1909-ben született Nagykárolyban, Nemes Ferenc néven a „Brassói Lapok” kolozsvári tudósítója volt; 1934-ben megjelent egy kisregénye („Elemista voltam”). Élettársával, Pálffy Lili újságírónővel együtt deportálták (Pálffy Lili – akire nem vonatkoztak a zsidótörvények – gázkamrában halt meg, Niedermann Ferencet pedig egy két tábor közötti halálmenetben, 1944-ben agyonlőtték). Niedermann István 1910-ben született Nagykárolyban, 1954-ig a legváltozatosabb foglalkozásokat űzte (közben 1944-ben munkaszolgálatos volt Romániában, Vajdahunyad környékén, s bár egy alkalommal még a sírját is megásatták vele, túlélte a holokausztot – több mint negyven tagú családjából csak feleségével másodmagával maradt életben), végül kikötött a színészetnél. A nagybányai, majd a színház Szatmárnémetibe való költözésétől a szatmári Állami Magyar Színház művésze. 1954–1975 között Nádai István néven száznál több fő- és epizódszerepben játszott, nevét beírta Erdély színháztörténetébe. 1990-ben nyugdíjazták. 1995-ben hunyt el Szatmárnémetiben. – A szerk.].

A korzó volt akkor a szórakozás, ott találkoztak az emberek, mindenki kijárt szombaton és vasárnap délben tizenkettőkor. Én még akkor kicsi voltam. De nem olyan kicsi, azért a kapuba kiálltam, és néztem a korzót, ott ment előttünk. Én a kapuban álltam, de a testvéreim azok mentek korzózni. Glaszékesztyűt hordtak akkoriban, finom bőrből, nem olyan volt, mint a lakk, de olyan sima. Bőr volt, valódi bőr volt [A glaszékesztyű finom, tompa fényű kecske- vagy juhbőrből készült. – A szerk.]. És aztán kalap nélkül kimenni egy vasárnap délelőtt a korzóra, mikor jönnek ki [az emberek] a katolikus templomból meg a református templomból! Zsidó, keresztény akkor korzózott. A szombat is meg volt tartva, nagyon tartották a keresztények a szombatot, akkor is volt korzó [Márkus Klára arra utal, hogy a keresztények tiszteletben tartották a zsidó ünnepeket, így a szombatot is. – A szerk.]. Akkor találkoztak, és szemeztek ugyebár, kokettáltak egymással.

Abban az időben [az 1920–1930-as években] nem volt az, hogy te zsidó vagy, te keresztény, ilyesmi. Az olyan természetes volt, hogy Manyi Micuval volt. De nem úgy, hogy együtt éltek volna, nem, Micu annál sokkal finomabb volt. Az is természetes volt, mondjuk, hogy a mészárszékben megvettük azt a disznóhúst. Vagy például ha egy keresztény levágott egy disznót, akkor az küldött kóstolót. Akkor mi Purimkor tésztát küldtünk nekik, nagyon soknak küldtünk. A Fluch család aztán elköltözött Magyarországra, amikor bejöttek a románok [A trianoni békeszerződést követő időszakban, 1920 után], mert a románok nem foglalkoztatták a magyarokat, Micu se tudott elhelyezkedni. De hát az olyan egy siralom volt, amikor elmentek! Nagy sírás volt. Nagyon szerette Micu Manyit, és Manyi Micut. Mi lett velük, nem tudom.

Manyi olyan tizennyolc-tizenkilenc éves korában megtanult fényképezni. Ott az udvaron volt egy Friedrich Schmidt nevű fényképész, nála kezdte. Schmidt egy nagyon rendes ember volt. A felesége úgy hívta, Fritzl. Borzasztóan ivott a felesége is, egy német nő volt, de ivott, mint a kefekötő. Schmidt meghalt hirtelen, szegény, és a felesége elment Prágába, a húgához. Utána Koziárszky vette át a fényképészeti műhelyt. Koziárszky az meg olyan bolondos volt, egy olyan bohém, de nagyon korrekt volt, egy úriember. Nem volt nekünk annyi pénzünk, hogy vegyünk Manyinak fényképezőgépet, szegény emberek voltunk. Fényképezett, retusált a nővérem, jártak a főnökkel esküvőkre, mindenféle alkalmakra is fényképezni. Akkor még olyan régifajta fényképezőgép volt, amelyik fekete kendővel volt letakarva, és lábon állt, lemezeket tettek be, arra fényképeztek. Voltak segédjei is a fényképésznek, fiatal fiúk, Töröknek hívták az egyiket, aki cipelte a felszerelést, adogatott. A műterem külső [udvarra néző] fala tiszta üvegből volt, ahogy bementünk, jobbra volt a sötétkamra, ahol előhívtak, és balra volt maga a műterem, volt bent egy nagy-nagy fehér háttér, ami előtt fényképeztek, és voltak asztalok is, ahol a segédek retusáltak. De nagyon rendes emberek voltak [a fényképészek], nem használták ki, és adtak neki rendesen fizetést. És avval segített minket, szegény nővérem, ahelyett, hogy ő felélte volna, vagy vett volna magának ruhát vagy valamit. Beadta a háztartásba.

A kisebbik nővérem házassága is összehozott parti volt, 1935 szeptemberében ment férjhez. Az ő férje, Moskovits Andor (Bandi) tisztviselő volt egy fatelepen Marosvásárhely mellett, Lunca Bradului-on [magyarul: Palotailva]. Az nagy szó volt akkor, egy tisztviselő! Tasnádi születésű volt, volt egy nővére, aki férjhez ment Magyarországra egy keresztényhez, Bárány Bubihoz [Tasnád – nagyközség volt Szilágy vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3700, 1910-ben 5000 lakossal (járási szolgabírói hivatal, járásbíróság, adóhivatal). Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]. Úgy emlékszem, Budapesten laktak, de nekik nem volt gyerekük. A Manyiék esküvője is rendesen, zsidó módra zajlott, a baldachin alatt, mint az idősebbik nővéremé. Azt is a nagybátyámék fedezték, mert nekünk honnan lett volna pénzünk, tíz embert összehozni? A zsidóknál úgy van, hogy tíz embert kell összehívni, úgy hívják ezt, minján, minden imádsághoz, a házasságkötéshez is. És akkor ezt a tíz embert is meg kellett vendégelni. Manyiék nem sokat éltek együtt, felbomlott a házasságuk. Nem volt veszekedés, semmi, csak egész egyszerűen nem szerették egymást. Szóval, biztos volt valami köztük, ami nem stimmelt. Utána visszakerült a nővérem Nagykárolyba, és tovább fényképészkedett.

Mindegyik nővérem igazságszerető, becsületes volt. Nem voltak vidámak, inkább komolyak voltak, mert az élet megtanította őket a komolyságra. Négy év elemije volt mind a két nővéremnek, a zsidó iskolába jártak, és négy év gimnáziumuk [A hétosztályos gimnáziumból – Romániában akkoriban hét osztályos volt a gimnázium. – A szerk.], ők nem érettségiztek. De művelték magukat, németül beszéltek szépen, franciául, úgyhogy az általános műveltségük megvolt. Volt otthon zongoránk, anyu is és a két nővérem is szépen zongorázott. A nagyobbik az énekelt és zongorázott, a Manyi nővérem csak zongorázott, de gyönyörűen. Csak én nem akartam, mert utáltam a tanárnőt, Dudus kisasszonyt, Jakobovits Júliának hívták. Nem szerettem, mert mindig heccelt engem, kisgyerek voltam, hogy a fiúk meg ez meg az, és ez nekem nem tetszett. És akkor abbahagytam sajnos a zongorázást, így nem tudok én zongorázni, mert nem volt szimpatikus a tanárnő. Egy idősebb nő volt, egy nagyon úri teremtés, de nagyon egzaltált. Olyan művészi frizurája is volt, rövid és bozótos, sötétbarna. Az arca is különleges volt, szóval látszott, hogy valami művészféle. Manyi járt vizsgázni a szatmár[német]i zeneiskolába Bendinerhez, aki az iskola igazgatója volt, de csak vagy két évben, nem fejezte be.

Én, Márkus Klára, tulajdonképpen 1913. december harmincegyedikén születtem, de 1914. január elsejére vagyok bejelentve, egy éjszakával nyertem egy évet. Játékaink nagyon nem voltak, inkább rongybabáink voltak, nem voltunk elkényeztetve, hát a család nem volt gazdag, és örültünk, hogyha megvan a mindennapi.

Amikor kicsi voltam, nem nagyon jöttünk Máramarosszigetre, csak azután kezdtünk el összejárni a családdal. Nyaranta jöttünk, mert a Schöngut nagyapa itt volt. És anyu jött minden évben az édesanyja sírjához. Már nem emlékszem, mennyi időre, de nem voltunk sokat. Mi az egyik nagybátyámnál voltunk, Schöngut Imrénél, akinek volt a péksége, és minden évben kaptunk két zsák lisztet, nekünk ennyi jutott a pékségből. Ebből sütöttünk kenyeret otthon, vagy elvittük a lisztet egy pékségbe [Nagy]Károlyban, a Wesselényi utcába, és ott süttettük a kenyeret, emlékszem, nagy-nagy kenyerek voltak.

A nővérem, Anci, Ceglédre járt nyaralni az unokatestvérekhez. Nagyon tartottuk a rokoni kapcsolatokat. Ott hízott meg, mert mikor ettek, mindig kiküldték valamiért: „Eridj, hozd be a konyhából ezt!” „Eridj csak, hozzál egy kanalat, hozzál ezt vagy azt.” És közben raktak a tányérjára. Ő, szegény, azt hitte, még mindig ugyanaz, és [csak] evett, és úgy meghízott, hogy borzasztó. És nevettek rajta, mert ő nem vette észre, hogy neki mindig raktak a tányérjára. Nagyon kövéren jött haza. Én nem jártam hozzájuk, mert ezek idősebbek voltak, mint én, Magdi nyolc évvel, ő volt egyidős a nővéremmel, Kati még idősebb volt.

Emlékszem, Mária királynő Ferdinánddal járt egyszer Nagykárolyban. [Mária királynő Ferdinand de Hohenzollern román király felesége, az angol Viktória királynő unokája. Az I. világháború alatt a Román Vöröskereszt nagyasszonya, Ferdinand 1927-ben bekövetkezett halála után a kiskorú fia, Carol mellett uralkodó háromtagú régenstanács tagja. Nagy tiszteletnek örvendett a nép körében. – A szerk.] Ott jöttek keresztül, Ferdinánd olyan király volt, hogy járta az országot, és nagyon népszerű volt, nagyon szerették. Sokkal idősebb volt, mint Mária. Mária az országáért mindent megcsinált, nagy diplomatákkal jóban volt, szegény, csak azért, hogy az országát mentse. És azon kívül is szerette a férfiakat Mária. Nagyon szép volt. Gyönyörű szép volt, gyönyörű szőke haja volt, óriási nagy szőke konttyal. És kocsival mentek, mi ott álltunk az árok szélén, és néztük, öt-hat éves lehettem. Nagyon népszerűek voltak.

Nagykárolyban nagyon sok zsidó volt, de inkább egy magyar város volt, és a zsidók is el voltak magyarosodva [Az 1910-es népszámlálás idején a lakosok 98%-ának magyar volt az anyanyelve, a 16 078 főnyi lakos közül 216 fő volt román és 63 német. – A szerk.]. A svábok megint más volt, de a zsidók azok nagyon asszimilálódtak, nem beszéltek jiddisül, magyar volt az anyanyelvük. Az ortodoxok is magyarul beszéltek otthon, csak a Teitelbaum család beszélt jiddisül [lásd: Teitelbaum dinasztia; Teitelbaum Joel volt 1926–1934 között a rabbi Nagykárolyban, majd a szatmári haszid közösség vallási vezetője lett. – A szerk.]. Voltak a parókások, az ortodoxok, azok nagyon vallásosak voltak, voltak a héjasok, akik vallásosak voltak, de nem vettek fel parókát, és voltak a neológok, mint mi is [A héjas elnevezés onnan ered, hogy volt haja a nőknek, azaz hajasok; Márkus Klára nem hallott ilyen megnevezésről máshol, csak Nagykárolyban. – A szerk.].

A héjasok civilizáltabbak és felvilágosultabbak voltak. Ezek olyan fél-ortodoxok voltak, a nők meghagyhatták a hajukat – hosszú hajuk volt természetesen –, szóval ezek nem voltak olyan nagyon vallásosak, mint az ortodoxok, de vallásosabbak voltak, mint a neológok. A férfiak nem hordtak kaftánt, rendesen öltözködtek, csak volt egy bizonyos fekete kalapjuk, kicsi karimával, amit mindig viseltek. Imaházba hét közben reggel s este, pénteken délután és szombaton kétszer, reggel és este jártak. A héjasok közé tartozott a Roth família, egy gazdag kereskedőcsalád volt, nagyon rendes, kimondhatatlanul becsületes család.

A neológok csak pénteken és szombaton mentek a templomba, azok egész más felfogásúak voltak. A neológok között is voltak, akik csak kósert ettek [lásd: kóser háztartás; étkezési törvények], de a legtöbbjük nem tartotta úgy a vallást, csak mondjuk, mint mi, nagyünnepeken mentünk a templomba, de különösebben nem tartottuk. Az öltözködésük rendes volt, európai, mint mindenkinek. A neológ nők közül azok, akik vallásosabbak voltak, valódi csipkekendőt hordtak, drága, brüsszeli csipkéből, már akinek volt pénze. Ez hosszú és széles volt, és vagy megkötötték, vagy csak úgy magukra vették. Nagyünnepekkor fehér csipkekendő volt, de volt, akinek nem csipke volt, mondjuk, aki szegényebb volt. Anyunak is volt csipkekendője. Az ortodoxok azok állandóan sötét kendőt, parókát viseltek, a nőknek leborotválták a hajukat, és parókát viseltek, és a paróka mellett még a fejükre is vettek kendőt. A nők ruházatában az volt a különbség, hogy a vallásosak, akár a héjasok, akár az ortodoxok, csak hosszú ujjú és magas nyakú hosszú ruhát viselhettek, csak a neológok viselhettek rövid ujjú ruhát.

Három zsinagóga volt [A Magyar Zsidó Lexikon szerint két zsinagóga volt Nagykárolyban, az egyik 1870-ben épült, amikor még csak egyetlen, az 1869-ben statusquo alapra helyezkedett hitközség volt a városban; az anyahitközségből 1881-ben kivált ortodox hitközség 1901-ben építette föl zsinagógáját, és volt még három imaháza (beszmedres / beszemedres). – A szerk.]. Az egyik volt az ortodox templom – amelyik most is megvan mint emlékmű –, akik oda jártak, azok voltak a nagyon vallásosak. A másik volt a miénk, a neológ, ahol dr. Schönfeld Lázár volt a főrabbi. Volt egy csomó gyereke, s volt egy kövér felesége. Ez volt a nagyobb zsinagóga, a neológ. Nagyon szép, nagy, fent emeletes volt, ott ültek a nők, és fonott rács volt fent. Az ortodoxoknál fából volt ez a rács, de a neológoknál műanyagból volt, és jobban át lehetett látni rajta. És volt egy imaházuk a héjasoknak, ott már nem emlékszem, ki volt a rabbi.

Az ortodoxoknak egy Teitelbaum volt a rabbijuk, a [máramaros]szigeti Teitelbaumnak a fia. Teitelbaum Joelnek hívták, és úgy mondták neki, Jajris. Egy nagyon komoly és nagyon vallásos család volt. Két lánya volt, Hánele és Ruhala. Hánele volt a nagy, férjhez ment, és nem volt gyereke, nagyon vallásosak voltak, és akartak, de nem volt gyerek. A másikat, a kicsit, tizenhét éves korában férjhez adták egy Teitelbaumhoz, egy unokatestvéréhez, mert azok nagyon gyorsan mentek férjhez, állapotos lett, és méhen kívüli volt a terhessége, de mivelhogy nagyon vallásosak voltak, nem ment orvoshoz, és meghalt szegény. Emlékszem arra, mikor jöttek [mikor Teitelbaumék beköltöztek Nagykárolyba], olyan érdekes volt, mert nagy-nagy elánnal jöttek, rendes lovas kocsival, amelyiknek volt fedele, de nem volt felhúzva, s már az is boldog volt, aki meg tudta fogni azt a kocsit, amiben Teitelbaum ült, olyan nagy szentnek tartották. Nagyon vallásos volt. Teitelbaumhoz mentek az emberek tanácsért, akár üzleti, akár más, az életben kért tanácsért. Borzasztóan okos volt. És úgy megszívlelték, amit ő mondott, az szent volt. A neológ rabbival már nem volt ilyen. Az nem volt olyan nagyon szent, de az is nagyon rendes volt, és okos volt, és adott tanácsot, és azok is mind beváltak, de Teitelbaum egy olyan csodarabbi volt [lásd: caddik; haszidizmus]. Nagyon sok keresztény is járt hozzá, mindenkit fogadott, akkor nem úgy volt [mint most], egy szent rabbit azt úgy respektálták. Bóhereket – akikből majd rabbik lesznek – is tartott, tizenöt meg húsz embert, és azok mindennap ott is ebédeltek. Teitelbaum és a hívei, a nagyon vallásosak, azok hosszú kaftánban jártak [lásd: haszid öltözék], sárga szőrmés fejfedőt hordtak [strájmli], nyestből – nekik nem volt szabad csak valódi szőrmét viselni. A nőknek pedig parókájuk volt, leborotválták a hajukat, és még kendőt is kötöttek a fejükre, de csak sötét kendőt.

Külön fürdőjük volt a neológoknak és az ortodoxoknak, a héjasok is a neológ mikvébe jártak. Az ortodoxoknál az volt a különbség, hogy volt ott valaki, aki lenyomta a víz alá háromszor azt, aki bement, és ott fürdött. De csak az ortodoxoknál volt ez a szokás. Én nem jártam egyik fürdőbe sem, anyám se volt, a nővéreim se, mert mi mindig otthon mosakodtunk. A férfiaknak volt fontos ez a rituális fürdés, nekik kellett minden héten menni, péntek délután. Meg régebben kevés embernek volt otthon fürdőszobája, oda jártak mosakodni. [A mikvében való alámerülésnek természetesen nem a higiéniai, hanem a rituális megtisztulás a célja. Nőknél a rituális megtisztuláshoz a menstruáció végétől hét ún. tiszta napnak kell eltelnie, napnyugtától a hetedik nap nyugtáig, és a hetedik nap napszállta előtt kell fölkeresni a mikvét. – A szerk.] Külön kádak is voltak, az drágább volt, és volt egy nagy közös medence mindkét fürdőben.

Megfértünk, és békesség volt, nem volt nagy rivalizálás [a zsidók között]. És mindenféle vallás nagyon jóban volt Nagykárolyban. Voltak római katolikusok, reformátusok, ortodoxok – az oroszok, volt direkt orosz [görögkeleti] templom – és görög katolikusok. Volt egy német kisasszony nálunk, aki mindig vasárnap ment a misére, és az természetes volt, hogy megy az ő templomába, nemhogy ne engedjük vagy ilyesmi. Voltak például keresztények, akik hosszúnapkor [Jom Kipur] jöttek a zsidó templomba, mert azt mondták, hogy az nekik jó pont az Isten előtt, hogyha jönnek. Mondták az ő imájukat, de respektálták a más vallást.

Mi csak akkor mentünk a zsinagógába, mikor volt a mázkir. A mázkir az, amit a zsidók imádkoznak a halottért. Az én apám meghalt 1917-ben Pesten szívbajban, és akkor olyan nagy kultusz volt, szóval isten őrizz, hogy az ember ne menjen a mázkirra, az olyan szent dolog volt. Minden nagyünnepkor van, Jom Kipurkor van, húsvétkor [Pészah] van, és minden ünnepen van [A három zarándokünnepen: Pészahkor, Sávuotkor, Szukotkor, valamint Jom Kipurkor mondanak a meghaltak emlékére imát. – A szerk.]. A nőknek nem kell menni [a zsinagógába]. Van, aki nagyon vallásos nő, és megy, de a férfiaknak kell péntek este és szombaton délelőtt. És szombat délután volt a hávdoli [hávdálá], amikor kimegy a szombat. Csak arra emlékszem, hogy volt egy tál, amiben volt valami víz, abba bemártották a kezüket, és tettek mindenkinek vizet a fejére, áldást mondtak, otthon, ahol volt férfi, mert ha nem volt férfi, akkor az nem volt érvényes. Én már arra nem emlékszem, hogy az apám csinálta – akkor még túl kicsi voltam –, de valaki csinálta, nem tudom, ki. Ez volt a rituális szombat este. [Haszid környezetben elterjedt szokásról van szó. A hávdálá-gyertyát nem fújják el, hanem a hávdálá-borból öntenek rá, hogy elaludjon. A lecsöpögő bort tányérba gyűjtik, majd belemártják az ujjukat, és megnedvesítik (többnyire) a halántékukat, a szemüket és a zsebüket, jó „szimánokat” (jeleket) gyűjtendő az elkövetkező hétre. A szem megnedvesítése a szemmel veréstől és a szembajtól véd, a halántéké vagy a homloké a jó gondolatokat hivatott előhívni, a zseb megkenése pedig a pénzügyek pozitív befolyásolására való. Közben ezt mondják: „szimán tov, mázel tov”. (A hávdálát egyébként nemcsak borral lehet csinálni, hanem más olyan itallal is, amelynek a fogyasztása föltehetően élvezettel jár – akkor ezzel az itallal oltják el a gyertyát.) Vízzel nem szokás hávdálát csinálni, mert a vízivás háláhikus szempontból szükségletkielégítésnek minősül, nem pedig élvezetnek. Ha az interjúalany valóban jól emlékszik arra, hogy náluk vízzel öntötték le a gyertyát, akkor arról lehet szó, hogy náluk csak azt a motívumot őrizték meg, hogy a gyertyát nem szabad elfújni, mert az elviszi a szerencsét, és a fújást elkerülendő, öntötték le vízzel. – A szerk.]

Anyumék úgy indultak, hogy kóserek voltak, de aztán az idők folyamán ez lemaradt, miután leszegényedtünk. Nem vágtunk disznót, de nem volt az, hogy ne együnk kolbászt, mondjuk. Disznóhúst is vettünk, mert akkor a disznóhús olcsóbb volt, mint a marhahús. Ünnepekkor volt a levesben vagy grízgaluska, vagy laska, vékony laska, nem olyan vastag, vékony laska volt. Húsleves volt, az mindig volt ünnepeken. Volt a köménymagleves, voltak falcslevesek, rendszerint húsleves volt. Nagyon régen csináltunk mi is csólentet, de aztán már nem. Azt cserépedénybe kellett tenni, és abban volt a kugli, ami abból állt: tojás, liszt, és az bele volt téve a fazékba, és el kellett vinni a pékhez, csak annak volt jó íze. Zsidó volt a pék, sőt a péksegédek is. Pénteken délután elvitték az edényeket, akkorra bemelegítették a kemencét – óriási kemence volt, mint a pékségekben –, és az másnapig megcsinálódott [megfőtt], másnap kellett menni utána. Pénteken csak a csólentek voltak ott, vittek oda neológok és ortodoxok is, pénteken-szombaton nem sütöttek mást. De hogyha mi már nem voltunk kóserek, akkor a hitközségi elöljáróság rendelete alapján a pék nem vette be a mi csólentes edényünket, úgyhogy ez elmaradt. Húsvétkor [Pészah] pászkát sütöttek a pékségben. De volt a gépi pászka is, ami most is van Izraelben, és volt a másik pászka, ami vastagabb volt, az sima volt, és sötétebb lisztből volt. A héjasok meg a vallásos zsidók nem ették ezt a kész pászkát, amit gyárban csináltak, hanem süttettek a pékségben szintén keletlen tésztából [A „héjasok meg a vallásos zsidók” – Nagykárolyban ez utóbbiak alighanem haszidok voltak – valószínűleg smire maceszt süttettek Pészahra. – A szerk.]. Mi megtartottuk a zsidó húsvétot, de csak a zsidó pászkával, amiben nincsen élesztő. És olyankor mi küldtünk pászkát a keresztényeknek. Már úgy várták! Mikor vittük nekik a pászkát: „Jaj, de jó, hogy hoztátok, jaj, de jó!” Én nem szeretem a pászkát, hát annak semmi íze. És mégis, hogy a keresztények miért szeretik, azt nem tudom. Réges-régen, amikor én még egész kicsi voltam, akkor volt külön edény Pészahkor, le kellett hozni, a padon [padláson] tartották külön – tudom, hogy vitték az edényeket. Húsvétkor mindig lehozták, és felvitték a másikat. És amikor elment a nyolc nap, akkor újra felvitték oda, és lehozták a másikat. A lisztet meg a lisztféléket eladták, de csak a legközelebbinek, a cselédségnek, akik ott voltak a családban. Egy illuzórikus [jelképes] összegért adtuk el, és aztán a duplájáért vettük vissza [Márkus Klára a homecolás egy formájára utal, amikor a házban lévő homecos termékeket jelképesen vagy a szó szoros értelmében eladják egy nem zsidónak, Pészah után pedig visszakapják vagy visszavásárolhatják. Lásd még: szerződés a homec eladásáról. – A szerk.].

Azt hiszem, Purim előtt volt a kápóre, amikor egy tyúkot kell a fej felett megforgatni – a nőknek tyúk kell, a férfiaknak kakas [Márkus Klára emlékezete csal, Jom Kipur előtti reggelen szokták a kápóresz engesztelő áldozati rituálét elvégezni. – A szerk.]. A kápóre az áldozat, azért csinálják, hogy ez legyen a bűnökért az áldozat, ez a tyúk [vagy a kakas]. Ezt még csináltuk, mikor gyerek voltam, bent a konyhában. De hát én gyerek voltam, én féltem, és akkor segítettek nekem, ugyebár. Én kellett tartsam, de azért ott volt édesanyám, segített. Közben kellett valamit mondani, hogy „Ez legyen értem az áldozat…”, de zsidóul, nem emlékszem én már rá. És a tyúkot el kellett vinni mindig a sakterhez.

Purimkor a felnőttek is fel voltak öltözve mindenféle ruhákba, maskarába. És Purimkor az volt a szokás, hogy küldtünk tálakat [tele süteménnyel] az ismerősöknek, főleg a keresztényeknek, annyira számítottak arra, hogy Purim van, és hát mindenkinek volt egy olyan jó keresztény barátja – és mi is kaptunk [lásd: sláchmónesz]. Ilyenkor az a szokás, hogy többféle tésztát kell sütni. Száraz torták voltak, csokoládés meg sárga tészta keverve. Akkor volt a pusszerli, a rámás pusszerli, hát az nagyon finom volt. Azt úgy kell csinálni, hogy a tojás fehérjét fel kell verni habnak, aztán bele a sárgáját, a cukrot, lisztet, akkor kicsire kiszaggatni, laposra, és megsütni. Azért hívták rámás pusszerlinek, mert csinált maga körül rámát. De nagyon finom volt, omlott a szájban széjjel!

A keresztény húsvétkor ők [a keresztények] küldtek nekünk egy kis finom tésztát [süteményt], diós-mákosat porlós tésztából. Az kötelező volt. Kinyújtották a tésztát, rátették a tölteléket, és feltekerték. De nem kalács, ez sütőporral volt, és nem élesztővel. A nővéreimhez jöttek locsolni, a locsolódás az egy nagy dolog volt [A locsolkodás mára már kihalófélben lévő népszokás: a szokásnak ősi termékenységvarázsló, tisztító hatást tulajdonítottak, ezért volt a lányok, asszonyok megöntözése. A locsolkodás húsvét másnapján, húsvéthétfőn zajlik. – A szerk.]. Parfümmel jártak, és a lányok fejére finoman tettek belőle. A parasztok meg a cselédség az vederrel kapta [a vizet]. Piros tojást kellett csináljunk – amikor volt pénzünk –, ha jön valaki, az szégyen volt, hogy ne adjunk valamit.

Mi zsidó létünkre nagyon tartottuk otthon a karácsonyt is, főleg a német kisasszony miatt, mert irtó vallásos volt. Meg Nagykárolyban a zsidóság úgy volt, hogy a keresztények tartották a zsidó ünnepet, és a zsidók tartották éppen úgy a keresztényekét. Hát nálunk egy karácsony az olyan angyali volt, annyi odaadás volt benne! Az valami gyönyörűség volt! Díszítettünk karácsonyfát, a végén már csak egy kicsi karácsonyfát csináltunk, pénzünk nem volt nagyra. Szaloncukrot meg ezüstös diót tettünk rá, de hát olyan picike volt, hogy nem fért sok. Mindig volt személyzet, és adott ajándékot anyu mindig nekik, mikor mire volt szükség, egy-egy harisnyát, egy blúzt, szvettert. De mi [gyerekek] nem kaptunk ajándékot karácsonykor, mert szegények voltunk, és elég volt, hogy a cselédségnek tudtunk adni. Karácsony idejében is fontos volt a diós-mákos, porlós tésztából.

A négy elemit zsidó iskolában végeztem, a neológban, az ortodoxoknak külön volt ortodox iskolájuk, és a héjasoknak is volt elemi iskolájuk. De utána [azaz elemi után] már nem volt zsidó iskola, csak a zsidó gimnázium Nagyváradon [lásd: zsidó iskolaügy Romániában a két világháború között]. A zsidó iskolában biztosan voltunk legalább olyan tizenöten egy osztályban, vegyesen fiúk, lányok. A [latin] ábécét mi magyarul tanultuk, és tanultunk egy-egy imát héberül, mondjuk, a reggeli imát, de azután már, úgy emlékszem, hogy románul volt az ima. Reggel elmondtuk az iskolában a reggeli imát, és délben, mikor kijöttünk, akkor is volt egy ima. Az első osztályban Niedermanné Irén néni, egy nagyon bájos tanítónőm volt. Aztán volt Riesenbach a tanító, az már a harmadik vagy negyedik osztálytól. Tőle körmösöket kaptunk, ha nem tudtuk a leckét, ha nem ültünk rendesen, vagy akármi rosszat csináltunk [A körmösnél össze kellett zárni az ujjakat, és úgy vertek rá pálcával a gyerekek ujjhegyére, körmére. – A szerk.]. A pálcájával adott egy körmöst, de hát az óriási szégyen volt! Azon kívül volt Lisszer tanító bácsi, akinek volt egy lánya, Lisszer Jolán, és volt egy másik [tanító], Fürt, annak is volt egy lánya, Fürt Irén. Ez a két lány nagyon jó barátnő volt. Az elemiben még volt egy Dávidovits Aliz nevű osztálytársam, egy nagyon drága kis finom teremtés. Aztán nem tudom, mi lett vele. Nagyon-nagyon elszéledtünk.

Ötödik osztálytól [az első gimnáziumi évtől] románul tanultunk minden tantárgyat, és tanultunk nyelveket, németet és franciát. Egy nagyszerű tanárnőnk volt románból és franciából, Naom Cornelia, a férjének le volt vágva a lába, harcolt az első világháborúban. A földrajz- és történelem-tanárnő Fekete Aurelia volt. Ez két remek tanárnő volt. Már nem tudom, melyik osztályban történelemből volt egy vékony kis könyvünk, Pop Aliseanu volt a szerkesztője, tetszett nekem ez név. Akkor Románia történelmét tanították, ahogy én emlékszem.

Aztán egy évet jártam magánúton, mert akkor nem volt gimnázium Nagykárolyban [Nagykárolyban 1725 és 1923 között piarista főgimnázium működött. Nem ismeretes, mi lett a gimnázium sorsa. – A szerk.]. Ranedzaynak hívták a magántanárt, magyar volt, de úgy utáltam szegényt, és azért nem akartam tanulni. Egy olyan nagy kövér ember volt, és cvikkere volt. Pedig nem volt szigorú, hát magántanár volt, és örült, hogyha voltak órái. És csak vizsgázni mentem be Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe], már nem tudom, melyik gimnáziumba. Több tanár volt, aki vizsgáztatott, de volt egy tanárnő, úgy hívták, hogy Niehtung. Roppant szigorú volt, ő vizsgáztatott egy tantárgyból, már nem tudom, melyikből. Aztán bejöttem [Máramaros]Szigetre, a hatodik és a hetedik gimnáziumot itt jártam a Domniţa Ileanában, és itt is érettségiztem 1932-ben. De akkor egy érettségi, hát az óriási volt. Elsősorban nagyon kevesen jutottak odáig, azonkívül nagyon nehéz volt, szóval komoly iskolázottsága volt, akinek érettségije volt, hát az komoly diploma volt. Én még hét – vagyis összesen tizenegy – osztállyal, végeztem, én még úgy érettségiztem [lásd: oktatási reformok a két világháború közötti romániai oktatásban]. Amikor Máramarosszigetre kerültem a gimnáziumba, akkor Sándor bácsiéknál laktam két évet, anyunak a bátyjánál. Laci akkor már Párizsban volt. A Rózsa utcában volt egy négyszobás, fürdőszobás házuk, most is megvan a ház. Nagy szó volt abban az időben a fürdőszoba. [Máramaros]Sziget tetszett nekem, mert itt volt a család, és tartottak engemet, nagyon rendesek voltak. Nem nagyon jártunk mi akkor templomba, én nem emlékszem, a gyerekek nem, csak a férfiak mentek templomba, a nők nem nagyon jártak, csak nagyünnepeken. De hittanórára én is jártam, a [máramaros]szigeti neológ rabbi, doktor Danczig Sámuel tartotta. Nem tudom, hogy hol végezte az egyetemet, de rabbi iskolát is végzett, és doktor Danczig volt ő [doktori titulusa volt]. Egy úr volt, felvilágosodott. Kis kecskeszakálla volt, ahogy emlékszem. Mindig ott volt a kis kapedli a fején, az mindig volt [„Danzig Samu, rabbi, szül. Vágvecsén 1878. Pozsonyban és a Majna melletti Frankfurtban a rabbiiskola növendéke volt, aztán a frankfurti egyetemen a bölcsészeti fakultást végezte. Később Máramarosszigeten működött, mint a szefárd hitközség főrabbija” (Zsidó Lexikon). Danzig Sámuel Benjámin 1906–1944 között volt a máramarosszigeti neológ (szefárd) közösség rabbija (The Heart Remembers. Jewish Sziget, ed. by Association of Former Szigetian in Izrael, Havazelet Press, 2003). – A szerk.].

Miután leérettségiztem, visszamentem Nagykárolyba, és ott voltam állásban. Egy biztosítótársaságnál, a Generalinál dolgoztam, írógépeltem. A főnök Roth volt, egy zsidó. Házat, életet, mindent lehetett biztosítani már akkor is. Aztán elkerültem Pestre, amikor visszacsatolták Észak-Erdélyt Magyarországhoz 1940-ben [lásd: második bécsi döntés], mert a biztosítótársaság tönkrement, és Nagykárolyban nem volt semmi kilátás. Elmentem először egy ernyőgyárba – a nagybátyám jó barátai voltak az ernyőgyár tulajdonosai – mint munkásnő. És szegény anyumék még küldtek fel nekem csomagot, ők, a semmiből. Haj, Istenem! Kivettem szobát, a nagynéném, Schöngut Ernőné nem fogadott volna be semmi szín alatt se. A Teréz körút 50. szám alatt laktam, Berliner Áron zsidó tanítóéknál béreltem szobát. Rendesek, becsületesek voltak, a felesége sokkal fiatalabb volt, mint az ember. Aztán már itt se lehetett lakni, mert nem esett bele a gettóba, és akkor átköltöztem a Hársfa utca 57-be egy barátnőmhöz, Margitkához, aki Nagykárolyban volt társalkodónő egy rokonomnál, dr. Cukor Lajosnénál. Ez a ház a gettóban volt, sárga csillagos ház volt először. Az ernyőgyárból már kijöttem, mert akkor már zsidókat kitettek [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon], még volt a fizetésből valamennyi, abból éltem. Az utcára öt óráig lehetett kimenni az elején [lásd: kijárási tilalom Budapesten]. Szörnyű egy világ volt, szörnyű! Már a gettósítás előtt a zsidóknak nem adták ki a leveleket, anyukáék a nagybátyám cselédjének – aki keresztény volt – a nevére küldték a leveleket, és az adta át nekem. A háború után, mikor visszajöttem, Berlinerék megvoltak, tőlük kaptam meg a leveleket.

Édesanyám, Anci nővérem a férjével és kislányukkal és a másik nővérem is Nagykárolyban mentek gettóba. A Wesselényi utcában volt Nagykárolyban a gettó. Van egy levelem, amit édesanyám írt május negyedikén, amikor beköltöztették őket a gettóba: „Drágám, most jött meg a lapod, ma költözünk. Tegnap is írtunk, ne haragudj, de nem bírtam írni. Írjál csak röviden, és te is értesítve leszel hogylétünkről. Isten áldjon, nagyon sokszor csókolunk.” Drága! A másik oldalára a lapnak a nővérem írt: „Drága szívem, tegnap is írtam neked. Az ismerőseink már elköltöztek, a mai nap folyamán mi is megyünk, ahogy lehet megint írok. Olga fog írni. Vigyázz magadra, írjál Olgának. Csókolunk.” Olga ez Ménesi Jánosné volt, a fényképésznek a felesége. De ő is fényképésznő volt. Nagyon rendesek voltak, magyar keresztény emberek, de nagyon rendesek. Mertz volt a férje eredetileg, de magyarosította a nevét Ménesire a [második világ]háború után. Ő bérelte a fényképészeti műhelyt Koziárszky után, „Kelet fényképészeti műterem”-nek nevezték akkor. Ez az Olga írt aztán nekem, pedig milyen rizikó volt! Ezek megérdemelnének minden jót, nagyon rendesek voltak. Május tizenharmadikán azt írja: „Klárikám, ma vagonírozták őket csukott teherkocsikba. Talán Szatmárra viszik őket. Biztosat nem tudok. Élelmük az útra volt.” „Fognak ők írni magának, azt üzenték. Írni nem tudok, fáj az agyam is, nemcsak a lelkem. Beszélni szeretnék magával, de mikor? Írjon azért ezután is nekem, én is fogok. Ha Jancsi meggyógyul, akkor felkeresi magát, mint írtam is már.” Jancsi volt a férje. „Itt üres a város, és nyomott a hangulat. Szerető csókkal, Olga” És milyen rizikó volt, hogy ő írt nekem! Drága jó emberek!

Elvitték őket Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe], és Szatmárról [Szatmárnémetiből] már deportálták Auschwitzba. Ki volt ez tervezve, sajnos. Nagyon ritka volt az, aki fel volt mentve [lásd: mentesítések Észak-Erdélyben]. [Nagy]Károlyban egyetlenegy volt, egy Erstein Zoli nevezetű, aki útlevelekkel foglalkozott, aki kivételezett volt, de hogy miért, nem tudom. Szégyenfoltja Európának! A sógorom mesélte, mikor deportálták, ezt kérdezte Marika az édesanyjától: „Mért vagyunk mi zsidók?” Akkor még egy vagonban vitték őket [Azaz amikor a nagykárolyi gettóból a szatmárnémeti gettóba szállították a zsidókat. Innen Márkus Klára sógora – a kislány édesapja – már nem ment velük együtt Auschwitzba, mert kiemelték a gettóból, és elvitték munkaszolgálatra. Szatmárnémetiből 1944. május 19-én, 22-én, 26-án, 29-én, 30-án és június 1-jén deportálták a zsidókat, összesen 18 857 személyt. – A szerk.].

Anyáméktól egy lapot kaptam még Budapestre, de azt már a tábor vezetősége küldte. Ők [anyámék] írtak, hogy „Jól vagyunk”, meg nem tudom, mi…, és akkor rátették, hogy Waldsee, hogy félrevezessék az embereket, hogy gondolják, hogy nekik ott jó dolguk van. Ez a levél már sajnos nincs meg. Aztán még Olga írt egyet 1944. október másodikán. „Klárikám, keltezetlen lapot vettem ma magától.” Nem írtam rá dátumot. „Mikor írta, nem tudom. Hogy nem írok, megírtam az okokat. De írtam mégis egy hosszú levelet, nem jött felelet. Manyiékról ma sem tudok semmit, bármennyire szeretném tudni.” Nagyon rendes emberek! Hát, ilyen emberek ma nincsenek! Igaz hívő katolikusok voltak, nagyon hittek Istenben. „Férjem katona, hogy hol, nem tudom.” Ezek voltak azok, akik azt a kis rongyunkat is, ami volt, visszaadták – mikor visszajöttem, nekem. Keresztények voltak, két gyerekük volt, Judit és Imrus, hál’ Istennek ők élnek, Szatmáron vannak, de a szüleik már nem élnek.

Engem 1944 őszén vittek el Pestről. Először Dachauba vittek, az volt az elosztó, ott nem dolgoztunk, onnan vittek aztán el munkatáborokba: Ravensbrück, Spandau-Berlin, Oranienburg, Sachsenhausen [Spandauban, Berlin egyik külvárosában egy hatalmas börtön volt, amely ez idő tájt munkatáborként működött, az ide deportáltak egy, a tábortól néhány kilométerre lévő hadiüzemben dolgoztak. – A szerk.]. Arra emlékszem még, hogy akkor, mikor minket már akartak izélni [elgázosítani], bevittek [a gázkamrába], és ott fogyott el a gáz. Egy nő bejött, és azt mondta: „Es ist schön! Es gibt kein Gas mehr” [Magyarul: „Na, szép! Elfogyott a gáz.”]. Muníciógyárban dolgoztunk. Volt egy nagyon rendes ember, egy öreg, a mester, az titokban hozott nekem talán kenyeret vagy mit. Nem kenyeret, mit hozott nekem, Istenem? Tudom, hogy hozott, de titkokban csúsztatta. Voltak köztük is rendesek. Én Sachsenhausenban szabadultam. Bejöttek az oroszok, de mi olyanok voltunk, mint az állatok, nem is tudtunk magunkról, el voltunk kábítva, utólag tudtam meg, hogy brómot adtak a németek folyamatosan, teába, mindenbe tettek, attól elmúlt a menstruáció is, és az embereket megnyugtatta, nem volt, amiben kételkedjünk vagy amin gondolkodjunk. És amikor a brómnak elmúlt a hatása, ocsúdtunk fel, hogy mi történt. De akkor se tudtuk, hogy mi volt, nem emlékeztünk [Nyugtató adagolására (brómozásra) semmilyen konkrét bizonyíték nincs, bár nagyon sokan, különböző helyekről állították, hogy brómozták a foglyokat. De valószínű, hogy nem is volt szükség a brómra: a kevés ennivaló, a verés, a hideg vagy éppen a forróság, a kevés alvás, a szörnyű munka stb. nagyon gyorsan kiszívta a foglyok erejét, megtörte az ellenállásukat. – A szerk.].

Én mondtam, hogy haza akarok menni, és akkor bevagoníroztak [vonattal jöttünk haza]. Először Pesten voltam, mert ott volt az unokahúgom, Ági, ő nem volt deportálva, mert iratai voltak, de ezt nem mondta nekem, titkolta még a háború után is. Aztán 1945. szeptember tizenegyedikén értem haza [Nagy]Károlyba. Nem akartam elhinni a realitást, én egy álomvilágban éltem, nem tudtam elképzelni, hogy mindez lehet. Azért mentem haza, mert meg voltam győződve, hogy ott találom a családot. Ilyesmire nem is gondoltam, hogy ilyesmi Európa kellős közepén lehet, egy ilyen holokauszt. Annyiszor gondolok erre, hogy Európa kellős közepén hogy lehetett ilyesmit csinálni, embereket meggyilkolni azért, mert zsidó vagy mert cigány. Ez borzasztó! És hiába mondják, hogy meg kell bocsátani, nem lehet. Nekem, aki itt vagyok, visszajöttem, családot alapítottam, de nekem őértük [a családomért] nem szabad megbocsátani. Azt nem lehet megbocsátani, amit velük tettek, gázkamrában elégetni egészséges embereket… ezt nem lehet felfogni. Most már minden mindegy, őket visszahozni nem lehet, és mégis azt mondom, hogy onnan vigyáztak rám. Ez nem a hit, hanem egész egyszerűen éreztem.

Mindent elhordtak a házból. Gyönyörű bútorunk volt, mahagóni ebédlő, egy fehér lányszoba és egy drapp háló – állítólag azt az oroszok vitték el. Mikor én hazajöttem, már nem volt semmi, tiszta üres volt a ház. A szomszédok nem nagyon szerették, hogy én hazajöttem, mindegyik lopott onnan, amit bírt. Látszott rajtuk, hogy nem örültek nekem, azt hitték, hogy visszakövetelem a dolgokat. De nem tudtam én, mit ki vitt el. De volt az a Ménesi család, akik nagyon rendesek voltak, az ékszereket visszaadták, amit nem adtak be anyuék a Sváb Bankba – ide kellett a zsidók leadják az ékszereiket a deportálás előtt –, és náluk hagytak.

Az idősebbik nővéremnek a férje, Fuchs Berci jött egyedül haza a családból. A gettóból a sógoromat elvitték munkaszolgálatra, elszakadt a családtól. A háború után egyből el akart venni feleségül, de én azt mondtam, hogy nem tudok a testvérem volt férjéhez menni. És akkor ő megnősült, elvett egy [nálam] idősebb nőt, szóval vele egykorút, annak volt egy fia, és én meg lejöttem ide, [Máramaros]Szigetre, mert megtudtam, hogy itt vannak az unokatestvéreim, Schöngut Zsófi és Öcsi [Márkus Klára anyai nagybátyjának, Schöngut Imrének a gyermekeiről van szó. – A szerk.]. És akkor én lejöttem ide, hozzájuk. Ők örültek az elején, hogy visszajöttem, de aztán amikor kértem az anyu részét, akkor azt mondták, hogy nagyapa mindig segítette anyut, mikor özvegyasszony volt, úgyhogy ők nem akartak nekem semmit se adni.

Egy délután elmentünk doktor Berger Dórihoz, ő volt a sógornője Zsófinak, az unokatestvéremnek. És ott volt a [jövendőbeli] férjem. Ahogy meglátott, megtetszettem neki, és egy hét alatt össze is házasodtunk, 1946. március tizenötödikén. Ez volt a mese [a története az ismerkedésnek]. Volt vallásos esküvőnk is, rabbival, de hát akkor nekem nem volt menyasszonyi ruhám vagy valami, honnan lett volna. Még fehér fátylam se volt, hanem egy színes selyemkendővel takartam le a fejem, mert ez szokás a zsidóknál. A férjemnek is volt egy ruhája, amiben járt minden nap. Amikor visszajöttünk, neki sem volt semmije se, nekem se volt semmim se, hát hogy lehettünk mi felöltözve? Úgy, ahogy voltunk, és csak hozták azt a hüpát [hüpe], a baldachint, és itt valahol az udvaron volt. És kész volt. Nem volt egy ebéd se, semmi, akkor nem úgy volt, örültünk, hogy élünk, hogy van a mi részünkre ennivaló.

Én úgy jöttem haza, hogy gondoltam, hátha találok valakit. Közben idejöttem, férjhez mentem, és a férjem nem is akart hallani az elmenésről [Izraelbe vagy külföldre]. És akkor így itt ragadtunk. A máramarosszigeti unokahúgom, Schöngut Zsófi és az unokaöcsém, Schöngut Öcsi, Lázár kint van Izraelben a családjával. Ahogy lehetett, mentek. Azt hiszem, 1956-ban ment mindegyik. Pont hosszúnapkor, Jom Kipurkor kiszaladt mindenki a templomból, mindenki iratkozott, és csinálta az aktákat. Nem törődtek a hosszúnappal, hogy ünnep van vagy valami, csak „Menni, menni!”, az egész társaság kiment a templomból, és mentek a rendőrségre iratkozni [lásd: kivándorlási hullám Romániából a második világháború után].

Egyszer voltam csak Izraelben, egyedül, 1971-ben hat hétig. Az unokatestvéreimnél, Zsófinál és Öcsinél voltam. Diplomája egyiknek se volt, se Öcsinek, se Zsófinak, se Cálinak [Zsófi férjének], se Lilinek [Öcsi feleségének]. Lili, azt hiszem, háztartási alkalmazott volt valahol, főzött, Zsófi az nem dolgozott, az mindig kifogta magának, hogy ne dolgozzon, dolgozott a férje. Csak Haifában voltam, nem vittek engem Jeruzsálembe, mert szegények voltak ők is. Ott voltam, és nem láttam Jeruzsálemet például. Hát akkor még egy olyan kezdetleges állam volt, és nem voltam elragadtatva. Mindenki kínlódott azért ottan. Csak annyi, hogy szabadok voltak, de nagyon kínlódtak ott az emberek, nagyon szerényen éltek. Az borzasztó, hogy mi volt, szóval olyan nagy volt az egyszerűség és a csend. Mindenki félt az araboktól. Mindenki félt, féltette az életét, annyira voltunk, hogy féltünk kimenni az utcára, például. Szóval nem volt egy kis dolog az sem, Izrael. Hát most nem tudom, biztos már másképp van.

A férjem, Márkus Endre 1901-ben született Máragyulafalván, ide tartozott Aknasugatag [Máragyulafalva – (korábban Gyulafalva), kisközség volt Máramaros vm.-ben (15 km-re Máramarosszigettől), 1891-ben 1500, 1910-ben 1800 nagyrészt román és német lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került, ma Giuleşti. Aknasugatag (ma: Ocna Şugatag) – kisközség volt Máramaros vm.-ben, 1910-ben 1800 főnyi magyar lakossal (járási szolgabírói hivatal, csendőrőrs, posta, vasútállomás). – A szerk.]. Az apját Móricnak hívták, orvos volt, harminckét éves volt, mikor a férjem született. Sőt, az ő apja – szóval a férjemnek a nagyapja – is orvos volt, ő a Dunán túl volt, de hogy melyik városban, nem tudom. A férjem édesanyja, Geiger Sarolta, Sári huszonnégy éves volt mikor a férjem született, ő budapesti volt, egy dunántúli rabbinak, Seufeldnek volt a leszármazottja. De Aknasugatagon éltek, a férjem apja ott kapott állást, körorvos volt, majd beköltöztek Máramarosszigetre, és már innen voltak deportálva. Egy húga volt a férjemnek, Babának hívták, de különben Elisabeth volt a neve. Lengyelországba ment férjhez, nem tudom, hogy hol, meglátta az ember Babát, és megtetszett neki, azt hiszem, Varsóban laktak. Volt egy gyerekük, Katherina, Kati, aki kint született, és ott is pusztultak el Lengyelországban a deportáláskor.

A férjem is orvos lett, urológus, ő Bécsben végezte az egyetemet, egy évig volt még Bécsben mint orvos, aztán hazajött, és Máramarosszigeten telepedett le. Az uram úgy szabadult meg, hogy három évig kint volt munkaszolgálaton, 1942-től 1945-ig, egész a Donig eljutott. Amikor visszajött, az oroszok laktak a lakásában, de őt is beengedték. Volt egy orosz tiszt, aki orvos volt, és így mint két orvos, nagyon jóban lettek. Ez az orvos együtt élt egy nővel, akit Margarettának hívtak, és aki zsidó volt. Aztán azoknak el kellett menni, és így kaptuk vissza a házat. Közben, miután az oroszok elmentek, beköltözött az emeletre egy Kárpáti nevezetű, aki SS-legény volt. A háború után bolondnak nyilváníttatta magát, vagy valami ilyesmi volt, és úgy úszta meg, de SS volt. Én már itt találtam, amikor ideköltöztem a férjemhez, és nagyon disznó volt, mert folyton ütötte a padlót, csak hogy minket zavarjon. Nagy antiszemita volt. Mi kerültük, de ő kötözködött, ugye. Magyar létére nagy németnek adta ki magát, aztán ki is mentek Németországba. Utána már nem volt itten más, a családé maradt az egész ház. Aztán államosították a kommunisták, mert hát a férjem intellektuel volt, és aztán nehezen, sok cécó után kaptuk csak vissza, ha jól tudom, tán 1952-ben.

Az uram az öregek házában [idősek otthona] volt igazgató, én pedig a gyerekek házában voltam gépírónő. Egy nagyon rendes könyvelőnő volt ott a főnöknő, Bilaniucné Elena, Lena. Egy nagyon rendes teremtés, még most is mindig jár ide hozzám, sokkal fiatalabb, hetvennégy éves, de úgy néz ki, mint egy húsz éves. Még most is festi a haját, és egy ránc nincs rajta, semmi. Az igazgató nagyon rendes volt, habár vasgárdista volt [lásd: Vasgárda], de hát tizenhat-tizenhét éves korában volt vasgárdista, mit tudta ő, akkor könnyű volt mindenkit odaverbuválni. Csak ezért szegényt mindenki lenézte, hogy vasgárdista volt. Különben egy rendes, aranyos, egy jó ember volt, a felesége megvan és a két gyereke. Aztán 1947. január hetedikén meglett a Babika, utána megint visszamentem dolgozni, és ott voltam 1952-ig, akkor született Viktor, a fiam, február tizenhatodikán. De én utána is bementem, és állásban voltam. 1987-ben jöttem nyugdíjba.

A kommunizmus egy olyan furcsa dolog volt, mert kommunistának vallották magukat, de azért ott is voltak stábok és séfek, akik vezettek, tehát volt kasztkülönbség. Én is voltam párttag, ott, ahol állásban voltam, ott kötelező volt, hogy mindenki legyen párttag, hogy aztán legyen kit kirúgni mint burzsujt [lásd: párttisztogatás Romániában]. Amikor a férjemet kirúgták nem tudom, hányban, akkor engem is kirúgtak, mert orvosnak voltam a felesége, akinek nemcsak az apja volt orvos, hanem a nagyapja is, aki a Dunántúlon lakott, úgyhogy egy jó família volt, előkelő volt a származása. De én olyan boldog voltam! Olyan primitívek voltak azok az emberek, azok a régi kommunisták! Olyan primitívek voltak, hogy az nem igaz! Azt hitték, hogy mindenki, akinek van egy diplomája, az nekik ellenség. Orvos, hát az csak burzsuj lehet. Mikor a férjemet kitették a pártból, leváltották, de azért állásban maradt ugyanott, az öregek házában. De tönkretették, az idegei mind megmentek, mert féltünk. Éjjel nem aludtunk, és néztük, hogy mikor jön a szekus autó [lásd: Securitate]. Emlékszem, egyik éjjel itt ment el, megállt a harmadik háznál, már nem emlékszem, ki lakott ott, és azokat mind vitték. És az uramat azért nem vitték el, mert orvos volt.

A karácsonyt tartottuk itthon, amikor a gyerekek kicsik voltak, egy kicsike kis karácsonyfát csináltam, mert egyszer csak hazajött Babika, azt mondja: „Hát mindenkinek van karácsonyfája, hozott a Jézuska karácsonyfát, mindenkinek, csak nekem nem.” És akkor csináltam. Itt az udvaron egy csomó gyerek volt. Laktak Márficsék, Glidék, Herskovitsné, de keresztény volt mind, és ezeknél mind volt karácsonyfa. Nem járt a férjem locsolni húsvétkor, kommunizmus volt, és akkor ezeket nem nagyon lehetett, csak titokban, ha jött valaki vagy ilyesmi. És énhozzám nem jöhetett senki se, mert a férjem olyan féltékeny volt, hogy nehogy valaki rám nézzen. Ha jöttek hozzánk, akkor ha nagyon muszáj volt, visszaadtuk azt a vizitet, de nem nagyon volt akkor olyan társadalmi élet, mert az már annak számított, hogy burzsuj, ugye. Színház nem volt [Máramarosszigeten], mozi volt, de mi nem jártunk. Ahhoz képest, hogy orvos volt a férjem, alig volt nekünk egypár lejünk. Szegények voltunk. És énnekem állásba kellett menni. Nyaralni se jártunk, esetleg egyszer vagy kétszer, ha kint voltunk Aknasugatagon életünkben [Aknasugatagon sósfürdő van. – A szerk.]. Minden pénzbe került, és mi olyan kispénzűek voltunk…

Miután férjhez mentem, se voltunk túl fanatikusak. Normálisak voltunk. A kóserságot nem tartottam, nem tartottam fontosnak, hisz olyan minimális anyagiak voltak, hogy örültünk, hogyha van mit enni, nemhogy zsidó étel vagy keresztény étel. A nagy zsidó ünnepeket megtartottunk. De pénteken este a férjem nem ment templomba, én se gyújtottam gyertyát, csak az esküvőmön kellett gyertyát gyújtani, azóta se [lásd: szombat; gyertyagyújtás]. Én nem tartottam ezeket, és sajnos a lányomat meg a fiamat sem neveltem úgy. Viktort elküldtük a hájderba [héder], és mikor hazajött, nem akart ezt enni, nem akart azt, csak kósert, meg így, meg úgy, ezt nem szabad, meg azt nem szabad, és akkor többet nem küldtem. Én nem tudtam hinni ezekben a dolgokban, nem szeretem a kötődést, valamihez ragaszkodni, ami elmúlt eszméknek a [maradványa]. Ezek csak szokások. A hitközséghez nem nagyon jártam, mert nem nagyon volt nekem időm, én sose voltam az a nagy vallásos. A férjem járt, ő volt hitközségi elnök is a második világháború után egy ideig.

A lányom, Babika [Márkus Marianna] Iaşi-ba ment egyetemre, fogorvosit végzett. Azért ment Iaşi-ba, mert akkor nehéz volt bejutni egyetemre, és itt volt még egypár zsidó kislány, akik akartak menni, Itu, Éva és még volt egypár. És akkor sorsot húztak, és kinek mi jutott. Babikának jutott Jászvásár, a másiknak Kolozsvár jutott, a harmadiknak Bukarest. Jászvásárban ismerte meg a férjét, ott is tartották az esküvőt a jászvásári templomban [zsinagógában]. A férje jászvásári születésű, eredetileg Burah Harinak hívták, de felvette a lányom nevét. Babika nem akarta elhagyni a nevét, merthogy ez egy olyan tradíció, hát a dédnagyapa is Márkus volt, Viktornak úgyis Márkus a neve, a fiamnak, és akkor így lett Hari is Márkus. [Márkus Hari most a hitközségi elnök Máramarosszigeten. – A szerk.] Egy gyerekük van, Sorin, 1971. augusztus huszadikán született. Orvos Nagykárolyban. Van egy dédunokám, a Sorin kislánya, Karin. Ő 1998. január tizenhetedikén született, most ment iskolába. Az édesanyjával lakik Romanban [Románia, Neamţ megye], mert Sorinék elváltak.

A fiam [Márkus Viktor] felesége Moldovan Ileana, ő román. Van egy fiuk, Alfred Lior, 1986. augusztus huszonnegyedikén született, most fog érettségizni. Gyönyörű gyerek, és egy roppant jóság, egy csendes, az a légynek nem árt. Ők is itt laknak a házban, a földszinten.

A férjem 1987. február tizenegyedikén halt meg, itt, Máramarosszigeten van eltemetve. Aztán én ide felköltöztem az emeletre, és a fiamnak lett a lenti lakás. Csak a lányom nem akart lejönni lakni, és akkor én azt mondtam, mégiscsak jobb, ha a lányommal vagyok, mint a menyemmel. Most a vallást úgy tartjuk, hogy disznóhúst már nem eszünk, akkor mondjuk, a húsra nem teszünk tejfelt, a húsost és a tejest nem keverjük [lásd: étkezési törvények]. De különösebben, ahogy csinálják nálunk a streng [szigorú] kóser zsidóknál, úgy nem. Imádkozni csak úgy szoktam, ahogy én csinálom az imádságot, nem [mondok bizonyos imákat]. A zsidó imádságok közül tudom az áldást a kenyérre és a borra. A Miatyánkot azt tudom magyarul, románul, franciául [Miatyánk (Pater noster) – a kereszténységnek, az összes keresztény felekezetnek legszentebb imája. Az Újszövetség szerint maga Jézus tanította meg rá az apostolokat. Szerepel – bár némileg más-más formában – Máté és Lukács evangéliumában egyaránt. – A szerk.]. Van egy kis Szent Antal képem, kaptam a barátnőmtől, és azt azóta is tartom a fényképeim között [Páduai Szent Antal (1195–1231) – sokat tett a Ferenc-rend elterjesztéséért. Mint a bajba jutottak és a szegények istápolója, egyike a legnépszerűbb szenteknek. – A szerk.].

Mina Gomberg

Mina Gomberg with her parents Surah and Ilia Roitman

Mina Gomberg
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Elena Zaslsvskaya
Date of interview: September 2002

Minna Gomberg is a plump and handsome woman with grayish hair done in tidy manner. She is vivid and sociable. She loves to talk about her relatives. She has created a very warm household and nice relationships with her husband and children. There is a strong Jewish spirit in their apartment. Minna speaks Russian with a Jewish accent and often uses Yiddish words. They are a wealthy family. Their apartment is nicely furnished. There are expensive carpets, chandeliers and household appliances. The apartment is very clean and things are kept in good order. They have a pet: a big black cat. The members of the family spoil it by buying good fish or meat for it.

My family background

My grandfather on my father's side, Joseph Roitman, was born in 1880. At the beginning of the 20th century his family moved to Podol 1 in Kiev from some town, running from pogroms 2 and gangs. Podol was in the Pale of Settlement 3, where Jews were allowed to live. My grandfather was a tailor and had many clients.

His family lived in a small apartment, but they were a wealthy family. There was no luxury in this apartment, and the toilet was in the yard. They all had comfortable beds, a big cupboard and a wardrobe. They could afford to buy chicken on holidays, but most of the time they had basic food: vegetables, beans and bread. My grandfather arranged his workplace in one of the rooms. He had some education. I believe he studied in a cheder, but he didn't have any professional education. He was religious. He celebrated Sabbath and all holidays. He went to the synagogue once a week on Saturdays. My grandfather only spoke Yiddish.

My grandmother on my father's side, Reizl Roitman [nee Zhelezniak], was born in 1882. I don't know where she was born. She didn't study anywhere but she could read and write. She spoke Yiddish, or say, a mixture of Yiddish and Ukrainian. She was very tiny. My grandmother was a housewife and she kept my grandfather's workplace in good order. She was very religious. She always wore a shawl and went to the synagogue with my grandfather on Saturdays. My grandparents had three children: Jacob, Ilia and a daughter called Bluma. They were all born in Podol.

Jacob Roitman was born in 1906. He finished secondary school and had higher education. I don't know where he studied. He worked at the Bolshevik plant in Kiev and became a chief production engineer at the end of his career. He worked at the plant during the war and evacuated with the plant. He died in Kiev in 1975. His wife, Lyusia Roitman, and his son Boris live in the US.

My father's sister, Bluma Roitman, was born in Kiev in 1912. She finished secondary school and took a course in accounting. She worked as an accountant. In the middle of the 1990s she and her daughter moved to the US. Bluma died there in 1999. This is all the information I have about her.

My father, Ilia Roitman, was born in Kiev in 1909. He finished cheder and a Russian secondary school in Kiev. After finishing school he entered some technical college, but he only studied there for a short time. The family was pressed for money, and he had to work to support them. My father worked as a laborer wherever he could find a job. In 1939 he was recruited to the army and involved in the Finnish campaign 4. His service lasted for about a year, and he returned home afterwards.

In the middle of the 1920s, after residential restrictions were abolished, my grandfather and his family moved to a bigger apartment in Kiev. They became poorer because not many people could afford to pay for new clothes, and as a result my grandfather had fewer clients.

My grandfather on my mother's side, Alter-Iona Rapoport, was born in 1880 in Belaya Tserkov [a small town 100 km from Kiev]. The Jewish community of Belaya Tserkov was founded in the 16th century. In the middle of the 18th century the town was one of the centers of Hasidism 5. Jewish families owned 230 houses by the end of the century. There were also many Ukrainian families in town. The town-people were mainly involved in commerce, selling cattle and bread. There were also a sugar factory, a tobacco factory, food factories and 250 crafts shops in town. In the middle of the 19th century the town had ten synagogues. There was a Jewish School of Commerce and a Jewish hospital in Belaya Tserkov at the end of the 19th century. Life was good until 1905.

But there were a number of pogroms in 1905. Many Jewish families perished at that time. Every now and then pogroms took place in various areas. The pogroms were happening continuously between 1905 and 1919. I only know the number of people that perished between 1917 and 1919: 850 Jews.

My grandfather received some education, but I don't know where he studied. He was chief accountant at the sugar factory before 1917. He was a respected and talented man and provided well for his family. They lived in a big wooden house with two rooms, a kitchen and a hallway. They kept a housemaid. They also had a garden and a kitchen garden. They didn't keep any livestock - they could afford to buy all necessary products. Their family wasn't ultra-religious. The men didn't wear payes, and other members of the family wore casual clothing. On holidays the men wore white shirts and long jackets. The women wore long dresses with laces and frills.

They observed Jewish traditions and celebrated Sabbath and holidays. They dressed up to go to the synagogue and had nice dinners with their friends and relatives afterwards. Going to the synagogue was more of a tribute to tradition than profound faith to them. I like to recall the 1900s when it became a habit in our family to have coffee in the evening. On Friday evening the family got together on the veranda in summer, or in the living room in winter, for a coffee party: they got together to talk and enjoy their time together. There wasn't any connection with Sabbath, but it was nice to take a rest from the routine of weekdays. Coffee was imported into Ukraine and only wealthy families could afford to buy it.

My grandmother on my mother's side, Clara Rapoport [nee Kolodnaya], was born in Belaya Tserkov in 1882. She had some education. Her mother tongue was Yiddish, but she could also speak Ukrainian. She was introduced to my grandfather by a matchmaker. My grandparents got married in 1904. They had a big wedding with a chuppah, many guests and klezmer musicians. My grandparents had six children: four daughters called Minna, Dvoira, Eta and Surah, and twin sons that died in infancy.

My grandfather died of typhoid in 1919 at the age of 39. We tried to find his grave in the 1950s, but there was a road built over the Jewish cemetery, and the graves had not been removed to a different location. After his death my grandmother and her four children used to hide at their Ukrainian neighbor's house, because they were afraid of the pogroms. In the late 1920s my grandmother had pneumonia and moved to her daughter Dvoira in Kiev. Dvoira was married by that time. My grandmother died in 1938. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev.

My grandmother's older daughter, Minna Rapoport, was born in Belaya Tserkov in 1907. She studied at the Jewish grammar school. In 1928 she fell seriously ill and died. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Belaya Tserkov.

Dvoira Rapoport was born in Belaya Tserkov in 1909. She went to a Jewish school. In the late 1920s she visited her younger sister, who was studying at a technical college in Kiev. Dvoira met Abram Yankovskiy in Kiev. He was a convinced follower of Lenin's ideas and one of the founders of the Komsomol 6 League in Ukraine. At that time Dvoira began to introduce herself with a Russian name: Vera. She married Abram in 1927. They didn't have a religious wedding. They had a civil ceremony.

Dvoira and Abram were both convinced communists, and the celebration of any Jewish holidays in their house was out of the question. Their daughter Natasha was born in 1928 and in 1933 they had a son, Alexandr. The children were at different children's homes. In the 1930s mass arrests 7 of party leaders took place. At the beginning of 1935, before leaving for Moscow to attend a Komsomol Congress, Abram told Vera to burn all his photographs, notebooks with his notes and any documents that they had at home. He understood that there was a blood shedding campaign against devoted communists going on in the country and tried to keep his family and his acquaintances safe. He didn't want any information about his people become known to the NKVD 8 officials. He never returned home. He was arrested during the Congress as an enemy of the people and executed. He was accused of betraying the ideals of communism and of collaboration with foreign intelligence forces.

In 1937 Vera was arrested as wife of an enemy of the people and sentenced to ten-year imprisonment in a camp in Kemerovo region [1,700 km from Kiev]. She was accused of concealing her husband's subversive activities. She was in the camp until 1947. She worked there sewing uniforms for the military. Vera stayed at a women's camp and there was a men's camp nearby. Vera told us that when women went to the sauna they pretended that a tap was broken to be able to call a plumber from the men's camp. Many of the women had their husbands in that camp, and the plumber gave them news about their husbands while fixing the tap. The inmates of the camp were allowed to receive one letter per month. Vera's son, her daughter and her relatives took turns writing to her.

Vera was released in 1947. She was allowed to have her children back. She wrote to her children, telling them to get together at the Yaya station in Kemerovo region. A woman living in the village of Yaya went to pick up Vera's son; she had the address of the children's homes where Vera's children were kept. Natasha, the older child, was to come by train alone. Vera's children hadn't seen each other since 1937. Brother and sister were going on the same train but didn't recognize one another. They met on the platform when they both approached their mother. Vera worked as a laborer in Kemerovo region until 1954. She was not allowed to live in bigger towns. Her son went to school, and her daughter studied, but I don't know where.

Vera returned to Kiev in 1954. She worked as a laborer and died in Kiev in 1965. Her son Alexandr graduated from the Polytechnic Institute. He became chief engineer at the Kama Power Plant. He died in Perm in the 1980s following a kidney surgery. Vera's daughter graduated from the Institute of Steel and Alloys in Moscow. She got married and moved to Cheliabinsk with her husband. She worked at the metallurgical plant there. She retired recently.

My mother's third sister, Eta Rapoport, was born in Belaya Tserkov in 1910. She finished secondary school in Belaya Tserkov and married a Ukrainian man - his last name was Tkachenko. Her husband was a very intelligent and decent man. There were no objections in the family against Eta marrying a non-Jewish man. The family knew that he was a good man and that was enough for them. Eta and her husband lived at their parents' home. Their son Alexandr was born in 1941, and in 1945 they had a daughter, Natasha. During the war they were in evacuation, but I don't know where. Alexandr graduated from school with a gold medal [for graduation with honors from high school] and studied at Kiev University. He's a Doctor of Philology and writes scientific articles. Natasha quit university after two years of studies. She works as a computer operator at a plant in Belaya Tserkov. Eta died in Belaya Tserkov in 1987. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery.

My mother, Surah Rapoport, was born in Belaya Tserkov in 1912. She studied at the Jewish primary school and then went to the Jewish lower secondary school named after Sholem Aleichem 9. She finished school in 1929. In 1930 she moved to Kiev, where her sister Vera was living at that time. My mother went to work as a laborer at the Kiev radio plant. In 1931 my mother became a Komsomol member, and in 1932 she became a Communist Party candidate. She also became a Komsomol public propagandist at the radio plant. She propagated the Komsomol among young people, explaining its ideas and goals to them.

My mother was a very kind and, at the same time, very active person. She had sincere faith in the communist ideals and loved her official activities. In 1935, after the arrest of her sister's husband, she was expelled from her candidateship in the Communist Party at a meeting of the party unit of the plant, where she was working at the time. [There was a Communist Party unit at every enterprise at that time.] She was accused of concealing the activities of Abram Yankovskiy from her party leadership. This was a very serious accusation at that time. It was impossible to prove that a person wasn't guilty. The decision of her party unit was very dramatic for my mother. The Party was her life, and she began to appeal to the Party's higher offices to have her accusations withdrawn. She went to Moscow and her case was reviewed at the Party Control Commission meeting. They cancelled the decision of her party unit, and my mother returned to the plant.

I don't know when and how my mother met my father. They got married in 1937, and my mother moved to her husband's apartment, where his parents were also living. As far as I know they had a civil registration ceremony and no wedding party.

Growing up in wartime

I was born in 1938. I was 3 when the war began in 1941 10. My mother was secretary of the party organization at the plant. The plant was evacuated, and we moved along. I remember our trip on the train. It was a long and tiring journey. We were in evacuation in the town of Artymovsk Egorshyn, Sverdlovsk region [2,800 km from Kiev]. We - my father's parents, my mother and I - lived on the second floor of a wooden house. My father went to the front on the first days of the war. We knew that he was in a tank brigade, and he wrote to us every now and then.

My mother kept her post as secretary of the party organization at the radio plant during the war and, being a party official, she received packaged food. I even had chocolate during the war and shared it with my friends in the yard. I went to kindergarten in Artymovsk. I liked it there. I got along well with the children, and our teachers were kind to us. My grandmother took me to kindergarten every morning. My mother had always left for work by that time.

My grandfather caught a cold that developed into pneumonia. He was taken to hospital for treatment, but he died there. Before the funeral my grandfather's body was taken home, and I cried and screamed demanding that they let me see him, but I was held back. I loved my grandfather, and his death was a terrible blow to me. He was buried at an ordinary cemetery in Artyomovsk. There was no Jewish cemetery in this town, because there were no Jews living in it before the war.

I remember very well how my mother spoke on the radio in November 1943 when Kiev was liberated. I heard her voice on the radio and was shouting into it, 'Mother, answer me - I can hear you!' Many people came into the streets to rejoice. They were laughing and hugging each other. My mother got instructions to go back to Kiev. We couldn't follow her until we got the official permission from the authorities that she obtained for us. My grandmother and I returned to Kiev in the spring of 1945.

My mother lived in a room in a three-bedroom apartment. There was another female tenant in the apartment, who occupied the two other rooms. She was the widow of General Pavlov, who perished during the war. [General Pavlov was the commander of the Western Front. During the German aggression, in June 1941, he displayed grave incompetence and negligence. The result was the loss of Minsk, the Belarus capital, on June 28. Stalin recalled Pavlov and his staff to Moscow. They were tried and shot.] In 1945 an order to return apartments to war veterans or their families was issued. Pavlov's widow demanded that my mother moved out of the apartment. My mother and grandmother moved to my mother's office at the district party committee, and my mother's friend took me to live with her. Eventually my mother managed to get back my paternal grandparents' apartment. This happened before my father returned from the army at the end of 1945.

My father wrote us letters all this time. He was a tank platoon leader; he was in control of four tanks. He liberated Prague with his units and had the rank of first lieutenant. He was wounded twice. The first time he was wounded on his left hand, and his fingers didn't bend after this injury, and the second time he had an eye injury. But we knew that he was alive which was most important and that he could demobilize when he was allowed to do so. My father demobilized in 1946. He got a job as a foreman at the Vodokanal municipal water-supply company. He worked with Vodokanal until 1984.

My father received an apartment in a shabby wooden house at the end 1946. It had a big room and a kitchen. There were two beams in the kitchen supporting the ceiling, which was about to fall on our gas stove. We were living from hand-to-mouth. We didn't starve, but my parents had to borrow money from a neighbor in order to tide them over until their next payday at work.

My school years

I went to Russian secondary schooling Kiev. I did well at school. I became a pioneer when I was 9 and a Komsomol member when I was 14. I took part in various activities at school. I was responsible for the wall newspaper at school. I was also a pioneer tutor in the 1st grade. I took the children to museums and theaters and arranged parties for them on New Year's and on Soviet holidays. When I was in the 4th grade I was elected chairman of the school pioneer unit, and I was a member of the school Komsomol committee.

I had many friends at school. My closest friends were Nelia Vakulenko and Inna Geizer, two Jewish girls. Nelia's parents worked at an office, and Inna's parents were workers at one of the plants in Kiev. I had no more contact with them after we finished school and thus don't have any information about what they did later. While at school I spent my summer vacations in the pioneer camp Smena near Kiev. I liked it there and stayed in the camp as long as I could. We went swimming and lay in the sun and participated in all kinds of activities such as games and sport competitions. I also read a lot. I read fiction, love stories and Russian and foreign classics.

I don't remember any demonstrations of anti-Semitism at school or in the camp. We believed everything the official propaganda told people about the prompt victory of communism all over the world and about the leading role of the Communist Party in the struggle for communism. My mother was a dedicated party official and had no other thoughts but those about Marxism- Leninism.

Israel was established in 1948. I remember my mother and father whispering something to one another. I could only hear the word Israel several times. My parents were very happy about this event, but they were reluctant to give me any clues about it. I was still a child and could have said something at school, or elsewhere, and this was very dangerous at the time. Everybody was grieving when Stalin died in 1953. We thought it was the end of the world. We were brought up thinking this way.

My father's mother was living with us. She was very religious. She fasted at Yom Kippur. She gave me Chanukkah gelt [money]. My grandmother celebrated Sabbath. She lit candles and said a prayer. On the day of my grandfather's death she lit a kerosene lamp and left it on for a whole day. Pesach was very festive. My grandmother used to bake matzah before Pesach. She also cooked beetroot soup with matzah and gefilte fish. We didn't follow the kashrut at home, but my grandmother had special bowls and plates that she only used at Pesach. There was no special ritual on this holiday, and we didn't read the Haggadah, but the whole family always got together, and we had our Jewish friends joining us. We were all dressed up and enjoyed the celebrations. Older people used to meet near the synagogue at Yom Kippur to discuss the dates of upcoming holidays and other events. My grandmother also went there.

My parents showed understanding of my grandmother's religious convictions. They always attended family celebrations. My mother always helped my grandmother to cook Jewish food.

My mother was very lucky that the struggle against cosmopolitism 11 in the late 1940s bypassed her. Her party boss valued her for her organizational talents and responsibility. He was an intelligent and smart man, and he protected her from any possible persecution.

I finished school in 1953. At that time it was next to impossible for a Jew to enter a higher educational institute in Kiev. We knew some very smart and talented children of my father's friends failing to enter institutes. Each time after exams they were told that they failed to win in the 'competition of grades' [it was necessary to get a certain number of grades based on the results of entrance exams], but it was clear that the reason was their Jewish nationality and anti-Semitism in the country. I went to the Pedagogical Institute in Leningrad. I passed my entrance exams with two '5' grades [highest] and two '4' grades [good], and the total sum of these grades wasn't sufficient to win the competition. I was ashamed to go back to Kiev with such poor results. I entered the Faculty of Electronics at the Electro Vacuum College in Leningrad. I rented a room for 20 rubles - that was half my stipend. I fell in love with the beautiful city and spent all my free time in museums and theaters. My parents sent me some money. I mainly had non-Jewish friends. I only communicated with them while studying in the College.

In 1958 I returned to Kiev and lived with my parents in the apartment in the old shabby wooden building that my father received after the war. I started looking for a job but couldn't find any. The moment human resource managers opened my passport and saw that I was a Jew they were telling me that there were no vacancies left. My mother, who was a high party official, had already asked her boss to call the director of the Radiopribor factory and pull strings for me. Although I held a diploma in electronic technology, I was offered the position of a packer at the storage facility. My career started when the production manager came to the storage facility and noticed me because of my smart answer to one of his questions. He offered me a job in his production-planning department.

In 1962 I entered the Faculty of Wire and Wireless Communications at the Odessa Communications Institute, where I studied correspondence. I had tried to enter it twice before, and I was successful the third time. After I got my diploma I was appointed manager of the planning-dispatcher bureau of the shop and later became a senior forewoman at the Radiopribor factory. This was the highest position I was promoted to. I suffered much from anti- Semitism. I didn't feel it when I was among common employees, but it was so evident when I had to deal with the management. They gave me polite hints that my career would have been different if it hadn't been for my nationality.

My husband

In 1959 I married Arnold Gomberg, a Jewish man. I met him at my friend's wedding in one of the Kiev restaurants. We had a civil ceremony and invited our guests to a dinner my mother had prepared. We had about 15 guests: my husband's and my friends and some relatives.

My husband was born to Vladimir and Dora Gomberg in Kiev in 1934. His grandfather on his father's side came from the town of Khodorkov, Zhytomir region [about 150 km from Kiev]. There were about 4,000 Jews in the town of Khodorkov at the end of the 19th century. In the middle of the 19th century a distillery and a big sugar factory were built in Khodorkov. There was also a sawmill, a soap factory and two water mills. There were three private Jewish schools and yeshivah. There was a cheder and a few synagogues in town. The main language of communication was Yiddish.

My husband's grandfather, Aron-Hertz Gomberg, worked at the sugar factory in Khodorkov. He was supervisor of the transport department, which consisted of 13 carts, 14 horses and 15 drivers. My grandfather had 14 children. My husband told me that his grandfather's family was religious. They celebrated Sabbath and all holidays. They went to the synagogue and prayed. They spoke Yiddish in the family, and his grandfather also knew Ukrainian. His grandfather died before 1917.

My husband's grandmother, Dvosia, was born in Khodorkov in 1869. She had no education and couldn't read or write. She was a housewife and raised her children. She only spoke Yiddish. She had a strong will and was a strict person. After the revolution of 1917 one of her sons took her to live with him in Kiev to save her from pogroms. In 1941 she evacuated to Middle Asia with her daughter Genia. She died there some time in 1944.

We only have information about six out of the 14 children: Leib, Leya, Hana, Joseph, Vladimir and Genia. Leib, Leya and Hana were born in Khodorkov in the 1880s. In 1903 the three of them moved to the US. Joseph was killed by Ukrainian farmers in 1924. He was a red commissar, and the farmers were against the Soviet power. Genia was born in Khodorkov at the end of 1900. She got married sometime after 1917 and lived in Nikopol. During the war she was in evacuation in Middle Asia. She returned to Kiev after the war. She had two children. She moved to Germany in the early 1990s and died there shortly afterwards.

My husband's father Vladimir Gomberg was born in Khodorkov in 1901. My father-in-law didn't study, but he could read and write. He worked at the nail plant in Kiev from the middle of the 1920s.

My husband's mother, Dora Sobol, was born in Khodorkov, Zhytomir region in 1903. Her father, Jacob Sobol, was a fishmonger. There was a big market in Khodorkov. He used to purchase fish from local fishermen and from the surrounding villages. He was religious. He celebrated Sabbath and holidays and went to the synagogue on Saturdays. He died in Khodorkov in 1939. This is all the information I have about him. Mihlia, my mother-in-law's mother, was a housewife. She spoke Yiddish and could also speak a little Ukrainian. She wasn't fanatically religious. After her husband died, Mihlia moved to her daughter Dora in Kiev. She didn't observe Jewish traditions in Kiev, but once in a while she lit candles on holidays.

There were three children in the family: Abram, my husband's mother Dora and Moisey. Abram was born in Khodorkov in the late 1890s. In the 1930s he was director of the sawmill in Khodorkov. He, his wife Etia and their daughter Sarah perished in 1941 on the first days of the German invasion. His son Efim, born in 1923, was the only survivor in the family. He was recruited to the army in the first days of the war. He was a gun commander during the war and was awarded two orders and a few medals. He died in 1977. Moisey was born in Khodorkov in the middle of the 1900s. He was a professional military and had the rank of artillery major. He was married. He perished near the town of Slutsk in 1943.

My husband's mother, Dora, was born in Khodorkov in 1903. She had to help her mother about the house ever since she was a little girl. After the revolution of 1917 she went to secondary school. She studied for several years. She learned to count, read and write. In the early 1920s she moved to Kiev and went to work as a laborer at a nail factory. My husband's father also worked at this factory. They met and got married in 1927. They couldn't afford a wedding party. Their first baby, Joseph, was born in 1928.

In the late 1930s my husband's parents got new jobs; his father worked at the food department and his mother became a shop assistant at a food store near the Bessarabka market, in the very center of Kiev.

During the Soviet-Finnish war my husband's father was recruited to the army. He was severely wounded on his legs. He had to stay in hospital for a long time until his wounds healed; and walking remained difficult for him after that.

My husband was born in Kiev in 1934. His grandmother Mihlia, who had moved to Kiev by then, was looking after him. During the war his mother, grandmother and my Arnold were in evacuation in the village of Galkino, Cheliabinskaya region [2,500 km from Kiev]. My husband's father was released from military service. He couldn't run or walk properly. At the beginning the family was starving in evacuation. My husband's father couldn't find a job, and his mother didn't work either. They received 100 grams of bread each per day.

In 1943 my husband's father got a job at the Zagotskot office. [This is a government economic agency for the provision of meat.] He was responsible for the selection of cattle for slaughtering. As an award for good performance he was given a cow. His grandmother Mihlia was familiar with looking after livestock. She milked the cow, made butter and sour cream. She sold her dairy products at the market and bought bread and sugar. My husband went to school. There was no anti-Semitism at school. His friends were local boys and children from other evacuated families, many of which were Jewish.

Kiev was liberated in 1943. My husband and his family returned to Kiev. They settled down in a damp and dirty dwelling in the basement of a house. They cleaned it up and glassed the windows. There was one room and a hallway with a big stove in it.

My husband's mother went to work at the thermoelectric power plant. She was a laborer. Besides, his mother and grandmother made rolls and pies to sell them at the market and get some extra money to support the family. My husband's mother had a heart disease. It was very damp in the basement, and she got kidney problems. Her older son Joseph fell very ill and died in 1946. When she heard about it she fainted and hit her head on a jug. As a result, she was paralyzed. She lived for another year before she died.

My husband's father returned to Kiev in 1947. He returned some time after we had left for Kiev. He had to remain in Galkino longer because of his work.

My husband finished lower secondary school in 1951, went to work and attended an evening school to complete his secondary education. He didn't get along with his stepmother (his father remarried shortly after his wife died). She was mean and greedy. Her only merit was that she could cook well.

In 1953 my husband was recruited to the army; he was in the Air Force. His service term lasted two years. After he demobilized, he finished a car repair school and worked as a driver and a car mechanic at a car maintenance facility until retirement. We got married in 1959, and he moved into our apartment.

My husband's father was the manager of a vegetable storage facility. In 1951, at the height of the anti-Jewish campaign, he was summoned to a KGB office. He was asked about his work and colleagues. A few days later he was arrested. He was accused of theft from the storage facilities where he worked and was sentenced to 15 years in camp. Several of his colleagues were also arrested. His wife divorced him immediately after he was arrested.

He returned to Kiev in 1966. We weren't allowed to correspond with him all these years. Later he didn't talk about the years that he had spent in the camp. He wasn't allowed to live in a big city after his imprisonment, and we bribed a state officer to obtain a residence permit 12 for him. Shortly afterwards he married a very nice and smart Jewish woman. Her name was Rachel. Her husband and two sons perished during the war. She died in the early 1970s. My husband's father died in 1978. They were both buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev.

Our children

In 1960 my husband, I and my parents got a new apartment. In the same year our first son, Vadim, was born and in 1972 our second son, Valery.

Our children were not raised Jewish, but we didn't let them forget that they were Jews either. In 1960 my father's mother Reizl died. We continued to get together on Jewish holidays. We didn't know any prayers, but we always cooked a delicious dinner: beetroot soup, chicken and gefilte fish. We always had matzah at Pesach. We bought matzah at the synagogue in Podol. We went there in the dark, because we didn't want to be seen there. We were afraid of having problems if somebody reported us to the KGB office. People were persecuted at that time for demonstrating their religious convictions. We ate plain matzah or made small pancakes, fried eggs with matzah and cakes. We didn't follow the kashrut, and we didn't have religious books at home, but we never forgot about our Jewish identity.

We always followed the events in Israel. We bought my father a radio and gave it to a repairman to adjust it so that we could receive short waves to listen to Western stations. Western radio broadcasts were jammed most of the time, but we managed to put together what we could hear. In 1967, during the Six-Day-War 13 in Israel, we were almost glued to our radio to follow the events there.

In the 1970s many of our friends and relatives were moving to Israel and the US. We were also discussing to move to one of these countries, but my parents would have never accepted it. They were dedicated to their communist ideas and regarded departure as a betrayal of the Communist Party and its ideas. So we never advanced farther than discussing it.

In the early 1960s a book by Solzhenitsyn 14, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, was published - the only publication in the 1960s about the life of inmates of Stalinist camps. We read this book. We were realistic about the situation in our country and the true state of things.

Our sons studied at school. Vadim liked the humanities. After finishing school he entered the Construction Institute in Perm, but he quit after two years. He was recruited to the army and returned to Kiev after his term of service was over. He finished the Road Transport College and became a specialist in car repair-maintenance. He married a Jewish woman and they had two children. They are divorced now, and she lives in Cologne with the children. My son remarried. His second wife is also Jewish. She has a son from her first marriage. Vadim works as a manager in a company.

Valery's school wasn't a very good school. The teaching process left much to be desired. Valery didn't want to go to another school. He didn't want to leave his friends. He finished eight classes and went to trade school. He became a professional diver. Last year [2001] he married a Jewish girl, and in August 2002 they moved to Israel.

Every year on 9th May [Victory Day] my father and I went to the Monument of Glory, the Tomb of the Unknown Ukrainian Soldier [a memorial to unknown Ukrainian soldiers]. Every single time my father was in a hysterical state. It must have been about what he knew and remembered, but he never mentioned anything to us. He never revealed this mystery, and we never found out whom he cried for and why he was afraid to tell us. My father died in 1986. His death was a terrible blow to me.

Life began to change in the 1990s. I quit my job, because I was earning very little there, and got a new job at the Podolianka private cosmetics company as a sales planner. This was my friend's husband's company, and this friend of mine recommended me to the management of the company. My husband opened a small car repair shop.

In 1990 my mother died. In 1995 we were thinking of going to the US, but we couldn't leave my husband's relative, Sonia, the wife of my husband's uncle Moisey, who had perished at the front. She didn't want to go with us. She is old and alone, and she needs to be looked after.

We have a visa for Germany and we plan to move there before 2003. My older son and his wife will be going with us. We decided to go to Germany, because my husband speaks fluent Yiddish and can understand German very well. We wouldn't be able to learn Hebrew. Besides, he had two heart attacks, and he can't stand the heat; it's too hot there. We can't stay in Ukraine either. My husband closed his shop due to his condition and I am a pensioner: We receive $50 USD pension between the two of us. We can't make ends meet with so little money. Besides, my husband needs a heart surgery. It costs $3,000 USD in Ukraine. We don't have such big amounts of money. These are the reasons why we decided to move to another country. Germany accepts Jews now. Many of our friends have moved there already. They receive welfare and free medical assistance and reside in comfortable apartments.

We are glad that Jewish life has been restored in Ukraine. We don't need to hide our Jewish identity now. We attend Jewish concerts and performances. Hesed supports us, providing packaged food and medications.

We celebrate Jewish holidays. We don't go to the synagogue, but we get together with friends at Pesach and Rosh Hashanah. We make traditional Jewish food on holidays: gefilte fish and beetroot soup with matzah - the same dishes my grandmother and mother used to make. Our children don't observe any Jewish traditions, but they always visit us on Jewish holidays.

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary

1 Podol

The lower section of Kiev. It has always been viewed as the Jewish region of Kiev. In tsarist Russia Jews were only allowed to live in Podol, which was the poorest part of the city. Before World War II 90% of the Jews of Kiev lived there.

2 Pogroms in Ukraine

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

3 Jewish Pale of Settlement

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

4 Soviet-Finnish War (1939-40)

The Soviet Union attacked Finland on 30 November 1939 to seize the Karelian Isthmus. The Red Army was halted at the so-called Mannengeim line. The League of Nations expelled the USSR from its ranks. In February-March 1940 the Red Army broke through the Mannengeim line and reached Vyborg. In March 1940 a peace treaty was signed in Moscow, by which the Karelian Isthmus, and some other areas, became part of the Soviet Union.

5 Hasidism

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.

6 Komsomol

Communist youth organization created by the Communist Party to make sure that the state would be in control of the ideological upbringing and spiritual development of young people until they were almost 30.

7 Arrested in the 1930s

In the mid-1930s Stalin launched a major campaign of political terror. The purges, arrests, and deportations to labor camps affected virtually every family. Untold numbers of party, industrial, and military leaders disappeared during the 'Great Terror'. Indeed, between 1934 and 1938, two-thirds of the members of the 1934 Central Committee were sentenced and executed.

8 NKVD

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

9 Sholem Aleichem, real name was Shalom Nohumovich Rabinovich (1859- 1916)

Jewish writer. He lived in Russia and moved to the US in 1914. He wrote about the life of Jews in Russia in Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian.

10 Great Patriotic War

On 22 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.

11 Fight against the cosmopolites

Anti-Semitic campaign initiated by Stalin in the 1940s against intellectuals: teachers, doctors and scientists.

12 Residence permit

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

13 Six-Day-War

The first strikes of the Six-Day-War happened on June 5th, 1967 by the Israeli Air Force. The entire war only lasted 132 hours and 30 minutes. The fighting on the Egyptian side only lasted four days, while fighting on the Jordanian side lasted three. Despite the short length of the war, this was one of the most dramatic and devastating wars ever fought between Israel and all of the Arab nations. This war resulted in a depression that lasted for many years after it ended. The Six-Day-War increased tension between the Arab nations and the Western World because of the change in mentalities and political orientations of the Arab nations.

14 Solzhenitsyn, Alexander (1918-)

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.

Roman Reznikov

Roman Reznikov
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: May 2002

The name of my great-grandfather, my mother's grandfather, was Wolf Shoov. He lived in Lodz, Poland. He had some kind of commercial business. My grandfather's name was Isaak Shoov and my grandmother's name was Tsylia Shoov. I don't know her maiden name. My grandfather Isaak was born some time around 1860 and my grandmother was born in 1862. They lived in Lodz, Poland. Poland was a part of the Russian empire at that time. A few years before the [Russian] Revolution [of 1917] 1 my grandfather and grandmother's family moved to the town of Gaisin in Vinnitsa region, Ukraine. There was a big Jewish community there at that time. [Editor's note: back then Jews constituted 90% of the population of the city. The Jewish community is still big nowadays, at present nearly 30%, or 6,000 people are Jewish.] I don't know why they moved. Perhaps, it was due to World War I. I know that many Jewish families moved to Russia and Ukraine at that time.

I don't know what my grandfather did for a living in Lodz, but I know that he had a big shop in Gaisin. He sold kitchen and household utilities, tools, spades, pitchforks, etc. One could buy anything one needed in his store. The shop was on the ground floor of my grandfather's house. My grandfather's family lived on the upper floor. I remember that it was a big brick house with an iron roof, which could be afforded by rather rich families at that time. There were five or six rooms in the house. I remember the room where my mother and I were staying when we visited my grandfather. It was a big room with good old furniture. I remember candles in the antique silver candle stands, pictures and a sofa with soft pillows in velvet pillow cases. There was little light in the room. My grandfather's house looked very different to me. My mother, my father and I lived very modestly in Astrakhan, and what I saw in my grandfather's house seemed luxury to me.

As my mother told me, my grandfather Isaak and my grandmother Tsylia were very religious. My grandfather started each day by praying in the local synagogue. When I was visiting my grandfather in the 1930s the synagogue wasn't there any more, but I remember my grandfather putting on his tallit and attaching small boxes with small rolls of paper with prayers to his hand and forehead [tefillin] to pray every day. I didn't know my grandmother Tsylia. She died in 1927 before I was born.

My mother told me that they had a real Jewish home. They celebrated Sabbath, all Jewish holidays and memorable days. They followed the kashrut in the house and had different dishes for dairy and meat products. They took special and very expensive dishes before Pesach from the attic, bought matzah in the synagogue and celebrated Pesach following all necessary requirements. My grandfather Isaak was sitting at the head of the table to lead the festive seder, and read the prayer. My mother also told me that my grandparents fasted at Yom Kippur. My mother and the other children didn't have to fast until they became adults. My mother told me that there was a rabbi in Gaisin, but people were still coming to my grandfather to ask his advice. He was a very wise and considerate man. I guess he had the Talmud at home but I'm not a hundred per cent sure about it.

Their family was rather well-to-do, but my grandparents' children went to work anyway when they were still young. They had eleven children including my mother. All their children were born in Lodz, Poland, and not all of them moved to Gaisin. Two girls - I don't know their names - died when they were still young. During the Revolution and the Civil War 2 the family lived through several pogroms 3. I don't quite know the details of the life of the family during that period, but my mother told me that actually all children tried to leave Gaisin running away from the pogroms.

Moisey Shoov, born in 1895, was my mother's oldest brother. I don't know what Moisey did for a living. I guess he was a worker. After the Revolution he lived in Moscow with his wife and daughter Nyusia. Nyusia was a very beautiful girl. It happened so that my mother's younger brother Shoil, born in 1915, fell in love with her. Of course, the family was against their marriage for the reason that Shoil was Nyusia's uncle. But the young people insisted on getting married which they did. Their marriage didn't last long - Nyusia died when giving birth to her first baby. It was a boy and they gave him the name of Gennadiy. Her father Moisey Shoov couldn't get over his daughter's death and died soon after her, around 1937.

Shoil, my mother's younger brother, never married again. He was raising his son. He worked at the Likhachov Automobile Plant in Moscow. At first he was an apprentice to a mechanic and gradually rose to the post of director of the technical school at this plant. During the Great Patriotic War 4 he was at the front and had medals and orders for his combat deeds. Around 1940, when Jewish people were persecuted [during the so-called Great Terror] 5 he was arrested and sentenced to ten years of imprisonment. He spent seven years in a camp near Karaganda [see Gulag] 6. He returned in 1953 after Stalin died. Shoil was rehabilitated [see Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union] 7. The authorities returned his party membership card and all his awards. Those years in the camps must have been so horrific that he never told me or his son Gennadiy anything about this period of his life. In the late 1970s Shoil emigrated to America and died there in 1998. His son Gennadiy lives in Moscow. He is my only cousin and we are very close.

The next child after Moisey was my mother's brother Boris Shoov, born in 1897. Boris also moved to Moscow after the Civil War. He was very ill with tuberculosis. In Moscow he worked as an accountant assistant in some shop. He had a wife, Emilia, and two children: his son Efim and his daughter Irina. They lived a very modest if not poor life. During the war he and his family were in evacuation. He died of tuberculosis around 1947 in Moscow. His wife Emilia was a cashier in a cinema theater. She died in the early 1990s. His children Efim and Irina emigrated. Efim lives in America and Irina lives in Israel.

The next children in the family were my mother's sister Polya, born in 1898 and her brother Iol, born in 1899. When their parents left Lodz, Polya and Iol refused to go with them for some reason. Before World War II they moved to Australia and then to Israel. Polya was married but I don't know her husband's name. I know that neither she nor Iol had any children. Polya died in 1956 and Iol died in 1960 in Israel.

I have vivid memories of my mother's sister Mina, born in 1900. Mina lived in Astrakhan. Her husband Isaak Belenkiy was a photographer. Mina had no education and she worked as a cleaning lady, then as a janitor and later as a deactivation assistant. Mina and Isaak had two sons: Leonid and Semyon. They were both recruited to the army in the first days of the war and perished at the very beginning of the war. Mina and Isaak were evacuated to Miass, Cheliabinsk region, during the war. The Moscow plant was evacuated there. Mina died in this town in 1951, Isaak stayed to live in ?iass, and died there in the 1960s. They lived in this town with my mother's younger sister Rieva.

Rieva, born in 1910, was married to Boris Rabinovich. He worked as a car tester at a plant. He wasn't recruited to the army and he moved to Miass along with his family. Mina, Rieva and their families stayed in Miass after the war. Rieva died in 1952. She had no children.

My mother's brother Israel Shoov, born in 1908, lived and worked in Moscow. He studied at the Institute of Light Industry and was a recognized specialist in leather goods production. During the war he was in evacuation and later he worked at the research institute and lectured at the Institute of Light Industry in Moscow. He was married to a very beautiful woman. Her name was Shura. She was a well-known pianist and wanted no children for the sake of her career. Israel died in 1976.

My mother Anna Shoov - her Jewish name was Hanna - was born in Lodz on 7th September 1907. She finished five years of the Jewish school in Gaisin. It was an ordinary elementary school. My mother didn't continue her studies during the Revolution. It was a hard time. She didn't tell me much about this period in her life. She preferred to forget hardships. I only remember from what she told me that she and her sisters were running away from pogroms from one town to another. After the Civil War her brother Moisey moved to Moscow. After he settled down the rest of them moved there, too: Israel, Boris, Shoil and Rieva. I don't know whether they were following Jewish traditions when they lived in Moscow. I don't think they were. It wasn't quite safe and not popular. Only Mina and her husband went to Astrakhan. My mother stayed in Gaisin with her parents. Somebody had to look after the house and help my grandmother with the housework. My mother married my father Grigoriy Reznik in 1927.

My father was born on 28th December 1905 in the town of Dashev, Vinnitsa region. When my father was in hospital during the war somebody happened to add two letters to his last name and that was how he became Reznikov. I have his last name, too. My grandfather Moisey Reznik, born in 1878, went to a wedding party in Dashev once. He saw my grandmother Maria Scherbo, born in 1881, at this party. She was 14 and my grandfather was 17 years old. Following the Jewish tradition they got engaged. They got married in four years' time and lived in the house of Avrum Scherbo, my grandmother's father, in Dashev. Avrum was a well-to-do merchant. Moisey became his assistant. It was rather common in Jewish families to accept a son-in-law into a family and help him to start his own business. However, my grandfather Moisey Reznik was very nervous about being dependent on his father-in-law. After he earned some money he and Maria rented a part of the house to live their own life there.

Moisey's parents Nuhim and Reizl Reznik were poorer than my grandmother's parents. They lived in a small house in the woods in the vicinity of Vinnitsa. Nuhim was an accountant assistant and worked for a timber manufacturer. My grandfather Moisey had three sisters: Hontia, Sheva and Feiga. Although my grandfather's family wasn't rich, they managed to give their children a good education. Thus, Moisey knew Hebrew, could read the Torah and the Talmud. His sisters got general and musical education. They could play various instruments and were good at music. Moisey's family was very religious: they observed all Jewish traditions and laws, followed the kashrut, celebrated Sabbath and all religious holidays. My grandfather's family had a very tragic history. In 1928, during the Soviet regime, some bandits with weapons broke into their house and killed everybody there. They killed my great-grandfather Nuhim Reznik, my great-grandmother Reizl, Hontia and Feiga and my grandfather's younger brother Tsyunia. Only my grandfather Moisey and his sister Sheva, who both lived in Kiev at the time, survived. The loss of his parents and sisters was always an open wound for my grandfather. He couldn't bear the thought that he had been away and couldn't protect his loved ones. In those years my grandparents' family lived in a Jewish collective farm 8 near Nikopol. My grandfather and grandmother moved to this collective farm, giving up their business in Gaisin to be able to give education to their younger children, Boris and Emil. The reason was that only children of workers and peasants could study at school. The authorities were reluctant to accept children of richer parents, that is merchants or bourgeois, to Soviet schools.

My grandmother Maria's family was more secular. Theirs was a rich house and they always had guests. It was always very noisy and there was music - they had a record player and records. My grandmother used to take her children to her father's house quite often and my grandfather Moisey didn't quite like it. In 1910 he moved his family to the town of Gaisin and started his own business. He had a partner and they bought a mill to grind grain and sell their products. His business was a success and they could even afford to buy a small house.

There were five children in the family. Anna, born in 1900, was the oldest. She finished a secondary school and entered Odessa Medical Institute. She had to give it up in 1920 since traveling became too dangerous because of all kinds of bandits around. She met a commanding officer in the Red army. He was a Jew. His name was Pavel Shoihet and she married him. Later they lived in Kiev. Pavel was the director of the biggest knitwear factory in Ukraine. They evacuated to Chimkent where Pavel was the manager of big light industry enterprises. After the war they returned to Kiev. Anna died at the age of 95. Her daughter Marina lives in Kiev.

My father's brother Israel, or Srul, was born around 1902. He had a tragic life. Srul was a very gifted boy. He went to school before Anna and finished the whole course in one year. In 1918, during a pogrom, when bandits broke into the house Srul stood up to protect his father Moisey. He was severely wounded and died after two or three days in hospital.

My father's brother Boris Reznik was born in 1910. After the Revolution Boris worked at a construction site and then he got a job assignment from the Komsomol 9 authorities in some commercial business. Before the war he was the director of a big store in Kiev. He was recruited to the army in the first days of the war. He was wounded and was awarded medals and orders. He finished the war in Austria. He returned to Kiev to join his wife Sonia and his daughter Mara. The war impacted Boris' character dramatically. He used to be a sociable man before the war, but after the war he became nervous and irritable. Boris died in Kiev in 1972.

My father's youngest brother Emil Reznik was born in 1916. After technical school Emil entered the Kiev Institute of Light Industry. During the war Emil was in the army and his service was on the border where he stayed for a long time. His family didn't hear from him for quite a while and they thought he was gone. But he happened to come out of the encirclement and afterwards he continued to serve in the army for a long time. Later he became a teacher at the tank school in Chimkent. After the war he lectured at the Kiev tank school. He died in 2000.

Jewish families always support one another. Older people always help younger ones and the younger support their aging parents. It was the same in our family. When it was time for Boris and Emil to go to school, their parents couldn't manage it and their older sister Anna took them into her family. Pavel Shoihet, her husband, was a well-known man in Kiev and he made good money and could afford to support his relatives. The family of Anna and Pavel led a secular way of life. Like many others of their generation they weren't religious and didn't observe any Jewish traditions. The children weren't raised religiously. However, this family helped them to get education and gave them a start-up in life. My grandfather and grandmother moved in with him later as well. My grandfather Moisey died in 1938 and my grandmother Maria came to live with us in Astrakhan.

My parents got married in 1927. They had a real Jewish wedding with a chuppah and all other Jewish traditions. Men were sitting at the tables that were laid specifically for them. There was wine from Moldova and a lot of delicious food. My mother told me that there were many guests and they invited rabbis from the surrounding towns. The women were sitting separately. There were many children and everybody enjoyed the celebration. Shortly after their wedding my mother's mother Tsylia Shoov died. My mother's sister Mina, who lived in Astrakhan then, invited my mother and father to come and live with her and promised to support them. My father went to Astrakhan and began to learn photography from Mina's husband. My mother joined him there shortly afterwards.

I was born on 18th November 1929 in Astrakhan. My father was already working at the photo shop at this time. He liked his job but he wasn't paid well. My mother had to take on all kinds of work to support the family. She worked as a deactivation assistant with Mina for some time, and then she worked as a cashier at the cinema. Some time before the war she learned to saw and got a job at a tailor's shop.

We rented a big 36 square meter room from a dentist. I have vivid memories of this room as far as the dentist's office was in the same building. We had only few pieces of furniture. That was why my grandparents' house in Gaisin seemed so grand to me.

My mother and father went to work and I stayed home alone. I went to the yard. There were many other children of various nationalities - Russian, Jewish, Tatar and Ukrainian. We were all friends. We were all Soviet children and never discussed any issues related to the origin of people. We didn't even know the word 'zhyd' [kike]. There was often a mother that stayed at home on this or that day and she invited all children to have a bite to eat. So did my mother when she had a day off.

The Jewish community in Astrakhan was small. However, there was a synagogue, and my parents went there on holidays. I can't say that our family was particularly religious, but my mother tried not to forget the Jewish holidays and traditions. There was always matzah at home at Pesach and we had guests: Aunt Mina and her husband and sons. But that was all about the Jewish way of life in our family. My parents went to work on Saturday, as this was an ordinary working day in the country. My mother was a religious woman. She observed the fasting at Yom Kippur until her last days. But at that time, in the 1930s, my parents were real Soviet people. They were interested in everything that was happening in the country: the five-year plans 10, collective farms and the Soviet holidays. I was growing up with these Soviet ideas like many others.

I started school in 1937. This was an ordinary school. There were children of many nationalities. Since my childhood history has been my biggest interest. I read a lot. I wasn't very good at mathematics or physics. I borrowed books from the library and often read at night. My mother told me off for doing so - she thought it was bad for my eyes. But I loved reading and it was my hobby. I also liked sports and went in for track and field athletics.

I remember some tension in the middle of the 1930s [during the Great Terror]. My parents stopped celebrating Jewish holidays or going to the synagogue. They seemed to be afraid of something but they never mentioned anything to me. In 1936 our landlord's husband was arrested in Rostov. He was a manager in the fish farming industry. I remember our landlord bringing his little daughter to his house. My mother felt very sorry for the child. She used to tell me that she was an orphan and I had to be very kind and sympathetic with her. Later my mother told me that her father had been shot and her mother arrested and sent to a prison camp. That's the only thing I know about Stalin's repression of people in the 1930s.

My life was smooth and without shadows. I became a Young Octobrist 11 and then a pioneer. I went to parades on 1st May and 7th November [October Revolution Day] 12 with my parents. My grandmother Maria arrived in 1939. We all got along very well in the family. My parents were at work and my grandmother was taking care of the household. She often told me about when she was young, about my grandfather and their town, but frankly speaking, I had little interest in what she told me back then. I was eager to go out: to school, the library or to the stadium. Football was very popular then and I was very fond of it like many other boys.

I don't remember any discussions about the forthcoming war either at school or at home. My parents must have discussed Hitler's rise to power and the beginning of the war in Europe, but they never discussed such serious subjects in my presence. Therefore, the war came as a complete surprise to me. I remember hearing about the war when I was standing in line to buy some bread or cereal. At that time the situation with food products was aggravating. I don't even remember any fear. The war was an abstract notion for me. I was curious about what was going to happen next. Our relatives from Kiev - Aunt Anna and Marina, Uncle Boris' wife and her daughter Mara, Uncle Emil's wife and my grandmother's sister Fania and her son - arrived at our place for evacuation during the war. We all lived in one room. Although there wasn't enough space for all of us, we could manage all right and treated each other nicely. The situation with food products became very bad. I had to stand in line for hours to buy some food. I matured at once somehow. The war didn't show its frightening character yet, but it was clear that there was to be nothing good or 'interesting' about it.

In October 1941 Pavel Shoihet, Aunt Ania's husband, arrived. He was involved in the evacuation of enterprises from Ukraine to Middle Asia. He wanted to take Aunt Anna and Marina to Chimkent where his factory was evacuated. But Anna refused firmly to leave her close ones. Therefore, all relatives from Kiev, including my grandmother Maria, went there.

At the end of 1941 my father was recruited into the army. I remember us seeing him off at the harbor - they left on the Volga River. My father got to the training unit at first and then he went to the artillery unit to serve there. In 1942 the Germans approached Astrakhan and people were running away from them. It was impossible to travel by train - they were already bombing the railroad. We were sailing on the Volga on a barge. It was very frightening. There was a layer of burning oil on the Volga and the river was on fire. We reached Guriev and went by train from there. We went as far as Orys station where we had to change trains. There were crowds of people there, children crying - it was a nightmare. Whenever a train arrived everybody ran towards it pushing everybody else around. It was impossible for the two of us to take a train. Mum and I had to separate. She stayed at this station with our luggage and I took a freight train. I was a quick-moving boy of 12. I got to Chimkent. Pavel sent some transportation to pick up Mamma at the station and she caught up with us.

In Chimkent we lived with the family of Anna and Pavel. They lived in a small house near the stocking factory. Pavel was the director of this factory. I went to school and became a Komsomol member in 1942. I hadn't reached the age of 14 then, and one could only become a Komsomol member beginning from this age, but I convinced the Komsomol unit secretary to let me join the Komsomol. I believed that only being a Komsomol member I would be able to help the front, our country and work for the victory. During the first summer we were sent to harvest cotton. We lived in tents in the steppe. There were local people and those that were evacuated here. Again, nobody discussed any nationality issues. We were all equal. All the boys, including myself, were dreaming of going to the front. However, I realized that I was responsible for the family and was the only man and had to take care of my mother. I was growing up.

For some time the contact with my father was lost. Then he wrote from a hospital. It turned out that he was near Stalingrad, where he had been wounded, and then he arrived in Chimkent. When he arrived I hardly recognized him. He was exhausted, starved and dirty. My mother gave him something to eat. He was hungry but he was afraid that we, kids, would notice it. His hands were trembling and he was crying. I couldn't bear it and ran out of the room. Then my father washed himself and changed into clean clothes and only then I realized that it was my dear Daddy.

The medical commission in Chimkent confirmed that my father wasn't fit to continue his service in the army and he was sent to a labor front in the town of Makat, Guriev region of Kazakh SSR. My mother and I went there, too. I finished the 8th grade in Makat and then I studied one year in Guriev. Then I went to Astrakhan as there was no place to study in Guriev. I finished school in Astrakhan. I lived with my Aunt Mina. My parents lived in Makat until 1946 as my father couldn't leave his labor front assignment.

My parents went to Kiev in 1946. I joined them shortly afterwards. We lived with my father's brother Emil until we received a room on Chkalov Street. It was a room in a communal apartment 13. Five other families lived there. All neighbors got along well, although there were people of various nationalities there. Evacuated families returned to Kiev. Many of them had lost their loved ones. Some of them never returned from the war, some were killed by fascists on occupied territory. There was the Babi Yar 14 in Kiev where thousands of Jews were exterminated. My grandfather Isaak Shoov, my mother's father, was buried alive along with other Jews in Gaisin. My mother heard about it at the beginning of the war. After we returned from evacuation she and my father went to take a look at the horrible place where my grandfather perished. Today there is a monument in Gaisin to honor the memory of the Jewish people that were killed there.

My father got a job as a photographer. My mother worked at the tailor's shop. Life became a routine and I was eager to continue my studies. I submitted my documents to the Law Department of Kiev University in 1948. Of course, it was almost impossible for a Jew to enter university. What helped me was that I was a good athlete and this was a point in my favor. Higher educational institutions took a course of strengthening their sports base. I was told that my task was to not get a '2', the lowest grade in the 5 grade system. I succeeded in that. But instead of the Law Department I was admitted to the Philosophy Department.

There were two other Jews in my group. Our lecturers treated us well until the middle of the 1950s when the campaign against cosmopolitans 15 began. These events didn't impact me but two or three university students were expelled and repressed during this period. I remember them arresting Lena Reznik - this girl had the same last name as I did - and a guy called Boiko. They were both sentenced on the basis of Article 58 [treason] and were released after Stalin died in 1953.

There was trouble in our family, too. My father wasn't a good photographer, just a lab assistant. He quit photography in 1950 and got a job as a vendor at the railway station. He didn't even work half a year there. The other shift man there was a Ukrainian. And they played a trick with my father making up a cash shortage of 6,000 rubles. He was arrested and sentenced to ten years of imprisonment for theft. He was sent to the Volga-Don channel construction site. Life and work conditions there were terrible. Life there was like it was in the most horrible Stalin camps. During all these years I addressed the authorities to review my father's case. I even had a meeting with the general prosecutor in Moscow. But only in 1957 my father's case was changed to the sentence 'negligence' changing the term of his imprisonment to two years. By that time my father had already been imprisoned for seven years. When he returned he looked even more awful than he did after he returned from Stalingrad in 1942. My father hardly ever spoke about his life in the camp - these memories were unbearable for him. After he returned my father went to work as a photographer again. He died in Kiev in 1988. My mother lived twelve years longer and died in 2000. During all these years my mother was living with me. She was my closest and dearest one.

I graduated from university in 1953. My specialty was the history of philosophy. I was sent to Zhytomyr. There I had an interview at the regional party committee. My profession was related to ideology and I wasn't a party member. I was a Komsomol member and I had to obtain approval of the regional party committee to get a job. For the first time there I heard how they were discussing my documents behind closed doors. The head of the propaganda department was yelling how it was possible to approve a Jew for this kind of work. I couldn't get a job for a few weeks and then finally I was appointed as a lecturer with the Znaniye [Knowledge] association. [Editor's note: an organization that was arranging lectures on various subjects at schools, factories, enterprises, etc.] I was to give lectures to workers advocating communism and the Soviet way of life, the most progressive in the world. I lived in Zhytomyr for four years. I was an active Komsomol member. I was even elected as a member of the Komsomol district committee bureau. I submitted my documents to become a party member but I was refused for some ridiculous reasons. There was only one real reason - that I was a Jew.

I returned to Kiev in 1957. It was impossible for a Jew to find a job in his qualified field. Frankly speaking, I didn't even try. I was a good sportsman; I was good at track and field sports. I got a job as a PE instructor at a technical construction school. Then I finished the trade union high school - I was an extramural student - and became trade union unit chairman. At this time I easily became a party member. I worked as a sociologist with the Poligraphbook association for several years before I retired. Then I organized and acted as the director of the Radyanskiy district charity fund called Renaissance. We provided assistance to needy families, elderly people and families with many children. To get the funds I addressed different authorities, private companies and businessmen. I wrote letters abroad requesting help and received assistance from the Jewish communities in Boston, Philadelphia, USA. Our fund provided assistance to all people regardless of their nationality. The Renaissance Fund existed for ten years. I can't work any more; I'm retired and receive my pension.

I've been married twice. I got married before my graduation from university in 1953. My first wife was a Jew, Ida Leonidovna Bloomstein, and she was an engineer. We lived together for 17 yeas but our marriage didn't work out. I don't want to recall her or speak about her. We got divorced. She lives in Chicago now.

Our son Vladimir Reznikov was born in 1961. He finished dentistry school. He worked as a dentist assistant. He served in the army. After he returned from the army he got married and moved to the USA in 1988. He worked at a restaurant there and then as a cab driver and studied at the same time. He first studied at Chicago Medical University and then as a post-graduate student. He has his own practice now and he is a successful psychoanalyst. His son Alexandr was born in Chicago. He is 17 now and is finishing a college.

My second wife is Russian. Her name is Olympiada Romanovna Gapon. She worked as a surgeon in a town hospital. She is also a pensioner now. We have no children. My wife comes from Odessa. She has many Jewish friends and we have no difference of opinion when it comes to nationality issues. We've visited my friends in Israel. We've even discussed the issue of emigration to Israel. If I decided to move there she would go with me. But I have always considered myself a Soviet citizen and could never imagine living away from my motherland - Kiev, Ukraine. However I've always taken big interest in the Jewish State. But my motherland is here and I want to be here until my last day.

While my mother was alive we celebrated all Jewish holidays - we were doing this for the sake of my Mum. We stopped doing it after she died. I often visit the Jewish center Hesed. I'm a member of the Jewish cultural society and read Jewish newspapers. The situation in Israel is a big concern of mine. I feel close to the Jewish country and wish its people victory and peace. But I can and want to live my life here.

Glossary

1 Russian Revolution of 1917

2 Civil War (1918-1920)

3 Pogroms in Ukraine

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

4 Great Patriotic War

5 Great Terror (1934-1938)

6 Gulag

7 Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union

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

8 Collective farm (in Russian kolkhoz)

9 Komsomol

10 Five-year plan

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

11 Young Octobrist

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

12 October Revolution Day

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 Babi Yar

Babi Yar is the site of the first mass shooting of Jews that was carried out openly by fascists. On 29th and 30th September 1941 33,771 Jews were shot there by a special SS unit and Ukrainian militia men. During the Nazi occupation of Kiev between 1941 and 1943 over a 100,000 people were killed in Babi Yar, most of whom were Jewish. The Germans tried in vain to efface the traces of the mass grave in August 1943 and the Soviet public learnt about mass murder after World War II.

15 Campaign against 'cosmopolitans'

Csernovits Sámuel

Életrajz

Marosvásárhelyen, a Bolyai utcában gyakran látni egy jól öltözött, alacsony termetű urat, amint lassan végigsétál az utcán. Ő Csernovits Sámuel nyugalmazott újságíró, tanár. A sokak által csak Samu bácsiként vagy Csernovits tanár úrként ismert Csernovits Sámuel két gyerek apja, feleségével él Marosvásárhelyen. Samu bácsi csendes ember, 80 évesen is rendszeresen követi a napi híreket, és tájékozott akár a közélet, akár a sportélet legfrissebb híreiről.

A dédszülőkre egyáltalán nem emlékszem vissza. A nagyszüleimet sem ismertem személyesen, csupán a szüleim elbeszéléseiből maradt néhány emlék. Az apai nagyapámat Davidovits Mózesnek hívták, Kárpátalján, Beregszászon született, valamikor az 1800-as évek első felében, és ott is élt a családjával. A nagyanyámat Davidovits Ráhelnek hívták. Beregszászon akkor a zsidók aránya elég nagy volt, lehetett a lakosság kábé húsz-huszonkét százaléka. Az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchia akkor magában foglalta a Felvidéket, Beregszászt, Kárpátalját, a besszarábiai, bukovinai területeket is, ahol sok zsidó élt.

Nagyapám a haszid irányzat tagjaként, az ottani [beregszászi] ortodox zsidó közösséghez tartozott. Szélsőségesen vallásos ember volt, és azzá nevelte a fiát, édesapámat is. Beregszászon és általában a keleti részeken mind ilyen szektás zsidó vallásokat hoztak létre. Szektás zsidókon a fanatikusan vallásos közösségeket értem. Ez főleg a Kelet-Európába vándorolt zsidó csoportokra volt jellemző. Az ilyen zsidó családoknál rendszerint sok gyerek volt, de az édesapámék csak ketten voltak testvérek. A vallás előírásai alapján a nők általában nem dolgoztak [házon kívül], így a nagyanyám sem. Ő csak a Tóra által előirt feladatát végezte, amely azt mondta ki, hogy a zsidó asszonynak a fő feladata gyereket szülni, nevelni, ápolni, és a családot rendezni. Ez volt az ő fő hivatása és foglalkozása, a háztartás vezetése, édesapámék nevelése.

A nagyszüleim anyanyelve a jiddis [lásd: jiddis nyelv] volt. A jiddis tulajdonképpen egy német dialektus. Ezért volt nekem nagy előnyöm, amikor a lágerbe kerültem, én értettem a német nyelvet, mert az szinte ugyanaz volt. A jiddis tulajdonképpen nem a zsidók eredeti nyelve, mert a zsidók eredeti nyelve a héber. Héberül egyáltalán nem beszéltek a családban, csak jiddisül. Ők más nyelvet sem beszéltek, nem is akartak beszélni, mert ez nem lett volna összhangban az ő vallásosságukkal. Az óhébert beszélték, illetve ezen a nyelven imádkoztak, ezen a nyelven tanulmányozták a Tórát, a Talmudot, és ez volt tulajdonképpen a vallás nyelve, melyet kimondottan a templomban használtak. A külvilággal csak a jiddis nyelv volt a közvetítő eszköz. A nem zsidó származásúakkal volt egy nagyon érdekes viszony, ahogy a keresztények elhatárolódtak, elkülönültek és szemben álltak a zsidókkal, ugyanúgy a zsidók [is] szemben álltak a keresztényekkel. Beregszászon is, itt is és általában a keleti részeken. A keleti rész Németországtól kelet fele – lengyelek, litvánok, lettek, az ukránok, oroszok – mind ilyen szektás zsidó vallásokat hoztak létre, az én apám is és az ő apja is a keleti ortodox kabala szekta tagja volt. A nagyapám nem politizált, a vallásos zsidó ember nem foglalkozik a politikával. A bigott ortodox zsidó ember tudatában nem létezik politika, csak a Tóra. E vallási eszme alapja az, hogy tulajdonképpen nem ismeri el még Izrael Állam létét sem, mert az ő felfogásuk szerint csak az Isten királyságát, országát, a mindenható örökkévaló Isten birodalmát fogadhatják el. Ők ezt a felfogást követték egész életükben.

Ami kötelezően zsidó jellegű volt a nagyszüleim [a nagyapa] ruházatában, az a tálesz volt, amely imádkozáshoz kellett. Ez egy lepedőszerű, finom gyapotból készült lepel, amelynek négy oldalán gyapotból volt kötve négy, körülbelül huszonöt centiméter hosszú csüngő, ez a cicesz [cicit] volt. Abban a huszonöt centiméteres fonott részben hatszáztizenhárom bog volt, megkötve a gyapotszálakból. Ez a hatszáztizenhárom bog jelképezte a Tórában létező vallásos előírásokat, általában mind tiltásokat [A Talmud bontotta föl 613 parancsra a Tóra parancsait. Közülük 365 az elrendelő és 248 a tiltó parancsolat. A tálesz minden sarkán van egy-egy cicit, amely nyolc szálból áll. A nyolc szálból álló részt részben bogozzák, részben összecsavarják: a nyolcadik szálat tekerik körbe a másik heten, összesen négy helyen, hét-hét tekeréssel. Ezt kötik el bogokkal: ezekből minden egyes nyolc szálból álló egységen öt-öt van. Tehát az eredmény: fentről lefele haladva: egy bog, egy tekerős rész felváltva, így jön ki négy tekerős rész és öt bog. – A szerk.]. Előírta, hogy mit nem szabad tegyen egy zsidó, és mit kell kötelezően tennie. Ezenkívül mindenik zsidónak volt egy hosszú, törülköző nagyságú, gyapotból készült átalvetője, amit középen kilyukasztottak, hogy a feje az embernek férjen bele, és az első és hátsó testét borította. Ugyanolyan négy oldalon csüggő cicesz volt rávarrva. Tulajdonképpen ezzel különböztette meg magát a zsidó ember a keresztényektől. Emlékeztette őket, hogy ő Izrael népéhez tartozik. Ezt tálit kátánnak hívták. Minden férfi viselte még a hétköznapok alkalmával is, kint az utcán, a munkahelyen.

A másik dolog, ami a valláshoz kapcsolódott, az volt, hogy a nagyon vallásos zsidó, aki például rabbi akart lenni, az a „jesive bucher” [jesiva bóher], a rabbitanoda tanítványa kellett hogy legyen. Ha elvégezte, rabbi lehetett vagy sakter vagy valamilyen egyházi elöljáró vagy esetleg kántor. Ezeknek volt egy különleges ruházatuk, egy fekete színű hosszú kaftán, amely egészen a lábikrájukig ért, és a fejükön egy széles karimájú fekete kalap vagy pedig bundából készült kucsma [lásd: strájmli]. Kötelező volt viszont minden zsidó fiatalembernek szakállt viselnie. Ennek az volt a vallásos magyarázata, hogy a zsidó vallásos embernek ne legyen dísze [Az indoklás nem halahikus eredetű. Semmiféle előírás nincs arra nézve, hogy az arcot el kellene takarni vagy csúfítani vágatlan szakállal. Ez legfeljebb helyi körben elterjedt szokás vagy elképzelés lehetett. Viszont nem szabad egyélű borotvával vágni a szakállt, hanem csak ollóval – A szerk.]. A férfiak kétoldalt pajeszt viseltek.

A nagyszüleim beregszászi lakhelye a zsidó negyedben volt, amely tulajdonképpen gettó volt. A lakást magát csak az elbeszélések alapján tudom leírni. A nagyapám családjában elég jó helyzetben élő emberek éltek. Nagyapám asztalos volt, volt egy kis asztalosműhelye. Általában zsidó családoknak dolgozott, bútorokat vagy más egyéb fából készült dolgokat készítettek. Az asztalosságon kívül nem foglalkozott semmivel. A lakás az apám elmondása szerint két szobával, konyhával és más kisebb mellékhelyiséggel rendelkezett. Nem volt modern, mert a zsidóság nem volt modern szellemiségű. A viszonylagos jómód ellenére sem volt házi cselédjük. Általában ezek a bigott zsidó vallásos családok nem tartottak cselédet. Annyi volt, hogy bizonyos közeledő ünnepnapok előtt fogadtak egy szegényebb zsidó lányt, és az segített a családnak. Arról, hogy a nagyszüleimnek lettek volna testvérei, nincs tudomásom. Amikor apám [Maros]Vásárhelyre került, a szülei már elhaltak. Soha nem beszélt róluk, csak a Tóráról és a Talmudról. A világi élet problémáiról az én apám nem tárgyalt. Csak a vallással foglalkozott.

Az apai nagyszüleim családjában két gyerek született. Davidovits Mór volt az idősebb, és az én apám, Davidovits Icik vagy Izsák a fiatalabb. Egy verseny folyt a Mór és Icik között. Mindketten a rabbitanodába szerettek volna kerülni. A nagyapámnak nem volt annyi lehetősége, hogy mindkettőjüket taníttassa. A nagyobbik fiút Budapestre küldte a nagyapám tanulni. Mór az orvosi tanulmányai elvégzése után fogász lett [Helyesebben: amennyiben egyetemet végzett, akkor fogorvos volt. – A szerk.]. Rendelőt nyitott Budapesten, a Wesselényi utcában, és ott dolgozott. Nem lett ugyan rabbi belőle, de a vallást megtartotta. Idővel még kaptunk híreket felőle, de nem nagyon tartottuk a kapcsolatot.

Az én édesapám, Davidovits Icik vagy Izsák 1873. május tizedikén született Beregszászon. Az apám családjában a vallás fontos szerepet játszott a család életében. A nagyapám nevelte édesapámat a vallásosságra. Az én apám a rabbitanodába akart menni, de már nem volt annyi pénz a család birtokában. A nagyapám nem tudta pénzelni ezt a dolgot, és akkor befogta az apámat az asztalos munkába. Itt volt egy kis féltékenység, aminek a következtében az apám még vallásosabb volt, mint Mór. Roppant bigott volt, a szélsőséges fundamentalista zsidó eszmét hordozta, amelyről az életében soha le nem tért. Soha nem olvasott el egy regényt, soha nem ment moziba vagy színházba, soha nem mozdult ki, mindig otthon ült, és a Talmudot tanulmányozta. Azt sem engedte meg, hogy keresztény ember a házunkba belépjen.

Az apám a szomszédokkal is csak a templomban találkozott. Ha az azonos irányzathoz tartozók voltak, akkor tárgyaltak egymással. Ha nem volt olyan bigott a vallásossága, mondjuk, hanem egy moderáltabb vallásos csoporthoz tartozott, vagy ha reformista vallásos eszméket vallott egy zsidó ember, vagyis neológ volt, ami azt jelentette, hogy egy modernebb vallásos felfogása volt – mint ahogy [Maros]Vásárhelyen is megvolt ez – akkor a nagyapám és az apám nem foglalkozott azzal az emberrel. [Maros]Vásárhelyen volt ortodox, ortodox bigott és neológ [tulajdonképpen status quo] templom, amely most is megvan az Iskola utcában. De az én apám például soha be nem ment a neológ templomba. Szerinte az istentagadó templom volt. Mikor elmentünk előtte, valami okból kifolyólag leköpte azt a templomot, mint olyant, amely nem zsidó templom.

Az én apám az apjától tanulta meg az ácsmesterséget még Beregszászon. Ott elvégezte az elemi négy osztályt magyar nyelven, de a mindennapi életben igyekezett nem használni a magyar nyelvet. Semmilyen más nyelvet nem használt, csak az imádkozás nyelvét, a hébert és a jiddist. Amikor idejött 1901-ben vagy 1902-ben, ahol most a Víkendtelep mellett van a nagy bútorgyár, ott volt két nagy fafeldolgozó vállalat, a Foresta és a Lovász [A Víkendtelep a város leglátogatottabb üdülőtelepe, az 1930-as évektől kezdtek járni a lakosok a Maros és a Szentgyöry patak közötti területre, ahol csónakházakat és hétvégi házakat építettek. 1962 óta a vállalatok víkendházai, úszómedencék, sportpályák, vendéglők is épültek a Víkendtelepen. – A szerk.]. Az apám ott dolgozott mint famunkás. Mindkét üzem olasz cég volt. A Maroson úsztatták le a rönköket, amelyeket a marosvölgyi erdőkben termeltek ki. Ott vágták fel a gáteren cirkulán és mindenféle gépen, és termelték ki a deszkaanyagot [A gáter fűrészgép, amellyel a rönkökből deszkát vágnak; a cirkula körfűrész. – A szerk.]. Abból készítettek különböző asztalos- meg ácsmunkákat [A Bútorgyár, mai nevén Mobex, az 1948-as államosítás előtt Foresta Rt. Fűrészgyár volt. A nyersanyagot tutajon szállították a Felső-Maros és a Görgény völgyéből. 1949-ben hozzákapcsolták a Székely és Réti bútorgyárat, s ezzel az egyik legnagyobb bútorüzemmé nőtte ki magát. – A szerk.].

Az apám csak vallásos témájú írásokat olvasott, mást soha az életben. Akkor, amikor már öregebb lett, újságárus lett, de az újságot ő nem olvasta el. Magyar dolgot nem olvasott, mert azt mondta, az keresztény, gaj [gój]. Ő éppen úgy gyűlölte a keresztényeket, mint ahogy a keresztények a zsidókat. Talán még jobban. Tulajdonképpen, amikor az antiszemitizmusról beszélünk, akkor azt is figyelembe kell vennünk, hogy egyes zsidók is antikeresztények.

Az anyai nagyapámat Csernovits Efraimnak hívták. Ha az emlékezetem nem csal, 1812-ben született [Amennyiben valóban ekkor született, akkor 76 éves volt, amikor a lánya, az interjúalany anyja született, és 125 éves lett volna, amikor meghalt. Minden bizonnyal rosszul emlékszik. – A szerk.]. Az édesanyám családja, a Csernovits család, Csernovic város peremkerületében élt, viszonylag szűkös körülmények között. Csernovicban a zsidó közösség elég nagy számú volt, de nagyon szegény körülmények között éltek. Ez egy elmaradott vidék volt. Sok zsidó élt akkortájt azon a vidéken is. A csernovici életükről nagyon keveset tudok mesélni. A nagyapám egyszerű, szegény csizmadia volt, otthon dolgozott a szakmájában, amivel annyit keresett, hogy épp el tudta tartani a családját. A feleségét, az anyai nagyanyámat Csernovits Eszternek hívták. Róla semmit sem tudok mesélni, ugyanis nagyon korán, még édesanyám gyermekévei alatt meghalt. Az anyai nagyszüleim vallása normális zsidó vallás volt. Ortodoxok voltak, de nem volt szélsőséges sem a nagyapám, sem pedig a nagyanyám. Az édesanyám, Csernovits Frida 1888-ban született Csernovicban. Egyedüli lány [egyetlen gyermek] volt a családban. A nagyapám egyedül nevelte a lányát, Fridát. Mivel a mindennapi élet nagyon nehéz volt, többen is úgy gondolták, megszabadulhatnak a szegénységtől, ha Erdélybe költöznek – azt remélték, hogy Erdélyben jobb lesz majd az élet. Ez lehetséges volt, mert az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchiában szabad költözködési joggal rendelkeztek az állampolgárok. Mivel a nagyapám megélhetése egyre nehezebbé vált, 1910-ben Csernovicból Marosvásárhelyre költöztek egy jobb élet reményében.

A szüleim a zsidó hagyományok szerint ismerkedtek meg. A zsidó házasságok rendszerint úgy kötődtek, hogy mindig minden közösségben volt egy házasságszerző [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen]. A régi [maros]vásárhelyi zsidóság az Arany János utcában tömörült és a templomok köré. Ott volt egy nő, aki ismerte mind a kettőt, mert apám mint fiatalember ott lakott a szomszédságában. Anyám az apjával a másik szomszédban. Ők tulajdonképpen nagyon furfangos módon értesültek a dolgokról. A házasságszerző úgy hozta össze őket, hogy először elment az anyám apjához, és elmondta, hogy van egy jó parti, és hogy Davidovits Icik vallásos ember, ácsmunkás, a Foresta gyárban dolgozik. Aztán elment apámékhoz is, hogy van egy jó parti, Csernovits Frida vallásos lány, jó, rendes családból való, és összehozta őket. A zsidó házasságok nem kötődtek a szerelem talaján. Ez volt a szokás.

A házban, ahol a férjével és hat gyerekével élt, a gyerekek inkább magyarul beszéltek anyámhoz, anyám viszont nem tudott jól se románul, se magyarul, ő törte a magyar nyelvet. Például úgy beszélt, hogy „Gyerdi hozzám!” vagy „Baj lenni gyermikkel”, vagy amikor a bátyám beleesett a patakba, azt mondta, hogy „Szegény gyermik beleesni a patikba”. De mi megértettük anyámat mindig. Főleg lelkileg értettük meg. Annak az asszonynak olyan csodálatos gyermekszerető lelke volt, amilyet én életemben nem láttam, tapasztaltam sehol, soha. Meg kell jegyezzem, hogy anyám csernovici tartózkodása alatt románul sem tudott jól. Törte mind a román, mind a magyar nyelvet, mert ő egyetlenegy iskolát el nem végzett. Az anyám analfabéta, tudatlan [tanulatlan] nő volt.

Habár a vallás nagymértékben meghatározta a családunk életét, a szüleim a vallásban nem értettek mindig egyet. Emiatt ellentmondás is volt egész életükön át a két szülő között, mert apám borzasztóan betartotta a vallás előírásait, anyám viszont vallásos volt, de csak a normalitás keretén belül. Mindig azt mondta apám anyámnak, hogy ő egy vallástalan. Anyám pedig apámnak azt mondta, hogy egy bolond vallásos. Apámat jobban érdekelte a Tóra, a Jóisten, a Messiás szerepe, mint a gyermekeinek az élete. Hogyha azt kérte volna a Messiás, hogy áldozza fel a gyerekeit a vallás szelleméért, akkor ő bizony feláldozta volna. Anyám fordítva. Ő, ha a gyermekeinek az életéért kellett volna küszködjön, akkor ő a vallásról is lemond, csak hogy megmentse a gyermekeit. A szüleim egymás között csak jiddisül beszéltek. Apám velünk is csak jiddisül beszélt. Mi meg nem tudtunk minden szót, mondatot jiddisül. Megértettük, de nem tudtunk válaszolni, és magyarul válaszoltunk. Ezért nagyon haragudott. Anyámmal viszont magyarul beszéltünk.

A legnagyobb testvérem Davidovits Móric. Mi Marcinak szólítottuk. 1914-ben született, ő még alig volt tizenhárom-tizennégy éves, amikor ötödikes korában kimaradt az elemi iskolából, és elment dolgozni oda, ahol munkát kapott, mert kellett segíteni a család élelmezését. Bekerült a taxisok közé, és ott segédkezett. Az elején ő mosta az autókat, aztán idővel javította is azokat. Idővel megtanították vezetni, megszerezte a jogosítványt, és sofőr lett. Ez lett az ő szakmája egy egész életre. Ő nem került lágerbe. 1943 nyarán behívót kapott munkaszolgálatra. Az északi részen volt valahol Beszterce-Naszód, Nagykároly, Szatmár[németi] környékén. Ott volt a magyar hadsereg keretében munkaszolgálatos. Amikor megérkeztek az oroszok, megszökött és hazajött. Miután hazaérkezett, mivel jó barát volt Löbl Marcival, a városi kommunista párt fontos emberével, a párt városi első titkárának a sofőrje lett. Később, miután Löbl Marci elment Bukarestbe, a bátyám egy másik barátjával, Farkas Bercivel egy kis alkatrészüzletet nyitott. Rendbe szedtek egy régi autót, és azzal taxiztak. Aztán az is véget ért, mert az autót visszakérte a tulajdonos, a törvényszék visszaadta neki, és akkor a román titkosszolgálathoz a Securitatéhoz került sofőrnek. Ott volt néhány évig, onnan kitették, mert ő nem törődött a politikával. Ha jól emlékszem, talán be sem lépett a pártba. Egyszerűen ő antipolitikus volt. Ezután az ITA-hoz, egy autójavító vállalathoz került a Bodoni utcában. Ott dolgozott a nyugdíjazásáig.

A következő testvérem lány volt, Davidovits Malvinnak hívták, 1916-ban született. Ő is, akár a bátyám, szintén fiatal korában, 14-15 évesen kezdett el dolgozni a Székely és Réti bútorgyárban mint bútorfényező. Ott dolgozott, ameddig a körülmények engedték. Aztán a zsidótörvényekkel [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon] jöttek a nehézségek, mert zsidó vállalat volt, konkurenciát jelentett, mert a legjobb bútorgyár volt [Maros]Vásárhelyen. És voltak ugye magyar bútorgyártók is. A bútorgyárat felszámolták, és ő kikerült pár év [munkaviszony] után. 1943-ban aztán felment Budapestre azzal a reménnyel, hogy apámnak a testvére, Davidovics Mór, aki Budapesten a Wesselényi utcában fogorvosi rendelőt működtetett, fogja őt segíteni. De az apám testvére sem foglalkozott vele, mert ők is bigott emberek voltak, a nővérem pedig nem törődött a vallással. Különben egyik gyermek sem törődött a vallással, sőt utálta az imádkozást, mert sok verést kapott tőle [apánktól]. Malvin Budapesten aztán bekerült egy bútorműhelybe, és ott dolgozott. Megismerkedett egy magyar [= keresztény] fiúval, akinek a családja bújtatta a vészkorszak ideje alatt. Így átvészelte a deportálást. 1944 késő őszén hazajött [Románia 1944. augusztus 23-án átállt a szövetségesek oldalára – A szerk. Lásd még: Románia kiugrása a háborúból.]. Addig[ra] a bátyám, Móric, már szerzett egy valamivel nagyobb lakást, mint a régi. Ebben sem volt víz, se fürdő, se vécé, de annyi előnye volt, hogy volt gáz és villany. A lány itt élt [Maros]Vásárhelyen, és amikor a Simó Géza bútorgyár, a későbbi nevén az Augusztus 23 nevű bútorgyár megépült, elment a szakmájába dolgozni bútorfényezőnek. Néhány évtizedet dolgozott ott. Férjhez ment, a férje Klauzer Márton volt, egy pék. Két gyerekük született, Erika és Laci. Úgy határoztak 1973-ban, hogy kimennek Izraelbe. Ott él most is. Nyolcvannyolc éves [Időközben, 89 éves korában meghalt. – A szerk.].

A következő testvéremet is Sámuelnek hívták, akárcsak engem, és 1918-ban született. Ez úgy történhetett meg, hogy az apám egyáltalán nem értett az adminisztratív ügyekhez, és az általa bemondott zsidó névből ezt hozták ki. Sámuel bátyám szabóinasnak ment, nagyon jó érzéke volt a szabósághoz. Hirsch Ignác és Tímár János műhelyében dolgozott. Fel is szabadult az inaskodásból, jó szabósegéd lett belőle, de 1938-ban meghalt. Úgy látszik, hogy a nélkülözés, a rossz körülmények hatottak a gyomrára, és nem tudta átvészelni a nehézségeket.

A következő, Davidovits Blanka 1920-ban született. Elvégezte az öt elemi osztályt, és szintén dolgozni ment. A szomszédunkban volt egy kis vállalkozó, kézi perzsaszőnyeg szövésével foglalkozott. Kevés fizetéssel alkalmazták ugyan, de legalább volt munkája. Ott dolgozott egészen addig, amíg deportálták a [maros]vásárhelyi zsidókat. A deportálást átvészelte, annak ellenére, hogy ő is megszenvedte a nyomort és az ínséget. Súlyos gyomorbetegséget kapott, mégis hazajött. Amikor megszervezték a szocialista kereskedelmet, akkor beállt kereskedelmi alkalmazottnak. Volt egy zsidó textilkereskedő, úgy hívták, hogy Rubin Vilmos, aki ismerte és betette egy üzletbe, és ott dolgozott mint elárusítónő, addig, amíg súlyosbodott a gyomorbaja és gyomorrákban 1973-ban meg nem halt. Családja nem volt. Nem volt egy életvidám ember, inkább a zenét, olvasást kedvelte. Nem is fogadta el, hogy udvaroljanak neki.

A következő, kisebbik bátyám Davidovits Benjámin. 1923 áprilisában született. Nagyon életképes, ügyes gyermek volt. Az iskola nem érdekelte, bátor gyermek volt, akármilyen kalandba belement. Ha gyümölcsöt kellett lopnunk, nekem mindig azt mondta, hogy én csak figyeljek, hogy ne fogjanak el. Persze a zsákmányt velem is megosztotta. Iskolába sem járt sokat. Elvégezte a négy elemi osztályt, aztán elment dolgozni. Vasbetonszerelő lett belőle, hidakat építettek. Aztán elment Vitális Simonhoz, aki Marosvásárhelyen egy közszállítási vállalkozás vezetője volt. És ott dolgozott hosszú ideig.

1925. július huszonhetedikén születtem, Marosvásárhelyen, a Wesselényi utcában. Ez jelenleg a Március 8 nevet viseli, egy kimondottan szegény negyed volt. Én az anyám családja nevét viselem, éspedig azért, mert 1925-ben, amikor én születtem, a szüleim házassági szerződése elégett. Apám elment az anyakönyvi hivatalba bejelenteni az én születésemet, ahol azonban kérték a házassági levelet. 1925-ben már román adminisztráció volt, és ő egyáltalán nem tudott [románul], még magyarul se nagyon, pedig a négy osztály magyarul kötelező volt Kárpátalján is [Beregszász, az apa szülőhelye Kárpátalján van. – A szerk.], ami az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchiához tartozott [Magyarországon – beleértve Kárpátalját is – az 1868-os Eötvös-féle népiskolai törvény óta kötelező volt az elemi népiskola hat osztályának elvégzése. – A szerk. ]. Ő azonban ritkán beszélt magyarul. Mondta, hogy elégett a házasságlevél. Ott azt felelték, hogy csak úgy tudják a Davidovits névre írni a fiát, ha ír egy nyilatkozatot, hogy az ő fia vagyok. Megírta, el is fogadták, és beírták, hogy Davidovits Sámuel. Amikor 1940-ben bejött a Horthy-Magyarország adminisztrációja, elhívtak engem, és azt mondták, hogy én törvénytelenül használom apám nevét, mert nincs házassági okmány, és nem viselhetem ezután az édesapám nevét, csak az édesanyámét. Mondtam, hogy nincs semmi baj, és felvettem a Csernovits nevet. 1945 után lehetőségem lett volna visszavenni a Davidovits nevet, de nem akartam, mert anyámat nagyon szerettem.

Ami a család gazdasági helyzetét illeti, abból kell kiindulni, hogy az apám egyszerű munkás volt. Nem is lehetett más, mert ő például szombaton nem dolgozott. A fizetés kevés volt, és nagy volt a család. Amikor én megszülettem, 1925-ben, a legnagyobb bátyám tizenegy éves volt. Meg volt akkor még egy fiú, aki meghalt később, apám abból a fizetésből nyolc személyt kellett eltartson. A zsidó anyák soha nem dolgoztak. Mostan Izraelben is dolgoznak a zsidó anyák, de akkor nem létezett ilyesmi. Az én édesanyám sem dolgozott. Mi, nyolcan egy kis szoba-konyhában laktunk. Az összterület nem volt nagyobb, mint huszonnyolc-harminc négyzetméter. Az egész kettőbe volt osztva, volt egy kis szoba, kicsi ablakokkal, alig jött be a napfény, és volt egy kicsi konyha, amely még csak le sem volt padolva, hanem agyagsimítású volt. Akkor úgy oszlott meg, hogy anyám apámmal aludt egy ágyban, a két nővérünk egy ágyban és három kisebb fiú egy ágyban. A szomszédból, ahol gazdák laktak, csépléskor kunyeráltunk egy kicsi szalmát, megtömtük a „surgyét” [szalmazsák] szalmával. A bútorunk legalább száz éves volt. A poloskák meg hadgyakorlatokat végeztek a bútorzaton.

A ruházat szempontjából annyit, hogy rendszerint a gazdagabb zsidó családok gyermekeinek elhasznált ruházatát hordtuk. A cipők ugyancsak használtak voltak. Az élelmezés a létminimum alatt. Az éhség az állandó volt, úgyhogy azt lehetett mondani, a nyomor talaján éltünk és kínlódtunk, és szerintem Sámuel bátyám is ezért halt meg fiatalon. A szüleim ruházata is egyszerű volt. Apám kapott egy-egy elhasznált ruhát a bigott gazdag zsidóktól. Rendszerint bővebb ruhák voltak, mint ő, mert ő egy szikár ember volt, látszott, hogy dolgozott, megvolt hozzá az izomzata is. Soha nem hízott el, jó kemény munkásember volt, fehér szakállal. Mindenkinek le volt a haja vágva, ez a törvény a zsidóknál. Nemcsak a gyermekeket nyírták le, hanem anyámat is. A kopaszra nyírás kötelező jellegű volt a nők számára is. A Tóra azt mondja, hogy a férjezett nő nem hordhat hajkoronát, hogy ne csábítson más férfit. Az édesanyám is le volt nyírva. Nagyon megdöbbentő volt számomra, amikor először láttam kopaszon anyámat késő gyermekkoromban. Máskülönben ő állandó jelleggel kendőt viselt, legyen meleg vagy akár hideg [Az ortodox férjes asszonyok kalappal, kendővel vagy parókával (sejtel, sájtli) fedik be a fejüket, illemből, mivel a szabadon lévő haj a mezítelenség egyik formájának tekinthető. – A szerk.]. Egyszer az édesanyám mosakodott éppen, amikor hazaértem. Öt-hat éves lehettem. Bementem hirtelen, és láttam, hogy kopasz. A kendőt levette a fejéről. Eddig én nem láttam őt kendő nélkül. Megütközve kérdem tőle: „Hát mama, ki csúfított el téged ennyire? Ki vágta le hajadat?” És ő azt felelte, hogy „Édes gyermek, nekim nem szabadni hajim lenni”. Akkor ő elmagyarázta, hogy ez a vallás miatt volt.

A Wesselényi utca elején laktunk, nagyon közel volt a Hidegvölgyhöz, tehát a cigánytelephez. Néha össze is vegyültünk velük. Alapjában véve, általában csak a nyomorgó emberek éltek itt. Az 1920-as években volt egypár villanykörte az utcában, és egy nő minden este ment, és egy magas léccel meghúzta, és begyúlt a villany, de igazán nem volt kivilágítva [Föltehetően gázlámpáról van szó, nem villanyvilágításról. – A szerk.]. Sáros volt az utca, a legtöbb ház meg nagyon szegényes. Nem volt fürdőszoba, se vécé. A vízellátás is gyenge volt. Csak egy csap volt az utcában, amely körülbelül harminc méter távolságra volt, és onnan hordtuk a vizet. Elektromosság nem létezett a házakban, csak petróleumlámpa. A fűtés fűrészporral ment, amit a zsidó faraktárosok adtak apámnak ingyen. De már égő fát [tűzifát] nem adtak. A kályhánk mindig füstölt. Az egyik helyiségben, a konyhában tudtunk csinálni tüzet, mert ott főztük az ételt, amikor volt mit. Estére kinyitottuk a szoba ajtaját, hogy oda is menjen be egy kicsi meleg. Ez annyiban állott, hogy bement egy kis mennyiségű meleg, találkozott a hideg levegővel, kondenzálódott az éjszaka folyamán. Ha mínusz tizenöt-húsz fok alatt volt a kinti hőmérséklet, az a melegebb levegő lecsapódott a falakra, és jégpáncél keletkezett. Mi mindig oda írtuk a nevünket, évszámokat stb., és így próbáltuk elütni, gyermeki tréfával a nyomort.

Érdekesség még az is, hogy nem tudtuk fizetni a házbért, és ezért folyamatosan felfele kellett költöznünk, mindig közelebb a cigánytelephez. Háromszor volt egy ilyen „felfelenyomulás”, úgyhogy mi már a cigányteleptől nem is voltunk messze. Mint említettem, össze is vegyültünk velük. A barátaim között volt cigány is, zsidó is, volt magyar, román, szász, szlovák, mindenféle. Ez aztán teljesen meghatározta a mi felfogásunkat. Teljesen mindegy volt, hogy abban a nyomorban milyen nemzetiségűnek születtünk. Az én apám például nem engedte meg, hogy mi keresztény fiúkkal vagy lányokkal barátkozzunk. Persze hogy barátkoztunk, mert nem volt más megoldás. Ott az utcában mindenki mindenkivel barát volt. Együtt mentünk gyümölcsöt lopni vagy behordani, hogy kapjunk egy pár lejt, hogy abból aztán vegyünk egy kis kenyeret és egy kicsi cérnakolbászt, hogy legyen, amit enni. Engem nem érdekelt sem a vallás, sem a nemzetiség.

Az apám szigorúan betartotta a vallási előírásokat. Apám jobban betartotta a szombatot, mint akármelyik zsidó rabbi a világon. Mi, a család, beleértve anyámat is, nem tartottuk be. Anyám azt mondta, ebben a nagy córeszben, vagyis nyomorban hiába imádkozunk, úgysem lesz több ételünk, se ruhánk. A vallásossága kimerült annyiban, hogy kóser kosztot főzött, de azt se vitte túlzásba. Apám bement a templomba ünnepnapok előestéjén, amikor még a csillag nem jelent meg [az égen], pénteken este vagy például hosszúnap [Jom Kipur] alkalmával. A család többi tagja csak az általánosabb vallási előírásokat tartotta be. Mindennapi vallásos megnyilvánulás volt a reggeli ima. Az nem úgy megy, mint a keresztényeknél, hogy Miatyánk, ki vagy… stb., és egy perc alatt elmondja a dolgokat [A Miatyánk (Pater noster) a kereszténységnek, az összes keresztény felekezetnek legszentebb imája. Az Újszövetség szerint maga Jézus tanította meg rá az apostolokat. Szerepel – bár némileg más-más formában – Máté és Lukács evangéliumában egyaránt. – A szerk.]. Mi legalább egy órát kellett imádkozzunk apánkkal. Csak héberül imádkoztunk. A tóra az héber. Mondjuk, vannak modern fordítások, de őt azt nem érdekelte, ő azt árulásnak vélte. Voltak a szombatok. Szombat este a csillag feljövetele előtt el kellett menni a templomba. Ott körülbelül két-három óra imádkozás, mert ugye különböznek a dolgok: a neológ templomban egy fél óra, az ortodox templomban egy óra. De az én apám szektájánál két vagy három óra volt. Az kibírhatatlan egy gyermek részére. Ezenkívül voltak a nagy ünnepek: a hosszúnap, a böjt vagy a megbocsátás [engesztelés] ünnepe. Van a Ros Hásáná, az újév, szeptember tizenkettedike [Tisri hó 1-2-a. Az első nap előtti nap napnyugtától a második napon az első három csillag megjelenéséig tart az ünnep. A Gergely naptár szerinti dátum évről évre változik. – A szerk.], és van tavasszal a másik nagy ünnep, a Pészah, vagyis a húsvét. Itt aztán bementünk a templomba a csillag feljövetele előtt, és másnap este amikor már feljött a csillag, jöttünk ki a templomból. Egész éjjel, egész nap étlen, szomjan [Ez nem Pészahkor lehetett, hanem nyilván Jom Kipurkor. – A szerk.]. Apám minden fiúgyermektől megkövetelte, hogy vele imádkozzon. A zsidó vallás szerint a nő az másodlagos. Benne van az Éva-effektus, hogy a nő az csak a férfinek egy csontrészecskéje. Az egyenlőség a férfi és nő között nem létezik a zsidó vallásban. A nőnek semmilyen joga nincsen a családban, csak gyereket szülni, felnevelni, és szolgálni az apát.

Amikor tizenhárom évesek lettünk [Azaz miután megvolt a bár micvójuk. – A szerk.]… akkor be van téve egy bőrskatulyába a Tórának egy mondata, és egy szíjjal fel van szíjazva [lásd: imaszíj]. A tizenhárom éves fiú a zsidóknál már felnőtt és házasodhat is. Szombaton mentünk a templomba. Ezt minden héten megcsinálni, és olyan hosszasan… [kellett imádkozni] és közben láttam, hogy a barátaim mennek futballozni, mennek a Marosra, vagy gyümölcsöt lopni, az kibírhatatlan volt. És akkor mindig ellógtunk a heiderből [héder], vagy ahol éppen tartózkodtunk. Akkor agyonvert az apám. Egyetlen dolog [volt], amiért féktelen módon vert, az imádkozás. Ez odavezetett, hogy mindegyik fiú, mert négyen voltunk, felmondta a szerződést [visszautasította, hogy imádkozzon], nem csinálta tovább. Én is, amikor inas lettem, azt mondtam, hogy a nyavalya rontsa ki azt az Istent, aki miatt én annyi verést kell kapjak. Akkor mint gyermek, abszolút tudatlanul, ösztönösen – semmiféle tudományos képzettségem nem volt rá, mert nem is lehetett – megutáltam a vallást, és eltávolodtam tőle. Minket végül is az apánk bigottsága távolított el a vallástól. Ez olyan dolog, hogyha egy gyermeket valamire erőszakolnak, pont az ellenkező eredményt érik el a szülők. Mi mindig ettük a disznóhúst, kolbászt, szalonnát [házon kívül]. Apám nem tudta, agyon is vert volna a bűn miatt, annyira vallásos volt. Olyan szélsőséges, fundamentalista volt, hogy azt nem is lehet elképzelni. Az inkább veszi a kést, és beléd szúrja. Nem számit, ha a gyereke vagy, ha megtudja azt, hogy disznóhúst eszel.

A szomszédokkal a család sajátos viszonyban volt. Az én apám senkivel nem tárgyalt, csak a zsidókkal és a rabbival. Egyetlen szomszéddal se állt szóba, mindegy, hogy ki volt, mi volt. Anyám nagyon jó, csevegő asszony volt, ő pletykált is a szomszédokkal, mindegy, hogy zsidó volt, román vagy magyar. Az ő rossz nyelvtudásával is nagyon jól megértette magát. Mi viszont általában keresztény [gyerekekkel] és a nyomornegyed zsidó gyermekeivel barátkoztunk. Mi nagyon jó viszonyban voltunk mindenkivel, minket egyáltalán nem érdekelt sem a valláskülönbözet, sem a nemzetiség. Ez kialakította bennünk az egész életünkre szóló egyetemes felfogást, a kozmopolita felfogást, a barátságot, és mivel apánk agyonvert a vallásért, kialakította bennünk már ösztönösen a vallás tagadását. A tanulmányaim során aztán kialakult bennem a materialista világfelfogás.

Gazdasági és társadalmi helyzetünkből kiindulva, a mi családunk mindenképp alacsonyabb szinten állt városi viszonylatban, mivel szegényebbek voltunk, mint a többiek, és ehhez még hozzá kell adnunk, hogy zsidók is voltunk. Ez akkor számított, mert voltak megjegyzések néhány gyerek részéről a városból, hogy büdös zsidó, mocskos zsidó, tetves zsidó, rühes zsidó. Ez nem volt jellemző azokra a gyerekekre, akik velünk barátkoztak, velünk teljesen azonos nézeten voltak, és őszintén barátok voltak. Keresztény gyerekek voltak, magyarok, románok, szászok, cigányok, volt egy szlovák család is, velük azt lehet mondani, hogy közös sorsot éltünk. Közösen vállaltuk a sorsot, közösen mentünk néha játszani, futballozni, a Marosra úszni, vagy például dolgozni az építkezéseknél, ahol lehetett egy kicsi pénzt szerezni. Nyaranként én és a bátyám, a barátaim mentünk házépítésre. Napszámban dolgoztunk, hordtuk a téglát, a cserepet, a gerendákat, deszkákat, és kerestünk annyit, hogy vegyünk magunknak legalább egy teniszcipőt. Meg beálltam újságot kihordani, mert fizették. Igaz, be kellett járjam a várost, de mezítláb, gyermek voltam, futottam, és kaptam egypár lejt. Tudtam venni valami ételt magamnak. Akkor még nem volt gáz, hozták a Marosról a nagy farönköket, egy szekér vitte, ledobta a ház elé, és mentünk, ajánlkoztunk közösen, minden nemzetiség, de azonos gazdasági szituációban levő, hogy segítünk lerakni, hordani. Ők is éppen olyan rongybubák voltak, mint mi, éppen olyan nehezen tudták megszerezni a betevő falatot, és akkor nagyon jól kijöttünk. Elmentünk közösen például gyümölcsöt lopni, mindent elosztottunk egymás között, voltak olyan barátok, akikkel egész életemen át barátkoztam.

1935-ben, amikor tíz éves voltam, Marosvásárhely egy kisváros volt. Alapjában véve talán a főtér és még a Dózsa György utcának egy része meg a Szentgyörgy utca voltak leaszfaltozva. Még egy pár száz méter a Kossuth Lajos utcából, a többi pedig aszfalt nélküli utca volt vagy földút. Az összlakossága körülbelül harmincötezer volt. Nagyobbrészt, kábé nyolcvan százaléka magyar ajkú volt. Lehet, hogy több is, de nem tudok mondani pontos számot, mert nincsenek nekem megfelelő bizonyító dokumentumaim. A harmincötezer lakosból körülbelül hét-nyolc százalék lehetett zsidó [Az 1930-as népszámlálási adatok 22 300 magyart és 4800 zsidót (ortodoxok és status quo ante irányzathoz tartozók) mutattak ki. A város lakossága ekkor 38 000 fő volt. Lásd még a „Marosvásárhely” szócikket. – A szerk.]. Nekem teljesen mindegy, hogy magyar, román vagy zsidó, engem ez a része nem érdekel. Az a felfogásom, hogy az, hogy valaki zsidónak vagy magyarnak vagy románnak születik, vagy vallásosnak vagy ortodoxnak vagy kereszténynek születik, az abszolút a véletlen műve, az nem egy tudatos folyamat. Az, hogy valaki gazdagnak vagy szegénynek születik, az nem egy előre elhatározott folyamat.

Vallási szempontból a [maros]vásárhelyi zsidók két közösséget alkottak: ortodoxot és a neológot. Az ortodoxok többségben voltak, a neológok kevesebben, de a neológ hitközség volt a gazdagabb, mert ide tartoztak Marosvásárhely zsidó gyárosai, gazdag emberei. A neológ és az ortodox felfogás közötti különbséget úgy kell felfogni, mint a keresztény inkvizíciós, fundamentalista, merev és embertelen vallásos felfogás és eljárás és a lutheri vagy kálvini reformátorok vallása közötti különbséget. A katolikus egyház, főleg a pápaság, teljes mértékben ellenezte a fejlődést, és el is égette, megölte, azokat, akik más tételt vallottak, mint a katolikus egyház. A zsidóknál a neológ vallás sokkal szabadabb elvű volt, sokkal világibb volt, mint az ortodox. Mindezek ellenére megmaradt az istenhit. Az ortodoxoknál már sokkal szigorúbbak voltak a vallásos előírások és azoknak a betartása. A zsidó ortodox vallás keretén belül is voltak nézeteltérések. A neológoknál ilyen nem létezett. Például léteztek a haszid zsidók, a nagyon vallásos zsidók. Továbbá voltak az ortodox haszid Kabala szekták, azok ultravallásosak voltak. Szélsőségesek, fundamentalisták, nem ismertek el semmit, a Tórán kívül nem létezett se nemzet, se vallás, semmi, csak Mózes nemzetsége, Mózes Öt könyve, a Tóra. Az volt az alapelvük, hogy mind a hatszáztizenhárom vallásos előírást teljes mértékben, maradéktalanul, milliméternyi kihagyás nélkül tiszteletben kell tartani, és át is kell élni.

Két nagyobb zsinagóga létezett a városban. Volt a neológ templom [Tulajdonképpen status quo zsinagóga. – A szerk.] az Iskola utcában. Ez volt a legmodernebb, a leggazdagabb, a legkésőbben készült zsinagóga. A város leggazdagabb zsidóinak a pénzéből készült. Volt az ortodox zsinagóga a Knöppfler Vilmos utcában. Az ma már nem templom. Nincs annyi zsidó, hogy szükség legyen arra az épületre is. Kiadták különböző vállalatoknak. Az sokkal nagyobb volt, mint a neológ, és nem volt annyira cifra. Az ortodoxok nem fogadják el a cifraságot. A neológ templom viszont elég cifra. Benne van a spanyolországi mór művészet is. Akkor volt az Iskola utca elején még egy kicsi zsidó templom, ott, ahol most az Adas [biztosítási ügynökség] van [Egy 1873-ban emelt, kőből és téglából épített szefárd imaházról van szó, amelyet 1971-ben lebontottak. – A szerk.]. Mellette volt a sakter, ott vágták le a zsidók a majorságot. Csak azzal a feltétellel ehettek a zsidók majorságot, ha azokat a sakter vágta le. Levágta a nyakukat, kivette a gégéjüket, megnézték, hogy nem beteg-e [A liba nyelőcsövét, és nem gégéjét ellenőrzi a rabbi vagy a sakter, és ha nem sérült, az állatkóser. – A szerk.]. Ha nem volt beteg, akkor kóser volt, meg lehetett enni [Ilyenkor nem is annyira a betegséget ellenőrzik, mint az épséget, azt ugyanis, hogy nem számít-e az állat tréflinek. Lásd még: étkezési törvények. – A szerk.]. Ezt onnan tudom, hogy amikor szabóinasnak mentem, az én mesterem egy bigott ortodox zsidó volt. Mindig engem küldött, hogy vigyem a libát, hogy vágják le. Minden zsidó család oda vitte a majorságot. A kóserolás azt jelentette, hogy a rabbi felügyelete alatt megvizsgálják az élelmet, a bort is, a kenyeret is, a búzát is, hogy abban nincs-e idegen anyag. Akkor az kóser, vagyis a zsidó vallásos ember eheti. Vagyis a Tóra törvénye szerint megengedhető az elfogyasztása. Ez a borzasztó nagy előírás a vallásos zsidóknál éppen olyan törvény, mint a tízparancsolat bármelyik törvénye. Miután bejöttek a magyarok 1940-ben [lásd: második bécsi döntés; magyar idők], és jöttek a zsidótörvények, bezárták a zsidó mészárszékeket, a kóser mészárszéket és a kóser üzleteket. Ettől kezdve már nem lehetett betartani a kóser kosztot.

Gyerekkoromban a [maros]vásárhelyi zsidóság fontos elöljárója a rabbi volt. A neológ rabbit nem ismertem, mert oda nem jártunk. Az ortodox rabbit jól ismertem, mert apám gyakran vitt a templomba. Számomra nagy embernek tűnt. Akkor még nem voltam úgy összemenve a vallással. Apám jó kapcsolatban volt a rabbival, mindig mellette imádkozott. Többször volt előimádkozó. A rabbi segített is neki többször. Úgy emlékszem, még a lakást is a rabbi segítségével szerezte. Idővel, miután kikerült a faiparból, a rabbi szerzett neki egy újságárusi állást. A sakter nem volt jelentős, a kántor sem, hanem inkább a rabbi. Ő intézte a vallási problémákat. A zsidó vallási körökben a rabbi volt a fő tanácsadó. Ugyanakkor bíró is volt. Ő adta a tanácsokat, ha valakik összevesztek, ő volt a salamoni békítő. De a hitközség már laikus dolgokkal is foglalkozott, rendezte a népnek az ügyét. Onnan minden családtagunk napi fejadagot kapott. Jótékonysági intézményeket hozott létre, beosztotta a szegény zsidó gyerekeket az úri családokhoz reggelire, vagy például különböző ünnepélyeket, „Purim-Örömünnepet” szervezett. Összeszedték a gazdag zsidóktól a ruhákat, és kiosztották a szegény zsidóknak. Én is, egészen tizennégy éves koromig, amikor elmentem szabóinasnak, és kezdtem magamnak varrni, ilyen használt ruhákat kaptam a gazdag zsidó gyerekektől. Csak azokban jártam. Nekünk nem volt semmi lehetőségünk arra, hogy a szülők erre is pénzt tudjanak félretenni, teljesen lehetetlen volt. Aztán miután a szabósággal megismerkedtem, és a mester is segített, meg a nagyobbik inas, akkor varrtam magamnak egy kabátot, nadrágot, és megszabadultam az ilyen ajándékruháktól. Azok nyilvánvaló, hogy elhordott, elég rossz állapotban levő ruhák voltak, de jobb volt, mint meztelenül járni.

A szegény és gazdag zsidók között volt egy szolidaritás. Az összetartás nagyon jellemző volt a zsidó közösségre. Segítették egymást, például a zsidó hitközség népkonyhát rendezett a szegény zsidóknak. Volt benne azonban egy kizáró jelleg is a keresztényekkel szemben. De a zsidó népkonyha együtt ment, nem volt különbség neológ és ortodox között. Megértették, hogy nem lehet szétválasztani a népet. A népkonyha pontosan a neológ templom mögött volt [pár utcával odébb]. A mostani Progres mozi épülete a zsidó egyházé volt [Tulajdonképpen a Zsidó Kultúrházról van itt szó, amely a volt Progres mozi épülete volt (mellette a volt Pitik gyermekmozi) a mai Tipografiei (Nyomda) utcában. 1928-ban épült a zsidó hitközség támogatásával művelődési célokra. Számos ünnepély, irodalmi, hitközségi összejövetel színhelye volt. Színpadán előadást tartott a iaşi-i és a vilnai jiddis színház is. Az épületben filmszínház is működött az 1930-as évektől 1994-ig, amikor biliárdteremmé alakították át (Marosvásárhelyi Útikalauz, Impress, 2000). – A szerk.]. Onnan hoztuk az ebédet, különben nem is tudom, hogy mi történt volna. Nem csak mi voltunk ebben a helyzetben, hanem más zsidó családok is, százával. Mindennap kaptunk egy adag levest, másodikat és kenyeret. Ezt a gazdagabbak, a gyárosok, a nagykereskedők adományaiból tartották fenn. Ez a népkonyha tulajdonképpen 1940-ben jött létre. Addig tartott, ameddig deportáltak. Nagyon nehéz helyzet volt, mert a zsidó mészárszék bezárt, nem lehetett kóser húst meg felvágottat termelni és eladni, az én apám meg nem evett meg nem kóser ételt, hogyha megölték volna, akkor sem. Ez az 1941-es rendelet, hogy megszűntek a kóser boltok, borzasztó állapotot teremtett. Fokozatosan jöttek a zsidótörvények [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon]. Ezt Teleki kezdte el [lásd: Teleki Pál]. A numerus clausust ő vezette be, és ő fokozta állandóan. Azt is el kell mondani, hogy segítettek a gazdag zsidók, de azért az osztálykülönbség érződött, ők éreztették. Mi is éreztük mint gyerekek, az ő gyermekeik által. Például a gazdag zsidó gyerekek nem álltak velünk szóba. Azt mondták, hogy rongybabák vagyunk, és nem is játszottak velünk. Elszigetelődtek, adtak ugyan segítséget, de nem fogadtak el barátnak.

Foglalkozási szempontból a [maros]vásárhelyi zsidók esetében meg kell említeni először is a gazdag zsidó nagykereskedőket, például a Salamon-féle Merkúr üzlethálózatot, a Kohn, az Izsák, a Kandeld és a Krauss családok üzlethálózatait. Ezek általában élelmiszerrel kereskedtek. Nagybani kereskedelem volt, ahol van most a Leonardo [cipőbolt] és a [férfi] fodrászat, ott Salamonnak volt a Merkúr nevezetű nagy üzlete, egész hátra nyúlt. Ott aztán mindent megtalált az ember, ami kellett. Voltak szövet-nagykereskedők is. Ilyen volt a Rosenfeld család textillerakata, a Bányai-palota, amely jelenleg a Hotel Concordia [A Bányai-palota tulajdonosa Bányai Géza, a városban hajdanán ismert Bányai vendéglős, húsiparos család egyik tagja. Előzőleg az épület a Papp családé volt, és Papp-palotának nevezték, és többnyire ezen a néven is emlegették. 1920-ban következett be a tulajdonosváltás. – A szerk.]. Az egész egy óriási nagy, hosszú üzlet volt. Még ott volt a Fekete drogéria is. A főteret dominálták a zsidó üzletek. Igaz, hogy magyarul beszéltek, de zsidók voltak. A gazdagok már nem nagyon jártak imaházba. Voltak ugyan gazdagok, akik a neológ egyházhoz tartoztak. Oda is csak a szegény zsidóság ment könyörögni, hogy legyen jobb az élete és a középosztály egy része. Az ortodox zsidó közösségnek is voltak gazdag tagjai de nem annyi, mint a neológnál. Ahogy a zsidóság kezdett gazdagodni, a neológ vallás kényelmesebb lett, mint a talmudi szigorú előírásokat betartani. Volt olyan dúsgazdag zsidó is, aki nem tartotta a vallást. A zsidók között is megvolt az osztálykülönbség, és mindegyik réteg egymással barátkozott. A középosztálybeliek ebbe a [gazdag] kategóriába nemigen mehettek, viszont nem közösködtek a szegényebb réteggel, és a szegényebb réteg az egész szegénnyel [szemben] szintén határvonalat húzott. A szegényebb zsidók rendszerint munkások voltak, a kereskedelemi alkalmazottak, különböző helyeken kistisztviselők. Voltak orvosok vagy ügyvédek, de ők már a középosztályhoz tartoztak. Tanár is volt, de nem túl sok.

A városban még működtek más zsidó jellegű intézmények is. Volt tehát a népkonyha meg a zsidó gimnázium a Horea utcában. Volt négy elemi és négy gimnázium, nem volt középiskola. Ott rendszerint zsidó tanárok tanítottak, és csak zsidók jártak oda. Véleményem szerint nem is akartak mások odajárni, mert aki magyar református volt, az a Református Kollégiumba [jelenleg Bolyai Farkas Elméleti Líceum], ha meg katolikus volt, a Katolikus Gimnáziumba [jelenleg Unirea Elméleti Líceum] járt tanulni, ahova viszont mi nem nagyon léptünk be [lásd: zsidó iskolaügy Romániában a két világháború között]. A középiskolai képzettséget, akik gazdagok voltak és volt lehetőségük, a Református Kollégiumban vagy a Katolikus Kollégiumban szerezték meg. Nagyon kevés gazdag zsidó gyermeknek sikerült csak bejutnia a Református Kollégiumba, a katolikusba nemigen. Én tudok egy példát, a Krausz gyermek, akinek az édesapja az első világháborúban a magyar hadsereg soraiban hőstetteket hajtott végre, ki volt tüntetve, és azért bevették a fiát a Református Kollégiumba. A nagyon gazdag ember pedig megfizette a tandíjat, vagy lefizette a vezetőséget, és akkor felvették. A magamfajta szegény gyermek hiába próbálkozott a Református Kollégiumban.

Mi tulajdonképpen magunktól mentünk iskolába, a szüleinket nem igazán érdekelte. A családjukat viszont nagyon szerették. Apám például nem restellt újságot árulni a New York kávézóban [kávéházban], ami tulajdonképpen egyfajta koldulás volt, hiszen az újságot el sem vették tőle. A tanulmányaimat román nyelven végeztem, nagyon sokat olvastam, például Verne, Hugo, Zola könyveit stb. A hetedik osztály után líceumba szerettem volna menni, mindig megvolt bennem a tanulás utáni vágy. Nagyon kívánkoztam a Református Kollégiumba, szerettem tanulni, de látták [a Református Kollégiumban] hogy mezítláb vagyok, rongyos ruhában, és azt mondták, hogy „Mit akarsz, fiú?”. Azt feleltem, hogy be szeretnék iratkozni. Kérdezték a nevemet, és mondtam, hogy Csernovits Samu. Azt kérdezték akkor, hogy zsidó vagyok-e. Mondtam, hogy igen. Azt a választ adták, hogy ide nem jöhetnek zsidó gyerekek, de azért se jöhetek, mert nem tudom megfizetni a tandíjat, ha ilyen mezítlábas gyermek vagyok. Tudtam, hogy ott nekem helyem nincs. A román anyanyelvűek részére viszont ott volt a Papiu Líceum [akkori Al. Papiu Ilarian Nemzeti Kollégium]. Volt olyan zsidó, aki jobban tudott magyarul, de azt mondta, ha román az állam, akkor tanuljon román nyelven, román iskolában. A lányoknak az Unirea Líceumban volt lehetőségük tovább tanulni, azonban kevés zsidó lány tanult tovább [Az Unirea (Egyesülés) Elméleti Líceum előzőleg a II. Rákóczi Ferenc Római Katolikus Főgimnázium volt, amelyet Csernovits Sámuel Katolikus Kollégiumként emleget. Az iskola 1948-as államosításig római katolikus főgimnázium volt, majd az ugyanabban az évben bevezetett tanügyi reform alkalmával az épületet a magyar tannyelvű leánygimnáziumnak adták át, amely 1962-ben egyesült a román tannyelvű leánygimnáziummal. A későbbi leánygimnáziumi jellege miatt gondolhatja Csernovits Sámuel, hogy oda főként lányok mentek tovább tanulni. A volt Református Leánygimnázium épülete a mai Forradalom utca 8. szám alatt volt, de 1948-ban államosították az épületet, ahol aztán különböző intézmények működtek, pl. a Maros Művészegyüttes. – A szerk.]. A zsidó lányok a vallás szerint általában másodrendű lények voltak, és most is azok.

A zsidó vallásos jellegű iskola tulajdonképpen a heider [héder] nevet viselte. Kimondottan a különböző templomok mellett volt megszervezve, tanítók vezették. A gyerekek már óvodás korban jöhettek, öt-hat-hét évesen, és ott a héber nyelvet, a Talmud, a Tóra nyelvét tanulták, a hébert. Héber nyelven tanulták meg az imádságokat, megtanulták olvasni a betűket, és fordítottak. Az nagyon nehéz volt, én is jártam oda, de nagyon nem szerettem. Nem volt kedvem hozzá, szívesebben olvastam egy Jules Verne regényt vagy May Károlyt, mint hogy én menjek a heiderbe. Mindezek ellenére én megtanultam olvasni héberül, a bátyám viszont nem. Ő aztán, amikor apámmal imádkoztunk, csak mormolta a szöveget, mímelte az imádkozást. Nem volt nehéz, hisz a zsidó általában halkan imádkozik, szinte hadarja szöveget. Ez így volt minden évben. Apám jött, hogy na gyerekek, megyünk heiderbe. Mentünk is egy-két hetet, aztán elmaradt. Apám elővett minket, meg is vert, de a dolgokon nem tudott változtatni. Utoljára tizennégy éves koromban vitt el apám. A tanító már nem is akart fogadni. Apám azzal fenyegette meg, hogy szól a rabbinak. Így aztán ismét befogadtak. Aztán érdekes módon hagytuk abba a heidert. A gyerekek az uzsonnájukat polcokon tartották. A bátyám több alkalommal is elcsent egy-két tízórait, amit mi elfogyasztottunk. Ez így ment néhány hétig, amikor aztán néhány szülő eljött reklamálni, hogy milyen hely is ez a heider, ha valakik ellopják a gyerekeik élelmét. A tanító mindenkit sorba állított. Mi éppen a pincebejáratnál tartózkodtunk, ahol mindig elfogyasztottuk a megszerzett uzsonnát. Tudtuk, hogy motozás lesz, és hogy valamit tennünk kell a nálunk maradt szalvétákkal. A bátyám egy ügyes csellel az utánunk küldött fiú zsebébe csempészte a szalvétákat. Azt mondta, hogy egy kígyót lát a pincében, és átkarolta a fiút, hogy jöjjön, nézze meg. Az elején csak minket motoztak meg, persze nálunk nem találtak semmit. A bátyám kérésére mindenkit megmotoztak, és az egyiknél, Mojsénál megtalálták. A bátyám és én aztán azzal az ürüggyel, hogy minket ártatlanul megvádoltak, többé nem mentünk heiderbe. Az volt az igazság, hogy egyszerűen nem bírtuk: nem is értettük, hogy mit imádkozunk. Aztán még az is közrejátszott, hogy a keresztény barátaink mesélték, hogy ők egy perc alatt elintézik az imádkozást. Ezért mi valahogy lázadtunk ez ellen a vallásosság ellen.

Aztán léteztek a cionista szervezetek. Volt baloldali, volt jobboldali cionista szervezet egyaránt. A baloldali volt a Hásomér Hácáir [lásd: Hasomér Hacair Romániában; Hasomér Hacair Magyarországon], amelybe én is beléptem. Ez azért volt jó, mert ott lehetett játszani. Akik ott voltak, általában nem voltak gazdag és vallásos gyerekek. A nagyon vallásos emberek, mint például apám, aki nem tudta, hogy járok oda, azt mondta, hogy nincs miért oda járni. Én mondtam neki, hogy lesz kivándorlás Palesztinába, mert akkor még nem volt Izrael. Azt mondta, hogy nem kell Palesztina, mert jön a Messiás, aki majd jólétet hoz az egész világra. Neki ez volt a felfogása. Különben ez a felfogás megvan a jelenlegi zsidó ultrabigott vallásos pártoknál is. Nem ismeri el Izrael Államát. A cionista szervezeteknél Palesztináról, a cionizmusról beszéltek, Herzl vezetőről, aki a cionizmus megteremtője volt. Ez magyarul folyt. A zsidó gyerekekkel ott is csak magyarul vagy románul érintkeztem. Mondhatom azt, hogy bár rosszul beszéltem magyarul, de az anyanyelvem magyar volt. Jobban tudtam magyarul, mint bármilyen más nyelven: mint románul vagy jiddisül. Ezeken inkább értettem, de nem tudtam beszélni.

A Hánoár Hácioni volt a centralista-jobboldali cionista szervezet [lásd: Hanoár Hacioni Romániában; Hánoár Hácioni Magyarországon]. A tevékenysége lényegében ugyanaz volt, mint a baloldalinak. Mi, gyermekek jóformán fel sem tudtuk fogni a különbségeket. Ugye, egy tizenhárom-tizennégy éves gyermek nem nagyon tudta, hogy mi az a politika, nem nagyon tudja az ideológiai különbségeket. A felnőttek elbeszéléseiből tudtunk meg egyet s mást. Természetesen volt felnőtt részleg is, a húsz éven felüliek számára. Ezek az emberek általában már a kivándorlásra készültek. Aztán voltak a Betár szervezetek [lásd: Betár Romániában; Betár Magyarországon]. Ők azért mentek Palesztinába, hogy segítsék a zsidó állam felemelkedését, és harcoljanak az angolok ellen, hogy megszűnjön az angol gyarmatosítás Palesztinában. Ilyen harci szellemben voltak nevelve. Voltak még kisebb, jelentéktelen szervezetek, de ez a három [volt az], amely jelentős különbséget mutatott. De nekem Löbl Marciék [Löbl Márton 1945 után rövid ideig a Román Kommunista Párt Maros megyei szervezetének elnöke volt, majd pártaktivista lett Bukarestben. – A szerk.], akik kommunista illegalisták voltak, azt mondták, hogy nincs mit keresnem egy cionista szervezetben, mert az egy nacionalista szervezet, és ellentmond a kommunista pártnak [Az „illegalista” illegális kommunistát jelent, a szót főnévként használták, és beleértődött, hogy kommunistákra vonatkozik, nem volt szükséges hozzátenni a „kommunista” szót. – A szerk.]. Elgondolkodtam ezen, de azért továbbra is eljártam a rendezvényekre. Viszont Löbl Marcinak az öccse, az én barátom nem járt, egyszer sem jött el. Én mentem játszani. Nagy udvar volt, lehetett baseballt játszani és sok más gyermekjátékot. Viszont az egész megszűnt 1940 szeptemberében, ahogy bejöttek a magyar adminisztráció emberei, és megszüntették a szervezeteket.

Az én testvéreim nem szerették sem a szervezeteket, sem a politikát, így nem jártak velem a cionista megmozdulásokra. Ők inkább azzal foglalkoztak, hogy megteremtsék az egzisztenciájukat. Ezért mindenik munkás lett. Én is munkás lettem elsőre, de aztán én – egyedül az összes testvérek közül –, intellektuellé képeztem magamat. Nagyon szerettem tanulni, úgyhogy az elemi iskola után készültem is tovább. A Református Kollégiumban szerettem volna folytatni a tanulmányaimat, de a származásom miatt semmi esélyem sem volt. Így mentem el szabóinasnak 1940 júliusában ugyanahhoz a vállalathoz, ahol a bátyám is dolgozott. Rá egy rövid időre [szeptember 16-án] jöttek be a magyarok. Csodálatos ünnepség, fogadás volt. Nagyon tetszett nekem. Az Apolló előtt néztem [Az Apolló-palotáról van szó (Rózsák tere 5.). Hajdanában Apolló Szállónak vagy Bálháznak is nevezték. – A szerk.]. Azonban amikor hazaértem, kellemetlen élmény fogadott: apámat, mivel zsidó volt, megverték az utcán. Én azt hittem, hogy valami csavargók tették. Később, néhány nap elteltével azonban saját bőrömön is tapasztaltam, amikor az utcán azt kiabálták, hogy „Ki a zsidókkal!”. Én a Hirsch és Timár üzemben dolgoztam, de körülbelül négy hónap után kitettek, kellett az inasi hely egy másik gyereknek. Engem egy Hermann Izsák nevű szabó vett fel, ott tettem le az inasvizsgát is. Aztán jöttek a zsidótörvények, a csillag [lásd: sárga csillag].

Május ötödikén pedig megjelentek nálunk is a kakastollasok, és gettóba kerültünk. Mi körülbelül egy nappal korábban tudtuk meg, hogy gettóba fogunk kerülni. Hajnalban arra ébredtünk, hogy dörömböltek az ajtón, és egy erőteljes hang arra szólított fel, hogy itt a magyar csendőrség, keljünk fel, áttelepítenek a téglagyárba. Azt is közölték, hogy személyenként egy húszkilós csomagot vihetünk magunkkal. Élelmet, ruhákat vihettünk volna, de mi annyira szegények voltunk, hogy még a húszkilós csomagot sem tudtuk összeállítani [A Baky László által a „Zsidók lakhelyének kijelölése” tárgyában 1944. április 7-én kiadott körlevél szerint „Az elszállítandó zsidók csak a rajtuk lévő ruházatot, legfeljebb két váltás fehérneműt és fejenként legalább 14 napi élelmet, továbbá legfeljebb 50 kg-os poggyászt, amelyben az ágyneműk, takarók, matracok súlya is bennfoglaltatnak, vihetnek magukkal”. Ám voltak helyek, ahol még ennyit sem hagytak a gettóba szállított embereknél, volt, ahol csak egy váltás fehérneműt, máshol csak kétnapi élelmet stb. „Az általános rendelkezések szerint a koncentrált személyek 14 napra való élelmiszert hozhattak magukkal, de a zsidóknak a falvakból való eltávolítása oly gyorsasággal történt, hogy ennyi élelmiszer összeszerzése nem volt lehetséges” (Részlet a zsidó tanács vezetőinek Eichmannhoz intézett beadványából, idézi Braham, id. mű, 419–420. oldal, 438. oldal). – A szerk.]. A családból négyen: apám, anyám, a kisebbik nővérem és én kerültünk gettóba. Három hétig a téglagyárban voltunk: amikor mi megérkeztünk, a befödött részek már el voltak foglalva. Így mi gyakorlatilag a szabad ég alatt voltunk. Esős időben bőrig áztunk, hisz a fejünk fölött csupán rudakra kifeszített pokróc volt. A gazdagoktól elvették az ékszereiket. Hallottam, hogy egyeseket bántalmaztak is, az én családomból ez nem történt meg senkivel sem. Aki vezető szerepet játszott a zsidók életében, az Gárdos volt, egy markáns személyiség. Ő volt például a gettónak a vezetője. Nagykereskedő volt. Ő tartotta a magyar hatóságokkal a kapcsolatot. Nem irigyeltem a helyzetét, én például nem vállaltam volna semmiképp.

Május huszonhetedikén gyalog az állomásra mentünk, ahol vagonokba tettek. A végállomás Auschwitz-Birkenau volt. A családnak nem mindegyik tagja került lágerbe. Az egyik nővérem, Malvin [Buda]Pesten bújt el, Móricz és Benjámin bátyáim pedig munkaszolgálatosok voltak. Az utazás szörnyű volt a vagonokban. Apám akkor sem szólt egy szót sem, csak imádkozott. Május huszonkilencedikén érkeztünk meg. Az ottani foglyok szidtak, hogy miért jöttünk ide. Mi nem tudtuk, hogy a halálba jöttünk. Amikor láttam a krematórium tornyait [kéményeit], megkérdeztem Fuchs Simont, hogy „Simi bácsi, mi ez?” [Fuchs Simon, illegalista, később a Román Akadémia marosvásárhelyi Gheorghe Sincai Kutatóintézet kutatója volt. – A szerk.]. Azt válaszolta, hogy krematórium, amiben szemetet égetnek. Akkor még nem is sejtettük, hogy a megölt zsidókat égetik el. Továbbvittek Birkenauba, ahol egy nagy teremben helyeztek el bennünket. Több marosvásárhelyi is volt köztünk, én mégis nagyon magányosnak és elhagyatottnak éreztem magam. A padló betonból volt, és csak szórványosan volt szalmával is leterítve. Egy éjszaka eltelte után visszavittek Auschwitzba, ahol téglaépületekbe helyeztek el. Itt ételt is kaptunk, amolyan kenyérlevet, amely nem állt másból, mint meleg vízből és kenyérből. Mindez azokban az edényekben volt felszolgálva, amelyekben azelőtt végeztük a szükségleteinket [szükségünket]. Három hétig nem csináltunk semmit. Aztán megkérdezték, hogy kinek mi a mestersége. Én azt mondtam, asztalos vagyok. Néhányunkat kiválasztottak, és továbbvittek vagy hét kilométert, Monowitzba, ahol egy lőszergyártó kombinát működött [Monowitz vagy Auschwitz III ’Arbeitslager’ (munkatábor), melyet 1942. május 31-én alapítottak. – A szerk.]. Háromemeletes épületekben szállásoltak el, és itt már fekvőhelyünk is volt. Számokat tetováltak a karunkra [Az auschwitzi munkatáborok foglyainak bal karjára, az alkaron, a belső könyökhajlatban, négy-, öt- vagy hatjegyű sorszámot és esetleg betűjelet is tetováltak, s ezt a jelzést a továbbiakban a nevük helyett viselték. Mintegy 405 ezer ilyen azonosító számról maradt fenn kimutatás. A regisztrált foglyok közül összesen 65 ezer maradt életben. – A szerk.]. Én a 10940-es számot kaptam. Étrendünk teából és húsz gramm marmaládéból vagy margarinból állt. Monowitzban a magasfeszültségi kábeleknek ástunk sáncot.

Január tizennyolcadikán továbbvittek bennünket Németország belseje felé, ugyanis közeledtek a szovjet csapatok [lásd: Auschwitz]. Kétnapi gyaloglás után Drezdába érkeztünk, ahol teherszállító vagonokba raktak. Száznegyven embert egy-egy fedetlen vagonba. Hét napot és éjszakát utaztunk, amíg meg nem érkeztünk Bergen-Belsenbe. Útközben a társaim fele életét vesztette a kegyetlen körülmények miatt. Bergen-Belsenben megfürdettek, fertőtlenítettek, és új ruhákat adtak. Háromheti karantén után dolgozni kezdtünk, síneket építettünk egy földalatti SS-üzemnek. A táborban a tífusz tizedelte meg az embereket. Én túléltem, habár negyvenkét fokos lázam is volt.

1945. április 15-én Bergen-Belsenben voltam egy lágerben. Ott a tífusz tizedelte meg az embereket. Én túléltem. Nagyon le voltam gyengülve, egy időt egy nemzetközi szanatóriumban töltöttem el. Az angolok és amerikaiak, amikor megtudták, hogy én hova akarok menni, vissza Romániába, nem akartak elengedni, azt mondták, hogy oda ne menjek, mert ott vannak az oroszok. Egy magyar sofőr segítségével hagytuk el a tábort. Haza vonattal utaztunk, amolyan vándor módra.

1945. október elsején érkeztem haza, Marosvásárhelyre. A város nem változott semmit, a két bátyám és a nővérem már itthon volt. A szüleim azonban odavesztek. A zsidók egy része már visszatért, én az utolsók között jöttem haza. A visszatért zsidókat a Zsidó Demokratikus Népszövetség [lásd: zsidó érdek-képviseleti szervezetek a második világháború után Romániában] és a város vezetése a régi szülészeten szállásolta el. Pénzt, ruhaneműt, segélyt is kaptak. Nekem volt családom, én velük voltam. Miután visszatértem, láttam, hogy sok minden megváltozott a politikai helyzetben. Az első utam a kommunista párt székhelyéhez vezetett. Én meggyőződéses, szinte fanatikus kommunista voltam már akkor.

A kommunista eszmékkel felületesen már gyermekkoromban megismerkedtem. Az utcánkban nagyon sok munkás élt. Ezek közül többen illegalisták lettek. Komoly mozgalmista volt a Löbl család, Márton és Piri, Gombos Mihály, a Minor család, Nemes Dezső. Ezek mind a mi utcánkban laktak. Az egyik Minor fiú még a spanyol polgárháborúban is harcolt Franco ellen. Esténként összeültünk az utcánkban, és beszélgettünk. Inkább amolyan tőmondatokban beszéltek, a tudományosság teljes mértékben hiányzott. Jómagam sem ismertem akkor egyetlen ilyen jellegű munkát sem. Ezek az emberek meséltek nekünk a pártról, hogy miért is harcol. Egyiküknek sem volt tulajdonképpen valamiféle marxista képzettsége. Ott volt Mihály József, a „sapkás”, aki nagyon sokat mesélt a Szovjetunióról és a kommunista világról. Ő részt vett már a Tanácsköztársaság körüli eseményekben is, 1919-ben. Azt mesélte, hogy majd minden munkásnak jobb lesz stb. Azt is mondta többször, hogy a Szovjetuniónak annyi repülője van, hogyha egyszerre szállnak fel, elhomályosítják az eget.

Nekem, mint annyi szörnyűséget átélt fiatalembernek, a párt egy olyan szervezetnek tűnt, amely harcol a tőke ellen, azért, hogy felszabadítsa a munkásokat, hogy a szegények sorsa megjavuljon, ne legyenek élelmezési gondok. A Szovjetunió volt a példakép, hogy ott a kommunizmus hazájában a nép milyen jól él, és hogy milyen erős ez az ország. Ezekben a tételekben olyan gondolatok is voltak, amelyek találtak [találkoztak] a mi ösztöneinkkel, mert nyilván mi is meg akartunk szabadulni a nyomortól, a mezítlábaskodástól, a rongyosságtól és nem utolsósorban a kisebbségi megkülönböztetésektől. Mi még gyerekek voltunk ugyan az illegalizmus időszakában, de már tudatták velünk, hogy fontos dolgokról van szó. Mondták is: „Gyerekek, soha ne beszéljetek idegeneknek erről, mert nem szabad, ezért börtön jár!” A párt lényegében kevés ideig volt legális [a második világháború előtt]. Én igazán reméltem, hogy megszabadulunk pár alapvető emberi nyavalyától. Elsősorban a szegénységtől, az éhségtől. Az éhség az mindig egy gyötrő fájdalom volt, szétzilálja az emberi idegrendszert, szinte nem lehet elviselni, amikor napokon át, hónapokon, éveken át az ember mindig éhes, s a gyomorsav mindig marja a gyomrot, mert nincs, amit oda leeressz, ami kösse le azt a savat. S az a borzalmas állapot mindig vágyakozó, egy darab kenyérre, egy darab krumplira, egy túrós puliszkára. Az egy borzalmas állapot, az a rongyosság is s ez a kisebbségbeli elnyomottság. Nekünk teljesen lehetetlen volt kilépni a mi körünkből. Mindig jöttek, főleg a románok, vasgárdisták, [Maros]Vásárhelyen is voltak, és itt egy pof[on], ott egy pof[on], egy seggbe rúgás, ez a megszégyenítés, amiben az embernek része volt. Amikor bejöttek a magyarok 1944. augusztus harmincadikán, akkor változott, akkor a magyar nacionalisták csinálták ezt. Ez olyan állati dolog volt. Kimondottan állati sorba kényszerítettek, semmiképp nem ismertek el, mint egy normál embert. Teljes meggyőződéssel reméltem, hogy a párt vezetésével, a Szovjetunió segítségével, a munkásosztállyal az élen Romániában is lesz egy igazságos társadalom, amelyben az ember normálisan élhet, kereshet, dolgozhat, lesz étele, lakása, ruhája, nem különböztetik meg, hogy milyen nemzetiségű, nem mocskolják meg a lelkivilágát. Ezért léptem én be a pártba.

Miután visszatértem és beálltam a pártba, folytattam a tanulmányaimat is. Már 1945-ben beiratkoztam a Református Kollégiumba, de nem tudtam folyamatosan tanulni, mivel már dolgoztam mint pártaktivista az ifjúsági szervezetben. A pártba való beiratkozásom egyszerűen zajlott le. Sokszor járt haza Löbl Marci, és szólt párszor, hogy be kellene lépni, de Grün Feri barátom is szólt meg Fuchs Simon is. Én örömmel csatlakoztam, párthű ember voltam. A párt ifjúsági szervezetének lettem az aktivistája. Az aktivista munka aztán sok energiánkat felemésztette. Kimentünk terepre, gyakran nagyon távolra, például Sepsiszentgyörgyre, Kézdivásárhelyre, [Székely]Udvarhelyre, és szerveztük az ifjúságot. Létrehoztuk az ottani szervezeteket, gyűléseket tartottunk, beszédeket mondtunk a pártról, a munkájáról, célkitűzéseiről. Én személy szerint nagyon keveset tudtam elméleti szempontból, inkább jelszavakat mondtunk, de mondtuk a magunkét. A munkásifjak se voltak képzettebbek, ők is elfogadták, hisz szerették volna, ha jobbra fordul az életük. Tehát a munkánk nem volt tudományos, jelszavakkal dolgoztunk, mi, a „kiküldött elvtársak”, ugyanis így neveztek minket akkor. A kommunista párt jelszavait hirdettük egy igazságosabb társadalmi rend és világ létrehozásáról, a nemzeti elnyomás megszüntetéséről, a földosztásról. Ha valaki megkérdezte volna akkor tőlem, hogy mi a szocializmus, fogalmazzam meg tudományosan, nem tudtam volna válaszolni. A marxista alaptételeket sem ismertem. A pártaktivista tevékenységet 1947 januárjáig folytattam. 1947 telén Csíkszeredában voltam, nagyon sokat kellett gyalogolnom a hidegben, és ez nagyon megviselte a szervezetemet. Súlyos betegség tört ki rajtam. Tulajdonképpen a lágerben szerzett szívproblémák súlyosbodtak el.

Ebben az időszakban közben a tanulmányaimat is folytattam. Akkoriban nagy volt a lazaság, szabadság a kollégiumban. Az érettségim elhúzódott egészen 1948-ig [Csernovits Samu a háború előtt elvégezte az elemi iskolát, majd a háború után beiratkozott középiskolába, amit lényegében három év alatt, vagyis a szokásosnál sokkal rövidebb idő alatt végzett el. Erre a Voitec-törvény révén nyílt lehetősége. – A szerk.]. Érettségi után egy ideig szabóként dolgoztam otthon, de az aktivista munkát sem hagytam el. Önkéntes alapon működött az egész, fizetést nem kaptunk, csupán az étkezést biztosították a pártkantinban. 1948 szeptemberéig ment így a dolog. Aztán meglátogatott Grün Feri, a tartományi pártiskola igazgatója, és elhívott a pártiskolához. Elvégeztem egy három hónapos pártiskolát, amely már tanterv szerint működött. Volt néhány hetes iskola, három hónapos, hat hónapos, egy éves és a központi Zsdanov. Alapvető fogalmakat tanítottak a pártról, a felépítéséről, az elveiről, célkitűzéseiről. Egy kicsit komolyabb alapot kaptunk [A pártkádereket különböző tanfolyamokon, iskolákban képezték ki a pártfeladatok elvégzésére. Helyi szinten ezt a szerepet az ún. pártiskolák, tanfolyamok töltötték be. A képzés időtartama a majdani funkciótól függően változott. A helyi szinten tevékenykedő kádereket rövid, három vagy hat hónapos, illetve egyéves tanfolyamokon képezték ki. A felsőbb vezetői tisztségre jelölt aktivistákat 2-3 évre a bukaresti Zsdanov vagy Stefan Gheorghiu egyetemekre küldték tanulni. – A szerk.].

Miután elvégeztem a pártiskolát, jelezték, hogy úgy döntöttek, hogy maradhatok a pártiskolánál lektorként. Ekkor kezdődött igazából a komolyabb ideológiai tevékenység. Előadásokat kellett tartanom. Négy éven keresztül közgazdaságtant tanítottam. Mindegyiket meg kellett írni, aztán be kellett nyújtani az iskola vezetőségének. Kijavították, aztán elő lehetett adni. Grün Feri, ő volt az igazgató, Vécsei Károly, Fodor György, Nagy Kati voltak még a fontosabb emberek. A párttagokat három hónapra kiemelték a termelésből, elhozták az iskolába. Kötelesek voltak bent lakni, étkezni és persze tanulni. A tanuló vagy visszament, vagy, ha okosabb volt, maradt. A tanítás magyar nyelven zajlott. A párt vezetésében sem volt sok román.

1951-ig dolgoztam a pártiskolában. Utána mehettem volna a Zsdanov főiskolára Bukarestbe, lehettem volna egy központi aktivista. Nagyon szívesen mentem volna, büszke is voltam erre. Minden rendben volt, származás stb., a gond az volt, hogy nyugaton szabadultam a lágerből [A bergen-belseni koncentrációs tábort a brit hadsereg szabadította föl. – A szerk.]. A sztálini alaptétel szerint nem feleltem meg, mivel esetleg kém lehettem volna. Ezért eltanácsoltak, ami nagyon fájt. Ki akartak tenni a pártaktiválásból, termelésbe kellett helyezni engem. Nagyon súlyosan érintett, hisz számtalanszor voltam megalázva különböző okok miatt. Ez egy törést okozott a lelkemben. Akkor mondtam el a két káderesnek, hogy engem mellbe vertek, mert zsidó vagyok, mellbe vertek a nyilasok, az SS-ek, most mellbe vernek a kommunisták is. Igazságos ez? Mondták, hogy nem tehetnek semmit, ez Sztálin elvtárs utasítása. Egy törés keletkezett a tudatomban. Azt mondtam, valami nem talál. Megszűnt az eddigi fanatizmusom. Megszűnt a szélsőséges párthűségem. Az apám fanatikus vallásos volt, én a párt szempontjából voltam ugyanolyan. Elgondoltam, az öreg is emiatt került gázkamrába, és az Isten nem mentette meg. Ez volt az első csalódásom, kezdtem tárgyilagosabban figyelni a világot.

Abban az időben Szövérfi Zoltán volt a Propaganda Osztály vezetője, különben ő is előadó volt. Okos falusi gyerek volt. Első titkár Cozma Ioan volt, az első román titkár. Szentkirályról volt, egy vasutas gyerek. Később elküldték a Szovjetunióba tanulni. Nem tartották igazságosnak ők sem a helyzetemet, vállalták értem a felelősséget, betettek a tartományi újsághoz, a „Vörös Zászló”-hoz szerkesztőnek. Így lettem újságíró. Egy év után főszerkesztő-helyettes lettem. Itt dolgoztam 1951-től 1959-ig. Közben beiratkoztam magyar nyelvre Kolozsváron, a Bolyai Egyetem Filológia Tanszékén. A felvételim sikerült nappali tagozatra, de végül a látogatás nélkülit választottam, hisz dolgoznom kellett

A politika abszolút meghatározta a munkánkat. Csak azt lehetett írni, amit a párt jóváhagyott. Mindent leellenőriztek. Megírtuk a cikkeket, és amelyik fontosabb volt, azt le kellett adnunk. Elolvasta a tartományi főtitkár, és döntött. Vagy előre olvasták el, vagy pedig a mintapéldányt [vagyis a korrektúrát] ellenőrizték. A szerkesztőség mellett működött a cenzori iroda a párt részéről. Ők aztán mindent elolvastak.

Mindenkinek volt problémája, így nekem is. Közben felfedeztem, hogy néhány pártaktivista igazi kiskirály lett, úgy viselkedett, mintha a saját gyárában lenne. Nem adott pénzt, nem volt kereset. Én ezekről is írtam. Egy szentkeresztbányai igazgatóról is írtam egy bíráló cikket. Egy volt földbirtokos-sarjadék volt a felesége. Én értettem a közgazdasághoz, hisz azt adtam le a pártiskolában. Megírtam, hogy rossz a vezetés. Ehhez értettem, az irodalmi riportokhoz nem.

Közben arra is rájöhettem, milyen visszaélések történnek a pártvezetésben is. Egy időben a Magyar Autonóm Tartomány párttitkára, Csupor Lajos azzal vádolt, hogy én nem értem a népi életet [Magyar Autonóm Tartomány (1952–1960) – a mai Hargita, Kovászna és Maros megyét magában foglaló adminisztratív egység volt. – A szerk.]. Valójában az történt, hogy a párt fodrászatán volt egy esetünk. A pártnak volt fodrászata, kantinja. Mi jártunk oda napközben is, amikor volt erre idő. Egyszer lementem a fodrászatra. Ott épp befejezték az egyik elvtársnak a borotválását. Előttem volt még egy román újságíró, valami Vasile. Ez beült előttem a székbe. Ott volt Csupor is, tehát előtte ült be. Én nem mertem volna megcsinálni, ő megcsinálta. Csupor akkor tartományi első titkár volt. Pedig csupán 1946-ban sírta be magát a pártaktívába. Megfordult, felment, és behívta Valter Pistát, a propagandatitkárt, és mondta neki, „Nézd meg, mit csinálnak az újságírók a fodrászműhelyben”. Felhív magához Pista, aki tanítványom volt a pártiskolában. Azt mondja nekem: „Milyen dolog az, hogy munkaidőben mentek borotválkozni? Miért ültök be Csupor orra előtt a székbe?” Mondom, nem én ültem be, bár megtehettem volna én is, de Vasilu ült be. „Fel kell dolgozni a munkafegyelmet, nem szabad munkaidőben menni a fodrászatra!” Mondom, hogy „Hát, Csupor elvtárs is munkaidőben volt borotválkozni!”. Ezt aztán megmondta Csupornak. Ezért aztán kiküldtek kollektivizálni. Kimentem egy jó két hónapot. Akkor láttam meg élőben, hogy ez a pártvonal ez embertelen vonal, kényszer, diktatúra. Elveszik a paraszttól a földet, amely olyan neki, mint a csecsemőnek az anyatej. Aztán én többet nem köszöntem neki. Ez volt a harmadik nagy csalódás. Én azért mondom [ezt el], hogy lássa, milyen volt a pártvezetés.

Eközben haladtam az egyetemi tanulmányaimmal is. Jártam vizsgázni, elértem a hatodik évbe, de csak egyedül. A többiek elmaradtak. Egyetlen barátom végezte el majd két év múlva, Varga Imre. Államvizsgáztam. Kozma János iskolaigazgató felajánlott egy világirodalom katedrát az egyetemen. Én nagyon szeretem a világirodalmat. Mire levizsgáztam, sajnos megszüntették a katedrát. Ilyen körülmények között már nem dolgozhattam mint főszerkesztő-helyettes. Szövérfi felajánlotta, hogy menjek az Agerpreshez tartományi tudósítónak [Az Agerpres (Agenţia Română de Presă) 1949-ben alakult, a Központi Bizottság szakosztályaként működő román média-hírügynökség, amely az országban történt események, hírek kizárólagos tudósítója volt. – A szerk.]. Az lett volna [a feladatom], hogy amolyan szenzációjellegű híreket gyűjtsek a tartományból. Bombahíreket, négysoros érdekes híreket kellett volna közölni. Mondom, itt nálunk nincsenek bombahírek. El akartam menni onnan is. Nacionalizmussal is vádoltak. Az volt a vád, hogy magyar nacionalista vagyok, és nem akarok románul is közölni. Mondom, nem is lehetnénk nacionalista.

Aztán elhagytam az újságírást, és beléptem a tanügybe 1962-ben. Fodor Sándor volt a Tanügyi Osztály vezetője [Fodor Sándor (1927) – író, publicista, 2001-ben az Erdélyi Magyar Írók Ligájának elnökévé választották. – A szerk.] Csórtán Márton, aki tanítványom volt a pártiskolában, ő volt a városi RKP propagandatitkára. Mondom neki, hogy mi történt, hogy kidobtak a „Vörös Zászló”-tól is. Az ő segítségükkel a kereskedelmi iskolába kerültem, az szakmai iskola volt. Úgy vettek fel, hogy aligazgató leszek, és lesz egy fél közgazdaság katedrám is. Megszerettem, ott tanultam módszertant, didaktikát. 1980-ig, a nyugdíjazásomig dolgoztam ott.
A politika az iskolai munkára is rányomta a bélyegét, még azt is meghatározta, hogy hova menjenek a gyerekek, melyik mozit vagy színházat nézzék meg, mit olvassanak, vagy a tanárok mit mondjanak. Volt, amikor a párttitkárnő, … asszony jött el és fenyegetőzött. Én ezt a típust már ismerem, mert a lágerben láttam ilyen nőket, kapitányokat. Közben Ceauşescu lett a vezér. (Azt el kell mondjam, hogy 1958-ban mint főszerkesztő-helyettes Kolozsvárra voltam küldve, hogy írjak a romániai akadémia évi közgyűléséről. A gyűlést egy katonaruhába öltözött generális vezette. Mellettem Fuchs Simi ült, aki az Akadémia helyi fiókjának volt a munkatársa, alkalmazottja a társadalomtudományok terén. Ott lemocskolta az akadémikusokat. Én csodálkoztam, hogy lehet ilyen tudós emberekkel így beszélni, mint a disznókkal. El voltam képedve. Kérdem, ki ez az ember. Mondják, Ceauşescu.) Addig nem ismertem. Amikor jött Ceauşescu, mondtam, akkor el vagyunk veszve. Ahogy szép fokozatosan bevezette a személyi kultuszát és a kultúrforradalmat, a téziseit… Mindent csináltunk már, csak éppen iskolát nem. Jött látogatóba. Reggeltől estig futottunk oda, ahol ő jött vagy nem jött, de ott kellett lenni, hidegben, esőben, forró napsütésben ott kellett lenni.

Közben többször voltam külföldön is, még a kommunizmus ideje alatt is. Ismeretségeim révén viszonylag könnyen megkaptam a kiutazási engedélyeket [lásd: Románia – utazás]. Voltam Párizsban, Spanyolországban és természetesen Izraelben is. Minden népnek kell legyen egy országa. Sajnos bonyolult körülmények között jött létre ez az ország. A háborúskodásokkal nem értek egyet. A zsidó népnek kellene hogy legyen elegendő intelligenciája ahhoz, hogy megteremtse a békét. 1968-ban mentem el először Magyarországra, Ausztriába és Olaszországba. Minden esetben magánkirándulóként. A Securitate akkori alelnöke megbízott bennem, és aláírta az engedélyt. Aztán voltam Franciaországban, Spanyolországban, Németországban, az északi államokban, Dániában, Hollandiában, Svédországban. Láttam a világot. Mindenütt megvannak az ellenmondások, van jó és rossz dolog egyaránt. Az életszínvonal viszont sokkal magasabb, mint nálunk. Nálunk a totalitárius rendszer sokat hátráltatta az országot. Románia azonban mindig is elmaradottabb ország volt.

1949-ben nősültem meg. A feleségem [Székely]Udvarhelyről jött be káderiskolába, ott ismerkedtünk meg. Néztem: egyszerű népi elem volt. Nekem ez kell. Nem szerettem a kimázolt nőket. Mikor kimázolt nőt látok, valami taszít. Mindig a természetes alkatot néztem. S akkor hazamentem [elmentem hozzá] Székelykeresztúrra. Mondom, hogy miért jöttem, milyen gondolatom van, hogy hát… Ő akarta, de azt mondja, hogy a szüleim azt mondják, hogy ilyen és olyan… Hát, mondom, megint a nemzeti nyavalya. Undorodtam, és ma is undorodom, mikor a dolgokat így osztják ketté, hogy ez ilyen nemzet, s az olyan nemzet. Sok tragédiát okozott a történelemnek ez. Aztán összeházasodtunk… én az életemben nem tudok elképzelni tisztább lelkű, egyszerű embert. A feleségemet Dáné Annának hívják. Székelykeresztúron dolgozott tisztviselőnőként, könyvelőként a Hitelkereskedelmi Bank ottani kirendeltségénél. Édesapja Dáné Dénes cipészmester volt. A cipőket otthon készítette, majd elvitte a vásárba. Az édesanyját Veress Ilonának hívták. Ő kofapecsenyéket árusított a vásárokon. Végül beleegyeztek, és mi megesküdtünk. Természetesen csak állami esküvő volt. Két gyerekünk született.

A nagyobbik lányom, Csernovits Natasa 1950. március huszonegyedikén született. Az iskolát itt, Marosvásárhelyen a Bolyai Líceumban végezte el, sportszakosodással. Kézilabdás volt. Később Bukarestben gazdasági egyetemet végzett. Jelen pillanatban Los Angelesben él. 1990 tavaszán ment ki. A férje Kob Alfred, aki egy szupermarket igazgatója. Natasa is ott dolgozik mint közgazdász. Két lányuk van. A nagyobbik, Greta a harmincadik évében van, medicinát végzett. A kisebbik, Diana huszonnyolc éves, ebben az évben doktorált ügyvédként.

A kisebbik lányomat Csernovits Ibolyának hívják, 1954. május ötödikén született. Jogot végzett, és Marosvásárhelyen lakik a családjával: a férjével, Friedmann Péterrel és orvostanhallgató fiával, Krisztiánnal. A férje autómechanikai mérnök. Autóalkatrészeket forgalmazó kft.-jük van.

A gyerekek párválasztásában semmi szerepet nem játszott a zsidó származás. A családunkban soha nem esett egy szó sem arról, hogy ki milyen származású. A vallásról sem beszélgettünk soha. A nemzetiségemről csak akkor beszéltem, ha hivatalosan megkérdezték. Azt, hogy zsidó vagyok, sose tagadtam le, még a legnehezebb időkben sem. Sose dicsekedtem, de nem is szégyelltem. Abban, hogy valaki milyen nemzetiségű családba születik, nincs semmi érdem vagy esetleg szégyen. A fiúunokám például a Krisztián nevet viseli. Az volt a család véleménye, hogy ezzel a névvel valahogy kiegyensúlyozódik a vallások közötti ellentét.

Malvin nővérem nyolcvankilenc éves korában, tavaly [2004.] augusztusban halt meg, Izraelben. Benjámin bátyám Montevideóban, Uruguay fővárosában él. Nyolcvanhárom éves és nyugdíjas. Nagyon jó testvéri viszonyban voltunk és vagyunk. Levélben, telefonon érintkezünk. Látogatóban is volt nálunk néhányszor. Tavaly a betegsége akadályozta meg ebben. Én nem jártam nála, nem szeretek repülőre ülni. Más rokonom vagy ismerősöm, akivel tartanám a kapcsolatot, nincs.

Az én felfogásom szerint a vallás annak való, akinek szüksége van rá. Én gyerekkoromban is csak akkor tartottam be a vallási előírásokat, ha erőszakoltak rá. Most már azt sem tudom, hogy mikor vannak az ünnepek. Nem érdekel. A vallás erőszakolása nagyon rossz emlékeket hagyott bennem, és különben sem érdekelnek ezek a vallásos ünnepek. Ezért aztán a vallásos ünnepek nem játszottak semmilyen szerepet a családom életében. Amit én ezekből az ünnepekből felfogok, az tulajdonképpen a népi jelleg. Lehet az karácsony, húsvét, lehet az zsidó vagy keresztény, de csak a népi jelleg, a kellemes karácsonyfának az illata például. Azt én is beteszem a házamba, és még élvezem is. De engem nem érdekel sem Jézus, sem Mózes, sem a Messiás, mert nem létezik az én felfogásomban.

Újraalakult a hitközség de nagyon kevés zsidó van már a városban, körülbelül kétszáz ember vallja magát zsidónak. Szegényes az aktivitása. Tartom a kapcsolatot a hitközséggel, de nem járok minden szertartásra. Csak a nagyobb zsidó ünnepségeken veszek részt, vagy a hivatalos ügyeket, a jóvátételt intézem ott. 1989 után kaptam különböző kárpótlásokat a németek, svájciak, osztrákok, illetve a magyarok részéről. Ez javított az életvitelünkön.

Az utóbbi négy-öt évben inkább írással foglalkoztam. Két regényt írtam. Az első, amelynek a címe „Túlélés”, a gyermekkorral foglalkozik. A zsidó családi élet jellegzetességeit, a megélt politikai rendszerek jellegét próbáltam megírni. Mindezt nem beszámolóként írtam meg, hanem irodalmi képekbe foglaltam. A második címe „Ajándékélet”, és 1945-től 1989-ig követi az eseményeket. Az első regény már átesett a korrektúrán, a Mentor Kiadónál van, kiadásra vár. Néhány évvel ezelőtt még autót is vezettem, gyakran jártunk ki a Maros partján levő hétvégi házunkba. Mostanában kevesebbet mozgok.

Dora Nisman

Dora Nisman
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlicova
Date of interview: July 2002

Dorah Nisman is a 90-year-old woman but she is a cheerful and dignified person and has her own opinion in regards to what is happening in the world. She is very sociable and enjoys talking to people visiting her in Lvov. She speaks fluent Yiddish and has quite a few visitors interested in the language. She lives in a cozy and clean apartment. She doesn't go out due to her age. She has a social worker from Hesed helping her about the house. She has many friends and interests despite her age.

My family came from Moldavia. My father, Moshe-Joseph Waisman, was born in the village of Kushnirka on the bank of the Dnestr river in 1873. There were quite a few Jews in the area that formed Jewish neighborhoods in villages and towns.

I know about my grandfather, Srul Waisman, from what my father told me. My grandfather was born in the early 1850s. He finished cheder. When he was 16 or 17 he got married to a girl from a neighboring village. The girl was about 15 years old. Such marriages were customary at the time. It was also common that a bride and bridegroom didn't know each other before the wedding. My grandfather got a small store from his father that remained his business for the rest of his life. He was selling food products and essential commodities. He could provide well for his family. He was a deeply religious and respectable man. My father told me that his father's house was near the synagogue, which was a special honor.

My grandmother, Mariam Waisman, was a housewife. She had many children. A few of them died at birth. I've never heard anything about my father's brothers or sisters and don't know what happened to them. My grandmother also helped her husband in the store. She died in 1910. My grandfather died in the early 1920s. By that time the village of Kushnirka belonged to the Soviet Union. Our family lived in Romania since 1918. After World War I a part of the Russian territory was transferred to Rumania, including our village.

My father left the village at 15. He lived and worked in stores in many towns in Moldavia. Later my father became 'a neymener wald' [Yiddish for assistant forest administrator]. Foresters and accountants reported to my father. He was also responsible for the woodcutting in forests. He supervised the removal of dry branches from trees. I visited my father at his workplace in the forest twice. I saw him weigh a cart full of dry branches on ground scales. He received payments from locals for these branches. At the end of each month he gave this money to the administrator. The administrator and my father were Jews, janitors and branch cutters were non-Jews. The owner of the forest was a Jew, too. His last name was Waisman, but he wasn't related to us. When the removal of dry branches was over in one area they moved to another. My father stayed in nearby villages. During his stay in Slobodzeya my father met the daughter of the local chazzan, Nakhman Berkovich. My father and the girl liked each other.

Nakhman Berkovich, born in the 1850s, was a deeply religious man. Before giving his consent to his daughter's marriage he checked my father's knowledge of the Torah and religious books. My father must have had good teachers in the cheder, as he passed this test successfully. Nakhman gave his consent to his daughter's marriage.

His daughter, Feige-Shyfra, born in 1878, married my father in 1896. They had their wedding in Slobodzeya, a beautiful village with many gardens and trees. Jews didn't have their own neighborhood in this village. They lived alongside Ukrainians and Moldavians. My parents had a traditional wedding. I've been to quite a few traditional weddings and can imagine very well what it was like.

My grandmother on my mother's side, Rivke Berkovich, was born in Slobodzeya in 1858. She was a typical Jewish wife, who took care of her husband, children and the house. She observed all Jewish laws and traditions. She had no education, but was a wise advisor on everyday issues to her neighbors, regardless of their nationality. I saw my grandmother once or twice in my life. She was a cheerful and hard-working woman. She always wore a white kerchief. She died in 1920. The mail services were slow at that time, and we only received notification about her death quite some time after her death. I believe she had eleven children, but I only remember two of them. Her younger daughter, Livsha, born in 1888, lived with her parents in Slobodzeya. She was a dressmaker. She perished during the occupation in the 1940s. Her son, Syoma, was the only survivor of the family. He was at the front during the war. Now he lives in Israel. My mother also had an older brother, Avrum. He lived in Balta, but I never met him.

After my father got married he continued traveling from one town to another, and his family followed him. I remember the Regat, Tansa and Basesti in Romania. My family observed all traditions and celebrated holidays. Even in villages with few Jews they rented a house from Romanians, whitewashed it and arranged a praying house. Jews got together in a minyan. My father's Hebrew was the best and he always read prayers at such gatherings. He organized activities of this kind. He spent all his free time reading religious books alone. He always wore a yarmulka. Later my mother and I made him a satin bag with an embroidered Star of David on it for his tallit and a book [most probably his prayer book]. My father taught my mother how to read in Hebrew. She had a nice small prayer book that was very precious to her.

My parents had ten children. Their first two children died in infancy. The next child, Eshya, was born in 1903. He finished trade school in Rezina. He left his parents' home as soon as he could get a job. He painted bridges. Later he worked at the Popov factory in Odessa. He rented an apartment from a Jewish family there and fell in love with his landlord's daughter. They got married. He was very enthusiastic about the revolution of 1917. He was a fanatic communist. Before the war my brother and his family moved to Kiev. He was at the front during the war. After the war he returned to Kiev and worked as a foreman at a plant. Eshya died in Kiev in 1990. He had three children: Lena, Vilia and Svetlana. Vilia and Svetlana are in the US, and Lena lives in Belarus. We aren't in touch with her.

Esther, born in 1905, was a great help to her parents. When she was 15 she did the laundry for the whole family. My mother tailored fabrics, and Esther made clothes and did the laundry. It was mandatory to have some new clothes for Pesach, and they tried to have something made for every member of the family: pants, shirts and even underwear for my father. My father's colleague, an accountant, fell in love with Esther. He was moving to Palestine and promised Esther to take her with him. He had to pay 40,000 lei to get a permit for Esther. It took him some time to save this amount of money. Esther was getting ready to go. I made a couple of dresses for her, and my mother made pillows and blankets. When Esther was finally ready to go she received notification from the authorities that the quota had been closed and she couldn't leave. She got married after she turned 40. In 1945, Mark Stein, her husband to be, came to Chernovtsy. He was 47 and had a daughter. His wife had perished in a ghetto in 1942. He didn't want more children, and Esther always regretted that she didn't have children of her own. She worked as a dressmaker. Mark died in 1982, Esther in 1992 in Chernovtsy.

Lisa, born in 1906, was a very talented artist and designer. She went to Kishinev, where she believed to have more opportunities to develop her skills and pursue a career. She rented a room with a big mirror, which she needed for her work, so that her clients could view themselves in a mirror when they tried on their new clothes. She was very talented and people advised her to move to Bucharest. She lived in a many-storied building in Bucharest. At the beginning of 1941 a bomb hit this building and she was buried under its ruins. I don't know where Lisa was buried. She was single.

Chaim, born in 1915, was lame. He fell from a tree when he was a child and didn't tell his parents. About a year passed before our mother noticed that Chaim was lame. Chaim was helping my father with his work. In 1939, when the Soviet army came to Western Ukraine and Bessarabia 1, Chaim stayed with me in Chernovtsy. He knew that he would get shelter. My mother cooked soup and mamalyga [corn pudding] to feed the family, but she couldn't quite manage and sent my brother to stay with me. These were trying times. Chaim met a Jewish girl, Fira, and they got married. During the first days of the war they headed to the East. They covered 350 kilometers. It was difficult for Chaim to walk, and he stayed behind. He was exhausted and weak, but then somebody helped him to get to Samarkand [Middle Asia, 3,000 km from Chernovtsy] where he had to go to hospital. In 1944, when Chernovtsy was liberated, we received a letter from him. We replied, and he wrote again and said when he heard from us it was the happiest day in his life in four and a half years. I was making necessary arrangements to obtain a permit 2 for my brother to come to Chernovtsy, but he died of tuberculosis in Samarkand in 1945.

My youngest brother, Nakhman, born in 1923, vanished at the very beginning of the war. He left town during the first days of the war. Somebody saw him in the field picking sugar beets. I don't know what happened to him. My brother, Avrumele, born in 1920, died of pleurisy when he was 8. Another baby suffocated while sleeping beside my mother. When she got up in the morning it was dead.

I'm the only survivor of the family. I was born in Rezina, a town on the right bank of the Dnestr, in 1912. When I was born this town was in Orkheisk district, on the border with the Russian Empire. After the Civil War [1918-1921] this area became a part of Romania, and in 1940 it became part of the Soviet Union. There was a Russian, Ukrainian and Moldavian and Jewish population in town. People of various nationalities got along well, and there was no anti-Semitism.

My family was deeply religious. My father prayed every morning. He prayed facing the wall and always had a band wrapped around his hand. Once I ran into the house shouting, 'Father, do you know...?', and he just murmured, 'Nu'. [Yiddish for 'no talking'. During prayers that is the only word allowed to be said]. We, children, were supposed to wait until he was done with his praying to ask our questions. My father had a seat of his own in the synagogue in our village. He paid for it, and nobody else had a right to sit there. We only spoke Yiddish in the family. Nobody was allowed to do any work on Saturdays; all the food was cooked on Fridays. We did all washing and cleaning on Fridays, because we were supposed to relax and rest on Saturdays. We could take a rest in the house or yard. Everyone rested on Saturdays.

At Sukkot my father used to make a sukkah. We had our meals in this sukkah during the 8 days of Sukkot. At Shavuot my mother baked cottage cheese and cooked green soup. There was no meat on our menu on this day, I don't know why, but such was the rule.

Pesach was a big holiday: We went to synagogue on the first and the last day. We got together for dinner, my father conducted the seder, and my mother said a prayer. My parents always saved money to be able to afford more lavish food for Pesach. We always had matzah, and my mother made puddings and sponge cakes from it. I don't remember Chanukkah, but I believe we celebrated all holidays.

My mother had a beautiful voice. She used to sing and hum very beautiful Jewish and Ukrainian songs, when she did work at home. My mother learned Ukrainian songs from local farmers in Slobodzeya. She spoke fluent Ukrainian and even used Ukrainian sayings like 'Don't trouble trouble until trouble troubles you'. There was no anti-Semitism among people. I don't even think that this term existed at the time. My father sometimes said 'di sonim' [enemies in Yiddish] when he referred to indecent people, but he never used the word anti-Semites.

My mother could do everything about the house. She was a great housewife. She baked bread for the family twice a week. We could always have a slice of bread sprinkled with garlic or oil and salt as a snack. My father sometimes used to stay longer on his trips to the woods, and we had no money at such times. We went hungry or borrowed some money from our neighbors. My father was a very decent and honest man. He dealt with money, but he never cheated on his managers.

Once my brother Chaim fell ill and had to stay in hospital in Yassi. This hospital was sponsored by the master of the forestry. My father borrowed some money to buy medication for his son. When, at the end of the month, the administrator came to pick up the money for wood sales my father explained the situation to him saying that he would pay back. The administrator crossed out his debt and said, 'You don't owe me anything, because I can see how decent you are'. There was another man whose position was similar to my father's, but he wasn't so decent. My mother used to complain to my father, 'Look at Zlotnik, how well he provides for his wife and children while your children never have enough food and clothes'. My father replied, 'Don't look at others, Feige. I live according to our law'. He was an exemplary father and employee.

When I turned 6 my Jewish friend Esther, our neighbors' daughter, was admitted to the Jewish elementary school. I decided that I wanted to go there, too. Although I would have needed to wait another year I went there, said that I was 7 and was admitted. Education in this school was free of charge. It was a 'talmud torah study' school. I was interviewed by teachers of this school, and they told me that I had to go to grammar school with my knowledge of things. I explained to them that my father couldn't afford to buy me a uniform, textbooks or anything else. We studied in Yiddish. We studied the Torah, Jewish traditions and prayers. I also learned to read and write in Yiddish. I completed my studies with 'priz madreyge harishoyne [Award of Grade I].

The only teacher that I remember was a man called Maidanik. He was a great teacher and a nice man. One day at school he called me to the blackboard, and I left wet traces on the floor. He looked at me and told me to ask my mother to come to see him. What could she tell him: that she didn't have money to buy me shoes? But I got new boots. I don't know what he said to my mother or who bought these new boots. We had relatives who were better off in Rybnitsa, on the other side of the Dnestr River. They gave us their children's clothes that my mother altered for us.

Boys and girls studied together. According to Jewish law, boys and girls can study together until the age of 12. I finished this school when I was 10. A two-year trade school opened in our neighborhood. We studied Yiddish and Romanian, arithmetic, embroidery, crocheting and sewing there. I enjoyed going to school. I learned to write in Romanian and read, speak and write in Yiddish. The school enabled me to get the basics of education and of my future profession. My mother gave me pieces of white cloth, and I made pillowcases and napkins to decorate our home. I embroidered pillowcases for our dentist in Rezina, and he paid me 100 lei, which was a lot of money. I gave it to my mother. We could buy bread, butter, herring and even clothing for this money. My mother and I went to the market and bought cucumbers, tomatoes, plums and so on - a basket full of vegetables and fruit!

Many Jews in our region were farmers and grew corn, wheat, soybeans and tobacco. We lived near a half-finished construction of a sauna. Some people, Jews, rented this facility to use it for the drying and cutting of tobacco leaves. These people gave tobacco leaves to my mother at night, she completed the whole work process during the day, and the following night they came for the ready product. With this work she earned extra money for our budget.

I spent my childhood in Rezina and have very pleasant memories about this town. I remember the wedding of Feiga Milshtein, our neighbor's daughter. They rented a hall. There was music and klezmer musicians played. There was a horn, violin, flute, drums and something else - I can't remember. There was a table and two chairs for the bride and bridegroom and flowers all over the place. The bride was wearing a fancy white gown and the bridegroom was dressed up, too. Tables and benches were covered with white cloths. Women were cooking and baking. There was a velvet chuppah with a golden Star of David installed on four posts near the synagogue. There was a religious ceremony. The rabbi said a prayer, then people walked around the chuppah and the bride and bridegroom had wine. The bridegroom lifted his bride's veil and she took a sip. Then he took a sip and dropped the glass to break it. After that the bride and bridegroom kissed one another and their parents approached them to say their praises. The bride and bridegroom said their vows, and the bride put the sheet with vows into her corset. Then the wedding party began with eating, dancing and singing. Non- Jewish neighbors watched the wedding, and their eyes expressed nothing but kind feelings.

My father noticed that I was very good at sewing and told me to go to high school in Kishinev. In 1925 I went to study at trade school in Kishinev. I was 13. Our Ukrainian neighbor gave me a bag full of nuts, apples, grapes and a few lei before my departure. It was a school for Jewish girls from poor families. We also studied Romanian in this school. We had a very nice Jewish teacher, Sima Abramovna, a teacher of history, and Kavarskiy, an artist who taught us to draw: I remember plaster figures that we painted on the wall. We were taught to sew, cut fabrics and put clothes together to fit a figure. We also made designs. This school was like a college. All our teachers were Jewish, except for our Romanian teacher and the teachers of geography and chemistry. The teaching was in Romanian. I studied there for two years and received a work certificate upon finishing this school.

I rented a room with three other girls that had come from smaller towns. Our landlords were Jews and were also poor. They were selling water with gas and syrup to make a living. They didn't observe any Jewish traditions and didn't celebrate any holidays. I never heard our landlord say that he was going to the synagogue. They worked on Saturdays. We didn't learn about traditions at school. I didn't have an opportunity to lead my life in the way I had at home, but when I came home on vacations we all did what my father told us to do.

In 1928, when I was 16, I went to the owner of a garment shop looking for a job. She interviewed me and I got employed. She was from Bucharest. I worked in this shop for about 8 months when my friends came from Chernovtsy and convinced me to leave Kishinev for Chernovtsy.

I rented an apartment from a very nice Jewish family from Bessarabia: Mendele Rakhman and his wife, two children and two sisters. They had a big apartment. They liked me and didn't charge much. I found a job at the Queen Blouse, the most popular shop in Chernovtsy. The owner spoke German. She was Jewish and came from Chernovtsy, but she found it more aristocratic to speak German. There were signs in German in all stores like the names of goods, information about working hours or warnings - just the usual stuff that can be seen in ordinary stores. Children were taught German. They had a better command of German than Yiddish.

I had a testing period at the shop. A very good hat specialist couldn't find a hat that she had made. And who was the suspect? Me, the newcomer, of course! But I hadn't seen the hat. In the long run it was found. I pretended that nothing had happened. I followed the rules that my father taught me - don't steal, lie or envy anything in life - and these rules proved to be helpful. The shop owner put me through another test. She called me to her home on a weekend and told me to make a pearl necklace. She probably counted the number of pearls and wanted to make sure of my honesty. These people considered all those that came from Bessarabia Russians, although we were as much Jewish as they were. They had a higher standard of living and level of education and were better off, but we were very honest and decent. I passed my tests successfully and deserved their good opinion. I was off work on Sundays. I worked on Saturdays regardless of the Jewish tradition to take a rest on this day. Even on Sundays, when the owner of the shop had customers from smaller towns that came to buy clothes, she asked me to work and paid me extra for my work. I spoke Yiddish to customers, but I picked up German soon.

The majority of the population in Chernovtsy was Jewish. There were also Poles, Romanians and Ukrainians. Ukrainians lived in the surrounding villages and were the poorest and least educated people. I had very nice Jewish friends, but there were few Ukrainians among my friends. There was no national segregation, and we didn't pay much attention to the issue of nationality. Every Sunday my friends and I went to the countryside: the woods or the river. We attended lectures and concerts and went to the theater. I spent every kopeck I had on buying a ticket for the theater. I didn't even leave my coat in the cloakroom. I left my coat at my acquaintance's home across the street from the theater instead to save some money that way. There were Jewish theaters in town and Jewish groups that came on tours.

I improved my professional skills and was thinking about my own business. In 1938 I passed exams to the state commission and obtained a license to run my own business. I took a loan at the bank to buy a sewing machine. I had high hopes of the future and was planning to work in partnership with my sister. But in 1940 the Soviet army came to town and my hopes vanished. We were enthusiastic about the Soviet power. We expected some positive changes in life. Many people got disappointed within a short time and moved to Israel, Romania, Canada and the US. I stayed.

When I was 28 or 29 I began to learn Russian. I used to buy Russian newspapers to master the language and began to speak Russian with my clients. My sister knew the language and helped me in the beginning. I have a very good conduct of Russian and nobody could tell now that I learned it from scratch.

There was a kosher Jewish canteen in Chernovtsy. My sister and I had meals there. They cooked delicious food. It was a popular place. They made gefilte fish, jellied fish and malay pudding [made from corn flour and eggs with sour milk and served with sour cream]. Corn flour was very popular in Bukovina. Later the Friedman family, the owners of the canteen, were deported to Siberia. They were wealthy and the authorities declared them bourgeois. Their canteen was closed.

I met my future husband, Srul Nisman, in this canteen. He was born in 1903 in Floresti, Soroka district, Moldavia. He was a handsome, stately and well- mannered man. He was seven years older than I, and I probably wasn't his match. He finished grammar school and started his business. He owned a plank storage facility. He supported his brother, who was studying at Medical College in Paris, his parents and his aunt and uncle. He came to Chernovtsy when he needed to pay visits to the bank. We fell in love, and I believed it was the love of my life.

In 1940 my sister Esther and my mother came to visit me and stayed in Chernovtsy. My younger brother, Nakhman, also came to Chernovtsy in 1940 to get professional education to become a mechanic. My father and my brother Chaim stayed at the forestry. My father was very concerned about the Romanians that all of a sudden became very aggressive. My father and Chaim moved to Chernovtsy, too, so that's how my family reunited.

Srul moved to Chernovtsy in 1940. It was the Soviet period and he realized that he had to forget his former business. He began to look for work. We went to the theater together, and he confessed that he saw more concerts and theater performances after we met than he had in his whole life before. We got married in February 1941. We had a civil ceremony. I hadn't even met my husband's parents. I remember that we had a small dinner at home after the ceremony, and that was all. The situation was troublesome. We weren't interested in politics and didn't know what was going on, but we understood that there were things to be concerned about.

Once we decided to go to the forest on a Saturday evening. We heard warplanes roaring above. We panicked and rushed back home. I can't remember the exact date. I believe, it was around the 20th or 21st of June 1941 4. I was pregnant and suffered from cystitis and toxicosis. My husband and I decided to plan our escape from the Germans. I asked my parents if they would come with us. They replied that they would stay. Esther didn't want to leave them. There were Jewish refugees from Poland and Romania that told us about the horrible German attitude towards Jews. My husband and I packed our suitcases and went to the railway station. It was overcrowded, and there was no way to get on a train. These were the last trains. We stayed and lived through pain and fear.

The Germans arrived in town on 5th July 1941. From 5th to 8th July they danced and enjoyed themselves. They did anything they wanted. People said that they had been given a few days off to celebrate the victory. At 11 o'clock on 8th July my husband and I were sitting at the table when we heard the Germans ordering men to come outside. They opened the door to our room and stood in the doorway. My husband hugged me tightly. I ran after him out into the yard. He called me and gave me our marriage certificate, his ring and pen. He knew that he wouldn't come back from where he was being taken.

We believed that the Germans were cultured people, but I understood then that this was a very wrong assumption. I was told that 100 men were following the rabbi of Chernovtsy along the streets, past the main synagogue, in the direction of the railway station. There was a field across the street from the station, and the Germans ordered 20 men to dig a pit. They threatened to shoot them if they said a word. They buried them alive. My husband was among them. Much later a stone was erected on this spot. [Several mass executions of this kind happened in July 1941. 900 people died. On 9th May 2001 a monument was erected at the spot: a white post with a Star of David on it].

Announcements were put on buildings, ordering Jews to move to streets that were specifically marked for their residence. We started moving our belongings. A German soldier told us to leave everything behind. He said that we were only going to stay in the ghetto temporarily. A few streets were enclosed with wooden fencing. The street with the sauna was also enclosed in this ghetto. All dwellings were overcrowded. We lived in a laundry room and slept on the floor. I felt very ill. We didn't have enough food and exchanged everything we had managed to take with us for food.

After a few months somebody told us there were announcements on the walls. We read that the Germans were selecting craftsmen if one had any document to prove his professional capability. I had my diploma and went to the registry office. They put down the number of my diploma and the authority that had issued it. I was allowed to live in Chernovtsy and could take my family with me. I saved their lives. All other inmates of the ghetto, intellectuals, lawyers, financiers and others were sent to other ghettos in the Vinnitsa region, and the majority of them perished.

Before the war I began to make dresses for a Romanian client. Her last name was Bakulinskaya. Her husband worked at the city council. This client and her husband were looking for me in the ghetto. I don't know whether she felt sorry for me or if she just wanted to have her dresses, but they found me and brought me a loaf of bread. She asked whether I could finish the dresses and suggested that I work at her place. She had a sewing machine and gave me food.

The inmates of the ghetto were allowed to leave the ghetto wearing a [yellow] Star of David on the left side. My father made a star from carton, I sewed it into a piece of cloth, we attached it to our clothing with safety pins and went out. We were supposed to be back in the ghetto before 6 p.m. We strictly observed all rules and survived. I went to this client of mine to work. She was kind to me. She told her friend about me and that friend wanted a gown, too. Then she recommended me to somebody else, and this was how I started to earn my living.

My mother went to the market in town to buy food, because the prices were lower than in the ghetto. She also had a star on her clothes. All of a sudden she saw Romanians beating my father. She ran to them yelling in Romanian, 'How can you beat an older person? Shame on you! Do you not have a father and a mother?'. They let him go. We told my father to stay at home. He had a typical Semitic appearance, and also a beard.

On 25th December 1941 my daughter Maria was born. We lived in the ghetto in Chernovtsy, in the house where we were taken on the first days of the occupation. I didn't want to go to hospital. We were allowed to leave the ghetto during the day to go to hospital, but we were afraid that the Germans would break into the hospital and kill me. My sister and my father had to go ask a doctor to come at night. A Romanian soldier agreed to accompany them for money. The baby weighed 3 kilos, 250 grams at birth. My father, mother and sister helped me to look after my new-born child. I stayed at home for half a year, but I did some sewing on the side. The baby was growing rapidly. She used to say, 'Grandma, nokh!'. She knew that 'nokh' meant 'more' in Yiddish. She began to walk when she was 1 year old.

My father observed all Jewish traditions, even in the ghetto. He went to the synagogue in the ghetto on Saturdays. He prayed at home twice a day. My mother lit candles at home on Fridays. We didn't always manage to get matzah on holidays [for Pesach], but my father used to say that it was all right to make mamalyga or malay [food made from corn flour] instead. Life in the ghetto was hard. We were aware that every day might be the last day of our lives. Some of our neighbors vanished every night. It became particularly frightening in 1944 when it was clear that the enemy was retreating. We didn't turn on the lights at night. We looked forward to the arrival of the Soviet army. My mother was hoping to see her sons. They were at the front, but we hadn't heard from them.

Chernovtsy was liberated in 1944. My older brother, Eshya, had to come to Chernovtsy on a business trip. He was looking for us there, but couldn't find us until he met an acquaintance that took him to us. My brother stayed outside while this acquaintance of ours came in to prepare my mother to see her son. But whatever the preparations, my mother fainted on seeing Eshya. My brother went to a store to get us some food and bought my mother a pair of shoes and a piece of fabric for a coat.

In the fall of 1944 we returned to the apartment that had belonged to us before the war. It wasn't a very comfortable apartment, but it was ours. I worked in a shop and at home in the evenings to provide for the family. My mother did all the housework. My daughter went to kindergarten and learned to speak Russian. We spoke Yiddish at home and German or Romanian to our clients, and she didn't know a word in Russian before 1944.

After the war my mother aged quickly. Her children's death was very hard for her to bear. She couldn't sleep at night and didn't eat anything. The doctors said she had cancer. She went to hospital, but nothing could be done to help her. We didn't want her to die in hospital and took her home. She lived for another month and died in 1948.

In 1948 I went to work in the garment factory where my friend Katz, a communist, was director. Something that changed my life happened in the same year. I met a man that I had known for a long time. His name was Zis Gutnik, and he was born in 1910. He came from a Jewish family with many daughters, and as the only boy he was the favorite in the family, much loved and spoiled. When I was 18 my friend and I were on the train from Bucharest where we went to buy designs for clothes. On this train we began to sing Jewish and Romanian songs. I had a beautiful soprano. Some people came closer. Zis said later that he recalled a pretty tiny girl. Zis was in service in the Romanian army and was going to Sekuryany on leave. We liked each other, but we were no match. I came from a poor family, and he had a very different background. His parents had their own vision of his future. He married the daughter of the owner of a brewery. They had a beautiful son.

In 1941 Zis was arrested and sent to a Stalinist 5 camp. He was innocent, but so were so many other people whose only fault was that they came from wealthier families. He was charged of disobedience to the Soviet authorities, espionage, and sentenced to eight years of imprisonment. He was in prison in Sverdlovsk. He submitted requests to be sent to the front, but the authorities refused him. They were reluctant to recruit people from areas that had just joined the Soviet Union. But because of his exemplary behavior and his continuous submittal of requests to be sent to the front, he was released one and a half years before the end of his term. He returned in 1947.

My husband's family perished in Sekuryany: his father, mother, wife and son, his sister and her husband and child. His other sister, who was in evacuation, survived and returned to Chernovtsy. He stayed with her. We met by chance and first didn't recognize each other. I actually rescued him. I saw a man in the street that didn't see a truck driving in his direction. I pulled him to the roadside. We talked a little. I came home and told my mother about this meeting. He visited me a few times. We rarely saw each other. My mother was ill and needed my care. My daughter had measles and this resulted in pneumonia and I looked after her.

Zis also had problems. Nobody was supposed to know that he had been imprisoned, or life would be hard for him, because people would be suspicious. It was later, in 1958, that we obtained a certificate of complete rehabilitation, but after the war it was better to go to a place where nobody knew him. He went to Lvov. He got a job there and rented a room. In 1950 he came to Chernovtsy and proposed to me. I had my doubts and was worried about my daughter. She was a nervous and sickly girl. She was taciturn and reserved. Zis was kind to my daughter, and I gradually explained to her that he was to become her father.

My father, my daughter and I packed and moved to Lvov. Zis and I got married there. We only had a civil ceremony. I kept my first husband's last name, Nisman, to keep the memory of him. My daughter finished the 1st grade at primary school in Chernovtsy with honors. She also finished the 2nd grade in Lvov with honors. She was a smart girl. She had Russian, Ukrainian and Jewish friends.

We didn't face any anti-Semitism, but it was beginning to show at the end of the 1940s. It seemed that people contracted it like a disease from the Germans. Germans left anti-Semitism with non-Jewish people, because with Jews they only left pain and blood. I wasn't political, but I had a feeling that the situation was getting worse. Not for me personally, but in general. I worked in the factory. There were Ukrainian and Romanian employees and there weren't so many of us. We got along well and provided good services to our customers, so everything was fine in this respect.

In Lvov the first question that my father asked was, 'Where's the synagogue here?'. It wasn't too far from our house, and he went there immediately. Within half a year he was elected to be gabbai in shil [communal official]. People addressed him to resolve their disputes, problems and requests. I can't say that my husband and I were religious. My parents were religious. As for me, I observe traditions as a tribute to the past. We always celebrated Jewish holidays in our family: Pesach, Rosh Hashanah and Chanukkah. On Fridays we lit candles, and my father was very happy.

My father was a very intelligent man, although the only education he had was what he learned in cheder. He could speak and write in Yiddish, Romanian and Russian. He prayed at home twice a day. He died in 1959. When we asked the doctor why he died he replied, 'His time was over'. My father was 86 when he died.

My second daughter was born in Lvov in 1951. I wanted to name her Faina so that the first letter of her name would be F, after my mother Feige. But she became Inna. She's a very nice and kind girl. She is much loved by everyone. Her father just adored her. My husband was responsible for fixing looms and he was also a weaver. He had a good salary. I worked in a fashion shop. Inna was a very sickly girl. She had asthma, and I decided to quit my job. I had my private clients that gave me orders. I worked at home and earned more than I did at work. I receive a small pension now because the amount of the pension depends on how many years one worked.

After the war stores were empty. My clients were wealthy people and had access to a greater variety of products. They brought me various goods: herring, socks and so on. I had good business relationships with my clientele.

My older daughter, Maria, finished secondary school and graduated from the Lvov Polytechnic Institute. She graduated as a glass chemist in 1964. It was difficult for a Jew to find a job at that time. My daughter wrote 20 application letters to directors of glass factories. She received a response from a factory in Belokrynitsa, Zhytomir region. Work conditions were very hard there. She was a pretty, young girl. As she had a university degree she was appointed chief of shift. The workers were mostly drunk, and she had to wake them up and force them to work. She rented a room from a local woman. She is a hardworking girl. Later she worked in Irpen near Kiev and rented a room from a janitor in Kiev. She met a Jewish man called Krupievskiy. They dated for quite a while before they got married. Their son Sasha was born in 1974. He lives in Israel now. He got married recently. Maria and her husband live in Kiev.

Inna is not as smart as her sister. She is a charming and spoiled girl. My husband was always on her side and didn't allow me to tell her off. Whenever I was about to make a reprimand he told me, 'Leave her alone'. At the time our girls were growing up, young people showed no interest in Jewish traditions. When my husband and I spoke Yiddish our daughters laughed, saying 'Don't speak Yiddish, please. We can't understand it'. There were a few Jewish boys and girls in Inna's class, but they never showed any outward signs of their Jewish identity. They didn't even know their mother tongue.

Inna graduated from the Lvov Forestry Engineering Institute. She worked as an accountant. Her husband, whose last name is Zubkov, isn't Jewish, but we had no objections to her marriage. They have a daughter called Evelina. In 1990 Inna and her family moved to Israel. The climate there is very good for her. She has fewer breathing problems. She has a job and is a very good employee. She works at a bank. She's doing very well and supports me. Inna comes to Kiev every year. She often calls me and tells me that she misses me.

My husband and I lived together for 46 years. We had a good life. He identified himself as a Jew, but he wasn't religious. He didn't go to synagogue. When the Jewish community organized Pesach celebrations in the 1990s my husband and I went there. He enjoyed it very much. He came from a very religious family. I celebrate the Jewish holidays that I remember. We always celebrated Pesach at home. We bought matzah. I also try to cook something traditional on Jewish holidays. My husband fasted on Yom Kippur, but I didn't because I have a poor heart. My husband died of infarction in 1996.

In 2000 I visited my daughter in Israel. This country is like a garden. It's very green; there are many flowers everywhere and very old palm trees. I visited my friends, and they were all very happy to see me and very hospitable. I felt very much at home. People speak Hebrew all around. I can't speak it well, but I can understand it. I didn't want to stay in Israel though. Firstly, I believe children must live their own life. They are very different from my generation, and one cannot live with one's children! They have a different mentality and a different way of life. My home is here. I've lived in this house for over half a century. I survived the war and that's the worst thing in life that happened to me. I knew good and hard times in this house. I shall spend the rest of my life here.

I am glad that there's Hesed, the Jewish charity fund. Hesed supports older people. I borrowed World History of the Jewish People by Dubnow 6 from the Hesed library. I may not read all of it, but it's a very interesting book. I learned many new things about our people. They've been suppressed and attacked throughout centuries, but they survived.

Glossary

1 Bessarabia

Historical area between the Prut and Dnestr rivers, in the southern part of the Odessa region. Today it is part of Moldavia.

2 Residence permit

3 Great Patriotic War

On 22 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.

5 Gulag

6 Dubnow, Simon (1860-1941)

One of the great modern Jewish historians and thinkers. Born in Belarus, he was close to the circle of the Jewish enlightenment in Russia. His greatest achievement was his study of the history of the Jews in Eastern Europe and their spiritual and religious movements. His major work was the ten volume World History of the Jewish People. Dubnow settled in Berlin in 1922. When Hitler came to power he moved to Riga, where he was put into the ghetto in 1941 and shot by a Gestapo officer on 8 December the same year.

Pavol Skalicky

PAVOL SKALICKY
Slovakia

My name is Pavol Skalicky.
I was born in 1949 in Kosice. My parents come from central Slovakia. My
father, Tibor Silberstein, was born in Kremnica in 1914. He was a
businessman. He spent World War II in the anti-fascist resistance. He died
in Kosice in 1976. My mother, Edita Weissova Silberstein, was born in
Prievidza in 1918. She died in Kosice in 1995.

Family background

Being Jewish

Family background">Family background

My parents moved to Kosice after the war, when my father found a job in
this town. By that time, they already had my brother, Peter. He is five
years older than me. Peter lives in Kosice, married with two daughters, who
are also married and already have children.

My wife, Eva, comes from Kosice, too. In 1977, she gave birth to our
daughter, Linda, who studied medicine in Kosice.

I have more documents about my mother's family than my father's side. My
maternal grandmother, Irma Weissová, was born on March 5, 1882, in
Prievidza. She lived with our family until she died on June 11, 1969, in
Kosice. Her parents were Július Steiner, who was born in Bosáca, Slovakia;
and Júlia Lovingerová, who was born in Austria. I don't know the exact
place of her birth. From my mother I learned that she lived 103 years. My
great-grandparents had 10 children - six girls and four boys. One of the
girls was Irma Steinerová, my grandmother.

My grandmother Irma married Adolf Weiss. They had seven children - five
sons and two daughters. One of those was my mother, Edita Weissová. My
mother had a high school education and worked as a shop assistant.

Grandfather Weiss was born in 1877, but died quite young in 1920, at the
age of 43, just after the youngest girl, Josefina, was born. My mother was
only 2 when she lost her father. At the time of his death, my grandfather
was a groundskeeper of Pálfy properties in Bojnice. He was killed in a
traffic accident while driving a horse carriage. The reason why the horses
started to stampede is not known but the carriage toppled, and my
grandfather did not survive. My grandmother did not marry again and,
according to my uncle, she could hardly accept her fate, that her husband
died and that she would have to take care of seven children by herself.
However, her parents were well-situated, and helped her. They continued
helping her until her sons completed their educations, and took over the
responsibility of supporting their mother. The family not have big
financial problems.

Grandmother's oldest son, Vojtech Weiss, was born in 1908 in Prievidza. He
was a lawyer. Before the war he went with his brothers to Tanger, Morocco.
They were businessmen in some international trading zone.

The second son, Alexander, born in 1910, worked in Slovakia as a sales
representative of the Bata Company, and he spent the war years in Indochina
and Saigon, Vietnam. He died in Casablanca, Morocco, in the 1960s.

Edmund Weiss, the third brother, was born in 1912, and worked as a director
of the Bata Company for Moravia and Slovakia, but was also managing the
partnership with his brothers in Morocco, who stayed there when the war
broke out in Europe. You could say that their business saved their lives,
thanks to the fact they had started as Bata representatives before the war.
By working abroad, they avoided deportations and the Holocaust.

The fourth son was Tibor. He was born in 1914 in Prievidza. He worked as a
sales representative for a company in Slovakia. He was deported from Zilina
and died in Auschwitz.

The youngest son, Ladislav, was born in 1916. He was a lawyer. He studied
in Prague at the Charles University, and after graduating from the law
school he also went to Casablanca, Morocco, following his brothers, and was
lucky escape the atrocities of war and the Holocaust. After liberation, he
came back as an enthusiastic builder of Czechoslovakia. Nevertheless, he
was persecuted, fired from his work, and forced to find a job as an
unskilled worker. After some time, he was rehabilitated. Today he is 83,
lives in Prague and is married to a woman who is not Jewish. They don't
have children.

The youngest child in the family is my Aunt Josefína. She was born in 1920.
She survived the Holocaust and lives in Cologne, Germany, where she
emigrated in 1968 or 1969. She followed her children, who emigrated to
Germany some time earlier.

Július and Júlia Steiner (nee Lovingerová), my great-grandparents and the
parents of my grandmother Irma, had 10 children. The boys were Jozef,
Izidor, Jakub and Eugen. Jozef completed a secondary school in Prievidza
and worked as the head of the post office in Dolny Kubín. Izidor lived in
Topolcany. He had a workshop where he dealt with agricultural machines. He
was married, but didn't have children. Jakub Steiner was a skilled
mechanic, a locksmith, who immigrated very early to the USA and, after
that, no one from the family ever heard from him again.

Eugen Steiner was a veterinarian. He worked in Szolnok and Budapest, and he
owned a farm in Sáshalombata, near Budapest. After the war, he immigrated
to the USA. There he had two children. One of them, George, became a
medical doctor. He studied in Vienna and in Lausanne and, after getting a
degree, he established a clinic in New York. He died at a car accident in
the USA, leaving two children.

One of Grandmother Irma's sisters married a Mr. Dalnoki. She died
naturally. She had another sister whose name I do not know. This family has
a sad and tragic history. They had a daughter and two sons. Both of their
parents died at the same time of Spanish flu. Jakub Steiner took care of
the sons. They were all deported to a concentration camp, where they died.

My grandmother's sister Zali married Mr. Blody. The Blody family had a
clothes shop in Prievidza. They had a son, Jeno, and a daughter, Vilma.

Next sister was Katarína, who married Mr. Fromer. Fromer's family were
salesmen in Prievidza, and owned a clothes shop. They were the competitors
of the Blody family, into which one of the Steiner sisters was married.
Katarína and her husband had two sons, Adolf and Bedrich. Adolf probably
emigrated to the USA, and Bedrich was a business partner of my uncles who
lived in Morocco.

There was one more daughter, my grandmother's sister, Etel, who married Mr.
Cigler. They did not have children. The Cigler family had a factory of
dairy products in Prievidza. They died in a concentration camp.

My only living relatives are Uncle Ladislav, who lives in Prague, and
Auntie Josefina in Germany.

Neither my father's nor my mother's families were very religious. Father's
family was small, they were only two children. His sister was two years
older. They lived in Kremnica, where they owned a little textile shop. My
grandmother's family came from Kremnica, and she had many brothers and
sisters there. One of the siblings had a small watchmaker's shop and my
grandparents had a clothing shop. Back in those days, my father's family
was named Silberstein.

My parents talked about the family history, but I have to admit it was not
a very common theme. The reason could be that a part of our family survived
thanks to their jobs and duties in foreign countries. Those who stayed here
- my mother, my father and my grandmother, as well as my older brother -
survived thanks to some good people who gave them underground shelter in
Klenovské Lazy in the mountains. My father was a member of a partisan
brigade. He survived the uprising and the period of deportations to
concentration camps by hiding in the mountains. Aunt Josefina survived in
hiding somewhere in Hungary with her husband. The others were abroad and
after the war, in the 1950, when I grew up, this just wasn't a proper
conversation subject. It was after high school that I became interested in
these matters and began to learn more about my family.

Being Jewish">Being Jewish

I remember an interesting moment when I learned I was actually Jewish. It
was an experience I remember very well. When I was 6 and at school for the
first time, a girl mocked me for being a Jew. I had no idea what it meant
and why she was making fun of me. I only understood that it was some
mockery. I reacted very simply and physically attacked her, not driven by
the meaning of an insult at all. I probably beat her and she complained at
home. When the case was examined, since her parents came to school
complaining that I had hurt their daughter, the teacher had to examine the
origin of the conflict. I told her exactly how it all had started. So, for
me I learned for the first time that there is something called Jewry and
Jew.

My parents were called in to meet with my teacher. Fortunately, we had a
very good teacher who knew the case very well and found out that the girl's
parents were talking at home about my parents and had made abusive remarks
about Jews. Their little girl did not understand the meaning of their
words, but did understand the character of the speech. The teacher
energetically asked the parents to change their attitude in front of their
child, to behave in a civilized way.

Concerning the expression of the Jewish religion in our family, to be
truthful, it was not present. I think the situation developed in such a
direction because of what my mother's siblings had gone through, so at home
we simply did not talk about it. I learned more about these things only
after I got married.

I married a Jewish girl, but not because she was Jewish. I did not even
know at first. I found out about her origin later, when we were dating.
Actually, she is Jewish because her mother is Jewish; her father was not
Jewish. As I married a Jewish woman from a family where this tradition was
much stronger, I learned much more about the Jewish religion than in my
own.

Leonid Krais

Leonid Krais with his family

Leonid Krais
Ukraine
Kiev
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

I met Leonid Krais in his office. He said that he has been spending most of his time in the office since his wife died. Leonid Krais owns a transportation agency and a tourist bureau. His older son is a co-owner of the agency. Before our meeting, Krais showed me around his agency. He is a good master of his company. There are fruit trees and a summer shed in the yard. There is also a well with very good water. Krais is a short and vivid man. He is lame, but quick in his movements. His employees call him Mr. Lyonia [affectionate for Leonid]. He takes good care of his employees and is very proud of his company. During our interview he often recalled his stay in the ghetto. One can feel that the horrors of this time have been imprinted on his memory.

My grandparents on my father's side, Leizer and Khone Krais, came from the town of Lipkany. Lipkany was part of Romania before 1940, and now it's in Moldova. Lipkany was a small provincial town, very cozy and picturesque. Jews constituted the majority of its population and lived in the central part of the town. Richer Jewish families resided in very beautiful houses. There were about ten synagogues in Lipkany. The members of each synagogue united in guilds: there was a synagogue for tailors, shoemakers and cabmen, etc. These synagogues were located in neighborhoods inhabited by craftsmen in the outskirts of town. Richer Jews didn't mix with poorer Jews in the synagogues. They had big synagogues in the center of town. During the war the town, including almost all synagogues, was burnt down by the Germans.

Most of the Jews in Lipkany were craftsmen: tailors, barbers, shoemakers, carpenters, furniture manufacturers, cabmen, roofers, tinsmiths, blacksmiths that had their own forges, and so on. Jews were very good at their professions. It was customary for a son to follow into his father's footsteps. A boy began to learn his father's profession when he was small. These were family businesses that were transferred from one generation to another. Richer Jews were doctors and lawyers. Almost all stores in town were owned by Jews. However, there weren't that many really rich Jews. Most of them were just wealthy.

My grandfather, Leizer Krais, was born in Lipkany in the 1870s. He died in 1930. All I know about him is what my grandmother Khone and my father told me. He was a tailor like his father and grandfather. He had a shop in the center of town, in the same building where his family lived. He had a few employees, (seamstresses).

My grandmother was also born in Lipkany in the 1870s. I have no information about her family or childhood. My grandmother didn't like to talk about herself. All I know is that, after their wedding, my grandfather took my grandmother to the house that he had bought for his future family. My father lived in his parents' house until he got married. It was a beautiful one-storied brick house with a beautiful façade and a balcony in the center of town. I can't remember the exact number of rooms in the house, but I believe there were at least four rooms. The house burnt down during the war. Only the foundation was left. There's a restaurant in Lipkany now where my grandparents' house used to be.

My grandmother was a housewife. My grandfather was the bread-winner. They weren't rich. My grandmother used to say, 'How can one expect a tailor to make a lot of money with such a small needle?'. My grandfather had to work many hours. He could provide well for the family. They didn't have housemaids - my grandmother did all the housework. My grandparents had three children. My father Avrum was the oldest. He was born in 1902. The next son was Yankel, born in 1904, and their daughter Rivka was born in 1906.

My grandmother Khone was a very beautiful woman. Even when she got old she was still beautiful and stately. My grandmother wore long dark skirts and long-sleeved blouses with high collars, which was the custom among religious women of Jewish families. On Saturdays and holidays my grandmother went to the synagogue wearing a beautiful black silk gown and a shawl.

Their family was religious, of course. At that time it was the only way of life for Jewish families. Every Jewish family celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My grandmother followed the kashrut strictly. My father Avrum and his brother Yankel finished cheder. They studied the Talmud and the Torah and also Hebrew and general subjects such as mathematics, literature and history. There was anti-Semitism in Romania making the admission to secondary schools difficult for Jewish children, and the cheder provided secondary education to them. The cheder was a Jewish school for the advanced study of religion. Girls didn't attend cheder. My aunt Rivka was educated at home. She had a teacher from cheder teaching her all subjects. They spoke Yiddish in my grandparents' family. All members of the family had a good knowledge of Romanian, which was the national language [of the country at the time].

My father and his brother didn't really want to become tailors. My grandfather didn't mind and let them make their own choice in life. My father became an apprentice to a mechanic at the mill, and Yankel became an apprentice to a locksmith. My father later continued to work as mechanic at the mill. There was a lot of equipment at the mill, and he was responsible for its maintenance. He liked his work. Yankel opened a locksmith shop. I remember his lathe, which was pedal-driven.

My mother's parents came from a small town called Khotin in Romania, which formerly belonged to Russia. It joined Romania in 1918. There was a Jewish, Moldavian and Russian population in Khotin. People spoke Romanian, Yiddish and Russian. I have few memories of Khotin. I visited it when I was a child. The main historical place in town was an ancient fortress. The town was built around it. The majority of the population was Jewish. They were mainly craftsmen. There were several synagogues in town. I remember two of them. I believe, there were more, but I don't know for sure.

My grandfather, Moshe-Wolf Shatchen, was born in Khotin in the 1870s. He died of some disease in the 1920s. He owned a bakery and had two employees. My grandmother Beile was the same age as my grandfather. I don't know where she was born. My grandparents had four children. Yankel, born in 1901, was the oldest. Their oldest daughter, Esther, was born in 1903, my mother, Sosia, in 1905 and her younger sister Priva in 1907. They lived in a brick house, with three rooms and a kitchen, in the center of Khotin. It was furnished with pieces of dark wooden furniture: wardrobes, cupboards, sofas and chairs. I remember many pillows on the beds. Jewish families used to buy live poultry and used the feathers to stuff pillows and mattresses. They made a mandatory dowry for their daughters. Mothers were preparing dowry for their daughters as soon as they were born. We also had pillows and blankets that my mother had received from her parents.

The bakery was in the yard. When my grandfather died, my grandmother became the bread-winner of the family. She took up his business although she could have sold the bakery. But she had to take care of the children and took to baking. Her children helped her. My mother and her sisters baked bread, rolls and buns, pies with various stuffing, honey cakes and bagels. My grandmother's pastries were especially popular before the Purim holidays, when Jewish families were sending presents to their neighbors and friends. People used to take trays with pies, sweets and apples from house to house. My grandmother and her children had to work hard, but they managed well.

I knew my grandmother well and loved her. She was a very nice, kind and caring woman. She always wore a white apron over her long skirt and a shawl. My grandmother wore white kerchiefs at home and put on a dark shawl when she went out. People called her 'Beile der beker' - Beile, the Baker [in Yiddish].

My grandmother was a religious woman and also raised her children that way. They observed all Jewish traditions. My mother told me that they always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. On Pesach my grandmother hired employees so that she could spent her time with the children. She cooked traditional food and brought down special fancy tableware from the attic. My mother learned how to cook traditional food from her mother. The family went to the synagogue on holidays. They didn't go to the synagogue on Saturdays but preayed at home instead. On Friday mornings my grandmother cooked for Saturdays. In the evening she lit candles, and the family sat together for dinner after the prayer. On Saturdays the bakery was closed.

They spoke Yiddish at home, and Moldavian and Russian with their neighbors. My mother's older brother, Yankel, studied at cheder. All three sisters were educated at home. My grandmother was prepared to spend all she had in order to give her children an education. Yankel went to work for a landlord after finishing cheder. He was very fond of horses and worked in stables all his life. He married a Jewish girl from Khotin and lived with his family. He purchased stables with horses and a plot of land and became a successful farmer.

My parents got married around 1929. There were shadkhanim, professional matchmakers, that had lists of young men and girls, and parents often asked them for help when they wanted their son or daughter to get married. My parents were introduced to one another by matchmakers. They had a traditional Jewish wedding, of course. My mother moved to her husband in Lipkany after they got married. They rented a dwelling.

I was born in 1932. My parents named me Leizer, after my father's father. I was their only child. My mother became a housewife after I was born. My father was a mechanic at the mill in Lipkany. My parents weren't well off. My mother went to work when I was old enough to go to cheder. She made bags for a storage facility owner. She worked at home. She didn't earn much, but it was still a good contribution to the family budget.

The Jews of Lipkany always supported each other. Although we were far from rich, my mother tried to help the poor. It was a common thing to help less fortunate people. Our neighbors were very poor. When my mother cooked gefilte fish, goose or chicken on Saturdays or at Pesach, she always brought a bit of food over to them.

My parents were religious. My mother followed the kashrut strictly. We only had kosher food. Jewish storeowners only sold kosher meat. They didn't sell pork - although it was in demand with Moldavians - because Jews wouldn't buy meat that was lying next to pork. Jews bought live poultry to take it to a shochet and have it slaughtered. My mother kept meat and dairy products in different places. My mother baked bread and challah for Saturdays. She made bread once a week. The loaves of bread were kept in the cupboard and covered with a white cotton cloth. It didn't get stale for a week and was really delicious.

On Saturdays and on holidays my parents went to the synagogue. At Yom Kippur the family fasted. Only after the prayer at the synagogue we returned home and sat down to festive dinner. I've fasted since I was 5. On Friday evenings my mother lit candles and said a prayer, and father blessed the food. On Saturdays no work was done at home. My mother did the cooking on Fridays. She made meat stew and chicken broth that she left in the stove in ceramic pots to keep it warm. A Moldavian neighbor came to us on Saturday nights to light the lamps. A single Jewish woman living in our neighborhood had a big stove stoked with wood. A big boiler was built into it. She kept the stove and boiler very clean. On Saturdays a local came to her to fill the boiler with water, and light the fire in the stove. The neighbors' children came to her to have kettles filled with boiling water. She filled their kettles herself. We always had hot water for tea on Saturdays. She didn't charge people for boiling water on Sabbath. During the week people paid her for this service. She made her living that way.

On Yom Kippur the family fasted. I've fasted since I was 5. After the prayer in the synagogue [when Yom Kippur was over] we came home and sat down for a festive dinner. I remember Pesach at home. We bought enough matzah to last for a whole week. My mother also bought matzah for the poor family that she supported. We brought fancy dishes from the attic. My mother cooked gefilte fish, chicken, matzah and potato pudding. Even the poorest families bought new clothes for their children at Pesach. I don't remember whether my mother and father did the shopping themselves, but I always got something new at Pesach. My father conducted the seder ceremony on the first evening of Pesach. I asked my father the [four] questions in Hebrew that I learned by heart before I began to study Hebrew in the cheder.

On Saturday no work was done at home. My mother did the cooking on Friday. She made meat stew and chicken broth that she left in the stove in ceramic pots to keep the food warm. A Moldavian neighbor came to us on Saturday night to light the lamps. A single Jewish woman living in our neighborhood had a big stove stoked with wood. A big boiler was built in it. She kept the stove and boiler very clean. On Saturday a local came to her to fill the boiler with water and start fire in the stove. Neighbors' children came to her to get boiling water into their kettles. This farmer filled their kettles himself. We always had hot water for tea on Saturday. She didn't charge people for boiling water at Shabbat. During a week people paid her for this service. She made her living in this way. On holidays we often visited my grandmother Khone. She liked to have the whole family get together at the table. My father's brother Yankel and his sister Rivka also lived in Lipkany. They came with their families. Yankel had two sons, and Rivka had a son and a daughter. My grandmother loved her grandchildren. She cooked something special for us and gave us gifts. At Chanukkah our grandmother always gave us Chanukkah gelt. My grandmother didn't have a kitchen maid. She made all the food herself. I can still remember my grandmother's strudels with nuts, raisins and jam. Once a year we visited my grandmother in Khotin and I enjoyed these trips. I liked visiting her. I don't remember any other holidays at home.

In 1939 my grandmother Khone died. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Lipkany, according to Jewish tradition. Her grave is beside my grandfather Leizer's grave.

I went to cheder when I was 6. I enjoyed studying. I already knew the prayers before I went to cheder. My mother had taught me. At cheder I learned to read and write in Yiddish and Hebrew. I was fond of mathematicmathematics and history.

In 1940 the Red Army entered our town declaring it a part of the Soviet Union. Many Romanians escaped to Romania and left all their belongings behind. The Soviet authorities didn't touch our family because we weren't rich. All rich people were arrested and sent to Siberia. Some of them were even executed. The slogan of the Soviet power was: 'A Nobody should become a Somebody'. Those people in Lipkany that hadn't worked hard or made any efforts in their life reported on their rich fellow citizens and received their belongings from the new authorities for their services. The authorities began to fight religion by closing synagogues, churches and cheders. I went to a Russian secondary school and finished the 4th grade before the war.

When the Russians came, Lipkany was a town near the border. It belonged to the USSR and the area beyond the town was Romania. On 22nd June 1941 1 the Germans arrived in the Romanian territory and opened fire on Lipkany. There was a commandant office and a frontier regiment in Lipkany that set up a defensive position.

We didn't know anything about the situation in Europe, and the German attitude towards Jews. We knew that there was a war, but we didn't believe we would be involved in it. We were simple people living in a small town and didn't go deep into politics. My father went to the front at the very beginning of the war, and we never saw him again. Many Jews left their belongings behind and left for Brichany [25 km from Lipkany]. We went there, too. We left a message for Yankel with our neighbors to tell him that we were heading for Brichany. He came on a horse-driven cab and took us to Khotin, where we settled down with my grandmother Beile. But we didn't stay in Khotin for long.

Romanian and German forces soon arrived in Khotin. The Jews were ordered to get together in the main square and bring food for three days. That was all we were allowed to take with us. My mother and I, grandmother Beile, my mother's sisters, Esther and Priva, and their children, her brother Yankel, his wife and his son came to the square at the set time, along with more than 500 other Jews. There were also my mother's relatives and their families from Khotin. We had hardly left our houses when the locals began to break into them and steal our belongings. They broke windows and doors to get into the houses and set them on fire. As we were leaving Khotin, rabbis, doctors and other intellectuals were being killed. I don't know why they selected intellectuals. Probably they wanted to exterminate the elite, or they believed intelligent people to be more dangerous to them. There were about 120 of them, who were told to dig a pit. After they were done, the soldiers shot them and threw their bodies into the pit. There's a monument now which was erected on this spot beside the road. People come there to honor the memory of the victims.

After we had been walking about 10 kilometers, a Romanian officer told people that those who couldn't walk might stay behind and wait for carts to pick them up. There were people among them that could walk, but they decided to take advantage of the opportunity. We walked another 100 meters when we heard shooting. All these people - children, older and ill people - were shot. We came to a barbed wire fenced area in Sekuryany. From there we were taken to Ataki and then to Mogilyov-Podolskiy. I remember the day we spent in Mogilyov-Podolskiy. We stayed in a barrack, and my mother put me to sleep on the floor. A woman beside me was in labor. I was about 10 years old then. So many years have passed, but I still remember her delivering the baby. It was so horrible. I don't know what happened to her and her baby.

We ran out of food very soon. My mother tried to save some food for me. Ukrainians were trying to help us. They were standing at the side of the road, throwing potatoes, apples, eggs, milk and whatever else they had over to us. Our Romanian convoy pretended not see that they were giving us food.

My grandmother joined us as far as Kopaygorod. She fell sick in Kopaygorod and couldn't walk any farther. She sat down on the ground, and a Romanian officer shot her. My mother and I walked on. My mother had a bag with a pillow and a blanket for me. A Romanian officer thought that my mother had something of value in this bag and hit her on her arm in order to take away the bag. He broke her arm. This happened near the village of Krasnaya Eroshynka near Zhmerinka. He threw things out of the bag and left them lying there, when he saw that there was nothing of interest to him. Local people took my mother to hospital where she had her arm put in plaster. She had to stay in hospital.

I wanted to stay with my mother. I escaped, was hiding in a haystack under a bridge, and the convoy didn't notice me. I found my mother in the hospital. She didn't eat any food there, because it was not kosher food, and she couldn't force herself to eat it. My mother had two boxes of matches that she had taken from home. I went to a house in the village and asked the mistress of the house whether they needed matches. I explained that I wanted bread in exchange to give it to my mother, who was in hospital, and told them my story. The mistress took a loaf of bread with the intention to cut half of it off for me, when her husband came. He told her to give me a full loaf. She also gave me a few eggs and a bottle of milk. This was kosher food that my mother was allowed to have.

After my mother recovered, we went into the street where another group of Jews was passing by. There was no chance to escape, and we were captured and thrown into this group. We had a typical Semitic appearance, and it was no problem for them to recognize our identity. We came to the town of Djurin in Shargorod district, Vinnitsa region.

Djurin was controlled by the Romanians. They weren't as oppressive as the Germans. There were no mass shootings in the ghettos under their supervision, but the conditions were very hard considering the lack of food. Inmates of the ghetto went to work on a road construction site in Tulchin. An acquaintance of ours went to work at the quarry in Tulchin. The Romanian guard told him to climb a tree and jump down. He refused to jump and they shot him. There were other shootings in the ghetto. Many people died of various diseases or starved to death. The Romanians gave us no food and we ate anything we could get.

It was forbidden to leave the ghetto, but we, children, sneaked out at night. We crawled underneath the barbed wire to collect some wood to heat our barracks. In the summer we went to the field to gather spikelets. We removed the grains with sticks. We also picked potatoes that had been left over from the harvest. Ukrainian farmers came to the barbed fencing with food. One could get a piece of bread for a watch, or 2-3 kilos of potatoes for a golden ring. We boiled potato peels and leaves and ate them. We also picked sugar beets that we had with tea. Of course, we couldn't celebrate any holidays. Religious people were praying quietly on holidays, but we took little notice of them. We were starved and didn't feel like thinking about holidays.

Once in 1942 Romanians from Chernovtsy came to our ghetto to take craftsmen from Chernovtsy with them. It turned out that Marian Popovich, the Romanian mayor of Chernovtsy, submitted his letter of resignation to the king of Romania. He explained that the majority of Jewish craftsmen had been taken to the ghetto, and he had a problem with running business in town without them. The Romanian king issued a ban on sending the Jews of Chernovtsy to the ghetto, and many of the inmates in our ghetto could return to their homes. People and their families got a chance to go home, and we could only but envy them their luck. I believe Popovich saved many lives that way.

In 1943 the partisan movement became stronger in the vicinity of Djurin. Sometimes we bumped into partisans in the woods at night. Partisans gave us money to buy them cigarettes and cigarette paper. Later the partisans began to communicate with inmates of the ghetto. Our neighbor was a tailor. The partisans brought him fabric, cotton and threads at night. This tailor and some other Jews made overcoats, jackets and warm hats for the partisans. At the end of 1943 the partisans often came closer to the ghetto. The Romanians used to patrol the area around the ghetto looking for partisans. The commander of a partisan unit had relatives in the ghetto. Once, when he was on his way to visit them, a Romanian guard noticed him and ordered him to freeze. The partisan opened fire and shot two Romanians. The Romanians were too afraid to pick up the corpses and told a few inmates of the ghetto to go and bring the dead men into the ghetto.

In 1944 we felt that the war came to a turning point. The Romanians were aware that the partisans might come to our rescue and execute those that had killed the inmates of the ghetto. In 1944 the Soviet army liberated us. While the Soviet forces were fighting in the vicinity of Djurin, we got out of the ghetto and found shelter under a bridge in the village of Khomenki, near Djurin. Germans on bicycles were riding over the bridge, followed by the Soviet army. After the war this bridge was removed and a new one was built nearby. Later, when I worked as a driver, I often drove past this bridge recollecting how we found shelter under this bridge. These were heart-wrenching memories.

After the War

My mother and I left the ghetto and went to Mogilyov from where we caught a train to Lipkany. Our house and my grandmother Khone's house had been burnt down. We found a room in a half ruined house and lived there until 1947. My mother baked buns from the flour that people gave to her. People brought her eggs or a few potatoes in exchange for her work. I became an apprentice in a maintenance yard. I got my payment in food. Sometimes we didn't get anything for weeks and had to eat potato peels.

In Lipkany we found out what had happened to our family. My father had been severely wounded at the front. A woman from the hospital where he stayed sent us a photograph of our father with other patients and a nurse. This was the only message that we had about him. He must have died in this hospital. My father's brother Yankel and his family perished in one of the many ghettos in Vinnitsa region, and so did my mother's older sister Esther. My father's younger sister Rivka, my mother's brother Yankel, and her sister Priva and her children returned home from a ghetto. I believe, it was in Tulchin. Later they moved to Israel: Yankel and Rivka in 1946, and Priva in the early 1970s. Rivka died in 1995, and Priva died in 2001. Their children, my cousins, live in Israel. Yankel was a farmer and worked with horses in Israel. He died in the late 1980s. His son Avidor, who changed his name to Shakhai in Israel, became a writer. He writes in Hebrew. I can't read in Hebrew and don't have any of his books.

In 1947 we moved to Chernovtsy. Our neighbors told us that there were many vacant apartments in the town and that it was possible to get a job there. We found an apartment and moved in there. My mother went to work at a bakery. I was 14 and had only studied for four years at a secondary school; one year of it in a Russian school). My Russian was very poor. My mother and I went to the director of a trade school. My mother explained to him that my father had perished at the front and that I wanted to become a driver. I was admitted and finished school as a professional driver and mechanic. I remember my first day at work in 1949. I was driving a huge dump truck delivering debris to a dump site. There was a good team of drivers and I was accepted by them. They were experienced drivers and shared their knowledge with me. That was 53 years ago, and I never regretted my choice.

We didn't face any anti-Semitism in Chernovtsy, because the majority of the population of this town was Jewish. It's an old and cultural town. Even now there are many different nationalities in the town. There have been no conflicts or national segregation. Local people told me that even before the war a janitor had to speak three to four languages in order to be employed. There could be Jewish, German, Romanian and Russian families living in one building, and janitors had to communicate with them in their own languages. I understand Romanian, German and Moldavian, too.

My mother and I continued to observe Jewish traditions. There was one synagogue operating in Chernovtsy after the war. There was no good selection of food after the war, but my mother managed to cook traditional food on holidays by saving money from our everyday expenditures. We didn't celebrate Sabbath, because Saturday was a working day at that time. My mother and I both worked. On Saturdays my mother went to pray at the synagogue after work. On holidays we went to the synagogue together.

At the beginning of 1952 I was recruited to the army. I was in the army when Stalin died. We were summoned to a meeting. There were official speeches about the sorrows Soviet people were going through. I didn't feel any grief, though. I didn't live under the Soviet regime for long. I knew that Stalin was a terribly guileful man. I knew that anti-Semitism and the Doctors' Plot 2 were initiated by him. He should have been aware of what was going on in the country that was completely in his power. He was exterminating specialists and decent people. He exterminated unique professors, doctors and experts. He exterminated Jewish, Russian and Ukrainian intellectuals. [The interviewee is referring to what is called today the Great Terror.] 3 He sent people that were doing well and working hard into exile in Siberia. So many of them died. I hated him for his evil deeds. When he died I said that he had lived too long anyway. If he had died 30 years earlier, there wouldn't have been so many deaths.

After I returned from the army in 1955 I met my future wife Clara (Fishman. She was born in the town of Yedintsy in Romania in 1937. Yedintsy was a small and poor provincial town, and there was no electricity there before the war. There were many Jewish families; most of them were poor. My wife's mother, Sheyndl Fishman, was a housewife, and her father, Yankel Fishman, was a carpenter. My wife came from a typical Jewish family. Her family was very poor and religious. They celebrated Jewish holidays and went to the synagogue. My wife was raised Jewish. She completed secondary school. Clara and her parents were in the ghetto in Zatishiye village in Vinnitsa region. This ghetto was supervised by the Romanians. Clara and her parents survived the horrors of the ghetto, but they suffered from the consequences it had on their health. Clara's parents died of tuberculosis. Clara had lost them before I met her. When we met she was 18. We got married in 1955. Clara also loved my mother. We didn't have a traditional wedding. We had a civil ceremony and a small dinner at home afterwards. My mother liked my wife and treated her like a daughter. Clara finished Medical College in Chernovtsy and began to work as a nurse in a hospital in town. I worked as a driver.

My mother turned 55 in 1960 and retired. She died in 1967. We buried her in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy, according to Jewish traditions. There's an engraving in Russian and Hebrew on her gravestone.

Our first son was born on 11th January 1957. We gave him the name Aron, after my wife's paternal grandfather. Our second son Michael, born on 16th July 1961, was named after my maternal grandfather. Our sons were raised Jewish. My wife and I spoke Yiddish more often than Russian at home. My sons' mother tongue is Yiddish, although they studied in Russian schools and spoke Russian with their companions. My mother used to read from the Torah to my sons before they went to bed. Both our sons knew about Jewish history and religion. They had bar mitzvah in the synagogue when they turned 13. They've always identified themselves as Jews. I never set an example to them. Once, when a stranger in the street called me 'zhyd' [kike], I replied loudly, 'Yes, I am a Jew, and who are you?' The man was taken aback and said, 'I'm Russian'. And then I said to him, 'Do you know that Jesus Christ was a Jew, a 'zhyd' as you call me?' For me all nations are equal: Ukrainian, Russian and others. I survived the war, the ghetto, the cold and starvation. I remember how Ukrainian and Russian people supported and helped us.

My wife and I have always remembered our Jewish identity. We observed all Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays at home. I always bought matzah at Pesach. There were private underground bakeries where we bought matzah. My wife and mother made traditional Jewish food. My mother taught Clara how to make gefilte fish, stuffed chicken neck and strudels. We fasted strictly on Yom Kippur. On Jewish holidays the three of us went to the synagogue. Soviet holidays were days off, and it was a good occasion to get together with friends. I had many Ukrainian, Romanian and Russian friends. They were my colleagues. There were few Jews among my friends. There was no anti- Semitism. I've always respected people and their faith, and they responded with the same respect when it came to my faith.

My older son followed into my footsteps. He finished secondary school, and a school for mechanics. He graduated from the Road Traffic Institute. My younger son graduated from the Mechanic Faculty at the Polytechnic Institute in Riga. They are both married and live in Chernovtsy. My older son married a Jewish girl, and my younger son married a Ukrainian. We didn't have any objections to their marriage. Their happiness is the most important thing to me.

In the 1970s a number of Jewish families were moving to Israel. I sympathized with them, but I had no intentions to leave my country. I liked my town and my job. My mother was buried here. I wanted to stay here. I've often visited Israel. For the last ten years my wife and I have been going to Israel on vacation every year. I like this country. My cousins Avidor, my Uncle Yankel's son and Motl Rainstein, my Aunt Priva's son, live there. Many of my friends live there, too. I admire Israel and its people. I've seen most of the country. During every visit I go to Nazareth, the town of Jesus. There is a white synagogue of Jesus there. I've been to Bethlehem, where Jesus was born, and to Jerusalem, where he was buried. This is a living history of Christianity, and I live in a Christian country. I am very interested in this history. I went to the Yad Vashem 4 to honor members of my family that perished in the ghetto. I've been to the Wailing Wall. This history is very dear to me. If it weren't for Ukraine and Chernovtsy, I would like to live and die in Israel.

I had a friend that used to live in the same building where I lived in Chernovtsy. He came from a village and rented this apartment. He had two sons. They were schoolchildren when they fell ill with infectious hepatitis. They needed to have injections, and my wife decided that she could give them these injections. She contracted the disease from them. She didn't go to hospital, and the disease affected her liver. She went to the best doctors for help, but they failed to help her. My wife died in December 1996. She was a wonderful person, and I will mourn the loss of her for the rest of my life. The Jewish cemetery where my mother had been buried was closed by that time. We buried my wife in the Jewish section of the cemetery in Chernovtsy. There was a rabbi at the funeral.

I have always observed Jewish traditions. Yom Kippur is the biggest holiday for me. I still fast regardless of my age or health condition. I fast 24 hours, from one star to the next. I go to the synagogue, listen to the prayer, go to the cemetery and light candles on the graves of my dear ones on the day following Yom Kippur. I live alone and visit my sons on holidays. My daughter-in-law makes gefilte fish as delicious as the ones my mother used to make. None of us works on Saturdays. We try to get together, and I spend time with my grandchildren. I tell them Biblical stories, teach them Yiddish and read the Torah, (although in Russian.

In the 1990s, when perestroika began and private business was allowed, I decided to start my own business. It took me some time, but I'm persistent in my plans. I started out with two trucks that I rented. Now I have a shipment and passenger transportation agency. We transport shipments all across Europe. We expanded our business activities recently. My older son and I opened a tourist agency. My younger son owns a vehicle company. I work from early morning till late at night. I worked as a driver for many years, and I know how important it is to create comfortable working conditions for my employees. We started by renting this area first, but we've now purchased it. We've planted fruit trees and berry bushes, and a flower garden in the yard. We also excavated a well which has the purest water. We have recreation rooms and a kitchen where our cook makes food for the drivers that have just returned from their tours.

I don't think so many Jews would have left Chernovtsy, if the law on entrepreneurship had been issued earlier. I believe it would have been good for the country. So many state-run plants and factories have been shut down, and their property has been stolen. This happens because there's no master on these properties. This company is in my ownership, and I would even pick up a screw in the yard. People have forgotten what it's like to work for their own livelihood. It will take time to teach young people to work. I believe that if all those people hadn't left, Ukraine would be a leading country of the world by now. If only people could work and live respectfully. I would hope that our young generation will live until Ukraine becomes a paradise.

I know that quite a few Jewish organizations have been established in Chernovtsy. They say that their goal is to restore the Jewish way of life. I try to make my own contribution with money or transportation, but I don't go to them. I have no time and no motivation. My family has always led a Jewish life. I don't need to attend lectures in history, I can teach myself. History lives in my heart.