Travel

Dina Orlova
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: March 2003

Dina Orlova, her daughter, son and granddaughter live in an old two-storied house where Dina's family settled down after World wWar II. The house is located in a quiet neighborhood of private houses in the center of Chernovtsy. There is a small yard with old trees and a flower garden close to the house. There are three rooms and a kitchen. The house needs to be renovated, but the family cannot afford it. Dina and her daughter Svetlana are fond of growing plants in the house. Dina is a big woman of average height. She has a wonderful smile. She wasn't well when I came, but she insisted on giving this interview regardless of her condition. Dina is a sociable lady. She is a wonderful cook and knows many recipes of traditional and rare Jewish dishes. They observe Jewish traditions and celebrate Shabbat and Jewish holidays. There is an atmosphere of warmth, love and care in the family. Dina spends a lot of time with her 6-year-old granddaughter Milana.

I don't know much about my father's family. His parents lived in the town of Ozarintsy, Vinnitsa region. My grandfather, Bertl Roizen, was born in Ozarintsy in the 1860s. My grandmother, Dina Roizen, camecame from Ozarintsy, too. She died during an epidemic of cholera I was named after her. I spent my childhood in this picturesque town. There was a stream in the nearby forest where the water was ice-cold, even in hot summers. It's hard to find words to describe the beauty of the area. The majority of the population in town was Jewish, the rest was Ukrainian. Jews spoke Yiddish. Ukrainians also spoke Yiddish, adding Ukrainian words. There were no communication problems between Jews and Ukrainians. Both nations respected religion and their different ways of life. Jews lived like one big family. They celebrated weddings and birthdays together. There was a synagogue, cheder and a Jewish school.

My grandfather was a tradesman, but my father didn't tell me any details about his business. My grandmother was a housewife. I don't know exactly how many children they had. It was quite common in Russia for Jewish families with many children to give one of the sons up for adoption by childless relatives. An only son, even if he was just adopted, wasn't subject to service in the army. That way Jews kept boys from service in the tsarist army. My father told me that one or two of his brothers were given up for adoption, but they still lived nearby. I only know a few of his siblingsthe children. My father, Mendel-Bertl Roizen, the oldest child, was born in 1885. Next were his brother Velvl, born in 1887, and Joseph, born in 1890. The only girl, Sheindl, was born in 1895. The last boy in the family was named Don. He was born in 1900, and Grandmother Dina died at his birth. Don was given up for adoption. Long before the Revolution of 1917 1 his adoptive parents moved to the US with him. During the Great Patriotic War 2 he wrote to my father 1. At that time correspondence with relatives abroad 3 wasn't allowed. My father didn't reply, and Don never got in touch with us again.

My grandparents were religious. My father told me that they went to the synagogue on Saturdays and Jewish holidays. They celebratedobserved ShabbatSabbath and Jewish holidays. They spoke Yiddish. The sons went to cheder.

My grandfather Bertl had a gray beard. He was a slim man of average height. He wore dark clothes, a black silk yarmulkeyarmulka at home and a black hat when going out. He was a reserved and taciturn man and often prayed in his room. He had a phenomenal memory and remembered all events and dates. There was a well in the yard, and my grandfather calculated the quantity of needles or wheat grains that would fit into it. In 1937 my grandfather fell ill and died in hospital in Mohilev-Podolsk. He was buried in accordance with Jewish traditions in the Jewish cemetery in Ozarintsy.

My father liked dancing. He attended a dance club in Ozarintsy where children learned Jewish folk dances and other dances. They even went on tour to Mohilev-Podolsk. My father had to give up dancing after his mother died., bHe was the oldest son and had to help his grandfather raise the children after his mother's death. He didn't finish cheder because he had to work. I don't know where my father worked. I know that he liked dancing. He attended a dance club in Ozarintsy where children learned Jewish folk and other dances. Children even went on tour to Mogilyov-Podolskiy. My father had to give up dancing after his mother died. My fatherHe must have had a hard childhood. Later he didn't allow us, children, to leave bread leftovers. He told us, 'I know what it's like to be hungry'. My father had a beautiful handwriting. He could read and write in Yiddish and Russian and had a good command of Hebrew. I don't know who taught him.

All I know about my father's later work is that he became a merchant of Guild II 34 before the Russian Revolution of 1917. He traded with Germany and other countries supplying food products. He was a respectable and wealthy man. He had a big house in Ozarintsy. After the Revolution, the Soviet authorities nationalized my father's store and storehouses. My father was imprisoned,. Bbut released after two weeks. I didn't know then, why he was imprisoned. I guess the Soviet authorities wanted to get some money from him that way. My father didn't tell us any details.

My father's brother Velvl lived in Ozarintsy. During the Soviet regime he worked on athe cattle farm and was soon promoted to the manager's position. His wife died and left Velvl and their two children, Dina and Michael, behind. The children were raised in our family. Velvl got remarried to a Jewish woman from Pechora, Vinnitsa region. They had a baby, but then something went wrong with the marriage, and Velvl's wife left him and went back to Pechora. She and the baby perished in the death camp in Pechora during the war. [Editor's note: Pechora was one of the biggest concentration camps in Vinnitsa region and also known as 'The Dead Loop'.] After the Great Patriotic War Velvl moved to Omsk in Russia. He died there after a surgery in the 1980s.

My father's brother Joseph lived in Mogilev, Belarus. He was married to a Jewish woman and had a son, Semyon, and a daughter, Dina, named after my grandmother. I don't know what Joseph did for a living. After evacuation his family settled down in Lvov. Joseph died in 1972, and his children have passed away by now, too.

My father's sister Sheindl married a Jewish man from Bessarabia 5 in the 1920s and moved to his town. They had two children. Sheindl was a housewife. During the Great Patriotic War my father lost track of her, and after the war he couldn't find anyone of her family. They must have perished in some ghetto in Transnistria 6. My father's sister Sheindl married a Jewish man from Bessarabia in 1920s and moved to his town. They had two children. Sheindl was a housewife. During the GPW my father lost track of her and after the war he couldn't find anybody of heris family. They must have perished in the ghetto in Transnistria 45.

My mother's parents lived in Murafa village, Vinnitsa region. My grandfather, Velvl Velikiy, was born in 1869. His Ukrainian neighbors called him Volko. My grandmother, Gitl Velikaya, was born in Murafa in 1861. I don't remember her neemaiden name. Her first husband was a teacher at cheder. Something went wrong in the marriage and they got divorced. Grandfather Velvl was her second husband. When they got married she was 30 and my grandfather was 22. Grandfather said that all guys in the village were envious when he married Gitl. She was a tiny woman with a thin waist. She made clothes herself and liked to dress up. She knew Hebrew and was religious. Grandmother sang at the synagogueShe sang prayers in Hebrew at the synagogue and other women joined in with her.

My grandmother's sisters, Dvoira and Manya, lived in Shargorod. They were married but had no children. They visited my grandmother several times, and I met them but can hardly remember them. They seemed very old women to me. They wore black clothes. The sisters were very close. My grandmother's other sister, Ratsl, and her husband Mordkhe lived in Ozarintsy.

My grandparents lived in a small house with earthen floors. The front door opened to a hallway from which a door led into athe living room and athe kitchen. My grandparents had a bedroom with whitewashed walls. There was a small backyard with a shed where my grandmother kept a cow and chickens. She also kept goats because she believed that goat milk was very nutritious. In the winter she took the goats into the house to keep them warm. She tied them to her bed. There were apple trees and a cherry tree close to the house. My grandfather was the manager of a fish farm at a Russian count's estate before the Revolution of 1917. The count had ponds and sold fish. My grandmother was a housewife. The family had enough food to make a good living.

Jews constituted more than half of the population of Murafa. JewsThey lived in the central part of town where land was more expensive. They had small plots of land near their houses. The Ukrainian and Russian population lived on the outskirts where they had fields and cattle farms. Jews were involved in crafts and trades. They were bakers, millers, shoemakers, tailors, locksmiths, tinsmiths etc, etc. There was also a shoihetshochet in Murafa in Murafa. After the Revolution Jews thatwho had businesses went to work on the collective farm 7. There was a big synagogue in Murafa and a cheder in Murafa. Jews in Murafa lived like one big family. They never sent special invitations to a wedding party: all the Jews came anyway. Wedding parties lasted several days, and Ukrainians also came to pass their regards to the newly-weds. There were no national conflicts in town. From 1917-1922 there were occasional pogroms 86. Jews were hiding at such times, and sometimes their Ukrainian neighbors offered them shelter in their houses.

My grandparents were religious followingand observed all religious laws. My grandmother wore a wig; and when she grew very old she wore a kerchief. She wore long dark skirts and blouses with long sleeves. Only in summer she put on brighter blouses, but they were also long-sleeved. My grandfather wore a dark jacket and dark shirts, a hat when going out and a yarmulkeyarmulka at home.

My mother told me that my grandmother strictly followed the kashrut. They celebratedobserved ShabbatSabbath. My grandmother and her daughters did all the cooking for ShabbatSabbath. The house was kept immaculately clean. They clayed the floors once a week, and whitewashed the walls once a month. They cooked gefilte fish and baked fish and chicken broth with farfelakh for ShabbatSabbath. My grandmother put big ceramic pots with cholent and tsyimes with carrots and beans into the oven on Fridays. On Friday evenings the family got together for a prayer. My grandmother lit candles and said a prayer over them, wearing her best dress. Then the family said a prayer and sat down for a festive dinner.

Before Pesach there was a major clean-up of the house. Special dishes and utensils were taken down from the attic. Matszah was bought before Pesach since the family didn't have any bread for the eight days of Pesach. On Purim children took part in Purimshpil performances with the neighbor's children. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the family fasted. My mother told me about how her family celebrated Jewish holidays. I don't remember any details now but their celebration of holidays was very much like in our family. I only recall ShabbatSabbath at my grandparents'. Nobody worked on Saturdays. A Ukrainian neighbor came to light a kerosene lamp and make fire in the stove. In the morning my grandparents went to the synagogue. When they returned my grandfather read a section from the Torah.

My grandparents had three daughters and a son. My mother Nehuma, the oldest daughter, was born in 1897. Donia was born in 1899, Joseph in 1902, and Golda, the youngest, in 1904. All children knew Hebrew. I don't know where they studied it, though. My grandmother had books in Hebrew. They were religious books and books about healing. Both Jews and Ukrainians from town came to seek my grandmother's advice if they had health problems. Later she also healed her grandchildren if they got sick. My grandmother picked and dried herbs to make decoctions.

My mother went to Russian secondary school because there was no Jewish secondary school in Murafa. The tsarist government didn't allow Jewish children to study at theis school. It was only for local non-Jewish kids. However, the count, my grandfather's employer, went to the director of the school and asked him to admit my mother. My mother was a very industrious pupil. Later other Jewish children were also allowed to go to school. My mother finished secondary school in 1916.

My mother was the first of the sisters to get married. My grandmother Gitl was a distant relative of my father's mother Dina. A matchmaker offered my father to meet a girl from Kopaygorod. Once my father, his brother Velvl and some friends went to Kopaygorod. They stayed there until late in the evening, and since a snowstorm was approaching my father suggested to stay in Murafa overnight, in the house of his relative, my grandmother Gitl. My father told her about the purpose of his trip, and my grandmother said they didn't have to go anywhere else because she had a beauty of a daughter. My mother and father liked one another. They got married in 1921. My father was 12 years older than my mother. He arranged a great wedding party in Shargorod. My parents had a traditional wedding with a chuppah in the synagogue. My father rented a café for the wedding party. After the wedding my father took my mother to his house in Ozarintsy.

My mother's sister Donia married a Jewish man called Zukelman from Mohilev-Podolsk. They had two children. Donia was a housewife. Her husband worked on the collective farm. After the Great Patriotic War he was logistics manager in a hospital. Donia died in 1980.

My mother's younger sister, Golda, married a Jewish man from Murafa. They lived with Golda's parents. They had a daughter. Her husband perished at the front during World War II. After the war Golda married a Jewish man called Eidelman from Khmelnitskiy. He was in the ghetto in Khmelnitskiy with his family. His family perished, but he managed to escape. Golda had two daughters with him. They lived in Khmelnitskiy. At the end of her life Golda was confined to bed for 20 years. She died in 1992. After her death her husband and his daughters moved to Israel.

My mother's brother Joseph married a Jewish girl from Zhmerinka. He moved to his wife and worked on the collective farm. They had two children. During the war Joseph and his family were in the ghetto in Murafa with my grandparents. After the war they returned to Zhmerinka. Joseph died in 1978.

My grandfather Velvl died in 1938. He was buried in accordance with the Jewish tradition in the Jewish cemetery in Murafa. My parents and my older brother went to the funeral, but I stayed at home. Grandmother Gitl lived the rest of her life with her younger daughter Golda and her family.

My parents settled down in the biggest house in Ozarintsy, a big stone house with wooden floors. the biggest house in Ozarintsy. There were 11 rooms in the house: my parents' bedroom, a big living room and two children's rooms. There were several guest rooms and a big room where almost all inhabitants of Ozarintsy had their wedding parties. There was an orchard near the house and a big yard with sheds and a well that my father had made. My parents kept two cows, at least 20 sheep, chickens, geese and turkeys. My father, my brother and I helped my mother to take care of the livestock. There was a machine for making butter. My mother made butter and other dairy products herself. She was a housewife. She didn't keep housemaids, but twice a week Russian women came to help her with the cleaning and laundry. My father went to work in the collective farm. He was a cheese maker and later went to work at the My father became a selectionist and developed a breed of sheep that produced fur that was good quality for export. My father took part in exhibition in Moscow and got an award for his work. My father brought my mother the first in Ozarintsy record player from Moscow. My father was a fighter. He never fell in despair if things went wrong and always found a way our even if he had to start thing from zero.

My older brother was born in 1927. My mother named him Oosher after Grandmother Gitl's father. I was born in 1933, and my father named me Dina after his mother.

My parents spoke Yiddish in the family. We communicated in Yiddish with Jewish children and Ukrainian - with our Ukrainian neighbors' children. Twice a week, on Monday and Friday, there was a market in the town center where people went to do their shopping and socialize. My mother went there to do the shopping and talk with her acquaintances, too. On holidays all Jews dressed up to go to the synagogue. Men wore black suits and hats, and women wore their best clothes and silk shawls.

My mother told me that when my brother was still a baby my father was arrested again and put into prison in Mohilev-Podolsk. Authorities demanded money and gold from him. My mother walked 10 kilometers with the baby to see him there. He stayed in prison for several days. He didn't give money to the authorities but was released nonetheless. During the collectivization 79 my father was one of the first to join and work on the collective farm. He was a cheese maker and worked very hard. He got up at 4am to milk the cows and sheep and make sheep cheese. The sheep cheese that he made was sold at the market in Mohilev-Podolsk. Later my father bred a special breed of sheep that produced fur, which was good quality for export. My father took part in exhibitions in Moscow and got an award for his work. He brought my mother a record player from Moscow, which was the first record player in Ozarintsy. My father was a fighter. He never fell in despair if things went wrong and always found a way out, even if he had to start things from zero. My parents kept food stocks for winter: sauerkraut, marinated apples and pickles. A lot of jam was made, and the children were responsible for removing stones from berries. After the harvest season my father received grain from the collective farm. The grain was ground at the mill, and my mother made bread from this flour.

My mother told me about the famine of 1932-33 [the famine in Ukraine] [810]. She wanted my grandmother to come to live with us, but my grandmother refused because my father kept a pig, and thus our home wasn't kosher. My mother helped her Ukrainian neighbors and Jewish relatives by sharing food with them.

My mother made food on Fridays. She cooked food for two days since it wasn't allowed to light the fire on Saturdays. She made gefilte fish, two loaves of challah and cholent in a pot, which she put into the oven. Cholent was very delicious when it was taken out of the oven on the following day. My mother also made pancakes and baked strudel. On Friday evenings she put on her fancy dress, lit candles and said a prayer over them. My father came home after work on Friday evenings and had dinner with the family. He had to work on the collective farm on Saturdays, and my mother had to take care of our live-stock.

We celebratedobserved Jewish holidays. Our favorite holiday was Pesach. Special dishes and utensils were taken down from the attic. Sometimes we didn't have enough Pesach utensils, and my mother koshered everyday kitchen utensils so that we could use them for Pesach. They were cleaned with water and scrubbed with sand and ash before they were boiled in a big bowl with stones inside. The Soviet authorities closed the Jewish bakery, but Jewish women got together to bake matzah in the house across the street where we lived. lived to bake matsah. We didn't have any bread at home on Pesach. We had matszah made for our family from one pood [16 kg] of flour. A special motselakhmotseleh [round flat matszah cookie] was made for children. There was flour made from matsahmatzah in a mortar with a wooden pestle. The flour was sieved and what was left in the sieve my mother used for making dumplings for chicken broth. She made cakes, sponge cakes, bagels, fluden and cookies from matsahmatzah flour. She had special patterns for cookies: menorah shaped, magen Davidmogenduvid, tree-shaped, etc. There was also keyzl matsahand potato pancakes. Mother made chicken broth, meat stew and sweet and sour stew, mamalyga, cutlets with garlic sauce and gefilte fish. It took her a while to make all this food, but the family helped her. In the morning my parents went to the synagogue, and in the evening my father conducted seder. There were koyseskoisi for each member of the family and one for Elijah, the Prophet 9. My father had the biggest cup, we, children, had smaller cups. Adults had kosher wine and children had a little of it, too. My brother posed the traditional four questions [the mah nishtanah] in Yiddish to my father. My father responded in Hebrew. Then my father read from the Bible and we sang songs in Yiddish. My mother knew many of them, and they were beautiful songs. My father hid the afikoman, and one of the children had to find it. The afikoman was given back to my father for redemption.

On Yom Kippur my mother said a prayer during the kapores ritual at home, and my brother and I repeated her words. My parents fasted on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In my mother's opinion my brother and I were too young to fast in our mother's opinion. I was 5-6 years old then.

On Chanukkah my mother lit one more candle in the Chanukah chanukkiyah every day. My brother and I got Chanukkah gelt. On Purim my mother made hamantashen, very delicious triangle pies stuffed with poppy seeds and nuts: gumentashen. Our father told us in Yiddish about the history and traditions of this holiday in Yiddish. On Sukkotah we used a room with a folding ceiling, which my mother decorated with ribbons and green branches. We had meals in this room.

I was eager to go to school. There was a Jewish elementary school in Ozarintsy. When my brother started to go to school I went with him. The teacher sent me home telling me that I was too young to go to school. I went to Uncle Mordkhe. He was husband of my grandmother's sister Ratsl.He didn't have any children and was always happy to see me. Mordkhe had a good education. He knew Hebrew very well, .so Hhe began to teach me Hebrew. My mother got rather scared when she heard about it .because the Soviet authorities persecuted such activities [during their struggle against religion] 11. My mother forbade me to study Hebrew. I wish she hadn't. I learned to read and write in Yiddish instead. My parents spoke Yiddish in the family. We communicated in Yiddish with Jewish children and in Ukrainian with our Ukrainian neighbors' children.

I was admitted to the Jewish elementary school at the age of 6.5 1/2 although the standard age was 8. It was an ordinary school except that all subjects were taught in Yiddish. We didn't study Hebrew or religion. I liked studying and was awas successful at school. We studied general subjects and were also taught moral principles. Our teacher came to the children's homes to check if a pupil helped his parents about the house. We had wonderful teachers! We attended a biology club under the supervision of our teacher Krivitskiy. We went to the woods to have practical classes. I was an industrious pupil. When I was in the 1st grade our teacher gave us books to read during the week and talk about its contents afterwards. I knew these books by heart.

We often visited my grandmother and grandfather in Murafa. My brother and I spent our vacations there. I always looked forward to these trips. ? I had many friends in Murafa. I was a naughty girl, I liked climbing trees and ride horses, which were at the collective farm. Sometimes we were riding to the lake with my father.

I finished two years of school before World War II. We heard about the beginning of the war through Molotov's 12 speech on the radio 11. Almost right away our retreating troops left and German troops arrived in Ozarintsy. On the first day of the occupation the Germans took all Jews to the synagogue. They took 20 men and shot them near the town on theat same day. The Germans were going to set the synagogue on fire. I don't know what stopped them from doing it. In these first two days the local population robbed Jewish homes. When we returned home, two days later, we learned that our neighbor, whom my mother had given food during the famine, had taken away our feather mattress and sewing machine. Only shortly before the end of the war, when it was clear that the Soviet troops would return, did she bring them back to us.

After some time the Germans left andRumanians Romanians came to the village instead. They fenced the Jewish neighborhood in the center of the village with barbed wire and set up guard posts. We were told that this was the area of the Jewish ghetto and that we weren't allowed to leave it. Our house was in the ghetto. It was possible to make arrangements with RumaniansRomanians or bribe them. RumaniansRomanians took men to work in stone quarries. A Jewish community was established in the ghetto and the chairman of this community was responsible for making lists of employees to work in the quarries. My father and brother were also taken to the quarry, but they ran away from there. We made a shelter for them in the house: We barricaded the door toof a small children's room with a cupboard so that one couldn't tell that there was a room there. One night RumaniansRomanians came to look for my father and brother. My mother was in bed with a high fever. RumaniansThey took me to their quarters. It was winter. I didn't have any warm clothes on. RumaniansThey beat me trying to find out where my father and brother were. In the end they left me alone, and I got back home somehow. When my father and brother heard that the RumaniansRomanians had come to look for them, they got out through the window and hid in ravines on the outskirts of the village. There were Jews from Moldavia and Bessarabia taken to Ozarintsy. They were accommodated in local houses. We also had few families residing in our house.

When the RumaniansRomanians came to the village they took away all our food and livestock. We were starving at the beginning. I remember how happy I was when somebody gave my mother an egg and she passed it on to me. There were times when we didn't have anything to eat for two or three days. My mother and I began to knit socks and gloves for villagers to earn some food. Later my mother got a few chickens. Then the raids were over, and my father and brother could stop hiding. My father remembered how Mordkhe had made soap and began to make soap himself. He got caustic soda from Mohilev- Podolsk and fat from the shoihetshochet. There were two shoihetshochetim in the village, and they were operating. Soap was very valuable at the time. Inmates of the ghetto had lice and there was no other place to buy soap. My father supplied all neighboring villages with soap.

Sometimes my mother and I went to do work in the field. Once I had my fingers pulled into a threshing-machine. I still have a scar from this injury. We got a meal and some food from farmers to take home with us. Once working on a threshing machine I had my fingers pulled inside the machine. I still have a sign of this injury. So, we weren't starving to death, but we never had enough to eat either. Many inmates of the ghetto were starved to death or died of spotted fever and typhoid. Jews from Moldavia and Bessarabia were taken to Ozarintsy. They were accommodated in local houses. We also had a few families residing in our house. There was a family of a tailor from Bessarabia, who lived in one of our rooms. The tailor fell ill with typhoid. My brother got infected when he looked after him. He had a high fever. There was a Ukrainian doctor in the village. His name was Stukalenko. [Editor's note: This doctor saved many Jews in Ozarintsy and other villages in Vinnitsa region. He came to Jewish houses at night and brought the inhabitants medication and treated them as best he could. Yad Vashkhem awarded Stukalenko with the title of the 'Righetous Among the Nations']. My parents stayed with my brother day and night. They didn't allow me to come close. My brother recovered.

There was no school in the ghetto, but I was still eager to study. I gathered other children in the ghetto, and we began to make clay bricks that we dried in the sun. Then we made a small 'doghouse' which was to serve us as a school building. Of course, this doghouse was too small and only three to four people could fit into it. When the number of us reached about 20 we studied outside or in somebody's home. We had a teacher thatwho was a young inmate of the ghetto. His name was Yuzia. The RumaniansRomanians shot him by accident on the road when they were retreating.

The inmates of the ghetto tried to observe traditions. Men prayed a lot; they gathered every day. Since we had the biggest house they got together there for a minyan. Of course we couldn't celebrateobserve the holidays properly. I remember the most we could do was fast. We fasted on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and prayed to God to liberate us.

In March 1944 the German and Ruomanian troops began to retreat. The inmates of the ghetto were afraid that the RumaniansRomanians would exterminate them.inmates of the ghetto. Our family was hiding inin the houses of Ukrainian families. My mother and I stayed in one house, and my brother and father were in a house in the neighboring street. However, when the Germans came to Ozarintsythe village the mistress of the house in which my mother and I had found shelter got scared. She feared that her family might suffer if the Germans found two Jews in her house. She gave us some Ukrainian clothes, embroidered shirts and self-made skirts, and buckets and sent us to the well. We gave the impression of being Ukrainian women fetching water. We didn't look like Jews. When the Germans approached us and asked if we had seen any Jews we replied that we hadn't. When they left we didn't go back to that Ukrainian house. Instead, we went to the house in which my brother and father were hiding. We were terrified when we didn't find them there. Later it turned out that they had seen us through the window and went to another part of the village hiding in a ravine. My mother and I found them there and stayed in that ravine overnight. On the next day Soviet troops came to Ozarintsy. We welcomed them cordially and were happy to be liberated.

Later the sad memories of the lost ones overwhelmed us. Almost every Jewish family in Ozarintsy lost someone to the war. In the 1960s people collected money to install a monument for the Jews of Ozarinty who had perished in the ghetto or been exterminated by the Germans.

My parents went to Murafa after the war. They found out that Donia and her family and Joseph and his family had gone to Murafa at the beginning of the war. There was a Jewish ghetto in Murafa. A Christian priest lived across the street from my grandmother's. He respected my grandmother and her family and helped them to survive by bringing them flour, cereals and vegetables. The Christian church supported Jews during the war. After the war my grandmother moved in with Donia's family. Grandmother Gitl died in 1966 at the age of 105.???????? She was buried in accordance with Jewish traditions.

There was no Jewish school in Ozarintsy after the war, so my brother and I went to the Ukrainian school. In 1946 my brother finished school and went to Chernovtsy to enter the Construction College. During the war a family from Chernovtsy had lived in our house. My mother corresponded with them after the war and they told us to move to Chernovtsy. My mother went to Chernovtsy with my brother. She didn't want him to be on his own because of his poor health. My father and I stayed in Ozarintsy. I did the housekeeping and studied, and my father worked on the collective farm. My mother often came to visit us for a few days. Almost every Jewish family in Ozarintsy lost someone to the war. In 1960s people collected money to install a monument in Ozarintsy to Jews that perished in the ghetto or were exterminated by Germans.

I became a pioneer at school. It was quite a ceremony and a great holiday for me. We were patriots of our country. Lenin and Stalin were like gods to us. We learned poems and sang songs about them. We were firmly convinced that the Soviet Union had defeated fascism thanks to the leadership of Stalin. We always celebrated Soviet holidays, organized a concert and invited our parents to attend. In the 7th grade I became a Komsomol 13 member.

I finished lower secondary school with honors and decided to go to Chernovtsy to enter the cCollege of rRecords and Credits. In 1946 many Jews left Chernovtsy for RumaniaRomania or Israel. Chernovtsy belonged to RumaniaRomania before 1939 and after the war Soviet authorities allowed all those that wanted to leave to do so. This lasted for about half a year. Then the border was closed for almost 40 years. I was surprised that people thatwho had prayed for Soviet troops to liberate them during the war were now running away from the Soviet country. They left their apartments, and officers thatwho returned from the front received them. My mother managed to find a room in a communal apartment 14, where she stayed with my brother. When I finished school my father and I moved to Chernovtsy and settled down in that room. We sold our house in Ozarintsy for peanuts because many people were moving to towns from villages. Nobody wanted to stay in villages. We lived in one room in Chernovtsy until other tenants moved out and we got their room, too.

We liked Chernovtsy. It was a nice old town that hadn't been destroyed during the war. People talked Yiddish in the streets. There was a big synagogue, a Jewish school and a Jewish theater in town. Before World War II the majority of the population was Jewish. There was still a significant number of Jewish inhabitants left after the war.

We celebratedobserved Jewish traditions in Chernovtsy. My mother had our special dishes and tableware for Pesach moved to Chernovtsy along with our other belongings. There was a major clean-up of our flat before Pesach. We searched the rooms for breadcrumbs that were burned in the stove. We bought matsahmatzah supplied from Mohilev-Podolsk and Moldavia. My mother cooked all the traditional food on the holiday. Although we didn't have enough food on other days, she always managed to save some money for holidays to buy some chicken and fish. We didn't observe ShabbatSabbath because Saturday was a working day. On Friday evenings my mother lit candles and said a prayer. Then we sat down for dinner. There was no special food for these dinners. My parents went to the synagogue on Jewish holidays - Pesach, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Purim. Father conducted sSeder on the eve of Pesach. We fasted on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We didn't conduct the kapores ritual because it was a problem to buy chicken. There was another famine in the late 1940s and there were no stocks in stores. Food was sold at the market, but at high prices. My mother had to use her imagination to feed the family.

My father couldn't find a job in Chernovtsy. He went to the vineyard in Yampol near Ivano-Frankovsk. He got a job as a forwarding agent for supplies of wine to stores in Chernovtsy. My brother finished Construction College and entered the Medical Institute in Chernovtsy. There was no anti- Semitism right after the war, but later, in 1948, after the campaign against cosmopolitans 15, there were demonstrations of anti-Semitism in Chernovtsy. I was raised an internationalist and didn't make any difference between Jews and Russians. I spoke poor Russian: my mother tongue was Yiddish and I studied in a Ukrainian school. So one of my co-students began to tease me. I don't know whether she did it because I was Jewish or because she didn't like meit, but she pestered me until the end of my studies.

I finished college in 1951 and got a job assignment in Ivano-Frankovsk, a big town in Western Ukraine [300 km from Chernovtsy]. I was eager to study at the mMedical Institute, but in order to do so I needed a certificate of higher secondary education. I had a diploma of the college, but it was a different branch and therefore not valid for the Medical Institute. I went to study in the evening secondary school and kept it a secret that I had a college diploma. If they had found out they wouldn't have allowed me to study there. I worked in a bank at daytime and went to school in the evening. After finishing this school I received a certificate of secondary education. Anti-Semitism got stronger after the dDoctors' cPlotase 16 in 14 1953. It was next to impossible for a Jewish girl to enter the Medical Institute in Chernovtsy and I went to Voronezh, Russia, in 1500 km from home. There were no Jews in that area historically and no anti-Semitism, accordingly. I had no problem entering the stomatological institute in Voronezh.

On 5th March 1953 Stalin died. I worked in Ivano-Frankovsk then. I was raised in blind admiration of Stalin, and his death was a tragedy for me. I couldn't help crying. I was surprised that my colleagues were almost happy about it. At that time I went on business to Bendery, a Moldavian town. I heard such terrible things about Stalin there! In general, the people were saying that it had been high time for him to go and that they couldn't wait to get rid of him. Even after the Twentieth Congress 17 of the Communist Party 15I couldn't believe that what Khrushchev 18 said 16about Stalin was true. Discernment came slowly and gradually.

It was next to impossible for a Jewish girl to enter the Medical Institute in Chernovtsy, so I went to Voronezh, Russia, 1,500 kilometers from home. There were no Jews in that area and, consequently, no anti- Semitism. I had no problem entering the Stomatological Institute in Voronezh. In VoronezhI lived in the hostel and shared a room with three other girls. We were industrious students. We read and studied a lot. I spent my vacations with my parents in Chernovtsy. My brother had graduated from the Medical Institute and worked as a cardiologist. I didn't face any anti-Semitism. Upon graduation I got a job assignment at the Stomatological Polyclinic in Chernovtsy where I worked as a dentist until my retirement.

I met my future husband, Efim Orlov, in Chernovtsy. He visited our distant relative from Murafa. They both came to our house. We met when I returned from work. He was a student at the Medical School in Vinnitsa. He came to Chernovtsy on vacation. After he went back to Vinnitsa we started to correspond with each other. A year later he came to Chernovtsy and proposed to me. My husband's real name was Efim Srulevich. Before our wedding he changed his typicalJewish surname to Orlov, a typical Russian surname. He probably thought this would make our life easier and our children would have fewer problems. We got married in 1962 and had a civil ceremony. Then he returned to Vinnitsa to finish his studies. When my husband returned we had a traditional Jewish wedding. We had a chuppah at home, and a rabbi from the synagogue conducted the wedding ceremony. The rabbi said what's traditionally said at weddings. My husband and I exchanged rings and then had a glass of wine given to us. We sipped wine from the glass and the rabbi told me to throw the glass to the ground and break it. We only invited our closest family and friends to our Jewish wedding party.

Efim was born in Dzhurin village, Vinnitsa region in 1931. His father, Shmil Srulevich, was the director of a storehouse before the war, and his mother, Etia Srulevich, was a housewife. Efim had a younger sister called Anna. During World War II their family was in the ghetto in Dzhurin. After the liberation Efim's father was very ill and couldn't work any more. Efim's sister got married and lived in Odessa. She was an accountant at the sugar factory, and her husband was a turner. They had two children. Now my husband's sister and her family live in Israel.

Efim finished school after the war and served in the Soviet army in Germany [East Germany] for two years. After demobilization he worked as a bus driver, and later he entered the sStomatological fFaculty atof the mMedical School in Vinnitsa. Efim's younger sister lived in Odessa after she got married. She was an accountant at the sugar factory and her husband was a turner. They had two children. Now my husband's sister and her family live in Israel. After he finished Medical School he got an assignment in a village in Chernovtsy region. He worked there for two years before he got a job in Chernovtsy. He was a dentist in a military hospital.

My parents gave me and my husband one room and moved into another room in the same flat with my brother. My husband and I observed Jewish traditions. Of course, it was difficult to follow the kashrut because there was no place to buy kosher products. On Friday evenings the family got together for prayers and the ceremony of lighting candles. We couldn't celebrate Shabbatobserve Sabbath because it was a working day, but we got together on all other Jewish holidays.

My daughter Svetlana was born in 1964, and my son Vladimir in 1966. He was circumcised. Our children were raised Jewish. We spoke Russian in the family, but we also taught the children Yiddish. They knew Jewish traditions and celebratedobserved Jewish holidays with us. My husband taught our son the traditional four questions [the mah nishtanah] to be asked at seder on Pesach. My husband didn't go to the synagogue at that time because the practice of religiosity was punished by the authorities.

My husband worked a lot to provide for the family. I also worked and took care of the household. We often had guests; my husband and I liked guests. Mostly we had Jewish friends visiting. . My husband and I liked guests.We celebrated both Jewish and Soviet holidays. 9th May, Victory Day, was the best holiday ever! Every year on Victory Day we thanked God for our survival. On other holidays we just got together with friends for a party and to have a good time. We used to have up to 30 guests on every holiday. My husband liked singing Jewish songs on Jewish and Soviet holidays. We invited our Jewish friends on Jewish holidays. I made traditional Jewish food. I've always liked cooking and make delicious food: gefilte fish, chicken broth, chicken neck stuffed with liver and fried onions and strudels. On Purim I make gohameantasheny. On Pesach there's matsahmatzah at home and we follow all rules celebrating this holiday.

My father died in 1969. We buried him in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. Many people came to my father's funeral. The rabbi, who had conducted our wedding ceremony, was at the funeral. There were speeches about my father, his kindness and his accomplishments. My brother recited the Kaddish for him and repeated that each year. Now my son does it.

Of course we have faced anti-Semitism in life. I'm not trying to say that everybody is anti-Semitic. There are different people, regardless of nationality. Once, when we were in the process of renovating of our apartment, our neighbor ran out of the house and yelled, 'I wish the Germans had exterminated you all!' I guess he was disturbed by the noise in our apartment. We've developed good relationships with his family, but this did happen. Actually, I don't want to talk about it any more.

No one in our family ever wanted to join the Communist Party. We understood that the struggle against religion was a plot of the Party and so was the development of anti-Semitism in the USSR.

In the early 1970s Jews began to move to Israel. My brother Oosher moved there, too. He was a good dentist. He got a job in hospital in Rehovot, Israel. My brother died in 1981. Many of our friends and acquaintances left for Israel and we sincerely wished them a happy life. My husband and I were also thinking about going there, but my mother was ill and the doctors didn't advise her to move to a different place. So we had to stay with her.

After finishing school my daughter wanted to study at the Medical Institute. There was a big competition at Chernovtsy Medical Institute. Besides, they didn't admit Jews. She went to Leningrad but failed at three exams and returned to Chernovtsy. Svetlana went to work at the Electronmach factory. She became fond of electronics. She studied at Chernovtsy University by correspondence and upon graduation continued to work at the factory as an engineer.

oMy son passed all entrance exams to the Medical Institute, but he wasn't admitted there either. Vladimir finished a trade school and went to serve in the army. After demobilization from the army he worked at a plant for a short time and then entered a dentistry school in Beltsy. He finished it with honors and became a dental technician. He had also finished a music school when he was in secondary school. He learned to play the violin. He entered the Music Academy in Kamenets-Podolsk and finished it with honors. When he returned to Chernovtsy, Vladimir began to work with the Jewish Cultural Association, which was opened in the late 1980s.

Perestroika brought many positive changes into our life. We got the opportunity to travel and visit our friends and relatives abroad without fear of having problems with the authorities. My husband and I visited his sister in Israel in 1990. The country left a great impression on us. It was hard to believe that those blooming gardens grew in a stone desert. We liked the friendly and hospitable people. We traveled to many towns and historical places. It's a pity that this small country constantly has to be on guard. I pray for peace in Israel. I liked the young people in Israel. They are self-confident and love their country. My husband dearly wanted to move to Israel but we couldn't because he was ill.

Jewish life is coming back and people turn back to observing old traditions. Jewish organization - Hesed, in particular - play an important role in the life of our family. We receive food packages and it's a great support considering our miserable pensions. Every week I attend a club for older people in Hesed. I have made new friends there. Perestroika also had drawbacks. Many people lost their jobs due to the closing down of many enterprises. The Electronmach factory, where my daughter worked, was closed. Svetlana went to work with the Jewish Cultural Society and from there she got an assignment to a Sunday school operated by the Jewish school that was recently opened. Svetlana went to a seminar in Israel. When she was in Jerusalem I saw in the news on TV that terrorists blasted a bus with tourists. I could hardly wait for her call to hear that she was fine. After this stress I've felt constantly ill.

My daughter met her husband, Maxim Sofovich, at a party in the Jewish club for young people in 1995. At the beginning it was called Jewish Club of Young People, later it changed its name, but I don't remember what it's called now. Young people studied Jewish traditions, history and language there. They also studied foreign languages and computer training. There were literature, music and dancing classes. Young people could also go in for sports. Maxim and Svetlana went to the synagogue, concerts of Jewish music and Jewish club together. Maxim studied at Chernovtsy University and did some work for the Jewish community. He was an Orthodox Jew and observed all Jewish traditions. Maxim was much younger than Svetlana and I was concerned about it. But he was insistent and proposed to Svetlana several times until she gave her consent.

? They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah at the synagogue and a wedding party in a restaurant. There were many guests at their wedding. I helped and supported them as much as I could. Svetlana's daughter was born in 1996. They named her Milana after my father Mendel. My granddaughter also has the Jewish name of Nehama after my mother. After my granddaughter was born, they moved to Maxim's mother thatwho had better living conditions. Svetlana was often ill after her daughter was born, and this had an impact on her marriage. Maxim was reproaching her. He told her that she did everything wrong and that she wasn't religious. He didn't help her but spent all his free time praying at home and in the synagogue instead. Svetlana was feeling ill and the baby required care. Maxim reproached her for not having more children like other Jewish patriarchal families. He went to study in Kiev and then moved to the US with a new wife. We've never had divorces in our family before. We told my granddaughter that her father is in Kiev. We didn't tell Milana that he went to the US. My daughter and her child moved back to live with me. My son spends a lot of his time with Milana, but he cannot replace her father. We've never had divorces in our family before. I think that a child must have a father. My son wants to marry a Jewish girl, but there isn't much choice in Chernovtsy because many young people are leaving. I look forward to having more grandchildren.

My husband died in 1993. He wanted to move to Israel so much, but we couldn't do it since he was ill. We buried him in the Jewish section of the town cemetery in Chernovtsy. The rabbi conducted the funeral. Many people came to my husband's funeral. In the same year my mother died after being ill for a long time. We buried her beside my father. The death of my husband and mother was a terrible loss for me. I cannot get used to the thought that they are no more. My son recites the Kaddish for them each year.

Jewish life slowly returns and people start to observe old traditions again. The Jewish organization Hesed plays an important role in the life of our family. Hesed in Chernovtsy was formed in 1996, and since then we've always been supported by Hesed. We receive food packages, which is a great support considering our miserable pensions. Every week I attend a club for older people at Hesed. I have made new friends there. We attend interesting lectures, literature circles and watch movies. There is a good library with books by classical and modern Jewish writers. There are concerts of Jewish music. For many old people Hesed has become a place where they can communicate and rest.

It's difficult to say what the future will bring. I would like to emigrate, but I cannot go to Israel due to my health condition. ThHe climate there is too harsh for me. Besides, I would only move with my children if they decided to live in another country. I can't live without them, and I believe they need me, too.

Glossary

Nachman Elencwajg
Wroclaw
Poland
Interviewer: Jakub Rajchman
Date of interview: April 2006

Mr. Elencwajg is a retired tailor with whom I meet several times in his apartment in what was formerly the German part of Wroclaw. In this apartment, where he has lived for almost sixty years now, he tells me about his life before the war and his great wartime wandering. Cared for by his grandson, Mr. Elencwajg remembers the various moments of his life, returning with affection to the times of his childhood, spent in the town of Miedzyrzec Podlaski.

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

My family background

My name is Nachman Elencwajg. I was born in Miedzyrzec on 1st May 1920. My father, Herszl Elencwajg [1884 - 1922], was a bristle-maker. He made bristles, like most Jews in Miedzyrzec [town ca. 220km east of Warsaw]. He died of tuberculosis when I was two years old. My mother said it was because of the bristles, because there was a lot of dust in that, and that's why she didn't want me to become a bristle-maker. And so I became a tailor.

There were both large factories processing the bristles in Miedzyrzec as well as small one-man workshops. You bought the pig bristles from the farmers when they slaughtered - whole bags of it. Then you combed it and made all kinds of brushes. They were beautiful; some were sold abroad, to be used on ships, for instance. Until 1934 they were also sold to Germany, but when Hitler came to power 1, Jewish merchants started boycotting the Germans. However, buyers still came from England, from America. A big- dollar business. I even remember a situation where, right before the beginning of the war, my father's friend sent a shipment to England worth 600 pounds. The war broke out 2, my father's friend didn't survive, but his partner did, and soon after the war, I don't know how but he got in touch with the British company - and they paid him the money!

I hardly remember my father at all. I know that, as a bristle-maker, he earned quite well. Besides making the bristles, he also tied the products into greater bundles, preparing them for export. He went from one producer to another and tied for them. Because everyone made the bristles but not everyone tied them.

My father died at the age of 38. He developed a lung condition, there was no penicillin; after eight days he gave up and died. This evokes a scene in my mind when my sister carries me out to the hall - because my father died at home - and the mirror in the living room is covered. I don't know whether I can remember this or whether it's simply the subsequent accounts tricking my memory.

I also know that my father's family had its roots in Miedzyrzec. My father had a brother and two sisters. One sister, Reszla, died, and the brother and the other sister, Cipe, both went to America. The brother left even before the war [WWII], and reportedly he also made bristles. And the sister left in 1921. Her name was Elencwajg, married name Lewiter. I visited her in New York in 1985; she said she remembered bathing me when I was a baby. My father also had two cousins, and the female one's father, my father's uncle, was called Hersz. I remember he was an elderly gentleman and he died before the war. But there was only one Elencwajg in Miedzyrzec - my father.

My mother, Lea Elencwajg [1903 - 1942], also came from Miedzyrzec. Her maiden name was Perelman. She had two sisters in Miedzyrzec - Fejga and Estera - and three brothers. Two of those lived in Warsaw. We barely kept in touch with them. They visited Miedzyrzec perhaps once, and my mother went once or twice to visit them in Warsaw. And one uncle, my mother's other brother, went to America and always sent us ten dollars that often saved us after my father's death because my mother was able to pay the rent.

My mother was good at sewing so after my father's death, when great poverty struck us, she started making dresses. But things were still poor because all she took for a dress was one zloty or even eighty groszy - no more. I know that when I apprenticed to a tailor, I went to work without a lunch. My mother quickly organized something, borrowed from someone - she brought me lunch. And I already had one. I bought it. A quarter of cold meat variety. Treyf [i.e. not kosher], because it was cheaper.

Of my mother's relatives I remember one cousin, Uncle Fejga's son. He was called like me, Nachman, and his last name was Zylbersztajn. He legally went to Palestine before the war. He was a member of the Hashomer Hatzair 3, secured the certificate 4 and went. First he worked at a kibbutz, and then he set up his own workshop in Tel Aviv, opposite the bus station. He was a textile worker, operated the machines that made sweaters. After the war, in the seventies, I visited him in Israel; he worked in that workshop of his, together with his son.

Growing up

I had two siblings - my sister Chaja [1912 - 1941], eight years my elder, and my brother Dawid [1916 - 2002], three years my elder. The four of us lived in a single room. There were two beds there, a kitchen annex in the corner. There was no toilet, even in the courtyard. You simply went to the municipal lavatory, which was a couple of hundred meters away. And in the night, when you where afraid to go, you used a bucket and emptied it, when no one was looking, on the street.

My mother tried to keep a kosher kitchen. A couple of years before the war, when I started working and no longer cared for kosher, I started bringing home non-kosher food. My mother hid the forks away from me so that they didn't become treyf. For the high holidays my mother dressed black and went to the synagogue. She did so for Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Normally she didn't go to the synagogue. Nor did she wear a headscarf or a wig. There was one photo of her in a wig at home, but that was for the wedding, or shortly thereafter. I never saw her in a wig.

I remember we observed the high holidays. My mother fasted for Yom Kippur. I was exempted because I was the youngest child, and not very strong, just a skinny boy. For Pesach, you had to order flour for the matzah. We always ordered a pood [16.38 kg]. They baked matzah in several places around town; there was a place on virtually every street, opened only for Pesach. We didn't observe seder because our father wasn't there to run the ceremony. We had relatives, several uncles; they somehow never invited us for seder. That kind of surprises me. They were also poor but half-orphans they could have invited.

The other holidays we observed much less solemnly. For instance, we never had the tent for Sukkot. Some, those who lived in tenement houses and had balconies, set up the tents there. We lived on the first floor and didn't have the possibility.

Ninety percent of Miedzyrzec's population was Jewish. [Editor's note: In 1939 in Miedzyrzec had a population of 18,000 people, and among them ca. 12,000 Jews] The majority of the houses and shops were owned by Jews. There were wealthy Jews but there were also the poor ones. The poor ones lived in small houses without a mud floor. The largest synagogue stood near where we lived. It was very beautiful. It isn't there anymore, but I remember it was very large. It had beautiful lighting, and figures painted during its renovation by a painter who later became very famous, I don't remember his name. For the high holidays, people actually reserved their seats, whereas normally, on Saturday, it wasn't full, perhaps half the seats were taken. Besides the synagogue, there were also prayer places, the shtibls, where the Hasidim 5 met. When some, say, tailor or shoemaker had a larger apartment, two or three rooms, they would meet there to pray.

I went to a Jewish school, the Talmud Torah. My mother sent me there because it was for free. The [Jewish] community financed it. Besides that, there was a state-financed Jewish gymnasium, which we couldn't afford; it was for the upper-class Jews. There was also, I remember, an elementary school where Jewish kids went together with Polish ones, but that was a problem for me because I didn't speak Polish. There were Polish classes at school, some two hours a day, and with time I learned to read a bit, but speaking remained a problem because I spoke Yiddish all the time. When I worked as the tailor's apprentice and he sent me to various clients, Poles, on business, I always memorized on my way what I was supposed to say, for instance, that 'the master asks you to come for a fitting.'

Eventually I completed the school, learned to read and became ever more aware. I read the 'Robotnik' ['The Worker,' a daily, published by the Polish Socialist Party from 1919-1939], and the Bundist paper, the Folksztyme 6. I joined first the Hashomer Hatzair, the youth wing, the Kwir. But I wasn't there for long because I became a communist. I joined the communist youth, where I was active until the war. The organization was illegal. It was the Communist Party of Poland 7, but our unit was made up almost solely by Jews. There were perhaps two Poles among us. We were organized into three-man cells. There was an instructor, several years our elder, who led us. He held various press briefings, told us about history, drew up reports, told us about what had happened at the district or town committee meetings. All kinds of bullshit.

The meetings were secret, so we hid away from people. Once, I remember, we didn't have a place to go so we went to the synagogue, entered through the entrance for women and sat in the women's sector in the dark. It was youthful folly. Our parents turned a blind eye to the whole thing; some actually sympathized with the organization. I remained a communist until the war, but then I was cured of it, having lived in Russia [USSR] for six years.

Our relations with the Poles were okay. It was customary for the town mayor and his secretary to come to the synagogue for Rosh Hashanah; I remember they looked very dignified, in tailcoats and top hats. They sat at the places of honor and listened to the cantor and the choir. A friend of mine actually sang on that choir. After the concert, they went, and the celebrations continued. The custom survived until 1938, because in 1939 on Rosh Hashanah it was already war.

With the ordinary citizens we also lived on good terms. I remember there was a janitor at the [Jewish] community who was a Pole and had a small boy. The boy wanted to go to the cheder! All his pals went there. And the janitor's wife spoke fluent Yiddish; she was the first to greet me in Miedzyrzec after the war in Yiddish: 'The tailor's son has come!'

There was no street anti-Semitism. Even when Sunday trading had been banned, and my master's shop was open, the policeman looked in the other direction. Perhaps he took money for that? The door was kind of half-open and everything was alright. The owner stood in the door and let people in. This way the shop was open and closed at the same time.

There were nationalists in Miedzyrzec, of course, but they didn't have such a big presence. I remember only one, the leader of the town's Endeks 8, Styczynski. He was a regular customer of the tailor shop I worked at. He often came on a Sunday when he had had a drink. He liked to come then and talk politics with us. He said all the Jews needed to be expelled from Poland, only my master Szmergiel - that was his name - and I should be left. I said there were three million Jews in Poland and twenty million Poles. And if each Pole wanted to protect his two Jews, then the Poles would actually fight for them! I told him the truth! At that point, he would start laughing and swearing.

I remember another story involving him, during the war. It was at the time when Miedzyrzec was in Russian hands 9. Styczynski had been arrested by the militia, which was made up chiefly by Jews. The reason was that he shouted he had a gun and would shoot at the Russians. And the Poles were silently preparing for a pogrom in revenge for Styczynski's arrest. My master, who treated him a bit like his friend, knew about that. He started collecting signatures among the Jews under a petition saying Styczynski was alright. He collected several hundred signatures and handed that over to the militiamen. I remember it like it was today, I stood on the street when a Russian vehicle arrived.

There was one more prisoner, some landowner from the area, who had been arrested for shooting at the Russians. They were to be taken to Brest, to the underground prison there, the Kleparz, where the NKVD 10 held its trials. They brought out the two of them and put them on the back of the truck. Styczynski crossed himself; he knew he was going to death. At that moment the Jewish militia commander, who had the sheets with the signatures, shouted, 'Styczynski! Off the truck!' which meant he was saved. The man subsequently underwent a transformation. He knew it was the Jews who had saved him and I heard he also helped Jews. Essentially, a good man. I remember he survived the war and continued to live in Miedzyrzec. I actually wanted to visit him in 1946 when I was in town, but I didn't dare.

During the war

I remember the beginning of the war in 1939. On the ninth day of the war [probably] the Germans dropped firebombs on Miedzyrzec, burned half of the town. It was then my friends and I agreed it was time to run. The Germans were close, and we, as communists, would be the first to die. The police had us in their files, so they knew each one of us. And so we ran.

One of my friend's parents had a bike shop, so he took a bike, and everyone had something, a few shirts. And we went, on foot, towards the Russian border, and that was like three hundred kilometers. To the old Russian border! We chose the side roads, going through villages, avoiding the towns. And the Germans were close on our heels. Anywhere we entered, we'd hear the Germans kept advancing. And in the end, on the last day, when we arrived at the border with the Soviet Union, they told us the Russians had entered. Because it was after the 17th of September [when the Red Army invaded Poland to meet the advancing Germans halfway].

It turned out we had covered too many kilometers. We stayed for a while in the town and when we heard the Red Army was heading towards Warsaw, towards the Vistula, we went back to Miedzyrzec. It was, I think, October 1939. Because we had spent some time in that town, Dobrowice, with the Russians. We went by train to Brzesc [city on the Bug river 60 km east of Miedzyrzec, today Brest, in Belarus]. There were no trains from Brzesc, so we went the rest of the way on foot.

When I arrived in Miedzyrzec at the turn of September and October, I met my mother and my brother at home. My sister got married in 1939 and lived somewhere else, but also in Miedzyrzec. The Russians stayed in Miedzyrzec for a week [actually ten days]. I heard the Jews raised the triumphal gate to welcome them on their arrival. But then a Russian officer, a Jew, warned us that Miedzyrzec had been awarded to the Germans and the Russians would withdraw. Which is what happened. [Having spent ten days in the town] the Russians withdrew beyond the Bug.

My sister was the first to flee, to Brzesc. Then she wanted to go back, but couldn't because they arrested her and sent a hundred kilometers east, to Baranowicze [town ca. 400km east of Miedzyrzec, today Baranovichi in Belarus]. I never saw her again. She died with the other Jews when the Germans came in 1941 11. I learned later the Germans dug out mass graves out of the town there and shot all the Jews. My sister had a little baby girl, Cywja, whose photo I was presented with by some miracle, and who died with her mother.

My brother and I stayed in Miedzyrzec under German rule for a few more weeks, until December. Then the Germans introduced those yellow patches 12 that all Jews had to wear outside, and which we were to sew ourselves. It was then me and my brother and some friends decided to run. We went through the countryside to an airfield on the Bug and crossed to the other side. We arrived in Brzesc and stayed there [Brzesc was in Russian hands]. My brother and I got a job at a tailor's shop.

Then I heard all refugees from beyond the Bug were to be sent to Siberia. So me and my brother signed up to be sent to Minsk [city 350 km north-east of Brzesc, today capital of Belarus]. We knew one of our uncles lived there, Uncle Aaron. He was one of my father's cousins; I didn't know the exact connection. Upon arrival in Minsk I went to the police station and the local registry office. And a nice girl working there told me Aaron Elencwajg did indeed live in Minsk but had been transferred to Bobrujsk, [city 150 km south-east of Minsk, today Babruysk in Belarus]. So I had a clue. My brother and I went to Bobrujsk.

In Bobrujsk we encountered a strange situation. We have arrived and we ask around in the Jewish quarter about Uncle Aaron. Everyone just walks away in silence. What's up? Then I walk through the city, cross a street, I look, there's a bristle-making shop. I recognize the tools - the bristle-maker's combs. I think it's here my uncle must be working. I enter through the courtyard, say 'zdrastvuytye, pan' [Russian: 'hello, sir'], because by then I had already learned some Russian, and I ask whether an Elencwajg works here. Everyone looks at me and says nothing, as if they are all mute. How long can I be standing like that? A minute, two - I walk out.

At that point one of the women ran after me and told me my uncle had been taken. Meaning arrested. And that back in 1937 when a campaign was launched against the Trotskyists 13. [Editor's note: Stalin carried out a major purge of Leo Trotsky's supporters in 1937. Cf. Great Terror 14]. Because he was an avowed Trotskyist. They were all arrested and my uncle got five years [of prison]. I asked the woman whether my uncle had a wife, and she said he had a wife who lived in Bobrujsk.

I went to her. She lived in a single room, a cramped cubbyhole, but she found some place for us and put us there. Then she got a job for us - for me and my brother. At Ampel, a tailor cooperative, the head of which was my uncle's friend, a Russian Jew. We worked there until June 1941 when the Germans invaded Russia.

I remember that when the war broke out, I didn't receive my salary. Instead, an alarm was raised to hide, and they never called it off. The Germans were close. The Russians surrendered the city, the police and the military fled. My brother and I ran at first to the forest, near the city. The forest was full of refugees, including women, some I remembered back from Miedzyrzec. During the day I went to town. I see all stores are open and people are looting. I went to the bakery, walked inside, took two loaves of bread. At first people stood in a queue, but when there's no authority, things will soon get chaotic, and everyone started grabbing whatever they could. They took a sheet and loaded as much into it as it would hold.

I returned to the forest where it turned out we had to run. It was because of an elderly Belarussian lady who kept telling everyone the Jews wanted to rape her. No one wanted to rape her because, in the first place, she was old and ugly. But I told my friends that if not the Germans, then she would finish us off. And we organized an escape with a group of several Jews from Lodz who were also camping in that forest and with whom we worked. It was at the last moment because when we were crossing the bridge on the Berezina River, we already heard shots.

I don't know how many days we walked, I only remember from time to time we met a field kitchen, it was the only help. Eventually we reached the town of Krichev [Krycau, large town 250 km east of Minsk, today in Belarus]. There were trains from there. We boarded one and went to Stalingrad. There, at the Dinamo stadium, was a place where they registered you and assigned tickets for your further trip. I applied to be sent to Astrakhan, on the Caspian Sea estuary of the Volga. And that's where we went.

There wasn't any work for us in Astrakhan, there was only a fish processing plant there. On the other hand, we could eat a lot of fish because the boys who fished for them in the Volga sold them almost for nothing. The whole week we ate only fish. Then we got a job at a tailor shop, I mean my brother, as the better tailor of the two of us, sewed, and from time to time gave me something to finish. But I was soon taken to the steppes out of town to build trenches and dugouts. I remember the Russians had tents and we, the refugees from Poland, slept right on the ground.

One day I felt I had enough, went to the site manager, told him I didn't even have shoes anymore and I couldn't work. He said I could go back to Astrakhan if I wanted but on foot. He even gave me a permit to leave the site. So I went. I walked so fast as to reach some village before dusk. It was winter time and I was afraid to freeze to death. I have arrived in a village and I knock on one door after another, the lights inside are on, but no one opens. But at the very end of the village stood a low cottage where they let me in. Simple and poor people lived there, but besides me there were other refugees there too.

When they let me out in the morning, I saw a Jew from Poland whom I knew from the work in the steppe. He lay, frozen to death, by the road, obviously no one wanted to let him in and he fell to sleep like that. I went my way, reached the Volga, which was frozen, I got to the other side over the ice, to the city [Astrakhan], to my brother.

After some time I learned a Polish army had been set up, the Anders' Army 15, and I and my brother decided to join it. We went by train, without a ticket, which was a torture because we had to hide all the time. When we arrived at the place where the headquarters were, the military police took us straight from the train and actually took us a few stations down the road where the army was stationed and the draft boards worked. They had warm tents, insulated with felt, and us they gave a cold hole and two blankets. When I woke up in the morning, my legs were frostbitten, I could still walk, but they were already reddish. They gave me an E category [i.e. unable for military service] at the board and gave me an assignment to Tashkent in Central Asia [today capital of Uzbekistan].

On our way to Tashkent, we had to spend the night at some kolkhoz and they allotted us a food ration of 40 grams of flour per person. We tried to do something with that. But when I poured water, it was too thin, and when I poured the flour, it was too thick. In the end, I ate most of that flour raw. If I had been to live like that for a week, I wouldn't have survived. And we were in a single room with some Ukrainians who were also rejected by the Anders' Army; they caught a dog, killed it and were roasting it all day. If they had offered me some, I'd have eaten it, but they didn't. My brother and I were small, so we didn't make any demands.

Upon our arrival in Tashkent it turned out they assigned us to Kirghizia [today Kyrgyzstan], to some remote kolkhoz 16 in the mountains. It was so there that it was warm below, but snow in the mountains. Riding up, at some point we had to exchange the horse wagons for a sleigh. We were there for a week or two and a call-up was announced for the Poles. We had to go where the headquarters and the draft board were. There were lists, and until we signed up, they didn't give us anything to eat.

I again appeared before the draft board and again they rejected me. I didn't know what to do. I met some guy who knew a friend of mine and he said he had a sister in Leninabad [today Khudjand, city in Tajikistan, some 200 km north of the capital Dushanbe] and he was going to meet her. I had no other idea, nor did my brother, so we went with him. Khudjand is a city in Tajikistan.

When we arrived in Leninabad, the other guy dumped us. He went straight to his sister without helping us in any way. We went by foot from the station to the town, and it was eight kilometers. Again we had no work, no food, no place to stay. We couldn't get a job until we had a permanent address. We found a desolate building and registered for residence there. It was a townhouse with a high ceiling, there was nothing inside, we slept on the floor with a sack under our heads. But on the next day we got a job at a silk factory. It was there I finally got the idea what it was all about with those cocoons - I had learned about that in school but didn't understand - how to wet it, how you pull out the thread and make silk. My brother worked there too, he carried nails.

After some time another call-up was ordered. This time they took only my brother. I went to the manager and said I didn't ask for my brother not to be taken, but for me to be allowed to go with him. But the manager said he too would prefer to be with his wife in Moscow. And so they separated us. I would stay there four more years, until 1946.

In the meantime, there was another call-up, they took me far to Siberia, to Petropavlovsk. There was a draft board there, with a Soviet officer who checked where you were from. He had a large map behind him. I said, 'Mezriche,' the Russian for Miedzyrzec. I saw he didn't understand so I showed him on the map. And he saw it was near Warsaw, on the German side, and didn't take me. They called assemblies from time to time and called people by name. Those who weren't called went back to Leninabad. Some three hundred people had arrived, fifty went back. I was in the latter group.

After returning to Leninabad at first I went every day and asked to be allowed to join the Polish army 17, but they kept turning me down. Eventually I found a job at a canned food factory. I didn't want to return to the silk factory because their food rations were tiny. One soup a day and a pound of bread - it was the light industry. And I walked hungry all day. During the Ramadan, the Muslims didn't eat during the day and they sold those soup talons. So once I bought ten talons and it was together a single decent plate of soup!

The plant where I worked made canned meat but also confectionery: halva, dried apricot etc. Unfortunately, you couldn't eat it because armed guards stood everywhere. There was only one place where you could pick something up - the slaughterhouse. A friend of mine worked there, he always brought me something. I worked at the carpenter's shop. I was lucky because, at the silk factory, I also did the carpenter's job so they presented me as a carpenter. The head carpenter was a Jew from Kharkov. I told him I wasn't a carpenter but he still told the Russians I was okay. They were joking that it made sense because we were both Jews, so we'd get along. I stayed there until 1946 when I decided to go back to Poland.

Post-war

They started letting the Poles to Poland in May 1946 18. You had to register and choose whether you wanted to stay or go back to Poland. I wanted to go back, and as I had no documents confirming my citizenship, I presented my old union ID, the only document I had confirming my ties with Poland.

The transport I boarded was headed towards Szczecin. The trip wasn't without its adventures. I got off in Vinnytsya, in Ukraine [city ca. 400km south-west of Kiev], where a girl whom I knew lived. I had met her in Leninabad but then she went to Vinnytsya to take care of her parents. I didn't plan to visit her, but I see - the train is stopping at the station Vinnytsya. I took the bag of dried apricot that I had been given as a means of provisions and went to visit the girl. She already had a new boyfriend, but I didn't bear a grudge.

Getting to Poland was a bigger problem. I went to the station, and there it's just one train a day. To make matters worse, it came full and the conductor didn't want to sell me a ticket. I didn't want to wait another day so I sat between the cars. There it was full there too, but one tall Ukrainians felt something thick in my pocket, thought it was money, and threw out a woman, taking me instead. And I had no money, only some papers. I thought that as soon as we got out of town, he'd kill me, so as soon as the train moved, I ran away from him, several cars down the train. There were Russian soldiers there, going to Vienna from their leave. That's how I got to Lwow.

In Lwow I looked for a train headed towards Poland. I found one, empty, but it was already moving so I quickly hopped on the last car. There was only one officer in the whole train, in the first car. I hoped he'd let me stay or, in the worst case, arrest me. But he came to me and orders me to get off the train. I tell him the train is moving and he wouldn't be so nasty as to throw me out, would he? And he simply threw me out of that train. Luckily there was an embankment there and I somehow survived the fall.

Then I caught another train, in the same direction, and I finally arrived in Poland, as far as Poznan [city 250 km west of Warsaw]. There I met my first train, with my friends - that's how long they had to wait on their way. Unfortunately, my friends thought I wouldn't return so they sold all the stuff I had left on the train, chiefly dried apricot that we received back in Leninabad. But I didn't blame them.

In the end we found ourselves in Szczecin [city 200 km north-east of Poznan]. We were allotted an apartment and given the keys to it. In theory, everything was alright, but I missed Miedzyrzec. I met several acquaintances from there who felt the same. And after a week or two we went to Miedzyrzec. By train from Szczecin to Warsaw, and then, on a Warsaw- Moscow train, to Miedzyrzec. That's how we got to our town.

The situation in Miedzyrzec was that there were only several dozen Jews there. There was a local Jewish committee 19, headed, in fact, by a guy I knew. But it came to nothing for me because he refused to help me in any way. When aid packages came from the US, clothing, I didn't get anything either. Because they [the committee] passed a resolution not to accept any new arrivals because they didn't want Jews to settle there but to go to the ex-German territories instead. As a result, they only helped you if you wanted some document, a paper from the court or something like that, but they didn't allow you to stay.

I didn't know what to do but I met a friend of mine whose brother worked in Zagorze Slaskie, here in Lower Silesia [region in south-western Poland], and he said that brother of his would find us a job. I didn't hesitate for long, nothing kept me in Szczecin, I had left nothing in the apartment there so, just like that, with the keys to the Szczecin apartment still in my pocket, I pulled myself together and went to Zagorze. And that's how I found myself in Lower Silesia.

In Zagorze I worked as a tailor at the former Zimmerman's plant. But that lasted for only three weeks because me and some colleagues set up a cooperative. I even sat on its board because I was young and the older guys didn't want to. The cooperative was called Zgoda [Accord] and had some thirty employees, all tailors.

Some time later a course for technical managers was organized in Wroclaw and they sent me to attend it. When I had completed it and secured the right papers, some acquaintances of mine fixed a job for me in Wroclaw, at another cooperative, on Nowowiejska Street. Then I worked at several other tailor cooperatives, first as a technical manager, then as a quality surveyor.

I met my future wife back in Zagorze. I was a young and relatively handsome boy, so girls often accosted me. My wife was my age. She's dead now so I don't want to talk about it. I have a son with her, who lives in the US, and a daughter who lives in Wroclaw. My wife died in 1993, at the time when I was hospitalized. I had a tumor, but it wasn't malignant. I just lost 13 kilograms of weight.

After the war, as far as Jewish organizations are concerned, I kept in touch chiefly with the secular ones, like the local Jewish committee. I remember that, back in Zagorze, prayers were being organized, but I never attended. And upon moving to Wroclaw I became active on the Jewish committee. I remember that during the campaign for the 1947 parliamentary elections, we set up a headquarters in my apartment. We met there, and from there we took posters and leaflets that we then stuck up on the walls. We held meetings and gave reports. We visited Jewish homes and campaigned for the government, because we supported it. And very many Jews lived in the area at the time.

I was active on the local committee until 1950 when it was disbanded and the TSKZ 20 was set up instead. I moved to the TSKZ and have been active on it ever since. Until recently I sat on the board as the treasurer, but a year and half ago I gave up because getting there for the meetings had become a hassle. So now I attend the meetings only very seldom.

As for the 1968 events 21, I didn't feel anything on my own skin because I worked at a cooperative that was officially Jewish. So it would have been strange if they fired Jews [for being Jews]. But I remember that at Polmoda, which was a Polish cooperative, they fired even the ordinary tailors. They fired a tailor whom I knew and liked. I went to the cooperative's chairman, whom I knew very well, and asked him for the guy to be given his job back. And they did.

Right after the war I didn't think about emigration. I found some relative in the US and could have left, but I wrote them that things here were nice because I had a job and three meals in the canteen a day. I boasted! And later I actually thought about emigrating to Israel but I had no impulse to do it, no one was forcing me to go. My wife actually wanted to go but I was afraid of the responsibility, a friend wrote me from Israel not to come with a Polish woman because she would find it hard to acclimate herself.

My son, Heniek [Henryk], emigrated to the US in the 1970s. He was born in 1948, so he was less than thirty at the time. He went without any money, as a tourist, and never returned. He has a daughter. At first he worked as a house painter and his wife was a maid, but then they took a loan and bought a motel in New Mexico, a small one, fifteen rooms. They run it at a profit. Their daughter completed architectural studies and is getting married. I got the invitation but I won't go; I'm too sick for that.

My daughter, Marysia [Maria], was born in 1951. She has two sons. One of those, Bartek, lives with me and takes care of me. The other, Tomek, studies at the technical university and is active on the Jewish student organization. He has already been on a visit to Israel, he is very active. They know him at the community.

I rarely go out these days, sometimes, for a high holiday, I take a taxi or my grandson gives me a lift to the synagogue. But there are no young people there. Only old men reading the Torah. The same at the TSKZ. A general assembly was summoned recently, sixty-nine members were to be present, slightly over thirty turned up and the meeting didn't take place. People are passing away, everything is ending. But I'm happy I still have some health and can be sitting here like this.

Glossary

Waclaw Iglicki
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Marta Cobel-Tokarska
Date of interview: September 2005

Mr. Iglicki lives in an apartment building in downtown Warsaw. Mr. Iglicki isn't tall, he has gray hair and brown eyes. He lost his left arm during the war. His story, despite being simple and concise, fascinated me. The reason was Mr. Iglicki's incredible charisma, thanks to which I listened to the story with bated breath. Mr. Iglicki often uses Yiddish words, but the language he speaks is a so-called 'dialect -u,' comprising Polish and Ukrainian Yiddish, but different from Litvak 1. Pronunciation of certain words is characteristic of regions of southeastern Poland. He uses some English words in his speech as well, since he spent some time in the United States.

My parents
Growing up
Jewish life in Zelechow
Our religious life
My school years
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

My parents

I remember only my grandmother, my father's mother, Miriam [Steinhendler]. Before the war [WWII] she was probably 92 years old. She was extraordinarily elegant, neat, always dressed cleanly, always wore a white blouse, and the collar had to be 'correct.' She was a healthy person. Her mind, for that age, incredible! And her eyesight! I think I'll remember it until I die: my Grandma went to bed, as always. She used to go to bed early, but also got up early. I got up in the morning to go to school, I walked up to the bedroom - why is Grandma still asleep? What happened? Well, it turned out we couldn't wake her up. We called for a doctor, we had a family doctor before the war, Doctor Kasprowicz, he lived not far from us. He came, pronounced the death. He said only, 'A beautiful death.' My grandfather, I don't remember, I never even saw him.

My family came from Zelechow [a town 90 km southeast of Warsaw]. My parents lived there, and they got married there, probably after World War I ended. My dad's name was Chaim Steinhendler. My father was born in Zelechow. But when, I don't know, I have no date. I know it was around the beginning of the 20th century, about the year 1900. And my mom similarly. My mom's name was Fajga. Felicja in Polish. Her maiden name was Iglicka. I have my mom's last name. She came from a tailor's family. My mom didn't work. She took care of the house. She was a very good person. She cared very much about the house, about the family. I was always, as you say, the apple of her eye. From the distance, so many years have passed since I last was in touch with the family, I think, that my sister and I were most attached to mom. Maybe because she was so caring? She always took care of everything, made sure everything was always clean, well dressed, tended to! And my father was rather busy with his job, work. She was a true 'yiddishe mame.' That's how you could describe her.

When... when I saw my mom for the last time, before I left for Wilga [town by the river Vistula, about 20 km west of Zelechow], it was 1942. She gave me her ring, and said, 'You may need it.' It was in May. And I never saw my mom again. I have her picture. She was a true 'yiddishe mame.' I don't even know where she's buried. I went to Treblinka 2 after the war. Every town has its own stone there. And Zelechow also has its stone. And I went to see that stone. That's all. Emptiness.

One uncle of mine, on my father's side, was called Leib Steinhendler. He lived in Lodz [a city about 130 km southwest of Warsaw]. And the family on my mother's side was in Luboml [a town about 280 km east of Warsaw, today in Ukraine]. In the eastern territories, near Kowel [a town about 300 km east of Warsaw, today in Ukraine], that's where they lived: my mom's brother, Rafal Iglicki, or Raful, with his wife. They had no kids. It was a childless marriage. That's why they wanted very much for my sister to go there. My mom's second brother, Luis Iglicki, Jewish Lejzer, left before the war; he later lived in Rio de Janeiro.

Growing up

I was born on 3rd December 1923. I don't remember much of the times before I went to school. It's not really that interesting. It became more interesting at school, but I'll talk about it later. I had a sister three years older than me. She was born in 1920. Her name was Rachela. My sister, she was a very nice girl. An intelligent girl. She was a good student. She was very active in youth organizations. Unfortunately, I saw my sister in 1938 for the last time. That's it. I know nothing more about her. She went to Uncle's, to Luboml. And there, I don't know: did she go to the Soviet Union, as Russian soldiers were trying to talk her into when they were retreating from Luboml, or did she stay? I don't know that. But I searched after the war. Even when I was in the United States, I got in touch with the president of a society of Luboml inhabitants [see Landsmanshaftn] 3. Nothing. I never found out what happened to that girl.

Father worked, he was a craftsman. He made boot uppers. And that's what we lived off, that was our income. There were better times, there were worse times, but overall the financial situation was normal. There were three pieces of machinery in the workshop. One to sew thick leather, another one for thin leather... Those uppers that Father used to make came in different styles, pretty cuts, especially those for women: the prettier the style, for women, the better the sales. There were some men who were responsible for finishing those boots and sales. It varied when it came to that. Usually it happened that somebody described what they wished for, what style, what color, and then picked up the ready product. There was brown leather, black, even snake skin, crocodile. A crocodile! If someone was rich, some lady, she would buy boots made of such leather. But those were expensive boots.

There was a man who worked for us, a helper, how should I call him... an apprentice. He earned 30 zloty a week. Was it a lot back then? Teachers before the war didn't make good money, but a Yiddish or Hebrew teacher in our school used to make a 100 zloty a month. And other teachers 130, 150 zloty. That wasn't considered to be a large income. But, from what I remember, my Polish, or geography, or history teachers, were well off. They owned houses, yards all around them. That means they had enough.

Jewish life in Zelechow

In Zelechow there was a bus that was regularly going to Warsaw. That's 90 kilometers. Every week, or every two weeks, Dad used to go to Warsaw; there were some stores on Zamenhoffa Street, in the area of the old ghetto [a pre- war district of Warsaw inhabited mostly by Jews] mainly. And he would buy whatever he needed there, and would come back home at night. I went with him once: only once, before the war, to see Warsaw. I had a feeling as if I left a small house and entered a palace. I felt that everything was so big. So huge! I didn't get another chance, the trip was expensive.

Zelechow was a small town, with a population of about 3,000. Half of them were people of Jewish origin [an expression commonly used in post-war Poland to describe Jews]. Downtown was mostly inhabited by Jews. And around, closer to the countryside, closer to the fields, were Poles. We lived literally downtown, on a street named after Marshal Jozef Pilsudski 4. That was the main street. It was first called Palacowa [Palace]. Why Palacowa? Because our street led to a palace. The owner of the estate, we used to call him a squire, was Szuster. A very rich man! [Editor's note: In pre-war Poland aristocrats, estate owners lived in manors in the countryside - or palaces in cities and towns.] And when Marshal Pilsudski died in 1935, then they changed the name of the street. There was a magistrate, police station, postal office, all major institutions and offices were there.

Pilsudskiego Street, house number 19 - that's where we lived. Our house had a ground floor and a first floor. There was no yard. We lived at the front, and at the back of the house an older married couple lived, him and her, without kids. Poor people. He used to sell water. He had a horse, a horse carriage, and on this horse carriage there was a round barrel, and he would go out of town, get very good water from a spring, and later sell that water. He lived off that. Upstairs we had a room and a kitchen for the family, and downstairs there was one big room and my father had his shop there.

There was one special alley in Zelechow. Young people used to go there for 'rendezvous.' To that alley. There were benches on both sides - very pretty. Grass, flowers - elegant. After dinner, young people used to spend time there. You had to agree it was very nice there: trees on one side, trees on the other side, and paved sidewalks. You didn't just walk on sand. It was very elegantly done. My sister, before she went to Luboml in 1937, was a frequent guest there. When my sister wasn't at home, you could find her there. On Saturdays. And on Sundays the Polish youth used to go there, since it was their holiday. And they used to spend time there.

We had a beautiful prayer house, just like the Nozyk Synagogue 5, but even prettier. We used to call it 'shil' [shul]. It was probably built at the beginning of the 1920s, from the member fees of the Jewish community, made of brick, beautiful. Inside there were benches, a carpet, in the middle a platform where the rabbi said prayers on Saturdays. On 9th or 10th September 1939, when the Germans entered Zelechow, the first thing they did, literally, was burning down that prayer house. There was nothing left from the prayer house, only a square. Not a trace. It was a very sad feeling. Such a beautiful place... That prayer house was encircled with a kind of a yard. When it was 'Roshashuna' [Rosh Hashanah] or 'Yom Kipor' [Yom Kippur], then everyone would usually go to that prayer house. My father as well, even though he wasn't particularly religious. On those days not everyone could fit inside. There was a beautiful lawn in that yard, and they prayed there, because they couldn't get inside. Even though it was a very big prayer house, but in the town there were almost 3,500 residents, half of which were Jews.

That was the only prayer house in the town. And before they built that brick one, almost in the same place there was a wooden one, called bes medresh. In the last period before the war they made a diner for poor people out of it. They cooked dinner every day and poor people could have it. The Jewish community organized it, out of member fees. And the Germans left that building alone. Interesting. They didn't burn it. During the occupation, the Germans organized the Judenrat 6 there. And they organized the Jewish police. They had their headquarters there. It was their center. But later, after evicting the Zelechow ghetto in September 1942, I don't know. Even when the Germans left, I think that building remained. But when I went to Zelechow after the war, I didn't see it. They [Polish residents of Zelechow] must have taken it apart and looted it.

There was a Jewish cemetery in Zelechow: a big cemetery, where they only buried people of Jewish faith. And it was already out of town. You had to walk about two kilometers. I went there once, I think. There were a lot of those 'mecayves' [mazevot]. Lots and lots. Old and new. After the war, when I went to Zelechow, I went to the cemetery, and there were almost no mazevot any more. I heard people just used them for something. [During WWII Jewish cemeteries were often destroyed, by taking tombstones and using them to build roads or for other purposes]. That's the way it looked like.

There were baths in the town. When they built the prayer house, they also built the baths. It was made of brick, and even had white tile all around. There was hot and cold water. People used it, usually at the end of a week, on Fridays. I think it was free. And there was a man there: near the baths, he had his own place there. People would come with a hen or a rooster, and that man, how do you call it... shochet, would kill that hen. And only he did that. If somebody did it differently [killed the hen by himself], it wasn't 'kusher' [kosher]. But if he did that, it meant it was 'kusher.' And there was a rabbi, and he had his students, and he also had his place, and there was a big garden next to it, and benches in the garden. Inside there was a Talmud school. Or so I assume. I didn't use to go there, but young people with skullcaps and payes used to go there. Everything was located at more or less the same spot: shul, bes medresh, baths and shochet. All that was in the market area. Aside from the rebbe there was also a 'ruv' [rabbi]. That's a different position. There was a ruv and a rebbe. That ruv lived on the other side of the street [Pilsudskiego Street], near our house. He took care of marriages, births, deaths; he was responsible for those matters.

That was all downtown, and streets further away from the center weren't as elegant. Plain pavement. No sidewalks. And not far away, just when you turned left from Pilsudskiego Street, there was a church. A very pretty church, a beautiful church. And near the church it was also nice. A lot of trees, lawns. And further away from the town, it was less neat, less organized, poorer. That means that a cluster of richer people was in the center. Because they had their stores, of various professions, there was a market there every week. There was a special large square, farmers from the surrounding villages used to come and sell their goods. What? Milk, eggs, chickens, everything. We used to buy there, because it was cheaper. And fresh. The town was full of life on those days. Big business. That's what it looked like out in this rural area. Other stores in Zelechow mainly dealt in clothes, fabrics, farming and home equipment. The biggest profits were usually on the market day, on Tuesdays. When people came [from villages], they sold their things, and bought: flour, salt, sugar... Then people were happy on that day. It meant the trade was good. A farmer used to come in a horse carriage; if he didn't own one, he would borrow one from his neighbor. They used to come in twos, in threes, entire families, and spend all day in Zelechow. During summer they would sit at the market and eat. They would come in the morning, stay till the evening. They brought their own bread. I saw that: their bread and other things to eat, so that they would spend the least amount of money. Those villages were poor. Whoever made a good profit, sold a cow or a horse, in order to seal the sale they would go to a restaurant, have dinner, of course with vodka. And the police had something to do then. Because they would get drunk quickly. And then they would fight and they had to be taken to the police station.

And I used to see it all, through my window looking out onto Pilsudskiego Street, how they were taken. With yelling and noise. It was a sensation for every young boy: a couple of policemen leading two or three drunken men. And they put up a fight, because they didn't want to go. And those policemen beat them with clubs. And the young people, of course, followed them to the police station. I didn't use to see such scenes often, that was a rare picture in the life of a small town. But it sticks in your memory. But if I were to compare that period to the current situation, I can say that back then there wasn't that much cheating, I think there were more friendships. I think so. There wasn't that much theft, for sure. When it comes to murders, I didn't hear of anything. I think that somewhere in some village they said that two neighbors, farmers, started a fight about the borderline between the fields. One of those farmers said his field ends here, and the other one said - not here, but here. It was a difference of more or less a quarter of a meter. And the fight began, and then beating. And then there was an intervention of police, then court. That's what people used to fight about most often.

When it comes to us, we rarely bought anything from those stores in Zelechow. When my dad would go to Warsaw to buy leather for his shop, my mom would ask him to buy this and that. Maybe it wasn't cheaper, but it was prettier, more modern. And my sister was already a grown woman. I was 15 just before the war, my sister was three years older, so she was 18. She had to dress well. And indeed, she used to dress nicely. But Father used to buy not only clothes in Warsaw. For example, for Pesach the tradition was to buy red wine, right? So Father always brought red wine from Warsaw. It used to be in a basket, two liters, elegant, beautiful and very good. Very good. And here, in our town, wine was usually home-made. Not interesting and not tasty.

Bakeries were private. There was one Jewish bakery on our street. Fresh bread every day. Not only white and rye bread, that was normal. But there was also special bread. Buns, and during summer, July, August - buns with blueberries, mmm, wonderful. Delicious! They were very tasty, and those bakers were really very good. They knew how to do it. Bakeries were usually Jewish, because villagers didn't use to buy bread in a bakery. They used to bake their own. Locals used to buy in a bakery. Except when it was Tuesday, market day, visiting farmers used to buy there too.

Our religious life

We certainly never had pork at home, neither pork fat nor lard, and the other things that were either forbidden or unhealthy. We had a Jewish kitchen: my mom and grandma, when she was still alive, made sure the cuisine was Jewish. We had fish on 'Shabes' [Sabbath], when we had chicken, we didn't kill it ourselves, but that shochet had to kill it. I had to go there so that he could kill it. It was my responsibility, nothing more, since Mom or Dad didn't have time, I had to go.

When we had Sabbath supper, we didn't have it downstairs but upstairs. The table was covered with a white tablecloth; necessarily there was challah, and fish: a carp in jelly. My mom used to make it in jelly. Boiled carp - we didn't like that. And where did we get fish from? The squire, Mr. Szuster, he had ponds, bred fish there, and that's where we used to buy it. At Sabbath we didn't use to make chulent. I know it, but we didn't like that dish. My mom used to make lokshen, noodles; she didn't buy them. It was flour, eggs, she made it herself. And chicken soup, chicken, that was the main course. On Saturday [Editor's note: Friday night] my mom would cover, I remember, her head, there were candles, she prayed briefly and we ate supper. That's the way it was. Saturday was a holiday. Nobody worked. And on Sunday neither, because they [the government] forbade working on Sundays. [Sunday was at that time the official day free of work]. But on Sundays we used to work quietly. The doors were sort of locked at the front... but the police paid attention to it, because it was the main street, and they walked there all the time and kept nagging that it was a holiday.

Other holidays? The biggest are Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. On Yom Kippur I think my parents didn't eat. My father would go to the prayer house; he had a little bag, and inside it a tallit. It was black and white. And he would put it on in the prayer house. When he left, he would take it off and put it into that bag and it would stay there for very long. I think he used it on those days only, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I don't remember it being used on other holidays.

There was a holiday called Chanukkah. We used to light candles. We used to get presents, that is money. I, because I loved chocolate and halva, of course immediately exchanged everything for halva and chocolate. Halva was as it is nowadays, usually Turkish. Imported. There was a store like that not too far from us: 'Colonial Articles,' where you could get this type of things. We used to wait for that holiday because it was favorable getting presents. I don't remember any special dish for Chanukkah; I only remember that we used to light small candles in the windows. Various colors: red, yellow. It looked nice from the outside. I don't remember any special celebrations, only presents and candles.

Sykes [Sukkot]. That was a holiday where people built little tents. But we didn't. I saw others do it. That was some time at the beginning of fall. We used to peak, because our neighbor, who lived next door, used to make a sort of a shack in his yard. It was covered with branches, and inside there was a table, a wide one, and chairs on one side. They would bring food in there and eat it there. Whoever wanted to see that shack was welcome to do so. But we had no room at our house because our house stood right next to a sidewalk, next to a street. We had no yard. I remember, some people when they went to the prayer house, they had some branches, and somewhere underneath a lemon, and they carried that. Not all of them, but you could spot some people on the street, who, as they went to the prayer house, had those.

There were rattlers on the holiday Purim. Young people used to make a... 'gregier' [a Purim rattler, Yiddish: 'grager'], that's what it was called. You walked and it made noise. Kids used to make noise with it out on the streets. I don't know why, it must have been a tradition, right? I suppose so. Anyway, something like that used to happen. The holiday was called Purim. 'Gregier' I used to make myself, out of thread bobbins. They also used to bake hamantashen. It was a triangle, stuffed with sugar, poppy seeds and cottage cheese. Very tasty!

And there was also a holiday called Pesach. That's a beautiful holiday, a very nice holiday. Mom had completely different pots in the attic, used only during the Easter [Passover] holidays. Then we had to take everything down from the attic, and those old things used every day, we had to get rid of. There could be no chametz [at home]. There was a baker that had a special stove. And he baked matzah for Pesach. Whoever wanted some, ordered it. Matzot were rectangular, apparently made only of flour and water, and as big as A4 [an A4-size paper]. They used to sell matzah by baskets: one basket of matzah, two baskets, depending on the family. We always took one basket. And we ate only matzah for a few days. There was fish too, that's normal, but also completely different food. And there was wine, that red wine, brought from Warsaw. And that first seder was really solemn. The table was set nicely: elegant, clean, ready. The matzah was covered with a special cloth. It was a very pleasant holiday. Costly, but pleasant. Costly because we had to renovate the apartment. Refurbish, paint, freshen it up, because everything had to be kosher. Even water we didn't take from the nearest pump on that holiday. There was a spring outside the town. I used to bring water from that spring, because it was clear, ideal water. This holiday was usually in April, the beginning of spring, so it was a stroll: every morning I would bring that water.

My school years

I used to go to a public school. It was an elementary school. Seven grades. I don't think I was even seven when I started attending school in 1930. My sister went there, too. It was the only school in town. The high school was in Garwolin, that's 20 kilometers from us. The school was for the Poles and for our youth. When there was Polish religion [a lesson of Roman-Catholic religion], religion for the Polish youth, we would go to a different classroom, a teacher would come to us and teach us Yiddish religion [Jewish religion]. Other than that there were no segregations, and there were also no problems. And we were about 30 in the class for sure. A row of desks on one side, and one on the other side. I remember only my favorite teachers: the gym teacher, Mr. Boleslaw Osla, the music teacher, Professor Gardecka, the biology teacher, Professor Blachnio. I don't remember any more. You always remember the favorite ones. I remember the math teacher less, because I didn't like the class. Overall I was a good student. I usually didn't have any problems with school. I was rather in the top, didn't lag behind.

My sister belonged to some youth organization: Hahalutz 7 or Hashomer Hatzair 8. Something like that. And they had their place, a club, where they used to get together on Saturdays. They organized events there: some discussions, dances, singing. I didn't go there. My sister did. I was more active on the soccer field, because I belonged to a youth team. Juniors. It was a local representation. We used to play matches when [soccer players] came from Ryki [town located on the Warsaw-Lublin route, about 30 km south of Zelechow], or some other town; we had events like that. Where the public school was located, where I went to school, there was a real sports field. We used to play soccer, there were goal posts; we could also play volleyball, basketball.

I had a friend, we went to school together: his last name was Marmelsztad, and his first name Salek. After school we used to play sports, that is soccer, together. We often did our homework together, helped each other if needed. Because they lived near by. His father was a photographer. He used to take wedding pictures, had a very modern shop. I don't remember the name of the street, but it was near the church. And there was a pharmacy right next to it. I remember that. The owner of the pharmacy was Mr... Mr. Zwolinski; he had a college degree. Salek's brother worked on the street, took pictures, usually on Saturdays, when young people went to the alley; he took photographs of couples in love. And his father had a darkroom at home.

We had various friends. Usually on Saturday, when people didn't work, they would come over for a chit-chat, as it is out in the countryside. We lived at the very front of the main street, so they sat on the porch, talked, about everything and nothing. On the other side of the street there was a candy store, where in the summer you could buy soda, ice cream, candies, chocolate, and in the other room there was a pool table. My father and his friends sometimes went there to play pool. You had to pay 10 groszy and you could play a game. That's what social life looked like. It was near Warsaw, 90 kilometers, so a lot of things were brought from the capital. Somewhere further east, towards the border, they were more backward.

There was a movie theater in Zelechow. It was called 'Swit.' There were usually movies rated for adults. I couldn't see those. Once I just wanted to stay and see it till the end. I hid under the seats. The owner found me and threw me out. They usually brought movies from Warsaw and on Saturdays the theater was open from 5pm till 8pm and 8pm till 10pm. Two shows. And on Sundays. And on holidays. The owner of the theater was Mr. Socko. He wasn't a Jew. He was very rich, our friend. And sometimes when I went there, he let me in for free. Examples of movies? A movie with Robert Taylor... I don't remember the title. 'Romeo and Juliet,' there was a movie like that. There was also a movie with Chaplin. Criticism on Hitler. The title? ... 'The Great Dictator.'

There was no theater. There were people from the Polish Legions 9. They were of merit, they took part in the war in 1920 [see Polish-Soviet War] 10. And they were privileged. They had a license for restaurants, tobacco monopoly, alcohol monopoly; they had privileges. And when there was a holiday, let's say 3rd May [see May 3rd Constitution] 11, the big holiday, or 11th November [see Poland's independence, 1918] 12, then they organized celebrations like marches through the main street, that is our street, with an orchestra, and them in uniforms. But that was only on national holidays.

When it was summer, my mother often took us to a 'summer resort.' There were forests near Zelechow. It was two kilometers from our house. I used to walk from our place to the woods, just outside the town. Some farmers lived in that forest. And they often rented out rooms; that was called a 'summer resort.' People used to rent a room for the entire summer and live there, of course they paid for it. They got eggs, milk, bread there. It was rather for rich people. The poor couldn't afford it. We lived there for a month, in the forest. That was at the beginning of the 1930s, not so much just before the war, because then the situation was rather complicated. And financially it wasn't as good as before. Life became uncertain. I don't know how to say it: people were scared.

At home we used to speak Polish, too, but mostly Yiddish. It was, so that my sister and I didn't seem different at school [that's why we spoke Polish]: with our accent or pronunciation and so on. Every once in a while, especially when we knew that there was going to be a Polish lesson, a spelling test or something, we often spoke Polish at home. But it wasn't a problem: because all neighbors weren't Jewish, and with friends we obviously had to communicate in Polish somehow. There was a time when we had a teacher, who taught us how to write in Jewish. A young man. We took lessons. My sister and I. He gave us private lessons. I still remember that, I could still write something today. Right after the war, when I had to write to America, I often wrote in Jewish [Yiddish] to my uncle [Leib Steinhendler]. Because he didn't remember Polish that well any more then. Yiddish was closer to him.

We read newspapers: the Yiddish Folksztyme 13 and a Polish newspaper. They used to bring them from Warsaw every week. There was one weekly newspaper, and one daily, too. We had no editor in town. There was no newspaper kiosk. There was just individual subscription, that's how I would call it. Somebody went to Warsaw once a week, and brought newspapers for those who wanted them. We didn't use to order newspapers. I wasn't really interested in it. From what I know, my father, whenever he went to the barber, he read a newspaper there. For example he read about the situation of Jews in Germany [see Anti-Jewish legislation in Nazi Germany] 14, and there was a lot of information about that, that people were being evicted, that people had to run away, that Jews were being persecuted. We could feel a conflict coming.

During the war

On 1st September 1939 the war broke out [see German occupation of Poland] 15. The Germans marched into Zelechow at the end of September. The first act of violence was the complete burning down of the synagogue, and, of course, immediate repression of the Jewish people. It was obvious these people were discriminated against in every way. In 1941 the Germans organized a ghetto [see Zelechow ghetto] 16. What was it like? It wasn't like the ghetto in Warsaw where Jews were clustered in the center, and walls were put around them, right? In Zelechow they couldn't do it, because the population was mixed [Polish and Jewish], lived in the center of the town, and around it, and so on. So they banned Jews from leaving the town. There was a death penalty for leaving the town. There were incidents that somebody went to a village, or to work, or to get some food at night, and he was killed. This lasted until August 1942.

In August 1942 all Jews were deported from Zelechow to Sobolewo, because that was the closest train station, and from there they were moved to Treblinka. But before that, in May, the Germans caught young people and sent them to Wilga [where the Germans set up a work labor during WWII]. And I ended up there as well. Salek Marmelsztadt also didn't go with his family to Treblinka, when they took the Jews from Zelechow. He got to the camp in Wilga with me. It's a town near Garwolin [town about 50 km south of Warsaw]. The Vistula flooded there every year, so the Germans were building dams. And they had young Jews working on it. In, of course, camp conditions. Very difficult. It was hard work, and the food - horrible, almost none. And I worked in that Wilga until fall 1942. Later I stopped working there [the camp was liquidated, and prisoners were moved], because in winter and fall they didn't do land improvement, only in spring and summer. They took us to Sobolewo.

Jews from Sobolewo had already been taken to Treblinka [in August 1942]. So there were houses we could live in. Houses in quotation marks, of course, in reality ruins, looted out, only four walls. We lived there in very tough conditions. We knew, really, we were just waiting there to be taken to Treblinka. We were only waiting for the train cars to be put on the train station. But until that time we couldn't leave the town, we weren't allowed to, there was a ban. There was nothing, no kitchen, we couldn't buy anything anywhere and people were sick with typhus. And from that hunger masses were dying. It was in Sobolewo that my friend Salek Marmelsztad died. And there was also my other friend, Mendel Gerecht: he went to Israel after the war and lived in Ramla.

Probably in November, or at the end of October [1942], the Germans came to Sobolewo, surrounded the town and chased us into the train cars. Those weren't, of course, normal passenger cars, but animal ones. So for example, if one car could fit only 50 people, they put 150 into it. Practically, before we got to Lukow [town about 100 km southeast of Warsaw] or maybe to Siedlce [town about 120 km east of Warsaw], because that's more or less where I jumped out of the train, there were many dead people underneath me already. Or barely alive. That's how roomy it was in that car. We, my friend Mendel and I, were close to a window so we could catch a breath of air. My friend jumped out first, then I after him. But I didn't find him, because the train was moving, so I might have been a few kilometers away from him already. The direction I wanted to take was this: go towards my place of birth. So I walked towards Zelechow.

People used to really help out. I have to say that objectively: when it came to bread or something else, they shared. But finding a place to sleep was a problem. People were afraid [because there was a penalty for helping Jews] 17. They wouldn't really agree to have us over for a night, or for a longer stay. That was understandable, because if you consider that in every village, in every community, there was a sign saying that for hiding, for any help given to a Jew, there was the death penalty, it's hard to be surprised that people didn't want to have Jews over and so on. They could tell by my clothes that I was a Jew. Because I looked poor, obviously. Ragged, dirty. Wandered around, as they say, aimlessly, didn't know where to go. Today we would say: homeless. That was obvious - who was homeless then - only those who had to hide. Because of that, many knew immediately they were dealing with a person of Jewish origin. They couldn't really tell by the language, there weren't any big discussions. What to talk about? But if someone asked where you were from, who your father was, then it came out you were a Jew. So that's what I did: at night, when everyone was asleep, I sneaked into some place, a barn, a cowshed, and stayed in there somehow. So that the owner wouldn't find out. Or maybe they knew, but pretended not to, possible. And that process lasted for about a month, maybe three weeks. I was usually in the Lukow and Garwolin forests, in those areas. I was alone then.

One night I went to a forest and couldn't find a path; it was dark everywhere. I wandered around the forest all night, until by the morning I found some path and I got to a settlement where there was one farmer's house. I went to that farmer to ask for help. He gave me food, but said this: 'Listen, I can't keep you here, but go back into the forest' - and he told me exactly where - 'in that forest there is a bunker, a huge dugout 18, and your countrymen [Jews] are there. And they'll surely take you in.' I listened. I went there. That farmer knew about that hiding place, he even used to help them. And they were in there. There were four or five of them, extremely packed, conditions horrible, they didn't accept me happily. Rather Reluctantly. Why? Because they were afraid: maybe I'd betray them. Or, maybe because it had already been packed, and now one more came, it'd be even worse. I couldn't lie down there, there was no room.

So I was sitting on a ladder that led down to that hole, and all of a sudden I could hear something coming. Well, it was a terror down there. They already thought I had brought at least the Germans. Despair. It turned out that it was two partisans, I think one Russian and one Polish. They came and they wanted to recruit two young men, bring them to the division. 'And who wants to go?' I said, 'Me, please, I'll go.' I didn't care either way any more. Nobody else but me went. The others didn't move. I went with them, to the same house where I had been before, that farmer's house! It turned out the partisans were staying at that farmer's. They didn't live in the house, but in the cow shed. When I arrived there, first thing was to feed me, clothe me, and then basic information, how to deal with the guns. Long and short. And basic information about the underground.

During the occupation I used my mother's last name, Iglicki. I decided on that when I ended up in the partisan unit. And my first name? It's not Wacek [from Waclaw]. Wacek is my nickname. My name is Szul [from Szolem]. The real name is Szul. But that's the way it stayed after the war: Waclaw Iglicki. I only did that formality, I asked the authorities to let me use my mother's last name, not my father's. Why didn't I want to go back to the old last name? What difference did it make, to have my mother's or father's last name? I'm asking, 'what difference does it make?' No difference. If my last name was who knows where from - then yes. But it's the last name of my mother... I didn't care. That's all. I had no documents during the war, nobody had. But, simply, they knew I was Iglicki. I had no contacts with any authorities. We were the people who didn't exist. But if they do exist, they have to be destroyed. That's how they treated people who were still alive.

It was a division of the People's Army 19. It was a clear coincidence, since a young man could have ended up in the Peasants Battalions 20 or the Home Army 21. It was a coincidence. It wasn't because my political views were such and not different. I knew nothing about that. What did I know about the People's Army or Home Army! I wasn't interested in it. It wasn't until after the war that I found out that there were some political concepts, but during the occupation nobody cared about that. Both boys who fought for the People's Army and boys who fought for the Home Army, they weren't really interested in it. Those were matters for commanding officers.

The fact that I met that partisan division... If it hadn't been for that I probably would have had a hard time surviving: defenseless, like a hare in a field, and many hunters around. A hopeless situation. No support, economical or from a family. The family wasn't there, I had nothing, so they could really kill me, arrest me, rob me, they could do anything to me. Because during the occupation a Jew was a man who meant nothing. For Germans - nothing. They did whatever they wanted with such a person.

I spent a year and a half in that unit [beginning of 1943 - June 1944]. All that time in the area of the Lublin Voivodship [province]. There were Russians who escaped from German war camps in Poland. There were Poles who escaped, because they didn't want to go to Germany for forced labor 22. They were usually locals who avoided being taken away. And there were a few Jews. There were even two from Warsaw. But I only remember these names: Mendel Gerecht and Abram Hurman. And there was also Srul Augman. That Gerecht was from the same town as me, and the other two lived five kilometers from our town. They came from villages. They escaped when they were being taken away from the ghetto, just like me, from the train. In the meantime my hand was injured, it had to be amputated. And, there was an action, there was an ambush. We ran into an ambush. That was at the turn of 1943 and 1944. I got shot; Mendel Gerecht was there with me then. He took me to a doctor, in a village. And then I received first aid. I stayed in the division until June 1944. That's almost until the liberation of the Lublin area by the Russian and Polish Army. [Eastern parts of Poland were liberated of German occupation in mid-1944]. But when it comes to those occupation matters: that was a whole new problem. That's a completely different story.

I knew there were no people of mine in Zelechow. Because somebody had already been there and said there's nothing to go to, there's no one there, everything's ruined. So I stayed in Lublin. Warsaw was liberated on 17th January 1945. We went to Warsaw in May or June. I went to Zelechow shortly after the war to get my elementary school diploma. I didn't stay there long, because... I didn't know anyone there anymore. When I left that town I was a young man. But there were still people [in Zelechow, after the war] who had known my family. So I obtained the birth certificate and the elementary school diploma. I met one teacher who had taught in my school before the war. But he didn't remember me. My house was ruined. Nobody lived there, I think whoever wanted or needed something had already taken it. That's it. Those were wooden houses, not brick. Very primitive.

Post-war

The first thing I did after the war was to go to school: to a high school, basic stuff. And then the vocational school, for bookkeeping and finances, in Warsaw. And I started working for various government institutions: in finances, in bookkeeping. I got married in the meantime, in 1950. My wife's name was Krystyna. We met at work. Our daughter Barbara was born in 1951.

My wife didn't have any brothers or sisters, she was an only child. My wife came from Grodno [town about 300 km south-east of Warsaw, today Belarus]. She was born in 1927. Her maiden name was Lenartowicz. She wasn't Jewish. I never met my wife's father, because in 1939 he was drafted into the army and never came back. And her mother lived with us. My mother-in-law took care of the house and the granddaughter. But she also worked at school. My wife died in 1973, my mother-in-law stayed with me for a bit more, and later moved to her family in Bydgoszcz [town about 250 km southwest of Warsaw].

After the war I didn't have much contact with Jewish organizations. Since I live near those organizations [on Twarda Street, near Mr. Iglicki's house in Warsaw, there is the Jewish Theater, head office of the Jewish community and other Jewish organizations], every once in a while I would go to the [Ester Rachel Kaminska Public] Jewish Theater 23 to some concerts. But organizations - no, I didn't go there. I don't know why, it somehow turned out this way. I didn't feel the need, maybe because I didn't really keep in touch [with Jews] here. Nobody from my town lives here. I rather hang out in other circles, have other interests. Co-workers... I don't remember anyone of Jewish origin. But it doesn't mean I was completely separated from it [the Jewish life], no: I saw every play that was staged in the Jewish theater. Various anniversaries and such - I was present. But I wasn't an active member.

Jewish traditions at home after the war? No, not really. No. It rather remained as a memory. My daughter married her friend, a Pole, that's a different world. She has one daughter, Katarzyna. We don't go back to the past times. Maybe, if I was in different circles... When friends from Israel were coming over, then all that would begin again. Or from Paris, because there were a lot [of people] who I was with in the underground, and from my town those who managed to escape before the war, or just after the war. But now, they are all dead. The end. As the English say - 'finished,' when it comes to that.

My uncle Luis Iglicki's family is alive; they still live in Rio de Janeiro. He is dead. Some members of that family live in Portugal. But they're not his grandchildren. They don't know me. And they live in Lisbon, in Porto. I don't know why they moved there. One grandchild is a doctor, another an engineer; they are people from a completely different epoch, a different life.

In March 1968 [see Gomulka Campaign] 24 I was laid off from work. There was no way we could leave the country, my wife was sick, my daughter was still studying [Barbara graduated from Slavic philology at Warsaw University]. Besides, a man with only one hand: where could I go, what for? It was out of the question. And, well, I just lived off the pension, it was a small pension, but my uncle was living in America, and used to help out from time to time. Financially it was ordinary, I can say.

My uncle Leib Steinhendler, my father's brother, lived in Lodz in 1939, but when the order to go East [Umiastowski Order] 25 came out, my uncle went, too, and stayed in the Soviet Union. And later he moved to America. After the war he found out I was still alive. In America, right after the war, certain organizations were created for Jews who used to live before the war in the same place. Jews from Warsaw had their own organization. Jews from Lodz had theirs, with a president. And there was also a society for Jews from Zelechow. They used to search for whoever was alive after the war. My uncle found me then. He was living in New York City, in Brooklyn.

My uncle wanted very much for me to come to America with him. I regret not having done that. Really. I think it would have been better. But, I didn't go. However, I kept in touch with him; he died only in the 1990s. He was there all the time. He helped me a lot. And I visited him twice, I lived there in Brooklyn. Why didn't I decide to go there for good? First of all, I only have one hand. And I knew: America, 'it's a fine country,' but you have to be healthy and whole. And then you can be sure you won't die. But if you have only one hand, it may turn out badly. That's why I didn't risk it. I didn't want to be a burden for my uncle. Even though he was prepared for it, because he told me, 'You will be treated as a son, since, as you know, I don't have children of my own.. But I didn't want to. Because, if I were to go to America, I would have had to have three basic things. First: the language. But that wasn't a problem. Second: a place to stay, a house. And third: be ready to work, if not in an office, then physically, and I wasn't prepared for that. If those three conditions had been met, I would have gone for sure, but since they weren't... I had only one of those, and with the language it wasn't too bad either. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for America.

How about going to Israel after the war? Same problems. What, to go there, and live on the small, poor pension I'd get there? They'd give me a war veteran's pension, but that's very small, very small. So again, life wouldn't be that simple, it'd be difficult and complicated. Especially as there's a constant upset in that country! 1948, war, 1956, war, 1967, war, 1976, war... [see Six-Day-War 26 and Yom Kippur War 27] All the time, whenever I would think about it - crash! War. Right? I thought about it a few times, well, I can take everything and go there. Stop, another war. Here, in Poland, at least I have social security, a place to live. I had contact with my family: my daughter was here, my granddaughter was here, and the house was here. I was afraid everything might get destroyed. Yes, I did consider it seriously. But those were the circumstances. Unfortunately. But I don't think I regret it. My heart is in Poland, my soul in Israel. This I can't deny, no matter where I am, my soul is there. I always wish the best for that country: for the people to prosper, and finally to live in peace. They certainly deserve it. It's a country that has been developing really well economically. Technology on a very high level. I'm not even mentioning military. The military infrastructure is beautiful: the army is really good, perfectly equipped. I wish for that country to finally start living in peace. Maybe one day. Will I see it? I don't know.

Well, right now my only wish is for my health not to get any worse, for financial conditions not to get any worse. To live like that till the end. Because, at this age, what can you dream about? You can dream about remaining independent for as long as possible, so that you don't depend on anyone, God forbid. I hope everything is going to be all right. And that's how this story ends.

Glossary

Életrajz

Az apám szülei göcseji kisbirtokosok voltak, Nagylengyelben volt földjük [Nagylengyel – kisközség volt Zala vm.-ben 1910-ben 600 lakossal. – A szerk.]. Sternberger Ignác volt a nagypapám, Weisz Mária a nagymamám. Apám, Sternberger Jakab 1878-ban született Milejben [Milej – kisközség volt Zala vm.-ben, 1910-ben nem egészen 400 lakossal. – A szerk.]. A nagymamám olyan szerencsétlen volt, hogy két férje is meghalt, így három férje volt összesen. A birtok mindig a következő férjhez került, aztán a második világháború után a tanács kisajátította. Az én nagyapám, akihez a nagymamám először ment férjhez, szívszélütésben halt meg [Szívszélhűdésben – szívbénulásban – halhatott meg. – A szerk.]. Kocsin ment valamerre, és akkor még voltak farkasok. Megtámadták, de erős ember volt, védekezett, és mindegyik kezével megfojtott egy-egy farkast. A lovak közben szaladtak a kocsival, hazataláltak, és megálltak a kapu előtt, de addigra nagypapa már halott volt. Még halálában is kezében voltak a farkasok, így kapott szívszélütést. Rá pár évre a nagymamám újra férjhez ment, egy Spitzer nevűhöz. Így apám testvére a Spitzer Irma néni volt. A legkisebb testvére, Sándor a nagymama harmadik férjétől, Fürst nevűtől volt. Spitzer Irmát egy pap vette magához Rózsásszegen [Rózsásszeg – kisközség volt Zala vm.-ben, 1910-ben nem egészen 400 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.]. A papnak volt két húga, befogadták maguk közé. Ott maradt, együtt jártak iskolába a szomszéd faluba, később a pap szakácsnője lett. Kapott egy nagy aranykeresztet ajándékba, és azzal együtt vitték el Auschwitzba. Az apámnál három-négy évvel lehetett fiatalabb.

Apám az első világháborúban frontharcos volt, Olaszországban is járt, frontharcos kitüntetése is volt. Rózsásszegen lakott, majd mikor megnősült, akkor került Jánosházára. A nagyanyám hétéves koromtól velünk lakott Jánosházán, és 1933-ban, hetvennyolc éves korában halt meg nálunk [Jánosháza – nagyközség volt Vas vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3500, 1910-ben és 1920-ban 4300 főnyi lakossal. A községben 1836-ban alakult meg a zsidó hitközség, de Hevra Kadisa már korábban is működött. 1836 körül templomot is építettek (1897-ben pedig egy új templomot), és rabbit is választottak. A 20. század elején, 1901 és 1904 között volt betöltetlen a rabbi szék, de ettől eltekintve (az 1920-as évek végéig legalábbis) mindig működött rabbi a községben. 1880-ban elemi iskolát létesítettek. A hitközség ortodox alapokon állt. Lélekszáma az 1920-as években (az anyakönyvi területéhez tartozó 17 kisközség izraelita felekezetű lakosait is beleértve) 125 családban 650 fő volt (Magyar Zsidó Lexikon). 1944-ben a zsidókat a sárvári gettóba szállították. – A szerk.]. Apám cipészsegéd volt, gyönyörű cipőket csinált. Arra emlékszem, hogy minden húsvétra kaptunk fekete lakkcipőt, félcipőt. De aztán nem cipész, hanem gyümölcsfuvarozó lett. Nem tudom, miért. Volt egy Citroën gépkocsija, azzal szállította az embereket is az állomásról Karakó, Borszörcsök felé, ahol nem volt vasútállomás [Karakó és Borszörcsök Jánosházától keletre 4, illetőleg 25 kilométerre lévő kisközség. – A szerk.]. Mi a vasúttól nem messze laktunk. Akkor nem volt még telefon, hanem a vasutasok, akik körbejárták a vasúti kocsikat, akik a kereket ütögették, azok jöttek mondani apámnak, hogy valamelyik utas a szomszédos faluba megy.

Az édesanyám szüleit nem ismertem, mert ők már régebben meghaltak. A nagyapám, Krausz Ábrahám részéről mind iparosok voltak, asztalos, villanyszerelő, dolgos emberek. A nagyanyám Brandl Teréz volt. A Brandl az egy híres család, Kővágóörsön volt szódagyáruk. Révfülöpre szállítottak lovas kocsival szállodákba, éttermekbe [Kővágóörs – kisközség volt, Zala vm. 1891-ben is, 1910-ben is 2100 lakossal. Révfülöp – Kővágóőrshöz tartozó nyaralótelep volt Zala vm.-ben. – A szerk.]. A Balatonon, a strandon volt egy nagy ruhaboltjuk is, ahol a strandhoz való piperecikkeket árulták.

Az édesanyám Krausz Henrietta, de otthon Jettinek hívták. 1879-ben született egy Homokbödöge nevű faluban [Homokbödöge – kisközség volt Veszprém vm.-ben, 1891-ben is, 1910-ben is, 1920-ban is 1200 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.]. A születési anyakönyvi kivonatomban az áll, hogy szakácsnő volt, de azt nem tudom, hogy hol. Az édesanyámnak volt három lánytestvére: Krausz Irma néni, a győri Ilonka néni és Háni néni, akit szép Háninak hívtak, olyan szép nő volt. Egy muzsikus cigány, Horváth János beleszeretett. Nekik is voltak gyerekeik, két lány: Mária és Teri. Jánosházán laktak. Az apám őket sem szerette, de azt mondtam neki, hogy muszáj velük barátkozni, mert az unokatestvéreim. Én nagyon szerettem őket, mert Jenő bátyám feleségének sokat segítettek. Nagyon tiszták voltak, mert van tiszta cigány, és piszkos, csaló, rabló, mindenfajta cigány. Az édesanyámnak Győrben lakó Ilonka nevű testvérét deportálták. Az unokatestvéreimet is mind deportálták Bergen-Belsenbe. Túlélték, és utána kimentek Izraelbe.

Egyik unokatestvérem, Stokner Manci már a második világháború előtt kiment Izraelbe [Akkor még: Palesztina; Izrael állam 1948-ban alakult meg. – A szerk.], a másik kettő a lágerból, Bergen-Belsenből. Én nem mentem velük.

Az édesanyám 1926-ban, a szülésben halt meg, amikor én három éves voltam. Apám özvegyember lett hat gyerekkel. Ahogy a zsidóknál akkor volt, valakit ajánlottak a házasságközvetítők. Zalagyömörőben volt egy zsidó család, az egy szem zsidó családot imádták azok a falusiak [Zalagyömörő – kisközség volt Zala vm.-ben, 1910-ben 1100, 1920-ban 1000 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.]. Fűszerkereskedésük, kocsmájuk volt. Minden este a nagy konyhában leültek kártyázni. A családban kilencen voltak testvérek, öt lány, négy fiú. A lányok közül az egyik fehérnemű-varrónő volt, a másik az üzletet vezette, valamelyik meg felsőruhaszabó volt. Mind idősebbek már. A lányok közül egy se ment férjhez, amíg a mostohaanyám meg nem házasodott. Harmincöt év körüli lehetett, mikor odajött hozzánk, rá egy évre, hogy meghalt az édesanyám. Stern Katalinnak hívták a mostohaanyámat, és annyira imádták őt a testvéreim, hogy ők is mind Katinak nevezték el a lányukat. Én a mostohaanyámat nem tudom elfelejteni, mert ő volt az igazi anyám. Ahogy odakerült hozzánk, minden évben egy hétig ott nyaraltam az ő szüleinél Zalagyömörőn. Nagy gazdaságuk volt, a fiúk, a mostohaanyám testvérei lovas kocsival jártak ki a mezőre.

Az egyik bátyám, Sternberger Jenő 1903-ban született, később bádogos és lakatos volt. A másik, Sándor 1910-ben született, villanyszerelő és mozigépész volt, a háború után a műszaki bolt vezetője lett. Jánosházán neki volt az első tévéje. A bátyáimnak az apám bérelt kocsit a MATEUSZ vállalattól, az olyan, mint később a TEFU [Föltehetően a Magyar Teherautó-fuvarozók Országos Központi Szövetkezetéről, a MATEOSZ-ról van szó, amely 1933-ban alakult meg. – A szerk.]. A Zalaegerszeg melletti Milejből és Nagylengyelből szedték össze a gyönyörű gyümölcsöket, amit Sopronba, Kőszegre, Győrbe, Szombathelyre, Celldömölkre, Sümegre szállítottak felváltva. Nagyon korán, már sötétben elmentek, és reggelig fuvaroztak. Kereskedők voltunk, apám a faluban árulta a dinnyét. Én hat-hét éves voltam, és mindig kiszámoltam a dinnye árát. Ha hat fillér volt kilója, akkor az ötkilós harminc fillér.

Jenő bátyám első feleségét úgy hívták, hogy Bernstein Katalin. A két gyerekkel, az ötéves Istvánnal és a hatéves Lacikával deportálták, és nem jöttek vissza. Jenőnek a második felesége Krausz Teréz, aki anyai ágon az unokatestvérem [édesanyja testvérének, Krausz Istvánné, szül. Krausz Irmának a lánya], de megvizsgáltatták magukat, mikor hazajöttek a deportálásból, nehogy a közeli rokonság miatt beteg gyerekük szülessen.

A Teri nővérem 1905-ben született. Szegény Jenő bátyám mindig azt mondta, hogy én még meg sem születtem, mikor a Teri már férjhez ment. Irén nővérem 1915-ben született, Bözsink 1920-ban. Ezek voltak a testvéreim, velem együtt hatan, és visszajöttünk négyen: a két bátyám, Bözsi nővérem meg én. Volt egy testvérem, a kis Józsika, aki születéskor meghalt, mikor én három éves voltam.

Terink hozzáment egy Lőwinger Jenő nevű emberhez. A férje bádogos és lakatos volt. Járt ki házakhoz csatornát csinálni, a kémény mellé pléhet rakott, a műhelyben lábasokat javított, a nővérem meg árusított, mert elöl volt a boltjuk, a bádogosüzletük, ahol a zománcáruk voltak. Jenő meghalt tébécében. Tőle született Kati. Jenő halála után férjhez ment az öccséhez, Lőwinger Lajoshoz, tőle született Magda és Ferike [Elképzelhető, hogy a sógorházasság (levirátus) szokásának megfelelően került sor erre a második házasságra, ui. az első házasságban csak leánygyerek született. – A szerk.]. Úgy hívtuk, hogy Süppedék, mert nagyon szerette a süteményt.

Irén nővérem férje Weisz Sándor fuvaros volt. Egy kislányuk született, Kati. Apám mindig azt mondta, hogy amíg ő él, addig Irén nem lesz a Weisz Sanyi felesége. De Irénnek ez gyerekkori udvarlója volt. Az apám lenézte őket, hogy olyan szegények voltak. Ott az apa meghalt, a két gyerek úgy küszködött az anyjukkal, hogy elmentek mind dolgozni valami munkára. Így tudtak lovat venni, és dolgoztak.

Mi nagyon jól voltunk anyagilag. Apám mindenhonnan hozott nekem valamit. A gyümölcsből nagyon elegünk volt, mert az mindig volt. Nekem rengeteg narancsom volt, és a narancsok régen be voltak csomagolva selyempapírba. A bátyáim elől el kellett tenni, de egyszerre nekem sem lehetett sokat enni, mert elég sok bajom volt a gyomrommal. Én voltam a legkisebb, annyira dédelgettek, a testvérem, Sanyi odaadott volna nekem a világon mindent.

Az utca felőli első szoba volt a mostohaanyámé és az apámé. Nálunk nem úgy volt, mint faluhelyen általában. Nálunk a tisztaszoba az egy hálószoba volt, gyönyörű nagy szekrényekkel. Ott a szekrény tetején volt elrakva mindig a csokoládé. Csokoládéfigurák voltak: nap, boszorkány, ördög, ilyenek. Az apám tudta, hogy hányat tesz föl a szekrény tetejére, a Jenő meg bevitte a hokedlit a szobába, én láttam, és olyan kis árulkodós voltam, hogy megmondtam, hogy láttam a Jenőt, hogy elvitte a csokit. Ő meg még fogta a hokedlit. A fiúknak külön szobájuk volt. Vályogból volt a ház alapja. Volt előszobája is. Az előszoba a konyha előtt ment végig, igazi falusi ház volt. Egyszer kidőlt az előszobafal egy része. A fiúk szobája az már padlózott, köves volt. Nagy konyhánk volt kemencével. Ott szoktunk mindig pihengetni. A kemence előtt volt egy ágy is. Régen az volt a divat, hogy a nagymamák a konyhában aludtak. Én mindig a mostohaanyám mellett aludtam, mert nagyon beteges voltam. Fel kellett kelnem éjjel is, akkor ő mindig betakart a dunyhával. Nagyon szerettem a mostohaanyámat.

Akkor még nem volt vezetékes víz. A kútban finom friss vizünk volt, de apám, úgy látszik, kényes volt, és azt szerette, hogy még jobb legyen a víz, és kútfúrókkal mélyíttette ki a kutat. Vödörrel húztuk fel a vizet. Hosszú udvar tartozott a házhoz, volt garázsunk és pajtánk, amit most raktárnak hívunk. A garázsban állt a nagy MATEUSZ kocsi. Mikor apámék hazajöttek, akkor oda betették. Egész nap dolgoztak, éjjeltől másnap reggelig, amíg eladták a gyümölcsöt. A házunk kertje a másik utcára nézett. Azon az utcán a temetőbe szoktunk lemenni. Amikor az apám meghalt, megvették tőlünk a kertet, és beépítették házakkal. Az udvaron volt még egy felemás szederfa is, az egyik fele lilás volt, a másik őszes. Nagyon szerettük azt a fát. Fölmásztam rá, onnan kukucskáltam be a házba.

Volt egy szoba, amit sötétszobának hívtunk, ott lakott egy albérlő. Egy férfi, aki nagyon szerelmes volt Irénbe, de Irén nem szerette, mert ő azt a gyerekkori barátját szerette.  Ehhez az albérlőhöz hozzáadta volna Irént az apám, mert az katolikus volt, műszaki üzletben dolgozott. Ha meg nem volt albérlő, akkor az unokaöcs, a Krausz Miklós jött oda hozzánk, aki ott járt iskolába, mert Mihályfán nem volt zsidó iskola [Mihályfa – kisközség volt Zala vm.-ben, 1910-ben 800, 1920-ban 700 lakossal. – A szerk.].

Az édesanyám egyik testvére, az Irma néni Mihályfán lakott. Egész véletlen, hogy Irma férje is Krausz volt, Krausz Pista. Így lett Irma lánya Krausz Teri. Nagyünnepekkor odajöttek hozzánk a családok, a nagybátyáim, nagynénéim, mert máshol nem volt zsidó templom. Nagyon jó családi élet volt. A testvérek nagyon szerették egymást.

A szombatot mindig megtartottuk. Gyertyát gyújtottunk, kalács volt, barheszt csináltunk, túrós batyut, buktát, kakaós kalácsot. Csináltam én mákos, túrós bejglit, de mi kindlinek hívtuk a bejglit [A kindlit hagyományosan Purimkor készítik, lényegében ugyanolyan tésztából, mint a beiglit, csak zsiradéknak libazsírt használnak, nem vajat. – A szerk.]. A Pészahot is megtartottuk. Minden vallásnak megvannak az előírásai. A padláson voltak az edények, amikor az egyik lejött, a másik fölment. Mindent ki kellett mosni, kóserolni, mert a tejest és a zsírost nem kevertük össze [lásd: étkezési törvények]. Jánosházán nem volt kóser üzlet. Mi kóserok voltunk az evésben. Libát vágtunk minden héten, kettőt is. Húsleves volt az aprólékból, meg rizses hús. Mi annyira nem pörköltöztünk, régen nem volt divat arra mifelénk. A mákos-aljas pogácsa volt a divat Jánosházán. A mákos aljas pogácsának mind a két felét megsütötték, és az isteni volt. Pészahkor maceszgombócos húsleves, szombaton sólet szokott lenni, meg sült húsok libából. A sóletben benne volt a liba nyaka, szárnya, a zúza, olyan húsok, amik abba valók, meg füstölt libacomb.

Nálunk sose volt pálinka. Bor szokott lenni. Apám hozott egy kis göcseji bort, mert kellett is a széderestén. Már külön voltak a nővéreim, de széderestére odajöttek férjestől, gyerekestől. A mostohaanyám nagyon szép volt. Arra is emlékszem, hogy négy pohár bor volt, és kis tálkákban a mézbe a maceszt belemártogattuk. Nagyon szép volt a szédereste. Először bróhet mondtak, imádkozott a mostohaanyám. Sokszor valamelyik testvér átjött, csak úgy átugrott, hogy van-e minden, tojás meg ami kell. A mostohaanya testvéreinek volt lisztjük, mert ők őröltek. Rengeteg búzát, kukoricát, hagymát, mindent onnan kaptunk, Zalagyömörőből.

Otthon az anyám nem egyedül vezette a háztartást, cselédet régen muszáj volt tartani. De nem úgy voltak tartva, mint cselédek, hanem nagyon rendes szobájuk volt. A sötétszoba volt nekik berendezve. A házi cseléd a Mancika volt. Egyszer az apám behozatta vele a kettős létrát, és odaállította az asztal mellé. Felküldte Mancikát a létrára, hogy nézzen le, hogy mi van az asztalon, és mi hiányzik. Szegény apám az annyira pedáns ember volt. A kocsikísérő az meg a pajta mellett, abból leválasztva egy nagyon aranyos kis fülkében szokott aludni. Amikor apámmal éjjel hazaértek, hajnalig pihentek, ő ott aludt a fülkében, és utána mentek Sopronba vagy Kőszegre vagy valahova. Egy cigány gyerek volt, de nagyon rendes. A faluban lakott, haza is mehetett, amikor akart, de jobb volt nálunk, mert a koszt nagyon jó volt. A cigány gyerek megölte volna azokat, akik bántották volna a zsidókat. Mindig elkísért bennünket a templomba, a nagyböjtben este, és mindig megvárt bennünket [A nagyböjt a katolikus hitélet része, Ozorai Sándorné – mint mások is – valószínűleg a Jom Kipurkor előírt egész napos böjtöt nevezi nagyböjtnek. – A szerk.]. A lányok külön mentek, a fiúk is külön mentek, minket ott várt, és hazakísért. Nagyon szeretett, sokszor hozott nekem az anyjától cigány ételt is. Megettem. Jánosházán én ott voltam a cséplésen, a disznóvágáson is. A disznó-dolgokat is megettem, mert annyira szerettem. Az apám is olyan volt, mint én. Ő is megette.

Amikor gyerek voltam, nagyon szép volt a templom. Felül voltak a nők, lent a férfiak [Az ortodox zsinagógában a nők nem vegyülhetnek a férfiak közé, különválasztott hely (sokszor ráccsal vagy függönnyel is ellátott karzat) van számukra fenntartva. – A szerk.]. Jánosházán volt zsidó temető, rabbi, kántor, templomszolga [samesz], minden volt. Mi neológok voltunk, de nekem sok ortodox barátnőm is volt. Imádtam a Rubinstein lányokat, a rabbinak a lányait. Az egyik [Rubinstein] lány asszony volt már, és elvitték, a másik lánnyal találkoztam Izraelben, és nagyon megörült nekem. Jánosházán nagyon sok zsidó volt, nyolcvan család biztosan. A legtöbben a Sümegi utcán laktak. Az ortodoxok többen voltak, mint a neológok. A téglagyárosékat Sándoréknak hívták. A legjobb barátom az osztálytársam, Sándor József volt. Magyar doktor az egy főorvos volt, körzeti orvos, de főorvos, saját magánrendelője volt, mindenki odatartozott hozzá, nagyon szerették, nagyon rendes volt. Neki a fia, a felesége és a lánya odalett. És én még a háború után is sokszor találkoztam vele Hévízen. Nagyon szeretett, mert én voltam a legkisebb a családban. Keszthelyen lakott a nővérem [Erzsébet], és onnan busszal minden évben elmentem Hévízre. Lőwi Dávid, a kocsmáros a vasúttal szemben lakott, volt ott egy ilyen nagy szálló. A nővérem König Ottóval járt iskolába, az vette el az egyik Lőwi lányt, akinek cipőüzlete volt. Velünk szemben laktak a Stankovicsék, akik cementkereskedők voltak. A másik szomszédunk Holtzer, egy zsidó cipész. Tizenegy gyerekük volt, egyedül Magda, az én osztálytársam jött vissza Auschwitzból. Mind kicsik voltak. Magda sokszor mezítláb átszaladt hozzánk, kiküldte az apja vagy anyja, hogy eleget foglalkozott a kistestvéreivel, ne nyaggassa őket. Waltzeréknak egy gyönyörű nagy üzletük volt szemközt a Mária térnek, az a család is mind odalett, a férfi munkaszolgálatban, a feleség meg Auschwitzban. A lányuk ki tudott menni Izraelbe, ott élnek. A pék az csak a zsidóknak volt kóser. Sternberger bácsinak hívtuk. „Mennyi zsemle tetszik?” – kérdezte mindig. Volt egy ilyen hordára, aki hozta a zsemlét meg a kenyeret, amit kértünk. Soha nem felejtem el, ahogy az ablakot megkopogtatta. Pénteken elvittem a sóletot a pékhez. Sokszor a nővéremmel, a Bözsivel együtt. Volt kóser vágóhely, odavittük mi is a libát, csirkét, ott vágták le [lásd: sakter].

A zsidók ugyanúgy éltek, mint a falusiak, nem különben azért, mert például ők boltosok voltak. Mindenkinek megvolt a reszortja, hogy mit dolgozik, de nem lehetett érezni, hogy valaki katolikus vagy zsidó. Nem is beszéltek erről. Annyira összejártunk a falusiakkal, hogy nem nagyon voltunk külön, csak a vasárnapokat nem tartottuk, de ha volt egy szüreti bál, akkor arra elmentünk. A katolikusoknak volt karácsonyfájuk, és én azt nagyon irigyeltem. Egyszer nagyon beteg és vékony voltam, nyolc éves lehettem. Akkora kertünk volt, hogy tényleg volt rajta hét szilvafa. Szegény apám teleakasztotta szaloncukrokkal az egyiknek az alját. Pokrócba betakart, mert lázas beteg voltam, és kivitt, hogy saját magam szedjem le a szilvafáról a szaloncukrot. Jó emlékezni rá, de nagyon rossz, ha visszagondolok, hogy ilyen gyerekkorból milyen felnőttkor lett.

Jánosházán zsidó elemi iskolában jártam öt osztályt. Tanultunk héberül írni is, olvasni is. Tudtam minden ünnepet, hogy miért van. Az iskolában a tanító olyan volt, mint mi, a neológokhoz tartozott. Nagyon aranyos volt a tanító bácsink. A fia annyi idős volt, mint én. Együtt volt mindenki az első osztálytól a hatodik osztályig. Amelyik gyerek rosszalkodott, ötödikes, hatodikos, azt a tanító bácsi kizavarta a templomkertbe, az udvarra, hogy játsszanak, focizzanak. Mindent megengedett nekik, hogy ne zavarják az órát. Nagyon jó volt annak a fiával, Lacival is találkozni kint, Izraelben.

Purimkor, tizenegy évesen játszottam a színdarabban. Kéményseprő voltam. Apám még akkor élt, és nagyon tetszett neki, hogy szerepelek. Azt mondta, világéletében ilyen gyereket képzelt, hogy élelmes és ilyen ügyes legyen. Szegénykém, nagyon szerette a családját. Március tizenötödikén a Máriakertben Petőfi Sándor versét szavaltam. Hófehér zokni volt rajtam, fekete lakkcipő, és magyar ruhában mondtam el a verset: „Talpra magyar, hí a haza!” A magyar ruha piros, fehér, zöld hímzéssel volt tele. Más iskolákból is jöttek nagyobbak, a felső tagozatosok.

Jánosházán a központ a Máriakert, ott volt a községháza, a polgári iskola meg a temető felé, de egyszer csak megszűnt. Nem tudom már, hogy miért szűnt meg, csak azt, hogy Cellben [Celldömölkön] tanultam volna tovább. Úgy volt, hogy majd az ötödik elemi után megyek polgáriba, végül nem mentem.

Tizenegy éves voltam, amikor meghalt az apám, nem sokkal az után, hogy a nagymamát hetvennyolc évesen eltemettük. Az apám ötvenhat éves volt. Egy hónap alatt elment gégerákban, nem bírta már akkor a paradicsomot, minden csípte a torkát. Egy hétig volt a kórházban, akkor még nem volt olyan, hogy a rákot megműtik. Ott maradtam a mostohaanyámmal és a testvéreimmel. Az apámat a frontharcos társai, a tűzoltók, a vasutasok mind elkísérték a temetőbe. Mikor visszanéztem, utcahosszan voltak, mert az apám egy olyan közismert ember volt. Ott van a jánosházi temetőben a nagyanyám mellett.

Már nem mehettem a polgáriba, kisgyerekek mellett voltam, otthon dolgoztam. Utána el kellett helyezkednem. Először rövidáru-piperecikkben voltam eladó, nem szerződtem le inasnak annak idején. Tizenöt pengő volt az első fizetésem. Aztán tizenhat évesen Sümegre kerültem a sógorom testvéréhez, Lőwinger Rudolfhoz, aki bádogos és vízvezeték-szerelő volt. Egy évig náluk dolgoztam kisasszonyként. Az üzletben fogadtam az embereket. Be kellett írni egy füzetbe, hogy például átvettünk egy lábost cinezésre, foltozásra. Jártunk a vásárokra kocsival, ahol árultuk az edényeket, a bilitől kezdve a fazékig mindent. A munkámról hivatalos igazolást kaptam, hogy ott dolgoztam a Lőwingeréknél Sümegen [Sümeg – járásszékhely nagyközség volt Zala vm.-ben, 1920-ban 5300 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.].

A bátyám, Sanyi mozigépész is volt. Nagyon szerettem, imádtam őt, minden filmet a gépteremből nézhettem. Odahozott egy csomó cukorkát, tudta, hogy szeretem. Jó kis támlás székem volt, ott ültem, onnan néztem a filmet, de volt, amikor a páholyban üres hely volt, ott jobb volt nézni a filmet. Bözsi nővérem elment Kővágóörsre kisasszonynak, a nagymamám testvéréhez, a Brandl Béla bácsihoz, mert fűszerüzlete volt meg szódagyára az udvarban. Bözsit Brandl Béla bácsi örökbe akarta fogadni, de szegény anyám még ott volt velünk [A mostohaanyáról van szó, aki férje halála (1934) után egy ideig még a gyerekekkel élt, majd elköltözött idős rokonaihoz, Zalaszentgrótra. – A szerk.], és azt mondta, hogy nem szeretné. Béla bácsi egyik fia, Sanyi még a háború előtt kiment Amerikába. A háború után egy rövid időre hazajött, és Bözsiék végül tőle vették meg a kővágóörsi házat.

Aztán Bözsink hozzáment a mostoha nagybátyámhoz, Stern Sándorhoz.

Tizenhat éves koromban kaptam meg Teri nővéremtől azt a gyűrűt, amit apám hozott Olaszországból, ahol frontharcos volt. Jenő tizenhat éves korában kapta meg az óráját. Az volt a szerencsénk, hogy Teri sógorának, az egyik Lőwingernek, a sümegi téglagyár vezetőjének a felesége katolikus volt. A férj elment munkaszolgálatra. A nővéremnek, úgy látszik, volt annyi esze, hogy mikor hallotta, hogy mi van, akkor összeszedte az ékszereket, és odaadta ennek a feleségnek. A második világháború után mindent visszaadott, így én is visszakaptam a saját fülbevalómat és a gyűrűmet, amit tizenhat éves koromban kaptam. A lányom, Ágnes tizennégy éves korában azt mondta, hogy már mindenki tizenhat évesnek nézi, nyugodtam odaadhatom a gyűrűt. Azóta nála van.

1941-ben jöttem fel Pestre. Akkor voltam tizennyolc éves. Teri nővérem barátainál, a Gyarmatiéknál laktam három évig, a Dessewffy utca 26-ban. A gyerekek, Gyarmati Laci és Pali tizennégy és kilenc évesek voltak. Velük most is tartom a kapcsolatot. Lacika arra emlékszik, hogy 1944-ben a pincébe úgy mentünk le bombázáskor, hogy én mindig vittem a kekszeket, süteményt, amit csináltam.

Teri nővérem jánosházi katolikus barátnője, Jolánka hozzáment egy budapesti ékszerkereskedőhöz. A férje elment katonának, mivel katolikus család volt, de a feleségének azt mondta, hogy az ékszereket dugja el. A férje nem volt zsidó, nem azért féltette az ékszereket, mert elveszik, hanem azért, hogy amikor visszajön a katonaságból, tudjanak valamit kezdeni. Jolánka az ékszerek egy részét eladta, és abból éttermet nyitott a Honvéd utcában. Volt menü, és a minisztériumokból, a Szabadság tér környékéről, azokból az utcákból jártak hozzánk. Engem mint ismerőst 1943 végén felvett felszolgálónak. Hárman voltunk felszolgálók. Délelőtt áttöröltük az edényeket, evőeszközt, hogy minden tiszta legyen, mindenkinek szalvétát tettünk, poharat. Reggel nyolctól délután négy óráig dolgoztam, hat óra felé értem haza. Havonta fizettek. Onnan tudtam vinni haza vajat, ezt-azt a hétvégén.

1944-ben a két fiútestvérem munkatáborban [munkaszolgálatban] volt. Az egyik, Jenő bátyám itt, Pesten a Ferencvárosi pályaudvarnál. Van ott egy nagy iskola, ott volt benn, én vittem neki a tiszta fehérneműt. Együtt volt a jánosháziakkal. A másik bátyám, Sanyi Budafokon vagy Budatétényben volt, már nem emlékszem rá pontosan. A két bátyám gyalog ment ki Günskirchenbe, Ausztriába [lásd: halálmenetek Hegyeshalomba]. Én csillag nélkül [lásd: sárga csillag] járkáltam Pesten. Amikor Budafokra mentem meglátogatni Sanyi bátyámat, a HÉV-en ellenőriztek. De Jolánka csináltatott nekem olyan papírt, hogy Kovács Ida vagyok, született Jánosháza, 1923-ban, édesapja Kovács János. A Honvéd utcai étteremben mondták is a vendégek, hogy ezt a magyaros, „Vazs” megyei temperamentumosságot nem tudni, kitől örököltem, de az biztos, hogy jó helyről származom. Mondom, igen, Jánosháza Vas megyében az egy nagyon jó falu, nagyközség. Nem is gondolták, hogy zsidó vagyok, abszolút nem gondolták. A Nagymező utca 76–78-ban, a Dessewffy utca sarkán laktunk, csillagos házban. Minden reggel elmentem dolgozni. Sokuknak, időseknek hoztam kenyeret, ezt-ezt, maradék ételt. Segítettem őket. A gettóban [lásd: budapesti gettó] a Dohány utcába kerültünk.

1944. október tizenötödikén a proklamációt [lásd: Horthy-proklamáció] a rádióban hallottuk. Aztán a nyilasok átvették a hatalmat, minden zsidónak tizenöt évestől hatvan évesig ki kellett menni a KISOK-pályára, jelentkezni hétfőn. Ez volt vasárnap. Az unokaöcsém, a Krausz Miklós, szegénykém ott evett nálam, mikor meghallotta, ment oda vissza, ahol a Jenő bátyám volt, a Ferencvárosi pályaudvar mellé, ott volt az iskola, ahol a munkaszolgálatosok voltak.

1944. október tizenhatodikán vonultam be először én is munkaszolgálatra. Este lett, mire mindenkit szétválogattak, és én a Tatterzárban [Tattersal] aludtam egy éjjel a padokon. Ordítoztak a nyilasok, hogy hallgassunk el. Másnap reggel gyalog mentünk Dinnyésre. Székesfehérváron voltunk sáncot ásni. Dinnyésen ilyen öreg, totyakos Wehrmacht-katonák, nem SS-ek voltak velünk. A munkaszolgálaton is azért voltam én jó, mert a Wehrmacht-katonák látták, hogy nagy kezem volt. „Gross Hand”, mondom, „viel Arbeit”. Én tizenegy éves koromtól mindig „muss arbeit”, mondom nekik, úgyhogy nagyon szerettek. Egyszer összebarátkoztam egy idős katonával, kérdezte, hogy tudok-e sütni vagy főzni. Mondom, ha én egyszer csinálnék gulyást, megnyalnád mind az ujjadat. Mertem beszélni, a zsidó iskolában tanultunk kicsit németül. Mondtam neki, nagyon finom tejfölös pogácsát tudok csinálni, üvegpohárral. Dinnyés óriási tanya volt, ahol a házakban kemence meg minden volt. A Wehrmacht-katona vett egy asszonytól lisztet, tojást, nem vajat, mert akkor már margarin volt, azt hiszem, disznózsírral keverve. Csináltam olyan nyolcvan pogácsát, az egész tábor, mindenki kapott. Mutogattak, hogy én vagyok, aki a pogácsát csinálta. Különválasztottak, azt mondta, ennek nem szabad dolgozni, ő majd sütni fogi. Néhány hétre rá, 1944. november huszonnyolcadikán szétengedtek bennünket, hadtápterület volt, jöttek az oroszok, menekülni kellett, mindenkit elküldtek, menjünk, ahova akarunk. Elbújhattunk volna, de én az okos kis fejemmel a testvéreimet akartam látni. Úgyhogy egy lánnyal együtt, aki végig velem jött, fölkéredzkedtünk magyar katonakocsikra, és följöttünk Budapestre.

Visszamentünk a Dohány utcába, a csillagos házba. Viszont akartam látni a testvéreimet. A nővérem, a Teri azt írta már Sárvárról, mert odavitték a jánosháziakat, hogy búcsúzom, drága kis testvérem, a jó Isten adjon erőt, egészséget, hogy túlélhesd ezt a dolgot. Ezt muszáj megírnom neked, hogy elbúcsúzzak. Valamilyen SS-katona vagy határőr föladta a lapot, és megkaptam. Bennem az volt végig, hogy ki akarok menni Németországba, a testvéreimet akarom látni. Ők dolgos emberek voltak, és az én fantáziámban az volt, hogy ott az idősebbek otthon vannak a gyerekekkel, a fiatalok dolgoznak valahol. Én azt gondoltam, hogy aki nem gyilkol, nem rabol, becsületesen dolgozik, azt nem érheti ilyen. Azok soha nem bántottak senkit, egyszerű falusi emberek, végigdolgozták az egész életüket. Húsz-huszonegy éves fejemmel csak erre gondoltam.

A másik nővéremet, Irént, szegényt is deportálták a jánosháziakkal együtt.

A csillagos házban negyvenen voltunk egy szobában. Itt még nem tudtam, hogy mi lesz. Másnapra odajött egy ilyen utónéző, SS vagy nyilas, aki utólag megint körbenézett. Mindenki  fiatalt, jó bőrben lévőt hatvanéves korig lezavartak. Először a Klauzál térre vittek bennünket a nyilasok, ott mindenkitől, éntőlem is lerángatták a fülbevalót meg a nyakláncomat. Mindent oda kellett adni, aztán gyalog vittek a Dohány utcából a Teleki tér 5. szám alá [A Teleki tér 4–10-ben (az egykori Antiszemita Párt egyik gyülekezőhelyének – Teleki tér 8 – szomszédságában) volt nyilasház – gyűjtőház –, ahova 1944 őszén „utcán elfogott, lakásokból kirángatott zsidókat hoztak be. A Teleki tér 5. szám alatti házban lakott egy időben Benoschofsky Imre és volt egy imaház is itt. – A szerk.]. Aztán  a Józsefvárosi pályaudvaron vagoníroztak minket. Mi csak a hátizsákot vihettük a munkaszolgálatba. Bakancs, egy pár ruhanemű, nadrág, nehogy fázzunk, ha hideg van. 1944. december másodikán vagoníroztak. Tizenkilenc napig utaztunk hetvenen a vagonban, minden reggel odafagyva a vagon falához. Sokat álltunk, ha bombáztak. Egyszer beszóltak, hogy ki tud mosni. Én vállalkoztam rá, és minden este kaptam egy kenyeret. Volt egy kupé, ahol egy nagy üstben főztem a katonák fehér trikóját és hosszú alsónadrágját. A társaim igen örültek a kenyérnek, apróra vágták, hogy mindenkinek jusson. Igen hálásak voltak.

Bergen-Belsenben mindent le kellett szedni magunkról, tiszta meztelen átmenni egy másik barakkba, és közben felvenni a hó alól a csomagokat, és a másik barakkban tudtunk fölöltözni. Lógtak rajtunk az öregasszonyruhák, amiket odadobtak egy csomagban, azt kellett hordani. Faklumpánk volt, meg az a vékony köpeny, majd lefagyott a lábunk. Csapnál kellett mosakodni. Bevittek bennünket, lepetrolozták a hajunkat, mert tetvesek voltunk. A hideg csap alatt csíkosan néztünk ki, ahogy a petrol folyt a hideg vízzel. Levágták a hajunkat, de hozzá nem nyúltak kézzel, pedig ezek is sajnos zsidó voltak, kápók [Kápó – a lágerekben kisegítő rendőri, fegyelmező és munkairányító feladatokat ellátó, több-kevesebb kedvezményben részesülő fogoly. – A szerk.]. Lengyelek voltak, azok mindig azt mondták, hogy ők már 1938 óta ott szenvednek, miközben mi Budapesten kurválkodtunk a presszóban. Megrugdostak bennünket. Később az egyik el akarta venni az ennivalómat, mert véletlenül egy olyan konyhástól, aki ismert engem, kaptam még egy adag zupát délben. Az meg azt mondja, „kurzna magyarszki”, mondom, az anyád az, mert Magyarországon disznó magyarok, „sveine magyarok” voltunk, ott meg kurvák voltunk. Elestem, kidőlt a levesem. A munkácsi Slézinger Irén, a lágertársnőm odajött, nagyon erős, stramm nő volt, egy évvel volt idősebb, mint én, úgy pofon vágta a lengyelt, hogy elment onnan. De mindig szemezgetett velünk, hogy megkapjuk a magunkét, és nem tudtam menekülni előle. Megrugdosott a ronda.

A koncentrációs táborban vizet nem ihattunk, mert fertőzött volt, nem mosakodhattunk, nem volt vécé, se egy vécépapír, csak latrina. Csoportokra lettünk osztva, minden nap máshova osztottak bennünket. A holzkommandóban dolgoztam. Fát hordtunk az erdőből a krematóriumhoz. Azért dolgoztatták az embereket, nehogy veszekedjünk, az eltereli a gondolatot. Végig dolgoztunk, minden nap mást. Egyik nap úgy, hogy elbontottak valami SS épületet, akkor odahordták a léceket, hogy barakkot építsenek belőle. Aztán így kihúztuk ketten, hárman ezt a munkát. Föntről egyszer lecsúsztam, és a karomat átfúrta egy százas szög. Kifordult az ér. Akkor odajött egy orosz lány, letekert egy csomó gézt a lábáról, elharapta, eltépte, kihúzták a szöget ketten. Én el voltam ájulva, arra emlékszem, hogy láttam, mikor tekeredett az ér, mintha giliszta lenne, fehér, áttetsző, mint a bőr. Akkor az orosz lány visszadugdosta, szívogatta, bekötözte nekem, mondták a lányok. Mindig a másik kezemmel takartam, hogy ne lássák. Ez a lány olyan okos volt, valahogy zabrálta a gézt, mert a lába be volt tekerve, nekünk meztelen lábaink voltak. Ameddig leért a csíkos köpeny, addig volt takarva a lábunk, majd lefagyott mindig. A jeges eső, ahogy esett, négy órától, öt órától vagy hatig is ott állt az ember, és verte, és napközben, mikor mentünk a munkára az erdőben, sétálva mentünk, csöpögött le a jég, ráfagyott. Elég nehéz volt kibírni, de én mindig azt mondtam, hogy én mindent megcsinálok, nem várom meg, hogy egyszer megüssenek. Abban a pillanatban fölugrottam, mikor azt mondták, „komm!”, „schnell!”, „álljunk föl!”.

Ádler Ibolya, szegénykém, kilenc nappal a felszabadulás előtt egy hétig haldoklott, reggel kitettük a blokk elé, szegény, még annyit élt, hogy az volt az utolsó szemnézése, amit láttunk, csöpögött az a rozsdás lé a csatornáról. Szinte elmosolyodott, odaért egy csöpp víz, szegénynek, semmi nem volt, amit adtunk volna, reggel még kínáltunk kávéval, brómos kávét kaptunk, hogy ne legyen menzeszünk [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.]. Behoztuk, és dél fele már meghalt.

Utána lett egy munkácsi lágertestvérem, Slézinger Irénnek hívták. Úgy szerettem volna vele találkozni a második világháború után, de soha nem jutottam hozzá a munkám, a két gyerek, a betegség, minden miatt, hogy a Vöröskereszten keresztül keressem, de ő se keresett. És még a három Steiner lány volt velem. Most kettő él belőlük, a harmadik, a legidősebb meghalt. Azt segítettük, amelyik akkor tizenhat éves, fejletlen kislány volt, de túlélte. Én mindig hívom őket, de ők egyszer sem hívnak vissza, lassan elfelejtem őket, mert ők már csak akkor voltak a lágertestvéreim, amikor az Ibi meghalt.

1945. április tizenötödikén arra ébredtünk, hogy a hangszóró mondja: „Achtung, Achtung, Uvada, Uvada [helyesen: Uwaga! Uwaga!]” Figyelem, megjött az angol felszabadító hadsereg, Montgomery csapata. Mindenki maradjon a helyén, hogy minél előbb kezelésre kerüljön. Ezeket még hallottam, utána kómába estem, mert flekktífuszom volt [Flekktífusz vagy kiütéses tífusz – magas lázzal és fejfájással járó fertőző betegség, főleg a ruhatetvek terjesztik. – A szerk.]. Tizenkilenc napig agonizáltam. Egy SS-szanatóriumba vittek. Május negyedikén, egy nappal a születésnapom előtt tértem magamhoz. Minden nap gumiágyon vittek a koszt lemosni és orvosi kezelésre. Tojás nagyságú gennyes furunkulusokat kapartak ki a testem különböző részeiről. Augusztustól kerültem vissza a lágertestvérekhez, amikor jobban lettem. Mikor Bergen-Belsenből szabadultunk, mindenkit ki akartak vinni Izraelbe [Palesztinába] hajóval. „I go home!”, megyek haza, mondtam, mert én tiltakoztam, és velem együtt volt egy cigány lány, „I go home!”, az is ezt mondta. Én tudtam, hogy a két bátyám él, mert minden lágerban leadták a neveket. Az én nevemet is leadták, hogy ott vagyok, élek és megmaradtam. Ugyanúgy a Bözsi nővérem is. Négyen maradtunk a hatból.

Mostohaanyám édesapa halála után Zalaszentgróton élt, idős rokonait ápolta. Őt Zalaegerszegről deportálták Auschwitzba zalagyömörői testvéreivel együtt. A Stern családból csak három férfi, egyikük felesége és lánya élte túl a holokausztot.

Ausztriában a két bátyám egy udvarban talált egy lerobbant amerikai dzsipet, nekihasaltak, megjavították, és még három embert hazahoztak Jánosházára. Mire mi hazajöttünk, ők már itthon voltak. Jenő bátyámnak lakatosműhelye volt, régen ilyen csikósparherteket csinált, benne volt a névjegye, hogy ő csinálta [lásd: sparhelt]. A háború után hetven sparhertet visszaadtak vagy kifizettek neki a környék falvaiból, azért, mert a Sternberger Jenő az olyan ember volt, hogy amit megígért, az arra a napra meglett. Mind a két bátyám visszaszerezte a lakását. Sanyi lakásában laktunk, de közben Jenő megszerezte a műhelyét, az utcában lévő nagy rőfös, rövidáru-kereskedőnek a lakását pedig megkapta hivatalosan. Nagylengyelben kaptunk földrészt, mert ott a nagymamám és a férjei révén birtokunk volt.

A háború után Türjétől kezdve Zalaegerszegig, Nagykanizsáig szereztek nekem özvegyembereket, de én nem mentem volna olyanhoz hozzá, akinek családja volt, és azt mondja, hogy a felesége mennyivel másabb volt. Elég volt nekem a testvéreimet siratni.

1946-ban már plugán voltam. A Jókai utcában, a Mikroszkóp Színházzal szemben volt a pluga. A pluga az Izraelbe kivándorló cionisták előkészítő és gyűjtőhelye volt. Hívták hachsarának is, ma ulpán a neve [lásd: cionizmus 1938 és 1940 között Magyarországon; hachsara; Hanoár Hacioni Magyarországon]. Ott ismertem meg Krausz [Kabos] Lacit [Kabos László (1923–2004) – színész. – A szerk.]. Ki akart velünk jönni Izraelbe. Férjhez mentem egy zsidó gyerekhez, úgy akart élni, mint egy úr, ha úgy döglik is meg, mint egy kutya. Ezzel a jelszóval vett feleségül, bár inkább más vesződött volna vele. Klein György volt a neve. Szlovákiai zsidó gyerek volt, onnan jött át az öccsével. A szüleit deportálták Szlovákiából, ő pedig vagányan az öccsével átjött Pestre, összebarátkoztak a nyilasokkal, beálltak hozzájuk sofőrnek. Nem voltak vallásosak, nem voltak megmálenolva [lásd: körülmetélés]. A testvére, Tamás imádott engem. Az első férjem jó gépkocsivezető volt, a nyilasoknál megtanulta, és engem is megtanított vezetni. Egyszer végig a nyolcas úton én vezettem, amikor Jánosházára mentünk, mert Ajkától kezdve elaludt a részeg. A bátyám kétszázötvenes motorját is tudtam vezetni. Jánosházán egy csoda voltam, hogy a Sternberger Iduska motorozik. Megvan a fényképe az első férjemnek, de csak azért, mert a nővérem megtartotta. Amikor Szombathelyen volt a pluga, a Savaria szálloda mellett egy orvosnak a házában laktunk, aki nem jött vissza. Az égvilágon senki zsidó ember nem maradt Jánosházán, mind eljöttek vagy meghaltak. Kimentek rengetegen legálisan és illegálisan már a második világháború előtt is, ahogy az unokanővérem, Manci is kiment. A cionista csoportnak voltam én is a tagja. Vagyonom is volt Izraelben, mert kellett ezeket a csoportokat segíteni. Mikor már benn voltam a plugán, egy földdarabot megvettünk Izraelben.

1946. augusztusban mentem férjhez, és 1947. februárban otthagytam. Elváltunk, hét pap aláírása kellett hozzá, mert én hüpe alatt esküdtem [Lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás. A zsidó válópert a bét din, a három rabbiból álló rabbinikus bíróság felügyelete alatt kell lefolytatni.  A válóperen jelen kell még lennie a szóférnak, az írnoknak, aki a válólevelet, a getet elkészíti, és két tanúnak. Ha nincs más alkalmas személy, a bét din tagjai betölthetik a tanúk szerepét. – A szerk.]. Utána az első férjem kiment Izraelbe, én búcsúztattam el. 1947 januárjában már udvarolt a második férjem, de csak 1948-ban esküdtünk meg. A férjemnek katolikus családja volt. Az anyja igen, de ő nem volt soha vallásos. Amikor házasságot kötöttünk, csak polgárilag esküdtünk. A férjem Dombóváron született 1923-ban [Dombóvár – 1891-ben (még Ó-Dombovár) nagyközség volt Tolna vm.-ben 3300 lakossal. 1910-ben már Dombóvár nagyközség 6800 lakossal, vasúti csomópont. Volt tégla- és zsindelygyára, agyagcsőgyára, műmalma. Lakóinak száma 1920-ban 8600, 1930-ban 9000 fő volt. – A szerk.]. Gyerekkorában ott lakott végig. Az anyukája részéről Kovács, ők földműves parasztok voltak. Volt nekik kukorica- és krumpliföldjük és kertjük is. Ozorai Györgynek hívták a férjem apját, de negyvenhárom évesen, amikor ő kilenc éves volt, vakbélben elment. Dombóváron az Újtelepen, a Vasutas utcában laktak, ott építettek a vasutas családoknak házakat, és mindegyikhez volt kert is. Egyszer azt írta a sógornőm, hogy megérett a finom cseresznye, nagyon szeretnénk benneteket látni, de ha lehet, akkor unokák nélkül. Soha többet nem mentem. A férjemnek egyetlenegy húga volt. Minden nyáron Dombóváron nyaraltunk, amíg a nővérem nem ment Keszthelyre.

Elmentem én is dolgozni. Először Pesten voltam a legnagyobb élelmiszer-áruházban, a Rákóczi út és a Körút sarkán. Három műszakban dolgoztam [Ez a közért volt sokáig Budapest egyetlen éjjel-nappal nyitva tartó élelmiszerboltja. – A szerk.]. A presszó pénztárosa voltam, mert az volt a legnehezebb. Azt mondták, hogy két rum, két kávé, két ásványvíz, és akkor fejből összeadtam, beütöttem a gépbe. Akkor még nem adta össze a gép. Itt voltam 1948-ig. A Közért Vállalathoz úgy került be, hogy először a Nagyvásártelepen almát, krumplit stb. kellett válogatni, és pénztárosokat kerestek. Közértes voltam végig Budapesten a nagyközértben, a Nyugati melletti tejvendéglőben, a Szent István körúton, a Margit hídnál is voltam pénztáros. Énhozzám odajártak a Kabos László, a Gobbi Hilda, Mezey Mária, Szörényi Éva meg egy csomóan [Gobbi Hilda (1913–1988) – színésznő; pályafutása leghosszabb szakasza a Nemzeti Színházhoz kötötte; Mezey Mária (1909–1983) – színésznő; 1964-től a Nemzeti Színház tagja; Szörényi Éva (szül. 1917) – színésznő, a Nemzeti Színház tagja volt 1956-ig. 1957 óta az USA-ban él. – A szerk.]. Fehér svájci sapka volt a kötelező viselet, és mindig kérték, hogy mondjak valamit „Vazs“ megyeiesen, nagyon szerették.

Úgy volt, hogy a második férjemmel együtt kimegyünk Izraelbe. A férjem egy évig azért beiratkozott a plugára, hogy ő is kijön velem, de az édesanyja könyörgött, hogy ne menjen, mert egy huszonöt éves embert nem akart elveszíteni az anyja. Az egy olyan vallásos katolikus anya volt, ő nem haragudott rám, hogy zsidó vagyok, sőt imádott, azért, mert neki a barátnője is zsidó lány volt.

A KPM [Közlekedés- és Postaügyi Minisztérium] iskolájában tanultam, és vizsgáztam szállításvezetésből. Aztán elvégeztem a gépkocsi-előadóit. A SZIMFI-be, a Szerszámgépipari Művek Fejlesztő Intézetébe kerültem. A Liget úton volt, Budapesten.

A férjem Pécsett gépipari technikumot végzett [Pécsett 1912 óta működött egy Állami Fa- és Fémipari Szakiskola, amely 1941-től Felső Ipariskolaként (vagy: Felsőipari Iskolaként) működött gépész és villamos tagozattal. (Ebből az iskolából lett 1955-ben a Zipernowsky Károly Általános Gépipari és Erősáramú Technikum.) Valószínűleg itt végzett a férj a háború előtt. – A szerk.]. A második világháború előtt feljött Pestre, és a Dunai Repülőgépgyárban dolgozott mint technikus. A háborúban behívták katonának, a fogságban az oroszok térképrajzolásra fogták. A háború után a Csepel Műveknél a kerékpárüzemben dolgozott, utána a Csepel Autógyárban mint méréstechnikus [A Csepel Autógyár Nemzeti Vállalat 1949 novemberében alakult meg a csepel-szigeti Szigetszentmiklóson, a lebombázott Dunai Repülőgépgyár területén. Egy akkor korszerűnek számító, 1944-es osztrák Steyr teherautó gyártási jogát szerezték meg (Ausztria ekkor még szovjet megszállás alatt volt, ezért tudták megvásárolni a licencet). A sorozatgyártás 1951-ben indult, 1955-ben pedig már a húszezredik autó készült el. Az utolsó Csepel-motoros Csepel teherautó 1977-ben gördült le a szalagról. – A szerk.]. Ott dolgozott negyven évet. Amikor a Csepel Autógyárban a központi mérőszobában dolgozott, méréstechnikát tanított a technikumos tanulóknak. Ő volt a központi mérőszoba vezetője. Járt szegény a műszaki egyetemre három félévet, de amikor a kislányunk megszületett 1951-ben, szamárköhögést kapott, és a Szabolcs utcai zsidókórházba került, mert ott volt először sztreptomicin Magyarországon. A kislánynak hat hétig tartott ez a betegség, és a férjem nem tudott tanulni, dolgozni meg tanítani is, mert inkább vitte a gyerekét levegőre, és akkor járt föl a Hármashatár-hegyre vele. Nadrágszíjjal hátizsáknak megcsinálta a bundazsákot, mert másképp nem tudott fogódzkodni a villamoson. Úgy mentek mindenhova, mert más levegő kellett a gyereknek. Hordta oda-vissza egész télben, mert négyóránként szoptattam.

1949-ben Pesterzsébetre jöttünk ki lakni. Ott volt egy szoba-konyhás lakásunk. A lakásnak csak a konyhájában tudtunk aludni, mert úgy vetették meg velünk azt a lakást ötezer forintért, hogy a szobában vizes volt a fal. Nagy kombinált szekrényt tettek oda, hogy ne vegyük észre [A lakberendezésnek nagyjából az 1970-es évekkel kezdődő időszakában egyre elterjedtebbé váló tömeg lakberendezési cikknek, a szekrénysornak volt az elődje az ún. kombináltbútor-típus. Ennek egyik darabja volt a „kombinált szekrény”, amely egyetlen darabban kívánt több funkciót is kielégíteni: volt akasztós része (esetleg külön kétajtós szekrény formájában, amely azonban szervesen hozzá tartozott a „másik egységhez”) és polcos tárolórésze (ruhás szekrény funkció), lehajtható ajtóval ellátott része ünnepi porcelán tárolására (kredenc funkció), elhúzható üveglappal fölszerelt része nippek és egyéb csecsebecsék „kiállítására” (vitrin funkció), nyitott polcos része könyvek (könyvszekrény funkció), kisebb egysége italneműk tárolására (bárszekrény funkció). Ezt a bútortípust a kislakás-építkezés tömegessé válásával, az 1920-as évektől kezdték gyártani. – A szerk.]. Este tudták eladni nekünk. A kislányom utána még betegebb lett, végül egy doktornő megállapította, hogy óriási a lépe. Úgy kellett rá vigyázni, mint az aranyra, a gyémántra, egy rossz eséstől elpattan a lép, akkor vége a gyereknek.

1953-ban, mikor a Csepel Autógyártól kaptuk ezt a mostani lakást Szigetszentmiklóson, eladtuk az előzőt. Húsz éven keresztül cserépkályha fűtötte a két szobát. Mi építettük be, mert csak egy kis sparhert volt a konyhában. 1973-ban vezették be a gázt, addig a fürdőszobában egy fém hengerben volt a melegvíz [Ez volt az ún. fatüzelésű bojler. – A szerk.].

Hét éves volt a kislányunk, mikor kivették a lépét. Két hétig járt iskolába, utána került kórházba. Decemberben saját felelősségünkre kihoztuk, és utána vissza kellett mennie az óvodába.

1956-ban megszületett a fiam, Péter.

1960-ban mentem a Pestvidéki Gépgyárba, ahol a férjem oktatott korábban [A Pestvidéki Gépgyárat 1952-ben hozta létre az akkori Középgépipari Minisztérium a MiG–15 típusú repülőgépek javítására a tököli repülőtéren lévő objektumokból. – A szerk.]. Amikor külföldre mentünk kirándulni busszal, akkor én szerelőt vittem magammal, és mindenki hozzájárult ahhoz, hogy én mint szállításvezető a szerelő férjemet vihetem. Voltunk Romániában, Erdélyben, a Királyhágónál, a Békás-szoroson, a Szent Anna-tónál, Kolozsváron, Marosvásárhelyen. Egy gépkocsivezetőt vittem magammal, egy szerelőt, mert akkor csak a főnökök, osztályvezetők, szakszervezetisek kapták ezt az utazást jutalomba.

A férjem föl volt könyvtárazva. Lexikonok, angol, német szótár. Mindent tudott angolul, németül, de nem mert beszélni. Ha mentünk nyaralni valahova, akkor én a kevés némettudásommal, kevés angoltudásommal szereztem szállást.

A lányom 1971-ben, húszéves korában ment először férjhez. Autószerelő volt a férje, de tizenegy év után elváltak. 1971-ben negyvenezerből megvolt egy gyönyörű, négylakásos társasházban a lakása Szigetszentmiklóson. Az építkezéshez az igazgató adott engedélyt, és akkor a téglát, cementet, meszet hozták a gépkocsivezetők engedéllyel. A cégfuvarokkal hozattam ide mindent. Azt szokták mondani, ki mivel bánik, azzal kenődik, de soha nem valaki kárára, hanem hivatalosan csináltuk a cégfuvarleveleket. Tizenhatan dolgoztak a lányom építkezésénél, itt hemperegtek nálunk a szobában, mert úgy jóllaktak a sóletemmel.

A SZIMFI-ből kilenc éven keresztül állandóan hívtak, hogy menjek vissza, mert a gépkocsivezetőkkel kedves, de ugyanakkor erélyes is voltam. Végül visszamentem a SZIMFI-be, mert kitaníttatták velem a szállításvezetőit. Akkor ötvennyolc emberem volt a huszonnyolc gépkocsihoz, előtte meg csak tizenegy emberem és tíz kocsim volt. Megkérdezték, hogy „Ozorainé, a szíve hozta vissza öt évvel nyugdíj előtt?”. Mondom, nem, hanem a pénz, mert kétezer-nyolcszáz forint lett a fizetésem, addig meg ezerhatszáz forint volt a legtöbb. Biztos, hogy jól dolgoztam ott.

Egy alkalommal, amikor hozták a szenet, hat órán belül kellett kirakni, de nem volt elég kocsim, ezért kénytelen voltam odatelefonálni Halásztelekre, ott volt egy mezőgazdasági üzem, ahol lovas kocsikat használtak. Ez tavasszal volt, amikor az egyik ló beevett lucernát, ami fölpuffasztotta. Én nagyon érzékeny voltam a lószagra, ahogy megéreztem, ha ittam egy pohár tejet, azt is kihánytam. Az egyik lovas kocsis munkás beszólt nekem, hogy tudja, hogy én nem szeretem a szagokat, de nem hívnék-e egy állatorvost, mert a ló felpuffadt. Megszerveztem, a ló meggyógyult, és miközben rohangáltam, mert a szenet is be kellett hordani, közben valaki egy táblát rakott az asztalomra, hogy Ozorai Sándorné, a gépkocsik és a lóügyek intézője. Kedvesek voltak velem.

Mikor betöltöttem az ötvenöt évet, eljöttem nyugdíjba. A férjem hatvan éves volt, mikor eljött. Annyit dolgoztunk az életben. 

A munkahelyemen nem volt arról szó, hogy kinek milyen a származása. Egyszer mondta nekem egy kocsikísérő, hogy mamikám, én tudom ám, hogy a mami zsidó. Mondom, te meg cigány vagy. Mindenkit tegeztem, megengedték a korkülönbség miatt. Minden gépkocsivezetőnek mami voltam, ötvenéves korban már lehet. Ők is tegeztek, a jobbak között. Annyira becsültek, hogy az igazgató könyörögött, hogy menjek vissza, mert olyan, mint én, aki ilyen kedves és tud mindent, ilyet ő férfiban nem talál. Tényleg, én soha nem voltam betegállományban. Akkoriban nem tudtam beszélni senkinek arról, hogy mi történt velem Bergen-Belsenben, mert a sírás tört rám. A férjem és az anyja tudott róla, nagyon sajnáltak. Később már jobban tudtam róla beszélni.

A fiam a Jedlik Ányos Gimnáziumba járt, és utána felvették őt a műszaki egyetemre. Úgy érettségizett, hogy vitte a tiszta kitűnő bizonyítványt. Már nős volt, amikor végzett. Először a Csepel Autógyárban dolgozott, mert az egyetemen szerződést kötött az autógyárral.

1981-ben a fiamnak adtunk kétszázezret, hogy a telket megvegye, meg tégla legyen, hogy fölépítsék a százhuszonegy négyzetméteres házat Szigetszentmiklóson. Most van egy káeftéje, ami gépalkatrészeket csinál. Három gyerekük van: Zsófi, Judit és Dénes.

A lányom első férje autószerelő volt. Ebből a házasságából van két gyerek, Beáta és Emese. Tizenegy év után elváltak. Most a lányomék nagyon szépen élnek Szigetszentmiklóson. Két dédunokám is van, mert Beának van két kis gyönyörű fia: Dávid és Martin. Bea Tökölön él. A férje benzinkutas.

A Bözsi nővéremék a végén Kővágóörsön eladták a házat, Keszthelyre költöztek, ott lakik az unokaöcsém, Miklós. A lányuk, Julika Budapestre ment férjhez. Sanyi bátyámnak egy lánya van, Jutka, aki körzeti fogorvos Balatonkenesén. Ide járt [azaz: Budapestre] a zsidó gimnáziumba, és a Délibáb utcában volt a kollégium. Jenő bátyám annyira cukros volt, mert szerette a cukrot, mint most én, hogy mindig kell valamit szopogassak. Ha följött Budapestre hozzánk, a gyerekekhez, akkor semmit nem hozott magával, egyszer csak előveszi, jaj, azt mondja, egy kis jánosházi cukorka, és megkínált mindenkit egy szem cukorral. Ha szakszervezeti jeggyel elvittem őt színházba, ott is mindig zörgött a cukorpapírral az első, második sorban. Sanyi, a férjem úgy haragudott rá, hogy azt mondta neki, Jenő, az istenért, előre tedd ki a zsebedből a cukrokat. Nem dohányzott, nem ivott senki a családban. A gyerekeim családjában sem senki, se unoka, se vejek, egyik se. Ez egy ilyen család. Sanyi bátyám hatvan éves volt, amikor tüdőrákban meghalt. Cigarettázott, amíg az utolsó csepp tüdejét ki nem köpte. Jenő bátyám hetvenhét éves volt, amikor meghalt 1979-ben. [Előtte] Amerikában, Miamiban volt a lányánál. Kati, a lánya mindennel kiszolgálta. Nagy medence volt az udvarban, minden kényelme megvolt, kávét meg egy kis pezsgőt ivott, és az lett a halálának az oka, mert fölment a vérnyomása. Mikor lementünk hozzá Jánosházára, már akkor a szombathelyi kórházban volt, és egy hétre rá halt meg otthon. Jenőnek a gyerekei, Sternberger Kati és Pityu a háború után Krausz Teritől születtek. Most kint élnek Floridában. Telefonon állandóan beszélünk. A Kati már régebben kiköltözött Floridába egy zsidó fodrászhoz, akinek nagy üzlete volt. Kozmetikusnak tanult, gyerekorvos akart lenni, de egy pont híján nem vették föl. Csodálatos életük van, úszómedencés nagy házuk, mindig ki akartak vinni, de a lábaim miatt nem lehet, mert van nálam ez a keringési zavar. Jutkát [Sternberger Sándor lányáról van szó. – A szerk.] fölvették fogorvosnak.

Jenő családja, a fia, a felesége, a kisfiuk és a sógornőm, aki most nyolcvankilenc éves, a Krausz Teri nagyon vallásosak, a bár micvóról küldtek nekem fényképeket.

A jánosháziak majdnem mind összetartanak Izraelben. Néggyel találkoztam 1981–82-ben, amikor kint voltam. Van róla naplóm, hogy ott találkoztam a gyerekkori osztálytársaimmal. Izraelben most már két unokatestvérem meghalt, de levelezek ezekkel az izraeliekkel, még a sógornőmnek a sógornőivel is levelezek. Most kaptam nemrég tőle levelet, úgyhogy Izraelről mindent tudok.

A Bergen-Belsenből fölszabadultaknak minden évben a Síp utcában tartanak találkozót. Ott találkoztam össze a Steiner lányokkal. Legutoljára a holzkommandóban dolgoztunk. A férjem mindig eljött velem ilyenre. Ő annyira többet akart mindig tudni, mint amennyit tudott, mert ő tudta a Bibliát nagyon is. Ministrált is addig, amíg a pap a fülénél fogva ki nem hajította az udvarra, mert a templomkertben kavicsokkal dobálták egymást [Ministránsok – a katolikus egyházban oltárszolgák, rendesen világi fiúk, akik a miséző papnak az oltárnál segédkeznek (a hívek helyett felelnek, a misekönyvet az egyik oldalról a másikra viszik, a bort és vizet az oltárra helyezik, és öntenek belőle, a mise alatt csengetnek stb.). – A szerk.]. Én már nem vagyok vallásos. A férjemmel elfogadtuk, hogy mivel én annyira megszenvedtem a vallásomért, én a gyerekeimet nem hagyom. A gyerekeim, az unokáim, a dédunokáim mind meg vannak keresztelve, katolikusok. Úgy vagyok vele, hogy én adtam a rezervációt [reverzálist], az engedélyt arra, hogy katolikusok legyenek a gyerekeim, mert én a vallásomért annyira megszenvedtem, hogy azt mondtam, így a helyes. A férjem ötvennégy évnyi házasság után halt meg, huszonöt éves koromtól egész hetvenkilenc éves koromig vele voltam. Azt nem lehet elfelejteni, ilyen józan emberrel élni együtt.

Most csodálatos a temető Jánosházán, mert a Síp utcából fizetik a temetőgondnokot, aki rendezi a gyönyörű nagy sírköveket. A templomot valaminek használják, de nem tudom, minek. Én egy évben egyszer megyek Jánosházára.
 

Itsik Margolis
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Svetlana Kovalchuk
Date of interview: March 2002

I don't remember when my maternal grandfather, Motl Kopelovich, was born. I only know that in his last years he was completely blind. He died as soon as the Germans came, in 1941 1. My grandmother, his wife, Enta, was killed by the Germans. The date of her birth can be determined like this: when her elder son Khaikl was about 60, she must have been about 80.

Grandfather worked as a joiner. As far as I remember, he had a workbench, and was a cabinet-maker. He worked at home. We lived in Dvinsk [today Daugavpils, a city 230 km east of Riga]. Once, most likely in 1937, there was a fire in Dvinsk, and their house burned down completely. Then they moved to another apartment. I think, they rented the apartment as it wasn't their own. I remember them very well. I was spending most of my time at their place. Daddy worked and Mum worked, too. I was mostly taken care of by my grandmother. Granddad was very religious and Grandmother, too. They ate only kosher food. They always observed Sabbath. I remember that Grandfather couldn't see anything any more and I used to take him to the synagogue on holidays.

We spoke only Yiddish at home: Mum, Daddy, Grandmother, Grandfather - all of us! My maternal grandparents had, I think, ten kids, but I could have missed someone. Aunt Fanya got married and left for the town of Vilaki. She might have had a Jewish name, but she was commonly called Fanya 2. Then came my mother Riva, as far as I remember, born in 1897. Then there was Moisei, Moisha Kopelovich, he was 92 years old when he died. Moisei was an electrician. He got married only after the war. Then came Kopl; he was a porter, his job was to deliver flour to shops, if I remember correctly. There was Grisha [Grigoriy], then Lyova [Lev], and Isaac, the father of Abram Kopelovich [Itsik's cousin]. And there was Khaikl Kopelovich - the eldest.

Then there was Sonya [Sara], the youngest of the children. Sara Kopelovich lived in Daugavpils, and she was a Communist. In 1935 she was sentenced to death, even though people organized actions in her support.

My paternal grandfather's name was Itsik Margolis. Grandfather was killed in 1920, as he was returning home from the synagogue. I am named in honor of my grandfather. I cannot remember what my paternal grandmother's name was. She didn't live to see the war. There is a district in Daugavpils named Gaek. That's where they lived. They had their own house. I remember how she died. It was approximately in 1936-1937. Father had a sister, Sonya. Her husband also was a joiner, like grandfather. His name was Gedalia. They had three children [Itsik, Hata and Manya].

Father, as far as I remember, was born in 1890. He was born in Dvinsk. Father's name was Abram Margolis. In what year my parents got married is difficult to say. My sister [Rose] was born in 1924, and I - in 1927. I should think that Mother and Daddy had a chuppah. I mean, I don't know for sure, but I think, there was a chuppah. Father, too, wasn't an ardent believer. You can say, half and half. But, nevertheless he did follow the traditions a little bit. Father didn't eat only kosher food. Only in Grandmother's house was he a little bit religious. But on Friday challah was baked. Father seldom visited the synagogue. But Mother always lit the candles on Friday night. We recited the Kiddush before the meal. Only my grandparents kept Sabbath, but my father sometimes worked that day. I had my bar mitzvah when I was 13 years old.

My parents' education was minimal. Father worked as a house manager in 1941. He did some sort of a bookkeeping job, they wrote something. Maybe he finished some school in Dvinsk. My mother might have completed four-five classes. I don't know. During World War I they lived in Daugavpils. They didn't leave the town. Then, when the Soviet power came, four of my mother's brothers were called into the Red Army 3. And they found themselves in Belarus, in the regional center - Vitebsk 4.

My father was a house painter. But basically he glued wallpaper. He didn't have his own company, it seems, he was just a free-lance painter. He had a partner. They repaired whatever they were ordered to. In winter there was little work. Mum worked in a sewing studio before the war. There was a firm called 'Markon.' They sewed clothes of very high quality. They took a whole week to sew one coat. There was a cutter named Rutenberg working with them, who was also Jewish. And then something went wrong with their cutter - they had a quarrel or something. They divided the property into shares and they started to work in an apartment. Before the war Mum worked there.

Father enlisted in the army. I can't remember exactly if it was during the revolution 5 or after, maybe in 1918 or 1919. I remember that he was wounded. I remember he would touch his shoulder and tell me that's where he was injured.

We lived on Alleinaya Street. Grandmother lived nearby, about 300 meters away. And there was a cellar in my grandmother's house. Once Mum made a cranberry drink, poured it into bottles with long thin necks, closed them with rubber corks with clips. I was carrying them to Grandmother's cellar, striking them one against another lightly - just for fun. And there comes a passer-by saying, 'Don't do it, boy!' And in the next moment I am standing there with only the bottlenecks in my hands. Boy did I get in trouble!

Children very rarely got sweets and candies. I used to earn two santims [small change] from time to time - if I went on an errand and brought something. But very seldom. Or my uncle would give me two santims. This way I could buy myself a toffee with these two santims. When I fell ill, which was very seldom, someone might bring me a small chocolate bar. We were poor. But we were to observe one rule very strictly. If we were on a visit somewhere we weren't allowed to take anything at all from other people! No food, no sweets, nothing! Thank you - I am not hungry! That's how strictly our parents treated us. I was even severely punished in 1940, by both Daddy and Mum. When the Reds 6 came, there was a lunch organized for the children in the club - the pioneer organization 7 - and I went there. There was coffee there. When I went home I was scolded because I had gone there - because in our family we didn't consider ourselves poor. We thought that really poor people were those who lived in basements. I was frequently punished and I really got in trouble that time. Father was very strict. Father didn't keep kosher, but he told me: 'You must eat only at home.'

We had no toys. I remember, Grandmother had sewn a red ball for me from scraps. We played football with it. We also collected candy wrappings. Other children ate sweets, and all we did was collect the wrappings. We played like this: we folded up a wrapping and threw it, and then measured the distance, and if yours was the farthest, you took all the others.

My sister was quiet, but I was a brawler. Once I had a fight during a lesson: somebody called me a son of a bitch. He wouldn't understand my words of reason, so I had to slap him in the face. The teacher came to our home and complained about me. I was always looking for trouble. I was beaten, I was punished, and all the same I continued to scuffle. I was really very restless. I tried to come home late, so that they wouldn't have time to punish me. I would come home late, when it was time to go to sleep, and the next day - go to school. I tried to undress as fast as possible, get to bed and hide under the blanket. Mum wouldn't permit Daddy to punish me then: 'He's sleeping, don't touch him.'

We lived very close to Mother's mother and father. Grandmother wouldn't mess around with me. She only complained about me. Their apartment had several entrances. She would drive me out of one door, and I would slip in through the other. But my sister was touchy - 'Why is Rose not coming?' Grandma would ask, it means she took offence for something. I had a really good relation with my sister. She was so feeble, and if I was given something good to eat I would give it to her. I was healthier. If she was given a cake, I thought, that's all right, I'll do without it somehow. If something was given to me, I would always give it to her.

I can write and read Yiddish. There were two schools with teaching in Yiddish in Dvinsk. At first we studied near the Dvina [Daugava in Latvian] River, there was a pre-school institution there. We studied there for about one year, I can't remember exactly. I can't even remember the teachers in that school. We hadn't studied there for long and we were transferred to another school, on Dvoryanskaya Street. In the first grade of school I remember there was a teacher named Maimin. Lern Maimin lived in Daugavpils, she's dead now. She entered the classroom, as I now recollect, and we rose up, and she said: 'Sit down! My name is Haya Maimin. You can call me Lern Haya,' or teacher Haya in Yiddish. I studied up to the 4th grade in that school. Lern Haya used to play the piano and sing and dance with us. She gave us good marks. Our class supervisor in 1940 was called Lern Kats, teacher Kats, her first name I have forgotten.

Every subject was in Yiddish. There was also Latvian language and the history of Latvia. We also had religious classes. We called the religion teacher Rebele. Religious classes were given quite frequently. I remember the teacher, a small rabbi. We had lots of out-of-school activities, too. Our school had a very good choir and dancing club. A lot of kids from my class were killed in the German concentration camp in Daugavpils.

I took part in Jewish organizations. When I was small, I was a member of the 'Hertslie' [named after Theodor Herzl] 8, I was six-seven years old then and wanted to get accustomed to Jewish traditions. In the summer we went hiking; I was the youngest, but I didn't look so young. Interestingly, there was also table tennis. Later I was a member of the Hashomer Hatzair 9 - the Zionist scout organization. We were planning to leave for Israel [then Palestine]. Legally it was impossible to go. So we meant to emigrate illegally.

Nevertheless, to be accepted in your people's state it was necessary to undergo a serious preparation. We - members of the Hashomer Hatzair - were assigned a plot of land and we worked on that site. Members of the Hashomer Hatzair worked one or two years in agriculture, and then they illegally sent you to Israel. In 1939 I was only twelve, I worked only one summer, but on 17th June 1940 Latvia became Soviet 10.

Everything changed dramatically as soon as the Soviet power was established. When the Soviets came, schools were not closed but changed. We began to wear pioneer ties and badges. I was a pioneer, later a Komsomol 11 member. From members of Jewish organizations we all changed into pioneers, as if there had never been any Jewish organizations at all! We were so afraid - they could arrest you at once and that's it! The synagogue was closed right away. I remember, there was a pioneer palace or a club of some kind in the synagogue.

When the war began the next year with the German invasion, we couldn't stay in Latvia. We escaped at the last second: Mother, Father, my sister Rose and I ran away on foot. We first arrived in Novosibirsk in Russia, at a collective farm 12 named after the 18th Party Congress. At first we had hardly any clothes to wear. There, I remember, bread was baked with aniseed, and it tasted somewhat bitter. But at least there was bread. We had at least something to eat.

Then we went to Toluchin. Mum got a job there. She was an expert at dressmaking. People told her that if she continued to work such long hours as she did, she would die of hunger. She did very intricate work, whereas the others sewed haphazardly. And Daddy went to look for a warmer place to live.

That is how we left for Kazakhstan, the Almaty region, Taldykurgan district. We went to live on a collective farm called Belokamenka. Ukrainians used to live there. A very beautiful place, especially in the spring. High mountains, as I remember, near the Chinese border. Mother fell ill with dysentery there and died in a hospital in 1943. And before that, Father was taken away, drafted into the labor army 13. I don't know how that happened, but my sister says he said something wrong, something against the Soviets, presumably that we had a better life in independent Latvia or something like that. Later he was shot 14. I was still there when Father was arrested and taken to the labor army. That was about 1942 or the beginning of 1943.

When my mother died several people, who were evacuated like us, moved away. I also went to Tashkent [the capital of Uzbekistan] soon, and my sister stayed. My sister was suffering from hunger - there was nothing to eat. She was all swollen from hunger, I never asked her the details, it's too painful to think about it. Anyway, later Rose was taken in by a Jewish family in Taldykurgan. She was ill, was in hospital, they looked after her. I returned in 1944 and she arrived later. We arrived in April, the war was still going on. We were a Latvian group in Tashkent. We were gathered in a group of young guys of 14, 15, 16 years of age. We studied in a vocational school. My specialization was in tool mechanic. Then our entire group was taken to Riga, together with our teachers. We completed four years in that vocational school, and finished it. Some of the students got a job at VEF [the State Electrical Factory].

I was transferred to another technical school, and spent two years studying there to acquire the profession of a shoe repairman. Education wasn't quite comprehensive there, but at least it was some education. We worked occasionally, too, to earn some money.

My sister came from Kazakhstan in 1945 and lived in the family of Sonya Kopelovich [our maternal aunt], all the time. They lived at first in Rezekne [town 240 km east of Riga], then for a short time in Auts, and then Sonya's husband was assigned somewhere else. He worked for the KGB 15. Sonya had three children, and Rose brought them up, she served as a housekeeper. And then, after the kids grew up, she went to work. She now lives in Riga. My sister never married. She stayed alone. She suffered a lot during the war. She is weak and timid. I have a very nice sister, but I don't have the right to tell my sister's life story. I don't want to speak with her about the war years.

I finished school and started to work in the Industrial Association of Moskovsky district 16. By vocation I am a shoe repairman. Then I worked in different places. I worked in a workshop, in a studio, at the factory 'Rigas Apavi,' at the 'Record' factory. Almost all my life I worked at this last factory. I have an uninterrupted work experience; I retired at the age of 60, but worked for five more years. I was a member of the workers' committee of the factory. I traveled a lot all over the Soviet Union. I have been to many places - in Central Asia, the Crimea, Moldova, Moscow, Armenia. Now if I have orders for repairing, I work, if not, I relax.

When I was a young guy, I visited my relatives several times when I was on holiday or during the summer vacation. I had no one left - neither father nor mother. At first I went to see Sonya in Rezekne, then I went to Daugavpils for holiday. My maternal uncle Moisei lived in Daugavpils. My relatives supported me financially while I was on vacations. I spent most of the time in Riga in the family of my cousin Zelik Kopelovich.

I continued to live in Riga, in rented apartments, in hostels. I got married in 1961. With much effort I managed to get an apartment - a room of 6.8 square meters plus kitchen of 2.5 meters. The courtyard was beautiful, green, with apple trees and a garden. There were even vegetable beds divided between the residents and I had one too, but we failed to grow anything there except for grass. My spouse's name is Libe-Leya Girshovna, Lyuba, maiden name Nagle. She worked with me at the same factory. She is from Ludza [town 170 km east of Riga]. She was born in 1936. My wife had no special education and finished a secondary school in Ludza. She was a young girl when her mother died. Her father Hirsh Nagle went with the children - with Lyuba and her brother Yakov - to live in Riga. She worked in different places. We had no chuppah at our weeding. We had only a civil wedding. We have no money and our wedding was really modest. I speak Russian with my wife, although she perfectly understands Yiddish.

Lyuba's father's name is Hirshl Naglya or Nagle. After the evacuation they returned to Ludza, and then moved to Riga, in approximately 1946-1947. When he died, nobody knew how to spell his second name - neither his brother, who is in Israel now, nor my wife Lyuba.

All throughout the long Soviet period I remembered that I am a Jew 17. I had no negative consequence in my work places for my Jewishness 18. I have many friends - Jews, Russians and Latvians. But my Jewishness wasn't something special - I could still attend the synagogue, but I worked on Sabbath. My factory worked on Saturday and Sunday. I didn't keep kosher. We kept our Jewish tradition in our family.

Each year, on the third Sunday in August, we go to Ludza, where the Jews shot by the Nazis are buried. I had a friend Arkady - Jewish name Abram - who always wrote the scripts on the stones in Hebrew. But he died recently. Who will organize everything now?! The graves in Ludza are maintained fairly well. There are no unattended graves. There are many graves of those who died during the war, of whom Jews make up 70-80 percent. There is a monument in the city near the lake. And there is a monument in Pogulyanka, too. They take very good care of the graves - better than anywhere! Financing? The administration gives them something before this commemorative event, but people look after the graves even without that. Schoolchildren also help. There are nine to ten Jews left in Ludza now.

I have one daughter, Raisa or Raya, born in 1963. She worked at a factory as a secretary and a typist. Then she worked in a cafe in a school. Now she isn't working, she is a housewife. She got married in 1983. The wedding took place in Moskovskaya Street, where I worked. Later my daughter had a chuppah, too. The chuppah was set up separately from the synagogue, as was customary. In the Soviet Union Church was kept separate from the State. A wedding ceremony in the synagogue wasn't recognized by civil Soviet law 19. Of course, there was a violin playing. At the chuppah we got even more drunk than we did at the wedding. I wasn't a Communist, so I could drink as much as I like. Communists weren't allowed to go to the synagogue, either. My daughter is like me, externally and in character. My granddaughter is also like me. They are dashing girls.

My granddaughter's name is Elena or Lena for short. In June she will turn 18. About the time when Latvia became independent 20, the first Jewish school was established in Riga. Lena attended the Jewish school. She is in Israel now - she went under the program 'Alle.' She doesn't want to leave Israel. She likes it there so much, in spite of the fighting. Her paternal grandfather and grandmother live in Krustpils [town 140 km east of Riga]. They are Jews. In our family - my wife and me, my daughter's husband and parents - all are pure-blooded Jews from far back in history. We have never had such a thing as 'friendship of the peoples' [mixed marriages] in our family!

I have always attended the synagogue! Not very often, of course, but on holidays for sure! Especially on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Chanukkah, Pesach. How could we observe traditions in this country, if we usually worked on Saturdays? In the old times I worked both on Saturdays and Sundays. But, nevertheless, we tried to support the national spirit a little bit. Now I regularly go to the synagogue. I mean each Saturday. I very rarely miss the occasion. I pray and I have got my own coverlet - the tallit. I have a friend whom I often meet in the synagogue - Mathew, a teacher of history, and we talk only in Yiddish between ourselves. He doesn't want to talk to me in Russian. If I say something in Russian, he is angry with me.

I've never been to Israel, although my wife has been there; her brother lives there. I spent three months visiting my cousin Zelik Kopelovich in America at his invitation. He told me that his father had been a joiner, but was never a hard worker. His mother had had a job in the market place selling second-hand articles. They bought overcoats, repaired and resold them. And footwear they sold, too. It was a hard life. And then they moved from Daugavpils to Riga. In Riga she opened a store as well. Life became easier. They began to live better. Then the Soviet power was established. Their life didn't change for the worse - they were workers, not that rich. Selling and buying operations were then carried out by both Latvians and Jews. The poor were being resettled from the basements to the apartments of the rich, who were sent to shared apartments 21.

Zelik and his wife Bella had their wedding in Riga in 1958, and they had a chuppah, too, in accordance with all the rules. It is a canopy on four posts made of fabric, with which they cover the groom and the bride and lead them to the prayer house, and people are walking around with lit candles. Music plays, serious music, everyone is crying. Then they pour wine in glasses, give a sip to the groom, a sip to the bride. Then they put the glass on the floor, and the groom must step on it and break it into pieces! And at once you hear a burst of cheerful music! Now's when merrymaking starts! The glass is usually wrapped in a cloth to prevent pieces from scattering. But the chuppah was put up not in the synagogue, but at the wedding. They have one daughter.

Glossary:

Rifka Vostrel
Zagreb
Croatia
Interviewer: Silvia Heim
Date of interview: February 2003

A friendly, tiny elderly woman welcomes me in her room.

From the very first moment it is clear that Rifka Vostrel is a very open and approachable person.

We connect immediately and the interview takes place in a very pleasant atmosphere.

Rifka is very fluent in her stories, and her spirits are wide awake as she speaks and recalls her past.

I am very pleased and honored that I have had the chance to meet Rifka to learn so much about our history through her stories.

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

• My family background

Both my paternal and maternal grandparents are from Sarajevo, Bosnia. Unfortunately, I don't know much about my great-grandparents, but I believe they also came from Sarajevo. The families were large on both sides. My father told me that my grandmother, his mother, had sixteen children, but only six of them were still alive when World War II started, and then they too perished, were killed in the Holocaust.

My paternal grandfather's name was Avram Altarac. He was born in the 1860s and a plumber by profession. He did all kinds of installation work and also owned a little shop on Bascscarssija 1 Street, where he worked alone. It's a long street, very famous in Sarajevo and known as a market place; all kinds of craftsmen used to have shops there.

My grandfather was one of those craftsmen and sold all kinds of products made of sheet metal in his shop. It was my grandfather who passed on the trade to his family. On my father's side everybody was a craftsman. They were plumbers, traders or innkeepers, and my father was a barber. The women in the family were mostly housewives.

Jews in Sarajevo were mostly known as tradesmen and craftsmen. There were no Jewish quarters, but there was a Jewish school called Maldar. Life in Sarajevo was very active and the relations between people were very good. National minorities were friends and socialized, but marriages between them were very rare and mostly not approved by the families.

My grandfather was married to Belja Altarac, nee Atijas, born in the 1860s. They had a nice Jewish wedding. Everybody used to call my grandmother Bea. She was a housewife and took care of their six children; one of them was my father. My grandparents were around eighty years old when in 1941 they were taken along with other family members to a death camp and killed. For neither of them, I know exactly where and when they were killed.

My paternal grandparents were religious. They kept the Jewish traditions. They celebrated every holiday, and that's how my father learnt how to pray and read in Hebrew. Grandfather often attended services. They observed Sabbath and the kashrut as best they could.

We visited them very often, especially during the holidays. I'll never forget when my grandfather recited the Kiddush. I remember it so vividly because he never drank; he was an outstanding non-drinker. Between themselves my grandparents used to speak Ladino.

There were no mixed marriages in the family for a long time. It couldn't have happened that someone of their family was married to a non-Jew at the time. Later, it did happen. My father's cousin, Erna Altarac, was the first one to marry a non-Jew. He was a Russian emigrant and the family wasn't very happy about it.

There was another cousin, who married an Orthodox Serb, and she wasn't very welcome in her family home afterwards either. My sister and me struggled and fought for our right to freely choose our husbands and not be married off to someone. It wasn't an intentional revolt against our parents; it just happened that we fell in love with non-Jews.

The environment and surrounding had an impact on most of the Sephardi Jews from Bosnia. My grandfather was wearing pes [Muslim covering for the head], a little bit modified, while my grandmother was wearing tukada [covering for the head that only Sephardi women wore]. I remember that these tukadas were different for married and non-married women.

My grandparents' house was in the old part of Sarajevo city. They lived in a very modest house with a little courtyard. They didn't have much money and thus took care of the housekeeping themselves, without the help of servants or maids. After we moved to Split we didn't see them very often, only during the holidays when we visited them and when the whole family got together.

My grandparents' eldest son was Mose Altarac. He worked as an innkeeper and was married to Estera. They had two children: Jozsi and Blanka. Jozsi was the only one of them to survive the Holocaust; he later died in Israel. Blanka and her parents were killed in World War II.

My father's second- oldest brother was Izrael Altarac. He worked as a tradesman. He was married to Hana and they had two children: Avram and Moric. Moric was my uncle's child from his first marriage and was killed during World War II.

Avram, mostly called Avramcic [little Avram] is still alive. He lives in Israel, has two daughters and five grandchildren. Isidor Altarac, my father's third brother, worked as a tradesman. His wife's maiden name was Flora Finci. She died after World War II.

They had two daughters: Simha and Belja. Simha is still alive and lives in Sarajevo. She has two daughters who live in Israel. I think she has a grandchild or maybe even more than one. Unfortunately, Belja didn't survive the war; she and her father were killed.

Estera Altarac was one of my father's sisters. She was married to a certain Mr. Pardo. They had two daughters: Flora and Rena. All of them were taken away and killed somewhere during the war. My second aunt was called Regina Altarac. She was married to Mr. Gaon. They didn't have children.

Aunt Regina had more luck than the others. She was interned in Vela Luka on the Island of Korchula. She was allowed to move without a permission by the Italian authorities, and from her stories we found out that the situation wasn't too bad there. They didn't have much food, but they were never hungry.

My father used to tell me that he had two more sisters, Sara and Rikica, after whom I was named, but they died before the war and I don't know anything about them.

My maternal grandparents also came from Sarajevo. I don't remember much of my grandfather, but I do remember my 'nona' [grandmother], that's how I and my sister Lea, who was named after her, used to call her. My nona Lea Atijas, nee Abinun, was married to Avram Naftali Atijas, my grandfather, who died young of tuberculosis.

My grandmother Lea was a housewife. Hers is a sad story: she was very young when she became a widow, never remarried, and supported her children on her own. She was very poor. In order to support her children she had to work in other people's houses. Once, my sister Lea asked her, 'How come you are illiterate?', and she said, 'Every time I wanted to go to school, a holiday would approach!'

Apart from being humorous, she was very diligent and known to be very good at her job. She made all kinds of noodles and taught other women how to make them. She used to say, 'Do it like this...', as she was cutting the noodles. That's how she practically supported her family.

I remember how nona Lea saved her life by running away: From Sarajevo to Mostar she traveled under the false name of Aisha Muslich, dressed in Muslim clothes. How terrible this must have been for a 60-year-old woman! While sitting in the train, waiting for the ticket-collector to come and check the tickets, she forgot her new name. What now? Ustasha 2 men will come, look at her ticket, ask her name and she won't know it!

While she was sitting there, she felt like she knew the man right opposite her from somewhere. And yes, he indeed was a Jew, and he looked at her as if he knew her, too. Full of fear, she gave him permission to read her pass and remind her of her new name. 'Aisha Muslich, Aisha Muslich, Aisha Muslich', she repeated silently to herself in order not to forget her new name.

In Mostar, a Muslim woman waited for her and took her to her uncle who was already there. My grandmother took off her Muslim clothes and became Saveta Kojo, a Serb. Under that name she joined us in Split. Soon after her came my uncle with his family, but Italians interned them to the Island of Brac and then to the Island of Rab 3.

My nona Lea lived to the age of 96. She died in 1978, long after my mother, my father and my uncle. Unfortunately, there was nobody to take care of her after my mother's death in 1968. In the end she could hardly move, was completely blind and had to be put in a Jewish old-age home.

My grandparents had three children: Naftali Buki Atijas - he was the first- born son and it was a Sephardi custom to call all first-born sons Buki, whereas first-born daughters were called Bukica. Naftali was a tailor. He even had his own shop, in which my mother worked when she lived in Sarajevo.

During World War II he was in Mostar, Split and on the Island of Rab. Luckily, he survived. He died after the war. My mother Rosa, or Rahela in Yiddish, was born in 1908. Regina Atijas, my mother's sister, was married to Moric Moshe Albahari. He was a prisoner-of-war. She was a milliner. During the war she and her son Albert, also called Albi, were with us.

My father was called Leon Altarac; officially Juda. He worked as a barber in Sarajevo. When we moved to Split in 1934, he worked with a master in a famous barber's shop for a long time. Later he became a nonkulo [attendant in a synagogue]. His duty was to take care of the synagogue, the arrangement of the 'sfarim' [prayer books] and tefillin. When he became a nonculo, we moved to the apartment of the Jewish Community which was in the same building where the temple was.

• Growing up

My parents had two children: I was born on 12th October 1929 in Sarajevo and my sister Lea, or Lilika, was born on 10th April 1939 in Split. She is the only one in our family who wasn't born in Sarajevo. My mother was a dressmaker by profession, but she worked as a housewife. And of course she also took care of my sister and me.

Our mother raised us in a traditional way. We observed the holidays, but not in a religious way. Every holiday was celebrated: For Pesach we had the seder and ate all the traditional food. There was always fish on Friday evenings.

My parents didn't demand of us to go to the synagogue or to pray; maybe that's a pity because therefore we don't know much about the traditions. Neither my mother nor my father influenced our opinions. They gave us the opportunity to choose and decide for ourselves how much we wanted to know about Judaism.

At home we spoke Croatian, but sometimes, when our parents didn't want us to understand something, they spoke Ladino, and they did especially so with Grandmother Lea. She lived with us and was a great help to my mother.

My sister and me had no duties or obligations except school. Most of the day we spent playing with our friends. Because we lived in the building of the Jewish community, we had the opportunity to participate in and attend all the cultural, religious and sports events. 'Jarden' was a Jewish Cultural Association, where all the Jews gathered. We went there very often. We liked it very much and most of our friends were from this group.

• During the War

Before and during World War II we lived in Split. Looking back, I have to admit that Italians were relatively gentle to us, Jews, especially in comparison to the Ustashas and the Germans [see Italian occupation of Yugoslavia] 4. The Jews of Split didn't have to wear a yellow star, but they were restricted in their personal lives.

Some of the shops had a sign stating: 'E vietato gli regresso agli Ebrei' [It is forbidden for Jews to enter]. But nobody stuck to it, on the contrary, there were many good people who wanted to help us and indeed did help us. Unfortunately, I didn't go to school because it was forbidden for Jews [see anti-Jewish laws in Croatia] 5, but I finished the 2nd grade of high school [today the 6th grade of elementary school] privately, in a school that was organized by the Jewish Community of Split.

It was in June 1942 when a group of young fascists came to Split. At that time Split was under Italian occupation, but these were local fascists. I remember it like it happened yesterday. I was thirteen years old. I was swimming and playing with my friends on the beach, when I realized it was time to leave in order to be home in time for Sabbath.

On my way home, when I reached the center of the old city, I saw many people standing and staring at something. It was the place where today's synagogue is located and where the old one used to be. We lived in the same building.

All of a sudden I heard my friend Ines' voice: 'Rikica, Rikica, come quickly, something is happening!' In a shock, I looked to the windows of my apartment and saw angry and wild fascists throwing out everything they could find. Ines grabbed my hand and took me to her place. She wasn't Jewish but she lived in the same street, in a building right opposite mine.

I still remember how scared I was, and that her mother tried to calm me down. The hardest thing was when Ines' brother came home and told us that my father had been wounded and taken away by the fascists. Luckily, it turned out that wasn't the truth.

Until late into the night robbery and animal-like behavior was taking place. Everything was burnt and destroyed in front of the citizens in the center of the old city. I tried to fall asleep, but couldn't. Around 4am I looked out of my window, and what did I see: my father in a nearby apartment.

With his finger on his lips he indicated me to be quiet. Somehow, with gestures, he explained to me that my mother and Lea were in a safe place. That was when I finally calmed down and managed to fall asleep. We were left without anything, but at least our lives had been spared. Next day we met at the National Square, the same place where our possessions had been burnt and destroyed the night before.

After some time we found an apartment with the help of friends. My family stayed in Split in that modest home, and I went to Vela Luka. My aunt Regina and her son Albert were there. She lived there like all the other refugees. The Jews were interned there by the Italians and lived in the homes of the locals.

I stayed with my aunt for a few days and then returned to Split to my family. In 1942 I became a member of a Zionist cell. I was very young and angry with the world and everything that was happening so I desperately wanted to do something to stop it.

After I joined the Zionist cell, my Jewish friend, who was also a member, introduced me to Bosa. Bosa was a strong, happy and very friendly girl. She told me stories about the partisans, illegal work in order to help the partisans, Comrade Tito 6 and the Communist Party.

I was hoping to become one of them, but unfortunately she didn't accept me, but told me to become a member of the SKOJ 7 instead. At first I was sad, but later I found out what a great honor it was for a young girl like me to become a member of the SKOJ.

In 1943 after the Italian capitulation 8, my whole family and I joined the partisans. The Jews who stayed in Split and didn't want to leave were killed by the Ustashas and the Germans. Because I was in the youth organization and doing illegal work, I knew that something would happen. In the youth organization we were very well organized.

We were divided into groups of several girls each. From time to time we used to meet, but every time in a different apartment. There we read literature that was printed on unoccupied territory ['Omladinski borac' - 'Youth Fighter'], exchanged experiences about books and which books should be read - we mostly read Soviet literature - and finally addressed concrete problems.

Once, I was obligated to distribute flyers - I don't recall what they were about, but I remember, in one house that I went to, the door was open. It was rude of me to just enter, walk in and leave the flyer on a small wardrobe. Who knows if it was or wasn't a pleasant surprise for the family.

There is one more incident I remember. I had a meeting with a girl from my group in her apartment. Fifty meters before her house, a comrade, who had seen that the officials had got into her apartment, stopped me and told me that they were searching her home.

She didn't know I was going to that particular apartment, but seeing me in the neighborhood she had thought of it and prevented me of getting into a dangerous situation. If I remember correctly, the friend I was going to see was even imprisoned for a short while.

When I came home I said to my parents, 'I'm leaving. I'm going to join the partisans and that's it!' They didn't say a word; they were speechless. I collected my things and went to my friend Hana Montiljo's house, to take her with me. When I came to her home, her mother asked me, 'Where is your family?' I replied, 'They can't go.

They have my little sister Lea and nona with them, it's too hard for them.' She told me, 'Go back home and take them with you!' When I came back home, they were still speechless, so I just told them, 'Get ready, we don't have much time!' They started to pack. My dear nona took some kind of a bundle and put a few of her belongings inside. My father also took some things and packed them in a makeshift suitcase.

We went from Split to the village of Zrnovnica on foot along with a large number of people. It was a mix of people, not only Jews but also others who were afraid of the Ustashas and the Germans. There were also Italian soldiers; since Italy had capitulated, it was better for them to be with us than to be caught by the Germans.

At one point, in Dubrava, I separated from my parents and joined a partisan group. We were passing through the passage called 'Hot Stone' in order to get to Dugopolje. I remember that I even got a small gun which, of course, I didn't know how to use. We were sneaking into Dugopolje in order to find out who was there, whether it was the Ustashas or the Germans; we didn't know.

We managed to move freely in Dugopolje because nobody was there. In Dugopolje the partisans started to form new groups, and I very much wanted to be included. In the end they didn't want children to join because we were too young, and so they sent a group of us back to Dubrava. Dubrava was a reception shelter where all the refugees were gathered and organized to be sent to different places.

When I came back, my parents weren't there anymore. They had been evacuated to the village of Srinjine. I just went to visit them and held a lecture for the youth when they opened a youth house there. I told them about my illegal work in Split. Afterwards I came back to Dubrava where I carried out the duties of a political youth worker.

After some time we had to leave Dubrava because it was the time of the 6th offensive. I was evacuated to one side, my parents and Lea to the other. I, along with my group, went from Dubrava to Jesenice where the boats, which we called trabakuli, were waiting for us [trabacullo is an Italian expression for fishing boat].

They took us to the Island of Brac [one of the Italian internment camps] 9 first and after three months we were transferred to the Island of Vis [another Italian internment camp]. On Brac I was a member of the Kotar Committee for United Youth and took care of the pioneers. The Germans were following us so we had to leave Vis and were evacuated to Italy. All this time I had no idea where my family was.

In Italy many people were waiting for us; actually it was a partisan refugee camp in Bari. There I met a familiar face and she told me that my parents were in Carbonara camp, also in Italy. I wrote them a letter and told them that I was in Bari and that I didn't know where I was going to go. I was following the refugee groups.

As soon as they received the letter my parents joined me in Bari. They came with my aunt Regina and her son Albert, who had met up with my parents in Lastovo when they took a break on their way to Italy.

My sister recalls a story our father used to tell her when she was younger. It was about the communists in their boat. When they were on their way to Italy, riding in those trabakuli, in which there were many wounded people, firing started. Nobody knew why 'our people' [the partisans] would shoot at other partisans.

Later, we found out that we had the old password and that's why they thought we were enemies. The trabakuli had left the port before the password was changed. Later, our father practically saved the captain's life: He went to court and testified as a witness at the trial that nobody had known about the change of passwords.

The most interesting part is that the moment the firing started all the communists began to pray to their God. In that moment you give up everything and everybody, just to stay alive and rescue yourself. The shooting didn't last long, luckily, and everything turned out fine in the end.

When my family was finally reunited, we continued on our way to El-Shatt in Egypt. As my father had told us, El-Shatt had 27,042 refugees, out of which 0.9 percent were Jews. There were refugees from all over Croatia there. There were some from Belgrade and Sarajevo.

All the refugees who wanted to leave Italian territory went to Egypt, America or Brazil. We didn't have enough money to leave for America so we went to Egypt instead. Looking back, it was good that we couldn't afford it; if we had left, our lives would have been completely different. Life in the camp in El-Shatt was very well organized. Every camper had his/her own duty. I was responsible for taking care of the shelters. I was also very active in the youth organization.

My father worked as a barber and was a member of a religious section; he was responsible for all the Jews who were there. He made sure they were buried in the proper religious way. Unfortunately, many children died because they weren't used to the hot climate. We lived in a kind of commune. The sound of a bell announced breakfast, tea, lunch and supper time.

We were never hungry there. We had so much food that sometimes we didn't even go to eat with everybody but stayed in our tent and my mother prepared the meals for us. We received clothes from the Red Cross, but skilful hands made dresses and skirts from nightdresses.

In El-Shatt I finished my 3rd grade of high school. Every Sabbath my father held a service in one part of our tent. We celebrated every holiday there. That's how we lived in El-Shatt for 14 months.

We found out that the war was over in the night of 9th May 1945. We all came out of our tents and celebrated the end of the war. We were very excited and impatient to return to Yugoslavia. The return was organized in groups. We came back in July 1945. A new life, and lifestyle, reconstruction, hope and enthusiasm in a free homeland was about to start.

• Post-war

After the war, in 1948, we returned to Split, but I went to Zagreb to work in the Central Youth Committee. Because I was still very young, my parents felt that they should be close to me. My father moved to Zagreb in 1949 whereas my mom, Lea and my grandmother only came in 1950.

At first, my father worked in a Jewish old-age home, which was housed in today's Community Center. He was working as a caretaker and later, when the old-age home was moved from the community building to another building, he became an employee with the Jewish community.

After Dr. Gruner, who was a cantor, died, my father took over his duties. He became a 'non professional' cantor because he wasn't educated in schools. On the contrary, everything he knew he had learnt in his parents' home. In the community, every holiday was celebrated and it was my father who led the ceremonies.

Sometimes even rabbis from abroad came and celebrated holidays with us. Since we are Sephardim my father read the prayers in Ladino. He didn't only lead the holiday celebrations but did everything else that was required, such as burials and the like.

When Rabbi Menahem Romano from Sarajevo died, he used to go there and help out in the community. Unfortunately, my parents died very young. My mother died when she was only 60 years old and my father at the age of 69. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Zagreb.

Jewish life after the war was very active. It's not true that communism forbade us to attend services or celebrate holidays. Many people came to the community to socialize.

I got married to Eduard Vostrel in the late 1940s. I don't want to talk about my husband's life before our wedding. He isn't Jewish. He worked in politics and in diplomatic services, and because of that we lived in many places in the world: in Chicago, USA, where he was a consul for four years, in Stockholm and in Goteborg, Sweden, for another four years each.

We have two sons: Rajko and Emil. Rajko was born in Zagreb in 1950. He works as a professor, and has a daughter, Iskra. Emil was born in Belgrade in 1954. He studied law and has a son, Vjekoslav.

My sister worked as chemical technician and is retired by now. She is divorced, but has a son named Srecko, born in 1963, and also a grandson, Tomislav.

Jewish religion and religions in general don't have an impact on our daily lives. My sister and I are both atheists. We are aware of our roots and are very proud of them, but don't practice religion. Our children and grandchildren know that they have Jewish mothers and grandmothers, but how they live is their own choice. We told them the truth about their origin and they can do with that whatever they want to!

• Glossary:

Melitta Seiler
Brasov
Romania
Interviewer: Andreea Laptes
Date of interview: August 2003

Melitta Seiler is a 74-year-old woman, who lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment in a building that also houses a Christian church. Her apartment, although small, is clean, and on the table you can see one of the macrames she has done herself, and of which she is very proud. Despite the fact that she has suffered a heart attack in 2002 and that she has to take care of her health, she is still a very active woman. She is still a coquette, takes care of her looks, dyes her hair blond regularly and keeps in touch with her friends from the community and with her son, Edward Friedel's family. Her granddaughters are the greatest joy of her life.

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

My family history

My paternal grandparents were Polish and lived in Zablotov [today Ukraine], but I never met them. My grandfather was drafted during World War I, and my father, Iosif Seiler, told me he died some time at the end of the war, it must have been in 1917 or 1918. I remember I once saw a photo of him dressed up in the Polish soldier uniform, but it was lost when we were deported. My grandmother was named Melitta Seiler and she died very soon after her husband's death; I was named after her. My father never knew for sure, but rumor had it that she killed herself because she couldn't take my grandfather's death. The Jewish community in Zablotov was rather religious, according to my father, and he was just a child at the time, and her death was not a topic to be discussed with the children.

They had two children, my father, Iosif Seiler, who was born in 1901, and another son, born in 1903; I think his name was Avram or Abraham. After their mother's death, their grandmother raised them. My father was 14 years old by then. I don't know if she had any help in raising them or not, maybe she wasn't very old, in those times people got married young. They fled to Vienna to escape World War I; their grandmother was afraid of the Russian Cossacks 1. I think his grandmother returned with his younger brother to Zablotov, and he remained in Vienna for a while, to learn a job. The grandmother died in Zablotov, I think.

My father's brother lived in Zablotov, he was married and he had three children: two daughters and one son. I don't know what he did for a living, but I think their financial state was rather modest, because they married young. One daughter was called Esther, but I don't remember the names of the others. Two or three years before World War II started, his wife, I don't remember her name, came to Cernauti with two children: one girl was sick, and my father helped her to get into a good hospital under my sister's name. After that they had to go back to Zablotov. My father kept in touch as much as he could with his brother's family. They were all murdered, right at the beginning of the war.

I remember very little about my maternal grandfather, Michael Sternschein. My mother told me that her father lived somewhere near Cernauti, and that he was rather well off. My grandmother - I don't remember her first name - lived in another village, and she was poor, the only child of a poor family, but she was very beautiful. My grandfather fell in love with her, and he kept going on horseback to her village, just to see her, during his courtship. After they married, she gave him beautiful children as well. My grandfather loved his family, and he adored my mother, because she was the youngest of all his children, eight years younger than his youngest son! She was just a child when all the others were already married. My mother told me that he used to get up early, go to the market and buy her fruits; he used to put them by her nightstand, so that she would find them when she woke up. He died in 1931, when I was still a child. I remember my mother said that he died the same year my sister, Erika Esther Ellenburgen, was born. He must have been in his sixties, because he was about 42 years old when my mother was born. He died of pneumonia, he insisted on taking a bath one chilly February morning, fell ill and died soon after that. I know from my mother that he was rather religious, he observed Sabbath very strictly, he didn't work; of course he went to the synagogue on all the high holidays, and all the food in his house was kosher. His father or his grandfather, I don't know exactly, had been a ruv [rabbi]. I don't know what he did for a living.

My grandparents were not dressed traditionally: my grandmother didn't wear a wig, and my grandfather didn't wear payes. They had their own house, but after my grandfather died, my grandmother came to live with my mother, Sara Hudi Seiler. Grandmother was already ill with sclerosis. One time she was in the courtyard, and my sister and I were playing. And she said, 'Melitta, bring me a glass of water!' And when I came back with the glass, she said to me, 'What do you want to give me, poison?' After that, Uncle Max, Max Sternschein, my mother's elder brother, took my grandmother to live with him. His children were already grown up, and he had servants; it was easier for him than it was for my mother. My grandmother died shortly after that, in her sixties, when I was three or four years old. I remember, I was in the room with my mother, and when grandmother died, my mother came to me, took off a string of red beads she was wearing and put them around my neck. She was already in mourning.

My maternal grandparents had six children: the eldest was Toni [Antonia] Bernhart, nee Sternschein, who married a Jew named Bernhart. I don't know when Toni was born, but she was older than my mother, she had been like a mother to her. She died in Transnistria 2 in the 1940s. She had two daughters, Sally and Neti Bernhart, who live in the USA now, but I don't know if they are married. Then there was Grete Knack, nee Sternschein, who married a German Jew; he was a gold merchant and he was rather well off. They lived in Germany. They had no children. There were also three brothers: Moritz Sternschein, who was married. He had one son and two daughters, but he and his family died in Transnistria in 1944. Bernhart Sternschein was also married, and he had two daughters, Marlene and Antonia. And there was Max Sternschein, who was a photographer in Cernauti. He had one son, Vili Sternschein, and one daughter, Ani. She married and fled to Bessarabia 3. She was murdered there with her husband, but I don't know his name.

My father, Iosif Seiler, was born in Nepolokovtsy [Chernivtsi province, Ukraine], in a village near Cernauti, where his mother came to visit some of her relatives, in 1901. His mother tongue was German, and he studied in a school for chef d'hors d'oeuvre [school for preparing appetizers] in Vienna. He stayed there two or three years, and then he went back to Zablotov, but he no longer fit in that small town, so he came to work in Cernauti. He worked in a restaurant, but he didn't cook, he just knew a lot of recipes for fancy appetizers, salads, cold buffets with fish and so on, and supervised everything. And I don't know how, but he knew my mother's sister, Toni. And thus he was introduced to my mother, Sara Hudi Sternschein. She was born in Cernauti in 1905, and her mother tongue was also German. My father liked her very much, she was young, very elegant; she had been to Germany twice to her sister Grete's. The first time she went she was 16, and she stayed for one year. Grete helped her with an eye surgery my mother needed: she had her strabismus corrected at a famous clinic in Dresden. My father was a very handsome man, with black curly hair and dark blue eyes, and dimples. But unfortunately he suffered from paradentosis and lost his teeth when he was still young.

My father needed a passport to stay in Cernauti, and that cost a lot of money, so eventually he had to go back to Zablotov. But my mother's family made her head swim with what a good man he was, that he was an orphan but very hard working, and so on, so my mother eventually gave in and accepted to marry him. My maternal grandmother baked leika - it is some kind of brownish sponge cake with honey that Jews in Bukovina made for every wedding or high holiday. My grandfather took my mother and they went to Zablotov, where the engagement took place. My mother had some jewels with her, jewels she had from her sister Grete. She gave these jewels to my father to sell, so that he would have money to pay for his passport. But she told him that there would be no marriage until he did his military service, which he had to do in 1926, I think. Of course my mother changed her mind several times in this period, but they eventually got married in Cernauti when he came back from the army.

They got married in the synagogue, and then there was an elegant party; my father was dressed up in a tuxedo, and my mother had a very elegant silk dress and a veil, and a wonderful wedding bouquet made up of white roses and white lilac. However, my father never had Romanian citizenship, but he was allowed to stay in Cernauti because my mother was a Romanian citizen. He had to pay a tax every year for his passport, and he did so until World War II broke out.

Growing up

I was born in Cernauti in 1929, and my sister, Erika, in 1931. When I was born, my father hoped it would be a boy, but I came instead. And when Erika was born, he was sure it would be a boy that time, he even prepared his tuxedo! But again it was a girl. For all that, he loved us very much, and we loved him, he was a very good man.

We lived in a rented apartment that was in a two-storied house, and we had running water and electricity. Cernauti had electricity and running water, only in some villages they might have been missing. My grandmother used to have an oil lamp when I was very little, I remember that. Anyway, the house also had a small garden, so my sister and I could play outside as well. The apartment had a hallway, two rooms, a balcony, a kitchen, a pantry and a toilet. We had the box for Keren Kayemet 4 in the house. We had books in the house, some religious ones and many novels because that's what my mother used to read. I don't remember authors, but I know she read good books, classics mainly, all in German; she didn't read cheap novels. She went to the public library in Cernauti regularly, she was very fond of books. My father didn't have so much time for reading, because he was working late. My mother always had two or three servants, at least before my sister was born, after that there was only a woman who came to clean twice a week. They were all Ruthenian Russians. I remember the woman came to do the laundry; she boiled it and then steamed it. Back then we used a pressing iron that was filled with embers, which made the iron hot. The laundry was always starched, and I know the woman went out on the balcony and then back inside, to air the embers and keep them burning.

There were several families living in that house, and I think only one was Jewish. I remember one family, the Bendelas: they were Romanian, and they spoke German beautifully. They lived upstairs, and their son used to tie a candy or a piece of chocolate on a string and lower it down to us, the kids. The owner of the house, an elderly woman, I don't remember if she was Jewish or not, lived downstairs, with her three sons. One of them was a lawyer, who liked my mother very much and used to court her. My mother also had a friend from her youth, but they visited rarely. There was another Jewish neighbor, he lived next to our house, he was a lawyer, and he always wore one of those bowler hats. He liked my mother very much, and us children as well. Whenever he saw me on the balcony on his way to the office, he used to call out in German, as a joke, with a funny accent, 'Melitta, was mache die Mame zu Hause?' instead of saying, Melitta, was macht die Mama zu Hause? [Melitta, what is mother doing?], although he spoke German perfectly. My father might have had acquaintances, but not real friends, he didn't have time for that. We kept in touch with my mother's relatives, especially Uncle Max, who had his own house behind the National Theater. He invited us over often.

Erika and I were allowed to play in the garden when we were a bit older, but my mother never let us wander the streets alone. My sister was always curious and independent; I remember she used to go out into the street, and one time a coach almost ran her over. I was more obedient and closer to my mother.

My mother was a good neighbor, but she didn't have time for visiting: she was busy with us, children, or with her needlework. She listened to the radio - we had no TV back then - or she used to take us out for a walk: usually in Volksgarten, the public park in Cernauti, which was very large, it even had tennis courts, or sometimes in the public park of the metropolitan seat in Cernauti. Our poor father, when he was free on Saturdays or Sundays, took us kids out to Volksgarten as well. I sat on one of his knees, my sister Erika on the other, and we used to comb him, fix his hair, we did all sorts of things to him and his clothes. But he let us have fun; he was a very kind and loving man. And there was no exception, every evening when he came home from work, he came to our room, where we were fast asleep most of the times. He always put something sweet, like candies or chocolate, on our nightstands. First thing in the morning, when we woke up, we would feel up the nightstand, with our eyes still closed, we knew there had to be something! The first question when we woke up was, 'Tata, was hast du uns gebracht?', that is, 'Father, what have you brought us?' He was indeed very kind.

The financial situation of the family was rather good until World War II broke out. My father worked very hard at a restaurant called Beer, after his owner. He worked very late, to pay for our clothes, school and vacations.

My father never went on a vacation with my mother or with us, as far as I remember, but he sent my mother and us somewhere near Cernauti for at least six weeks every summer. We went to Putna monastery [nunnery, located in Suceava county, 62 km north west of Suceava, built in the 15th century]. I remember playing there, and climbing the mountain from where Stefan the Great sent out his arrow to find the right spot for building his monastery. [Editor's note: Stefan the Great, ruler of Moldavia in the late 15th century, famous for his patriotism and wars against the Ottoman Empire.] We also went to some place, I don't remember the name, near Ceremus [river near Cernauti, today in Ukraine]. It was nothing fashionable, but it was very nice: we stayed in a rented house, and my mother didn't have to cook; my father sent us packages with fine delicacies. And when we came back, he always had a present for my mother. I remember one time he gave her a beautiful watch.

Every spring, before Pesach, or fall, before the holidays, my mother had something elegant ordered at the tailor's for her and for us. She had good taste, and she was a very elegant woman, very up-to-date with the fashion. When she went for a walk, she always wore gloves and a hat. Back then, there was a dress in fashion for young women and children, which came from Vienna I think, a Tyrolean model: the dirndl; it had a pleated skirt and pleated sleeves. It was worn with a small apron. My mother used to make one for us every summer, and she had one as well. When we went out, nobody thought she was our mother, everybody thought she was the nanny or an elder sister.

I used to accompany my mother when she went to the market. She always went on Monday, because Monday was the milchik [Yiddish for dairy products] day. The market place was very picturesque; the peasant women were dressed in their national costumes. I remember the women from Bukovina, from the outskirts of Cernauti, who wore their beautiful hota, their national costume. My mother bought a large piece of butter, wrapped in a bur leaf, and cheese in the shape of a pellet, because it had been kept in gauze. My mother bought poultry on Wednesday, and she took it to the hakham; back then we had no refrigerators, so it had to be well cleaned and well cooked. [In smaller places the hakham assumed several functions in the Jewish community, he acted as shochet, mohel, shammash, etc.] The hakham cut the bird, salted it, put it in water. Only after that it was ready to be cooked. And on Thursday, mother took us to the fish market. It was very impressive for us, because the fish was brought alive. They were swimming in some large tubs filled with water, and mum chose one, and said, 'I want this one!' Then the merchant got the fish out, hit it, and gave it to my mother, who took it home, and made the fish kosher. I don't remember exactly what she was doing, but I know she cleaned it, salted it and washed it several times. Running a household was more difficult back then, there was a lot to do.

My family didn't have a favorite shop; there was one in our street we bought small things from; but I remember, when we needed oil or sugar, father ordered it at the shop and it was delivered to us at home.

My mother was rather religious, she cooked kosher food and baked challah on Fridays; she observed Sabbath, she didn't light the fire on Sabbath, somebody else came to do it. My father was a good Jew as well, but he only went to the synagogue on the high holidays. He was working most of the times. But he provided for his family, and he took care that we had nice presents, my mother and us, the children. On Chanukkah, we always received presents, like this dirndl dress we liked so much. On Pesach, the cleaning was done the day before, there was the searching for chametz, and there was special tableware we kept in a trunk in the attic. My mother used to throw out or give away all food, like flour, which she hadn't bought recently. She cooked on a kitchen range that was built into a wall and on Pesach she cleaned it, rubbed it, and put hot embers all over it, so that it was kosher. My mother always bought one hundred eggs: the hard-boiled eggs were minced together with small cut onion, oil and pepper. This appetizer was served with matzah. There were guests over at our house, or we were invited to my uncles, but I don't remember my father leading the seder. It was too long ago.

We went to the big temple on special occasions, like the high holidays or a wedding, and it was always full, you had to buy seats for this beforehand from the Jewish community: women sat on one side, and men on the other. My parents were always careful to buy seats before any high holiday. But there were several synagogues in Cernauti, apart from the big temple, and on Saturdays my mother took us girls to the one closest to our home. There was no difference made between Neolog 5 or Orthodox Jews, I first heard about it when I came to Brasov.

There were several sweets made on Purim: we cooked the traditional leika. We also did fluden, I think here in Transylvania it is called kimbla. This fluden was somewhat similar to strudel; it was made up of dough that was spread very, very thin on tablecloths in the house, thin as cigarette paper, and left to dry. Then there was a filling of ground nut kernels, mixed with sugar and honey. This filling was wrapped in the dough like a strudel, put in the griddle and cut into pieces before putting it in the oven. It can be served with jam as well, my mother did that when I got married, it was delicious! But it's very hard to make, I never made it. Of course we baked shelakhmones, and we gave them to neighbors; they came to us as well with gifts, even if they weren't Jewish, many Christians knew our holidays and respected them. We usually received eggs from them when it was the Orthodox Easter. I remember vaguely, that on Purim, it was customary for masked people to come to visit. Generally they were well received, people weren't afraid of letting strangers into their house back then. Mother used to tell me that the masks made fun of the hosts, cracked some jokes or were ironic, and the host had to guess who was behind the mask, if it was someone known. I don't remember them coming into our house, it may have happened when my mother wasn't married yet. But there was a lot of joy and celebrating in our house. We kids didn't dress up though, but I remember that there were Purim balls in town, and people were allowed to wear masks in the street.

My mother also baked kirhala, that is some sort of cookie: it was a dough with many eggs, I think, and it was cut into pieces before putting it in the oven. There was sugar sprinkled over them, and when it was done, the sides of the cookie would rise, so the cookie looked like a small ship. They melted in one's mouth, they were delicious.

On Jewish New Year's Eve there were always big preparations, everybody went to the big synagogue, and then we were invited to a party to one aunt or uncle, and there was a lot of food and drinking. Both my parents fasted on Yom Kippur, and so did I when I turned 13. But at that time, we were already in Transnistria, so food was scarce anyway. On Sukkot we went to the synagogue and celebrated, people danced with the Torah in the synagogue's courtyard, but we didn't build a sukkah ourselves. [People dance with the Torah on Simchat Torah, which is the last day of Sukkot.]

The town I grew up in, Cernauti, was large, cultural, very cosmopolitan. There were six or seven cinemas, the National Theater, the Jewish Theater, and other wonderful buildings, like Dom Polski, that is the Polish House; one could even find symphonic music. The Jewish community in Cernauti was very large and powerful; however, I don't know exact numbers. There was the synagogue, very beautiful; I remember I was there for the last time when my cousin, Ani, Uncle Max's daughter, married there before World War II started. The rabbi, I don't know his name, wasn't very old, and he was the same who had married my mother. After the synagogue was razed to the ground during the persecution, before the war, the rabbi was murdered. There were mikves in Cernauti, but we didn't go.

There were several hakhamim in Cernauti, and no Jew ate poultry or veal if it hadn't been butchered by the hakham. There were also many functionaries: hakhamim, shochetim, rabbis. [Editor's note: in smaller Jewish communities the hakham could assume various functions, among them, that of a shochet, however in this case the interviewee probably missed to say shochet.] There were no Jewish neighborhoods in Cernauti, Jews lived scattered across the town. Jews had all sorts of jobs: tailors, watch menders, shoemakers, shopkeepers, doctors and lawyers, they could be anything before 1939, when the persecution under the Goga-Cuza government 6 began. And there was something else: Jewish restaurants, some of them with kosher food. My father worked for a quality restaurant, very central and fancy, where he made up the recipes for cold buffets, and important people came in to have an appetizer. The owner of the place was a Jew named Beer. And there was also a well-known Jewish restaurant, the Friedmann's. I still remember where it was. If I got off the train in Cernauti now, I could still find it, it was 'auf der Russischen Gasse', on the Russian street. It was a lacto-vegetarian restaurant, and everybody in Cernauti, Jewish or not, came to Friedmann's, he had wonderful delicacies with dairy products. It was a fashionable meeting place for ladies, who came there, ate and chatted for two or three hours. My mother also took us there a few times, and we always had maize cake, which was very popular. It was a dish made of corn flour, with a cream cheese filling, and sour cream on the side; it was awesome, I can tell you! There were also other recipes, and all kosher, nothing with meat was served.

We used to go and watch parades, I remember 10th May, the Heroes' Day 7, when King Carol II 8 came to Cernauti with his son, Michael 9. We were pupils in the third grade, I think, and my mother dressed up and came with us; we stayed in the front, and we saw the royal coach and all the royal retinue pass by. King Carol wore a feathered helmet, and Michael wore a beautiful uniform as well as his father.

I didn't have a Fraulein [governess] when I was little; my mother took care of me, with the help of the servants. Then I went to the state elementary school for the first four grades. I did the first grade of high school in the Holy Virgin high school, a nuns' high school. Each high school had a different uniform back then, and each pupil had a number. Half of our class was made up of Jews, and the other half of Romanians and Poles. We had religion classes, and we, Jewish girls, had a teacher of Jewish religion, and anti-Semitism was never an issue back then. All students paid a tax; and they all studied the same subjects in Romanian, except for religion, of course. I remember in high school I had thick, beautiful, chestnut-red hair, and I wore it in two plaits. During the breaks the boys were chasing me and pulling my plaits, saying, 'Melitta, du hast einen Wald im Kopf!', that is, 'Melitta, you have a forest in your head!'

I was good at mathematics, but I especially liked literature and history; I read a lot about famous painters and writers, I enjoyed it. I had friends in school, but not outside of it because my mother didn't let me wander in the town all alone. I don't remember names, it was a long time ago, but my friends were Jewish and Romanian alike.

I never went to cheder. Father told me later that he intended to send us both to an old Jew to learn, but the war broke out and he couldn't do that anymore. I finished my first year of high school in June 1940, and immediately after that the Russians came. We had to repeat the year, they brought new teachers from Russia and every school had to study in Russian. They also imposed mixed classes, boys and girls together. At first we laughed, made fun of the teachers, we didn't know Russian and the teachers didn't know German, so they couldn't understand us. But I never got into serious trouble with my teachers. We went on for a year and I could already speak Russian in 1941.

Father also bought a cottage piano for us girls, and once or twice a week we took piano lessons for two or three years, before the war started. We would go to an elderly Polish lady to learn, and could practice at home, because we had the cottage piano at home.

I went to the Jewish theater only once, when I was little. It was a big event, a very famous artist from the Yiddish theater was going to perform and sing as well, Sidi Tal. My mother took us girls to see her. She also took us to the cinema; we never missed a movie with Shirley Temple. After the Russians came, it was compulsory to go with the school to see Russian plays, Lev Tolstoy especially. I enjoyed them, too.

During the War

In the summer of 1941 the Romanian regime was reestablished, and Antonescu 10 came to power. The times were very troubled, and I remember in November we were told to pack a few things in a bundle and to be ready to go: we were supposed to be already dressed when the Romanian gendarmes would knock on our doors to take us away. The gendarmes came, and we were taken to some part of Cernauti, I don't know exactly to which, that was declared a ghetto. We were crowded, I don't know how many in one room, and we had to stay there for some days; after that, gendarmes with bayonets came and took us to the train station: they forced us to get on cattle wagons, we were so many in one wagon that one could hardly breathe. And this convoy went from Cernauti to Atachi, which was the northernmost point of Bessarabia, right near the bank of the Dnestr. It was a frightful journey and when the train stopped, they wouldn't let us get off right away, but when we did, we had to step in mud, thick mud that went up to our knees, because it was after a flood. Near the railroad there was a hillock, and they forced us to climb it, men, women and children and old people altogether, with everything we had brought. It was terrible, sick or old people fell in the thick mud, others pulled them out. Everybody had to make it to the top with their belongings. When we were on top, they ordered us to leave everything we had packed there, and then they chased us down the hillock again.

Then everybody had to follow a huge convoy that went to the bank of the Dnestr. There were thousands and thousands of people on the bank of the river, because several convoys had arrived, not just ours. It was night, it was dark, and the roaring of the Dnestr was frightening. Families were separated, voices cried out, yelled, called each other. The screams and the cries were terrible in that dark cold November night. Everybody had to cross the Dnestr on those ferries that carry carts and horses; only this time there were people instead. It went very slowly, and my family was there all night until my father gave something he had saved, I don't know what, to somebody and we were finally on the ferry. You could hear shots being fired in the night, the screams of people being thrown in the river; it was terrible.

When we reached the other bank of Dnestr, we were already in Transnistria. We were in a suburb of Mohilev-Podolsk 11; it was a place with small shattered houses, and all looked and smelled like water closets. There were so many people trying to find a spot to rest! We were exhausted, and we just sat quietly near a wall until morning. In the morning the gendarmes told us, 'Everybody must be ready to leave!' A woman, who had probably come there some days before, told us, 'Good people, if you can, hide and don't go with this convoy!' There was a young couple of Jews, a bit younger than my parents and with no children, who had come with us, in the same wagon. When they heard the woman, they immediately set out to leave the building; my sister ran after them, and I after my sister. When we reached the main street, I turned around and saw that my parents weren't behind me, so I went back. I found them in the convoy, surrounded by gendarmes who screamed at people to move.

There were thousands and thousands of people in that convoy, the entire main street was full of people. My mother started to cry, my father cried out, 'Where's my daughter?!'; but my sister had disappeared with that Jewish family. The sentinels guarded the convoy, they were mostly Romanian, but I remember there was a German one as well. And my mother started to cry and plead, in German and Romanian, that she had lost a child, that all she wanted was to find her baby. Nobody looked at her, but she didn't stop crying. At one point, a young sentinel, a Romanian soldier, stopped, looked at us and said: 'Come with me!' We got out of the convoy, and set out for the small street where I last saw the couple of Jews with my sister. We didn't go very far, there were too many people, but we saw the woman coming towards us with my sister Erika. The soldier saw we found the girl, but he was a good soul, he said, as if he hadn't seen anything, 'Go find the girl, and when you do, come back.' That was our great luck, and that is why we survived, because we could stay in the city of Mohilev-Podolsk.

The convoy left the city, and we stayed behind, with some other people who knew it was better to stay. Mohilev-Podolsk was not a concentration camp surrounded by barbed wire, it was a ghetto. In the whole city there were no more Ukrainian Jews, they had all been slaughtered in Odessa and other places [during the Romanian occupation of Odessa] 12. The few Jews living there had been brought from over the Dnestr. After the convoy left and my parents weren't afraid to come out, my father started to look for a place to live. We found a Ukrainian woman who took us in; she was very poor, and full of lice, she was scratching herself all the time. My clean, beautiful mother was appalled, you can imagine. We stayed there only for a little while, and then we found another place. It was also in the ghetto, in the suburb, but the house belonged to some Ukrainians who were well off, they had a garden, and cows. My parents spoke with the owners, and they took us in. They had a little house near the stables, with a small kitchen, and one room, built on the bare ground. However, it was clean, and that's where we stayed.

My parents paid the rent with a few jewels my mother had been able to save: she had sown them in a small pocket in her suspenders. When they took us out of the train, they had no time to do any bodily search. It's said that the Ukrainians were anti-Semites, but it is not a rule, these people were kind for taking us in; moreover, they didn't ask for a high rent, they didn't insult us, and they gave us some milk or a tomato during summer, because we were starving. The hoziaika, that is the owner [in Ukrainian], had two daughters: they were a little bit older than us, but we made friends, they didn't treat us badly; we even played together sometimes.

We lived only on maize flour, and my mother made a gir, some sort of soup, just boiled water sprinkled with maize flour. [Editor's note: The basic meaning of the Akkadian word 'gir' is a grain of carob seed.] Very rarely we could make maize mush, and my sister, who was always spoiled and fastidious about food, was always the first at the table, to make sure that nobody got a bigger piece. We sometimes had army bread, which gave my sister and I jaundice. Not to mention the subnutrition that gave my sister and I furunculous: we were full of puss, and my poor father washed us and dressed our wounds.

We lived there for three years, from 1941 to 1944, and the times were hard. German troops passed our small house several times, but we knew they were coming. I don't know how, but the news about them always spread fast; we were so afraid, we would hide in the small kitchen, and we didn't even breathe hard, for fear the Germans might hear us. I remember, during the winter, my sister and I went to the gate of the house - the house these Ukrainians had seemed a palace to us, although it was just a normal house - we saw carts, full of corpses piled up like boards, they were that thin; I don't know where they took them.

All around Mohilev there were concentration camps, surrounded by barbed wire. My future husband, doctor Jacques Friedel, was in one of them, and so was my mother's elder brother, Moritz Sternschein. He had been to Germany, where he married a German Jewish woman, and they fled Germany and came back to Cernauti when Hitler came to power. But he was deported to one of these camps with his wife and his three children. My uncle and his wife died before the liberation, and when the front came, their children were brought to Mohilev. My parents found them, but they didn't survive, they were all sick, with their bellies swollen. People died during summer because of typhoid fever, and during winter because of the cold and typhus. They wore only rags, they were underfed, you could see them ransacking garbage for a potato peel. The living conditions were disastrous; there were worms and lice everywhere. We never had lice, all that time, and that thanks to my mother: she was a clean, educated woman, and in the small house where we lived, she put a chair in front of the bed, so whoever would come in, would sit on the chair and not on the bed. She also brushed our hair with a small- toothed comb; we, girls, had beautiful hair and my mother didn't cut it. As far as I know there were no mass executions in Mohilev.

Time passed, and we were liberated by the Russian front in April 1944. The Russians installed an anti-aircraft cannon right behind the stable, in the courtyard where we lived. The sound of it was terrible! My father was drafted by force in the Russian army because he didn't hide like others did, and he went with the front to Stalingrad, as he later told us. So after Mohilev was liberated, and the news spread that Cernauti was liberated as well, my mother found herself alone, with two girls and without my father. We had to go back to Cernauti on foot, only when we reached a railway station could we travel by train for a few miles. The Russian convoys didn't care very much, they let us travel in goods trains. We walked and traveled for two weeks, I think, and when we got back home, all three of us had our hair full of lice. We found our apartment; it was completely empty, except for an iron bed, where we all slept. We didn't know, but that apartment was used by some Russians, and one night we just woke up with some of them in the room. We were so afraid that they would rape us; I was already 15 years old, and a beautiful girl, my mother was also a beautiful woman, my sister was rather skinny, but still, we were three defenseless women. We were terrified, but they were good-hearted people, they left us alone.

After the War

Life was very hard during those two years, from 1944 to 1946. We girls went to school and we studied in Russian. My uncle Max Sternschein, who wasn't deported, helped us with what he could. Some permits for Jews to stay in Cernauti were issued by the Romanian authorities, for huge sums of money, and I think my uncle raised that money somehow. And he was lucky, because some Jews were deported later, even if they had paid a large sum of money to stay behind. When the Russians came, in 1940, Ani had just finished high school, she had passed her graduation exam. And Russians imposed that everybody who had graduated from high school was to go to Bessarabia to teach there. Uncle Max was desperate, but he couldn't do anything. So he married Ani in a hurry with a medicine student, one of her pretenders, so that she wouldn't be all alone and with no protection there. But the German front came, and they were massacred there, they weren't heard of again. He was still hoping to hear from Ani, his daughter. Uncle Max sent people to look for them, my mother kept asking everybody who went to or was coming from Bessarabia, and the answer was always the same: no Jews were left alive. Uncle Max had a very hard time accepting this, he adored his daughter.

Mainly we would live on what my mother took from some people. For example, somebody gave her a dress they didn't use anymore, and she went to the market and sold it for a few rubles, and that was our money for bread. Uncle Bernhart, who had been deported, came back with his wife and child; they had another daughter in Cernauti, after they returned, and soon after that they left for Israel. But we couldn't go anywhere; we were waiting for my father. My father managed to send us a package with clothes, and in 1946 he came home.

In the same year we left for Brasov, there was some sort of decree that Jews could go to Romania if they had Romanian citizenship; I remember I turned 17 the day we set foot in this town. We didn't choose the town, we were sent here. We had already experienced the Russians back in Cernauti, we knew what they were capable of, so we didn't hesitate about moving to Romania. We had two examples: the first time they came, in 1940, there were some rich people in Cernauti, some of them Jews, some of them Romanians. They were taken to Siberia [to the so-called Gulag camps] 13, and they were never heard of again. Then, when we came back from Transnistria, in 1944, the NKVD 14 roamed the streets and made raids in houses during the night, taking people to forced labor to the Donets mines. [Editor's note: Donets, or Donbass, as it is also called, is the site of a major coalfield and an industrial region in Eastern Ukraine in the plain of the Rivers Donets and lower Dnieper.] It made no difference to them if you told them that you were a Jew and that you had just come back from deportation; they didn't care.

One night, they came to our house, but as we lived on the first floor, we heard them ringing the bells of the neighbors first. My mother knew who it was, so she immediately ran bare-foot and in her nightgown to the cellar. She hid and I had to open he door. And I was wearing a black silk dressing gown, a gift from my aunt, Grete, and I probably looked like a young woman, so the NKVD wanted to take me away. I told him I was still a pupil; he didn't believe me, but I showed him my notebook and he finally let me go. That fright I will never forget! There were people who were actually jumping off their balconies when the NKVD came to their door, they would do anything not to be taken to Donets, so we had a pretty good idea about who the Russians were. The first chance we got to leave Cernauti, we did.

Life was very hard here in Brasov, because we had to live in a house with some Romanians, and we were so crowded, we had to live several families in one room. We had to share the room with one more family, and we slept on the floor at first, then we managed to build a cot and we slept there. After a year or two the family that lived with us left. My parents continued to stay there, but we girls eventually left: I got married, and Erika went to university in Bucharest, were she studied languages, Russian and English. My parents were never really over the trauma of being deported. All they thought about was our welfare, and not theirs: they wanted us to have good food, clothes, but my father never thought of buying an apartment, although it would have been possible back then, with a loan. Father worked as the manager of a food laboratory, and mother was a housewife.

We wanted to emigrate to Israel, we were a young family; my father filed for it, but he didn't get the approval, and I don't know if he tried again. I don't know the reasons for the rejection. Uncle Bernhart left with his family from Bucharest to Israel in 1947, but I don't know how they did it. Uncle Max left for Buenos Aires with his wife Suzie and his son Vili; they managed to do so because Suzie had some relatives there, and they helped her. Uncle Max died some time in the late 1950s I think. About Vili I only know that he married a Jewish woman who was from Romania as well, and that he became a diamond polisher.

Erika and I finished school here in Brasov. I finished the ten grades of high school in evening classes, and after that, at 19, I got a job. Although we were rather poor, my mother didn't want us to neglect our education. In the first two or three years after arriving in Brasov, we had private lessons of German literature and grammar with a teacher. After that we studied English with a teacher, Mrs. Rathaus. It was rather expensive, but I took those classes for about eight years, I only interrupted them when I was about to give birth to my son.

After she graduated, Erika became a Russian teacher here, in Brasov, and married a Jew, Alfred [Freddie] Ellenburgen in 1959. They had a good marriage, and they have a son, Marcel. Marcel married a Romanian, Iulia, and they live in Israel now, where he has two little boys.

I worked for three years in the bookkeeping department of T.A.P.L., which was the state organization that managed restaurants and the food industry. In the meantime, I took some accounting courses, and Mr. Rathaus, my teacher's husband, who was a pharmacist, helped me get a position as an accountant at Centrofarm. [Centrofarm was a state pharmaceutical company, which operated all over the country.] I worked there for three years, until 1955. I had no problems because of being Jewish in neither of these work places.

I was lucky that I made good friends with the young people from the Jewish community here. They were Pista Guth, Brauning, Loti Gros, and some other high school colleagues of theirs. They liked my sister and me a lot, so they introduced us in their circles and in Gordonia 15, a Zionist organization. They were very friendly, invited us to small five o'clock tea parties and so on. At Gordonia there was a young doctor, Bernhart, who liked me a lot, courted me, and he introduced me to a friend of his, doctor Orosz. He was a Hungarian, not a Jew, but he had many Jewish friends. Doctor Orosz courted me as well, we went out for walks, and during one of these walks we met doctor Jacques Friedel, my future husband. Jacques was born in Campulung Moldovenesc, but he studied medicine in Cluj-Napoca, and he was assigned to Brasov.

We got married in October 1953, in Brasov, in the Neolog synagogue here. It was a beautiful wedding, with a chuppah, the two hakhams from Brasov attended, I had many guests, friends and colleagues from work, three maids of honor, a choir, and the organ played. I remember a jeweler, Weinberger, who came to sing in my honor, he had a beautiful voice. I had a gorgeous dress, and a Biedermeier bouquet, made up of 35 rose buds. The coronet was also made up of small flowers. The party was in a restaurant, there was a band, and only kosher food, of course; my mother cooked, and she even made that famous fluden from Bukovina.

My son, Edward Friedel, was born in 1955. My husband, my son and I lived here, where I live today, in one room, which we received when Edward was one year old. Some time after that, my marriage with my husband fell apart, so we divorced in 1966, I took my maiden name again and I started working at the University of Brasov, the Faculty of Forestry, where I worked as a clerk. I worked there for 28 years, until I retired.

I was never a member of the Communist Party, nobody from the family was. We kept our mouth shut, but we didn't agree, of course, with what was going on. We had to participate in all the manifestations on 23rd August 16 or 1st May, especially because I worked in a university and the accent on propaganda was stronger here. We even had to sow the slogans on the placards, like 'Long live communism' 'Long live Ceausescu 17!'

My son had no problems in school because he was Jewish, we could go to the synagogue and we observed the high holidays at home. But we didn't follow the kashrut; it was too hard. Both my husband and I were religious, I lit candles every Friday and said the blessings, I cleaned the house on Pesach. However, we didn't dress up Edward for Purim. Edward also took some classes of Talmud Torah with somebody from the community, I don't remember with whom. He didn't study with his father, but he had to know a few things for his bar mitzvah.

My son, Edward, was a sincere enemy of the communist regime since he was in high school, and I told him to be careful about what he said or did, because he could get into serious trouble. But he still insisted that he wanted to go to Israel. And, since he was in my care, I told him that he would have to graduate from university first, and after that, if he still wanted to emigrate, I wouldn't stand in his way. He did as I told him, including the military service. I was the one who insisted on that as well, I thought it would make him more of a man, because in his childhood he was rather spoiled, but it was a mistake on my behalf. His father, as a doctor, could have given him some papers saying that he was sick and he would have dodged the military service, but I threatened to denounce him - my ex- husband - if he did so. So after Edward graduated from high school, he was a pontoneer and a sentinel at a prison in Braila. He told me that there were a lot of fights, with knives even, among some militaries. But he managed, and after that he went to the Faculty of Wood Industry here, in Brasov.

All this time, Edward lived with me. But our living conditions were terrible because we didn't have a private toilet or a hallway; so I decided to do something about it, got the necessary approvals and started to build a toilet and a hallway. I sent Edward to live with his father all this time; the mess was so big I couldn't even cook properly. In that time, Edward got involved with a girl, she was a colleague of his from university. Her family was rather well-off, and they ended up living together in her apartment. After Edward graduated, he wanted to marry her. I didn't exactly approve, because she was as vain as she was beautiful, but I was old fashioned: they lived together, they have to get married, I thought. So they did, and they stayed together for two or three years. Meanwhile, she got a job in the dean's office at the university, where she met a lot of foreign students. She ended up with a Greek one, nine years younger than she was, and the marriage ended. Edward was very affected by all this; he had a nervous breakdown. He was in such a bad shape, I had to commit him to a hospital for two weeks, and feed him very well - which back then was a real problem - to heal him. [Editor's note: food was scarce during the last years of the communist regime; bread, milk, meat were given on food stamps.] He also stayed at Paraul Rece [resort and sanatorium in Transylvania] for two weeks, and after that he was okay again.

In 1986, he came to my office, and he said, 'Mama, sit down. I decided to emigrate to Israel, and please remember what you promised!' So as hard as it was to let my only child go away, I did. His father didn't approve at all, but Edward's mind was all made up, and within six months, I think, he was gone. I didn't want to join him, I had my friends here, my life, and he was just getting started.

He settled in Beer Sheva, and in the same year, he met Alice. She was a Sephardi Jew; she worked in a bank. Edward's savings were 50 dollars, and he went to the bank to see how he could invest the money, and that's how they met. They married the following year, in 1987. I thought it was too soon, but he was really lucky this time. Alice is a beautiful, special and generous woman, and a devoted mother to their children: they have two daughters, Orly was born in 1988, and Sigal born in 1989. I told him that, no matter how good their life was, he should think of himself as a billionaire, for having such healthy and beautiful children, and such a good wife. Edward works as a wood engineer at a good company, although he had to find a new job recently because the company he worked for fired people and he was among them. But he quickly found another job, an even better one.

I was happy to hear about the birth of the State of Israel, in spite of all the obstacles and hostile policies towards Jews I'd seen during those years. I've been to Israel several times, even before 1989. In 1975 I went to visit some friends of mine. There was one family, doctor Stern and his wife, Jews from Brasov, who had left for Israel some time ago, in 1954, I think. But first I went to Netanya, to visit the Kirschners, Karol and Chaia. I made friends with them in a very original manner. I was in the bus, on my way to Poiana Brasov [Poiana Brasov is Romania's premier ski resort located 12 km far from Brasov], and I heard a couple speak in English. I talked to them, and I found out that they were Jews who lived in Israel. They originally came from the Czech Republic, but they fled the country to escape Hitler when they were still very young. They were young, in their twenties, when that happened, and they ended up in India, were they both fought in the 9th Hebrew legion, led by Moshe Dayan 18. They liked me very much, they took me out, and when they left, they invited me to Israel. So I went to visit them for two weeks. After that I visited doctor Stern, who was in Beer Sheva. I was very impressed with everything I saw in the Israeli museum. All my friends spoiled me, and I was very touched that people weren't afraid of speaking their mind, of meeting in the street, of the living conditions. I went to Israel in 1983 as well, back to the Sterns. Then I went to visit Edward and Alice, who were living in her apartment back then; one time was in 1997 and the other last year. They have moved into a beautiful villa.

I used to listen to Radio Free Europe 19 at home after I got divorced, so from 1968 on, because I had more free time; I set the radio by the stove and at a low level, and I listened and knitted at the same time, especially during the night; my favorite was Niculai Munteanu. [He was a well-known Romanian editor who worked for Radio Free Europe in its headquarters in Munich, and did broadcasts about Romanian politics.] That's where I heard the news about the wars in Israel. [Editor's note: the Six-Day-War 20 and the Yom Kippur War 21]

My father died in 1989, it was during the revolution [the Romanian Revolution of 1989] 22, and my mother died six weeks after him, in 1990. They were both buried in the Jewish cemetery. Because of the troubled times, I couldn't bring a rabbi or a chazzan for my father's funeral, there was just a minyan and somebody recited the Kaddish, but when mother died, I phoned Bucharest and they sent a chazzan to recite the prayer. I keep the Yahrzeit, I don't know the date after the Jewish calendar, but I light a candle on their birthdays and on the days they died. I was in mourning for 14 months after my parents, one year for each of them; even my underwear was black - that was the custom in Bukovina. I sat shivah for eight days after they died, I kneeled in a corner on the bare ground and cried, and after eight days I called my sister and we went round the house. Erika didn't sit shivah and she didn't go in mourning either.

I was happy when the Revolution of 1989 broke out, I hoped for better times, but my father was dying, my mother as well, so it was a black period for me. I saw all the events on TV, because I didn't go outside: I could hear shots and I was afraid.

I'm not sure things got better, but they have certainly changed. Of course, it's a relief to be allowed to say what you think, not to stay in a queue for three eggs for five hours and then not get them, and I was lucky with a certain law, which acknowledges that we were deported and gives us some advantages: 12 free train tickets, free radio-TV subscription, free bus tickets, and some free medicine, plus a small pension. But the dirt in the streets, the lack of civilization I see, and the anti-Semitism are all more often seen.

I receive a pension from the Germans, not very big, but it helps. I was involved in the Jewish community, I liked to pay visits to the community's office, or take some cookies there, at least until last year, when I had a severe heart attack and almost died. But I'm happy to be alive; I have a beautiful family. I did a lot of needlework in the last years, I have made beautiful gobelin tapestries. I also went to concerts or hiking, but now I have to take better care of my health.

Glossary

Ruth Halova
Holubov
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Lenka Koprivova
Date of interview: July 2006 - March 2007

Mrs. Ruth Halova is from the beautiful southern Bohemian town of Cesky Krumlov. Although during a large portion of her live she lived and worked elsewhere, after she retired she returned here, and I visited her in Holubov, a small town surrounded by the hills of the Czech Forest. Already on my way to her place, I was saying to myself that I'd never seen such beautiful forests as they have here anywhere else. And after meeting Mrs. Halova, I'm convinced that I've also never ever met such a beautiful and kind person as she is. As she herself mentions, already from the time she was little, she was fascinated by the gift of life - hers was saved by Nicholas Winton 1, who enabled her and her sister to leave for exile in England. It's already been some time since she celebrated her 80th birthday, but thanks to her vitality, no one would ever guess that she's really that old. Mrs. Halova is a member of the Plzen [Pilsen] Jewish community, and among other things, she was very involved in the saving of the synagogue in her hometown of Cesky Krumlov.

Life is the greatest of the gifts that God gave to Man, and the greatest miracle is the fact that the life of every being in the universe is singular and unrepeatable. In this life of mine, I've had the luck that it was given to me twice, which is why I was asked to talk about what I remember of it.

Growing up
My school years
During the war
My escape to England
Post-war
My university years
Working at the hospital in Prague
My first marriage
My children
Retirement
Glossary

Growing up

I'm originally from Cesky Krumlov, where in 1926 I was born to my parents, Leopold and Zdenka Adler, as their second child - my sister Eva was born five years earlier. Alas, shortly after I came into the world, Dad left it - during World War I he'd been a Legionnaire, and had traveled through Siberia with his unit. While crossing one mighty river, my dad refused to be taken across by boat - though as an officer he had the right to that, but he decided to swim across with his soldiers. That sealed his fate; he fell ill, and when I was ten months old, he died. So that she could support us, Mom worked at Spiro's factory as a secretary, which is why her mother, our self-sacrificing grandma Marie Kohnova, took care of the household.

Grandma Marie was from Kostelec, not far from Hluboka, where her family had a farm. When she got married, she lived with her husband in Protivin, and together they ran a general store; they also had their two daughters there, my mom Zdenka and my aunt Olga. While this part of my family was composed of Czech-speaking Jews, my dad's mother tongue was German. His mother [Josefa Adlerova] was from Sobeslav, and Grandpa [Jakub Adler] was from somewhere in the Czech-Austrian border region. One day he appeared, selling Hungarian flour, and met Grandma. The Adlers then lived in [Ceske] Budejovice; one could say they were a family of public servants.

The same year that I was born, so in 1926, Grandpa died. It was actually my grandma from Budejovice who then held the entire family together; we used to gather at her place for all Jewish celebrations. Grandma cooked, baked, and served - she was in her element. She made a living by selling Tiger brand cheese for some Swiss company. I used to go shopping with her in Budejovice, and they knew her everywhere. She was this well-known, beautiful, canny woman. She belonged amongst those in the Jewish community who take care of corpses [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to Chevra Kaddisha: an Aramaic term for a volunteer group or association that performs last rites and oversees the performance of funerals.]

Dad was one of five siblings. The oldest was Uncle Max, a professor of Latin and Greek, initially at a girls' high school, and then at the German university in Prague. Second was Aunt Ida, whom I particularly loved. She got married and moved to Linz, Austria, which lies about 60 kilometers from Krumlov, and I always yearned to go visit her, Uncle Richard and my cousin Fritz. Even more so, when I found out that their good friends raised boxers - I've liked animals all my life. Alas, it never worked out; Uncle Richard would write and send me fairy tales about the beautiful blue Danube, which were supposed to console me. It was a consolation, but in my eyes a poor one nevertheless. Aunt Ida immigrated with her family to the United States still before the war.

Another of Dad's brother's was named Arthur, and it was actually thanks to him and his wife Marta that my parents met. You see, Aunt Marta was a widow from her first marriage, and besides her two sons, Franta and Karel, she also inherited from her husband the responsibility for a chocolate factory in Budejovice, where my mother started working as an accountant. Dad's youngest brother Hugo was a phtysiologist, and for long years he was the director of a hospital in Usti nad Labem, where I also worked after the war.

Already when I was very little, I was fascinated by nature. My earliest memories are of trees - I'm lying in a carriage and looking up into their crowns. The person pushing the carriage is my kind grandma Marie. Alas, the conditions weren't there for me to have some sort of animal at home, which was my only wish for all my birthdays. My mother's older sister, Olga Ledererova, died while giving birth to her second child, and Grandma had to start taking care of her household, too - the newborn Hanicka and Jenik, two years older; at least until Uncle Sigmund remarried. Thus when she proclaimed, either an animal or me, that was the end of my hopes. Several times I tried to smuggle some animal foundling into the house, but success was always only temporary. My first animal at home wasn't until my second marriage.

As a little girl, I didn't want to go to bed. I had the feeling that life was too interesting to sleep through. For the same reason I later didn't want to read - after all, life was too precious for me to waste it reading! I loved life and I loved colors. I was very tormented by the fact that some don't see the world in all its colors. You see, for me each numeral and vowel had its own color. Once I saw a beggar on Krumlov Bridge. For several subsequent nights, I woke up from a dream crying - I couldn't stand the thought of him and his sad life. Grandma and Mom tried to console me, but nothing helped.

Then, one night I again woke and wept for the blind beggar. Mom and Grandma rushed over to me, but I was embarrassed to tell them that I was again weeping for him. And so I told a lie - I said that I was crying because I didn't have a daddy. It wasn't true, I never knew my dad, so I couldn't miss him, but I immediately realized from the sad look in their faces how sorry they were for it. Certainly they tried to do everything to make up for our losing our father. Back then I clearly realized what lying was, and swore that I'd never lie again.

At that time there were about 9000 people living in Cesky Krumlov. About half of them would've been Czechs, and the other half German-speaking citizens of the Czechoslovak Republic 2. The town might have been located in the Sudetenland 3, but really, until Henlein 4 came along and the Germans began with their 'Heim ins Reich,' we lived in peace. My friends were Czechs, Germans and Jews, and no one saw any problem in it. [Editor's note: The 'Heim ins Reich' initiative (German for 'Back to the Reich') was a policy pursued by Adolf Hitler starting in 1938 and was one of the factors leading to WWII. The initiative attempted to convince people of German descent living outside of Germany that they should strive to bring these regions 'home' into a greater Germany. This includes both areas ceded after the Treaty of Versailles and areas which were not previously part of Germany such as Sudentenland. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heim_ins_Reich]

Despite that, Uncle Max, Dad's brother, who after our father's death became our guardian, made a wise decision, and put us into a German school. One reason was for us to really learn German properly, but our uncle also used to say that anti-Semitism is much more noticeable in German institutions than in Czech ones - and so it would be best for us to get used to it as early as possible. As it turned out, our uncle was right, but only later; in the beginning I didn't perceive anything like that.

My school years

I began attending German elementary school, and fell in love with my teacher, Miss Martha Nehybova. She was young, beautiful, and wore her long black hair braided in a ponytail on the nape of her neck. Besides that, she was also kind, truthful, just and noble, and I think that we absorbed more human values in that first school year than in the next several decades.

Martha died no long ago; when I visited her once, she remembered how once long ago my grandma had pleaded with her to talk to me, so that I'd start eating breakfast. Because grandma knew that whatever my teacher told me was holy to me, and because I was a skinny child, that looked forward to school so much in the morning that it refused to eat breakfast, she told Miss Nehybova about it. Martha then really did mention in front of me that eating breakfast is good, so I began eating breakfast, and a few days later Grandma again appeared at the school to thank her.

I had not even a clue about this episode, I didn't find out about it until now. After the war, Martha and her family were deported 5. I think it was precisely to Sudeten Germans such as these that our former president Havel's 6 apology for the deportations belonged.

The members of the Krumlov Jewish community represented an insignificant fraction of the entire population of 9,000, about one percent. Most of them were employees of the paper factory in Vetrni, whose owners, the Spiro family, were also Jews. We didn't have a rabbi, the one from Budejovice used to come see us, but we did have our own cantor, Mr. Karel Krebs. He was a nice young man, who was most likely from Hungary, and devoted very much of his time to young people. He taught us religion, put on plays with us, and so on.

The construction of the Krumlov synagogue was financed by the Spiro family, and I think that they were far from being bad employers. Besides building the synagogue, they also founded the Krumlov Jewish cemetery, and the Christian church in Vetrni. We lived in one apartment building that belonged to the factory. The building was divided into five apartments, and I remember that we even had subsidized electricity. This only applied to electricity from wall outlets, so we mostly used table lamps, and very rarely switched on the [main, ceiling] lights.

Only now, with the passage of time, do I realize how hard it must have been for Grandma to make ends meet on Mom's modest salary for a household of four. I actually had this normal, happy childhood. I've got to say, that until the time the Germans began with their Turnvereins 7 and began goading people against us, our life flowed on in uninterrupted peace. During the summer we went swimming, in the winter we skated and sledded.

One fall day in 1938, I went to school as usual. I entered the classroom, sat down and began to take things out of my briefcase. But my classmates began chanting the slogan 'Juden raus!,' 'Jews out!,' so I stacked my things nicely back into my briefcase, and my Jewish friend Leo and I left the class. We were the only two Jews in the class. I remember telling him in front of the school: 'The worst thing about it is that now we'll stay dumb forever, as we can't count on any more education.'

During the war

I was in sekunda [second year of an eight-year high school, or Grade 6] when I was forced out of school. My sister was even worse off; she was in her last year. We spent the next few days at home, and couldn't even go out into the street - young Germans, the Hitlerjugend 8 were marching around outside, and you wouldn't have met a decent person in the street. But my brave mother kept on going to work. One day, still at the beginning of September, she returned and said that we were to pack up some necessities, because we could no longer remain in Krumlov. She ordered a taxi, and sent us to Protivin, her hometown north of the Sudeten border. She herself remained in Krumlov, saying that she'd try to pack up our household.

It's peculiar, but I have to admit that I wasn't afraid for her. A child probably doesn't fully realize how dangerous a situation can be, plus I was convinced that my mom could handle anything. She did handle it, plus the Spiros, when they were leaving their factory and moving to Prague, offered her a job working several hours a day as a companion for old Mrs. Spiro. Mom of course took the job, found some accommodations in Prague for us, and we moved from Protivin to be with her in Prague.

A couple of days later, our home became part of the German Reich - Czechoslovakia was forced to accept the humiliating agreement, and give up its border regions. To this day, I remember the tears in the eyes of the soldiers, who were mobilized 9, but then recalled again, and didn't get a chance to defend their homeland.

In Prague I began attending school again, while my sister didn't continue her studies. She went to learn how to cook and bake pastries instead. I attended a school located on Namesti Jiriho z Podebrad [Jiri from Podebrady Square]; it's this large building, and is a school to this day. But soon my school attendance was once again interrupted - on 15th March 1939, a sign appeared on the school gates that there was to be no school until further notice. The Germans had arrived - Czechoslovakia was occupied. It was a cold, gray day, and the German tanks drew black lines on the snowy streets of Prague.

With the passage of time, my mom's face grew more and more serious. I don't know where, but somewhere she'd managed to find out that someone was helping Jewish children get into foster families in England. And so she took my sister and me to an office on Vorsilska Street to register us, then we stood in a long, long queue for passports, and on the last day of June I was leaving Wilson Station towards an unknown fate. I had the luck that one English family had decided to take me in. My sister also managed to get into England, and went in the following transport: in the last one to leave Czechoslovakia.

Mom didn't have to explain much to me before the trip. After all, I was already a big girl, and knew that the situation was serious. During the train trip, I also felt that at the age of 13, I belonged to the older ones in the transport, and should therefore help take care of the younger children - the two women the Germans had allowed to come with us couldn't keep up with caring for 250 children. In the compartment where I was sitting, there was also one toddler. Before we left, his mother had stuck a bottle of milk for him through the window to us. I took it and put it on the bench, but when the train started moving, the bottle fell over and the milk spilled. For the rest of the trip we fed the little tyke chocolate that we'd all been given for the trip.

When we were crossing the German border, we stood still at it for a terribly long time. The wait seemed endless to us, and we began to be gripped by fear. German uniforms were walking around the train station, and from the faces of the adults and fragments of conversations, we realized that some important documents weren't in order, or perhaps were even missing. Somehow it was all cleared up, the train once again began moving, and after long, endless hours we arrived at Hoek van Holland [Hook of Holland] harbor. We boarded a ship, and when I climbed up on the top bunk in the cabin, I was terribly afraid that I'd fall off it in my sleep.

My escape to England

On 1st July we arrived in London. It was by coincidence my mother's birthday. Before our foster parents took us our separate ways, we were sitting in this large, green room, maybe a gym. We had name cards hanging around our necks, and I clearly remember my feelings, not so much of sadness or tragedy, but of absolute helplessness. This is how calves must feel, when they're separated from the nourishment and protection of their mothers, put in human hands and at the mercy of human beings, I said to myself. My young friends gradually disappeared, leaving with their new parents to their new foster homes, until finally a few of us for whom no one had come remained in that whole big room. You can imagine the anxiety we little pilgrims sitting on our suitcases felt.

When I was still back home in Czechoslovakia, I'd received a letter from the couple whom I was supposed to live with. So I knew that I was going to be living in Birmingham, with the Joneses. Unfortunately they didn't manage to pick me up in London, so a young man came over to us and said: 'Come along, young people, I'll take you to the train and your families will pick you up in Birmingham.' It was only years later, when I met him again, and knew who he was, that I realized that this young man had been Nicky Winton.

The Joneses were a very kind, older pair. They lived in the suburbs of Birmingham, where they ran a newsstand that also sold all sorts of sweets and ice cream. Aunt and Uncle, as I called them, were very kind to me, and used to give me as much ice cream as I wanted. Another consolation for me was that the Joneses had a female German shepherd named Peggy at home. I could speak Czech to her, and she was the only one that understood me, even if no one else did.

Even though I'd studied some English basics before departure, my knowledge was far from sufficient. And so I didn't understand Englishmen at all, and they didn't understand me. When the Joneses noticed how fond I was of Peggy, our home menagerie grew even bigger: a kitty and a budgie joined it. Another person who tried to make my melding into the new environment as easy as possible was the butcher's helper from the store next door. We were about the same age, and whenever he noticed my tears, he sat me in the sidecar of his motorcycle amongst the sausages and meat, and drove me around. He was also my first English teacher, and my English soon came to resemble his. The problem was that he had a strong Birmingham accent, which of course I didn't know, so my style of speaking must have chafed sensitive ears.

I liked it at school, and I quickly made friends with my classmates. My English surroundings behaved very kindly towards me, and in all manner of ways tried to help me get used to the new environment. Despite that, I had big problems with it. I had problems getting used to England, and upon my return, to once again get used to Czechoslovakia. What bothered me a lot in England was that form was emphasized over content. Everyone says 'sorry,' while they're not at all sorry. Also the sentence 'That's not done' always irritated me greatly, and I couldn't get used to it.

When my first school year in England was drawing to a close, my compulsory school attendance was also drawing to a close. Was this to mean the end of my further education? I didn't want to accept the fact that for the rest of my life I'd be as dumb as I felt myself to be back then. The Joneses were planning to set up a little business for me in this little shop, where I'd sell cotton, wool and silk, and teach people to knit, crochet and embroider. I'd actually always liked handiwork, but the notion that all my life I'd just sit and embroider, or perhaps sell wool? Luckily, a solution was found.

The Joneses wouldn't have had the money to support me in some high school. Mrs. Evelyn Sturge managed to find the finances; she actually wasn't a Mrs., but an older unmarried lady, who used to visit us emigrant children from time to time to see how we were doing. Once she simply arrived, asked how things were, then stopped by at my school and then left again. A few days later a message arrived that I'm to move from Birmingham to Rugby, and that I'd be attending high school there!! It's very moving to recall a person who made this possible for me.

On the way to Rugby, I stopped off at an annual gathering of Quakers in Birmingham, and Miss Sturge introduced me to a white-haired man with a round, kind face. Mr. Albright walked with a cane, and when we met, he just patted me on the head and said: 'So you're Ruth? Well, well.' Later, many years after his death, Miss Evelyn revealed to me that he'd been the one who'd made my studies possible. He hadn't wanted me to find out about it while he was alive. Such beautiful people live amongst us...

In Rugby I lived with the Cleaver family. The man was named Eric, the lady Phyllis, and they had two children, Russell and Rosemary. Later, when I was already leaving them, they had a second son, Marcus, whose diapers I helped iron while I was still there. And they also had a beautiful longhaired smoky-gray cat, Smoky. But despite everything, taking care of an emigrant child on top of their own children was a burden for an average wartime English family. We didn't go hungry, but food was rationed. And so it would happen that we emigrant children would be cared for by several families, and we'd shuttle back and forth between them. It was once every half-year or year, so not extremely often, but despite that, just when you finally got used to your new home, you'd have to move someplace else.

I lived like this with the Cleavers and Boags. Jack Boag was just 15 years older than I, and had married his wife Isabella shortly before I came to live with them. They lived in a gorgeous bungalow on the outskirts of Rugby, and the view from their dining room windows looked out over meadows and fields of ripe wheat. So that we could get our fill of that beautiful view, all three of us used to sit on the same side of the dining room table, and fed not only our bodies with food, but also our souls with beauty.

The town of Rugby lies not far from Coventry, and so when Coventry was subjected to destructive German air raids, Rugby had its share, too. It was always a very unpleasant experience, when German bombers were flying above our heads. Jack was a member of the fire department, and always when the air raid siren sounded, he'd take his safety helmet and flashlight, and go to work. In the meantime, Isabella and I would hide under the stairs to the attic, and from scratchy khaki wool knit scarves, gloves and socks for soldiers.

When after several nighttime air raids, Coventry was almost razed to the ground, one morning the Boags brought over an older married pair from Coventry and their mentally ill daughter, who'd lost the roof over their heads. Because that lady was bedridden, Jack and Isabella even gave them their bedroom. And this isn't the end of the list of new occupants of our house at that time. In England my sister Eva was attending a nursing school at the orthopedic hospital in Birmingham. At the time of the Coventry air raids, she was helping out at the Rugby hospital, and the Boags arranged for her to live with us, too; she shared my tiny little room with me.

Back then, all this seemed natural to me, but today when I look back, I feel a deep admiration for my foster parents, which in their attitude and actions showed an almost unrivalled example of selfless service. They definitely set the bar of my obstacle race through life very high.

The Boags, like Miss Sturge and Mr. Albright, were Quakers. But besides that, they were also Methodists, so on Sunday we'd go to both services, and there was nothing unusual about it. I didn't have any contact with anyone from Jewish society; no opportunity to do so even ever came up. I know that some rabbis reproached Nicky Winton for having Christian families raise Jewish children. Nicky's answer was something along the lines of that perhaps they prefer a dead Jewish child to a Jewish child being raised in a Christian family, but he certainly doesn't, and in that case they themselves should do something to save them.

The school where I studied was the elite Rugby High School. I liked it there a lot; for one, my beloved friend Anne was there, and for another my beloved teacher Connie Everett. Anne Heidenheim had been on the same boat as I had. She was also a Jewish child that had been sent into emigration, but as opposed to me, from the German town of Chemnitz. I called her 'Ducky' and she called me 'Dicky.' Each day, we'd meet halfway to school, and then we'd walk the rest of the way holding hands. Anna was a year older than I was. I very much wanted to be in the same year with her, and thanks to the fact that we had a considerate lady for our school principal, it was made possible for me. We sat in the same desk, lent each other clothing, and shared food as well as all our troubles and joys.

Connie Everett taught biology, and I transferred my love for her to her subject as well. I'm not completely sure of it, but it's possible that one of the reasons I worshipped Connie so much was because she had certain qualities in common with Martha, my elementary school teacher.

One day I'd caught a cold, and was sent home with a temperature to sweat it out. On the way there I was passing a library, and so it occurred to me that I could borrow some book to pass the time while sick. I went up to the shelves and took one at random. What I pulled out was the biography of Louis Pasteur. [Pasteur, Louis (1822-1895): French chemist and microbiologist known for his remarkable breakthroughs in microbiology.] I've stopped believing in coincidences long ago. There's a universal plan, and he who is its author is also its dramaturg and director. We're just actors on the stage of life. Who else could have led the hand of a snuffling, coughing, 15-year-old schoolgirl? One thing is certain: From that day onwards, I knew that I wanted to be a microbiologist, and would consider nothing else.

The microbes that live everywhere around us as well as inside our bodies, and are so small that even the sharpest human eye cannot see them, fascinated me to such a degree that my interest in them has lasted my whole life, and has brought joy and a feeling of satisfaction into each new day of my active life.

I completed my studies at Rugby High School with an exam called the Oxford School Certificate. The Boags were moving to the country, and so once again I returned to the Cleavers. I of course tried to find work as soon as possible, so I wouldn't keep burdening their family budget. My priority was work in a laboratory; I sent an application to several dozen of them, but with no success. It was wartime, and state institutions weren't allowed to employ foreigners. And so I started working at a local drugstore.

When I was 17, I got the most beautiful birthday present. A letter from the Boags, who'd in the meantime moved from the country to London, and were writing me that I could again move in with them, and not only that: Jack was working at a hospital in Hammersmith, and had spoken with the head of the bacteriological department about me. They were urgently looking for a new employee for the bacteriological department just then, and the department head had decided to sidestep the law in my case, and give me the job!!! And I started working there, and was absolutely happy...

However, the head lab technician and my boss didn't much like my dream of becoming a lab technician. He kept needling me, that I've got more potential than to just work as a lab technician for the rest of my life, what's more in England, where the pay of lab technicians is very low. He pressured me to try to keep studying, and for this reason asked the Czechoslovak government-in-exile for a scholarship. But I refused it, I stood my ground, and said that I wanted to stay where I was and become a qualified lab technician. And so, when I wasn't going to do it, he visited our ministry-in-exile himself. He found out from the officials there that a Czechoslovak exile school was just in the process of being opened in Wales, and that I should start attending it and finish my Czech high school there, which I would need in any case upon my return home. That they'd consider my scholarship after I graduated, if by then the war wasn't over.

I hope I don't have to emphasize very much that I didn't have the smallest desire to leave the laboratory. With a heavy heart, but nevertheless, I left for Llanwrtyd Wells in the fall of 1943, where at a Czechoslovak high school of the boarding school type I spent two years full of friendship, which I very much like to reminisce about. We were a varied group: most of the students were children from the children's transports, whose lives, like mine, had been saved by Nicholas Winton. Part of us were also children of soldiers and airmen who were serving in the British armed forces, or children of civil servants and high officials of the Czechoslovak government-in-exile. After two beautiful years, I graduated from there. It was May 1945, the end of the war.

Post-war

We didn't have much information about what was happening at home. Despite that, we suspected that it wasn't anything nice. We were all living in uncertainty, as to what fate had befallen our loved ones, and to this day I remember the day when I found out about my mother. It was one of the most joyous days of my life. At the school they gave out mail during lunchtime in the cafeteria. One May day I received a postcard written in pencil and with the first Czechoslovak stamp in six years. It was from one family friend who'd returned to his homeland as a soldier right after Victory Day, and met my mother in the Jewish ghetto in Terezin 10.

My boldest hope had been fulfilled, my most fervent prayer had been answered. I lived through the next several weeks that separated me from my repatriation on 25th August and the subsequent reunion with my mother on the platform of the Usti nad Labem train station in some sort of trance, as if I was floating on a rose-colored fog of joy, and my feet were barely touching the ground. All I can clearly remember is that on that big day, I wanted to look my best, and wore a bright red beret, like Marshal Montgomery wore, which flew off my head and rolled along the platform right when I flew into my mom's arms. [Montgomery, Bernard (1887-1976): Field Marshal, nick-named 'Monty'; most well-known British general of WWII, best remembered for his victory at the Battle of El Alamein in 1942.] We met up in Usti nad Labem, which was more or less halfway between Prague and Teplice, where Mom was living after the war. At that time my sister was already at home, as a nurse she'd returned right after the war ended, and helped stop the typhus epidemic in Terezin.

What had been the fate of my family after I left for England? Mom and Grandma had to leave our Prague apartment and moved to some little closet on Kourimska Street, where they lived up until my mom's deportation to Terezin. Actually, almost all the members of my family were deported, except for Aunt Ida's family, who'd managed to immigrate in time to the United States, Uncle Hugo's family, who'd emigrated to Norway, and Grandma Marie Kohnova. Grandma died shortly after Mom's departure, probably from sorrow, in the Jewish hospital in Prague's Old Town. Alas, of those that went to Terezin, most also kept going, and so no one else from the family survived.

My mother survived, working as an X-ray technician in Terezin, and this thanks to her cousin Arnost. Arnost was an engineer, and was responsible for the Terezin water plant. You see, they'd hidden the fact that they were cousins, and they got married in Terezin. Thanks to this, my mom remained in Terezin and didn't go any further onwards.

The thing that surprised me the most upon my return to Czechoslovakia was how small all Czech towns and squares were, and how narrow were Wenceslaus Square in Prague and all the streets of Krumlov, in comparison to the images that had lived on in my memory for all those years. In Czechoslovakia there were shortages of absolutely everything: food, warm clothing and shoes, electricity and public transport, but that didn't bother me so much. What touched me much more painfully was the mentality of my fellow citizens. I'd gotten used to English politeness and patience, to the way they stood in orderly queues, and couldn't bring myself to shove my way forward and fight for a place in an overcrowded streetcar, bus or train. All transportation in those days really was overcrowded, and differed in no way from pictures from overpopulated India, with travelers hanging in clusters around doors and windows of wagons like dark grapes.

While I left for England with one suitcase, I returned home with two. So I could say that I'd actually improved my lot; I'd collected some clothes in England that we used to get from the Red Cross, and then there were some books that I couldn't bear to part with. But it wasn't anything too amazing. I remember that winter boots were a big problem. England didn't have very cold winters, so normal shoes sufficed, whereas here it was really freezing. Mom managed to find some leather on the black market, and so she had a shoemaker custom-make me these boots.

I also brought frostbite back with me from England. The English, being convinced that they don't have a real winter, had only single-glaze windows in their homes, and only one heat source, which is a fireplace. And so always when we came home frozen through, we'd rush to the fireplace and try to warm up. I got frostbite right that first year, and it lasted several years. They're these large sores that itch a lot. I had them only on my feet, whereas my friend Anne had them on her hands as well.

My university years

With a feeling of patriotic pride, I registered as a student of the Faculty of Sciences at the old and famous Charles University in Prague. Today's students would probably have a hard time comprehending what it meant for me back then, that our Czech university had survived the German occupation and six years of war, that I'd also survived that horrific time, and that I was allowed to set foot on academic ground that had been founded by such an enlightened and wise ruler as was the Father of our nation, Charles IV [Charles IV (1316-1378): Czech king, from 1355 Roman Emperor], for whom I feel great respect and admiration to this day.

The field I'd picked was, what else, microbiology. And to this day I'm convinced that it was the right choice; it's a beautiful field, it's so exciting, it's interesting, and a very suitable profession for a woman. It has no night or weekend shifts... I found a sublet with one Prague family in exchange for teaching both their daughters English. I hope that my services were better than the cubicle that I was given in a beautiful bourgeois apartment on the riverfront in Smichov. It was a small closet behind the kitchen, apparently intended for a servant, and it had no heat. So during my first winter in Prague I suffered a lot, and my frostbite from England tormented me quite a bit.

The lecture halls at the faculty, the same as the trains that I used to take every Friday to Teplice to see my mom, were overcrowded and the glass was missing from windows in many of the wagons. When I once got onto one of these cold wagons and was sitting, all frozen, in the draft, I met another angel that stepped into my life. He was an older gentleman without one outstanding feature that would have recorded itself in my memory, besides his rare kindness. By that broken window, he promised me that the next Friday he'd bring an electric heater for me to the train station. He said that he wouldn't miss it - and he really did bring it that one week later. I still thank you today, my angel, thank you, because for an extra hour or two of English a week, I was allowed to turn it on in my closet, and so I survived that first winter unscathed.

Working at the hospital in Prague

As soon as I could, I found work in a diagnostic lab at the hospital in Motol in Prague. At that time we were investigating many infectious post- war diseases. Croup was rampant among small children, and many youngsters as well as old people were suffering from tuberculosis. I later wrote my dissertation on the laboratory diagnosis of croup, for my PhD in Science. So many people were dying of tuberculosis back then several cases a day were dissected at our pathology department. The bacteriological laboratory was separated from the dissection room by only an old, ill-sealed door, and between 1945 and 1948, all employees of the pathology department came down with tuberculosis, with the exception of the head pathologist and me.

Perhaps to partly compensate for the dangerousness of this work, we used to get special rations in addition to the usual food coupons; I think it was thirty eggs, some butter and some milk for the month, whether also meat, that I don't remember any more. But I used to take these special coupons home to my family in Teplice, because they were quite starved after Terezin, and they never did receive any special assistance.

I was never a very fervent reader, perhaps with the exception of several periods of my life, when I first devoured the books of Axel Munthe, then the novels of Romain Rolland, later Franz Werfel and finally Dostoevsky 11. When I read all his books in one go, and got to his diary, I was shocked by his anti-Semitism and disappointed by his opinion that Russia will save the world. [Munthe, Axel (1857-1949): Swedish physician and psychiatrist, best known for his autobiographical work 'The Story of San Michele.' Rolland, Romain (1866-1944): French novelist and dramatist, best known for his novel series 'Jean Christopher,' a satirical criticism of the world he saw about him. Werfel, Franz (1890-1945): Austrian-Jewish novelist poet and playwright, born in Prague, whose 1933 realistic novel 'The Forty Days of Musa Dagh' won him international fame. He fled from Nazi-Germany in 1938 and immigrated to the USA in 1940. He died in California five years later.]

Otherwise I tried, besides keeping tabs on professional literature, to widen my perspective from time to time. One day I even began to read Schopenhauer [Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860): German philosopher, best known for his work 'The World as Will and Idea' (1819)]. I've got to admit that I didn't get too far, but an invisible hand must have pointed with an invisible finger exactly to that place where I was supposed to read, and which has engraved itself indelibly into my memory. It was a deep wisdom that related to my first marriage, and in retrospect I'd say that it could've even influenced my choice of partner. Schopenhauer believes that a young person is attracted to precisely that partner who is needed so that their union can bear precisely that child for which he yearns, or which he is fated to have. That's the main force that ignites first loves in inexperienced young couples and apparently no longer has an effect on the choice of partner in a more mature phase of life.

Because I'd experienced anti-Semitism already in my youth, and believed that my future husband must be as one body and one soul with me, I suffered from a fixed idea that I had to marry a Jew. Not because the Orthodox faith forbade mixed marriages. For one, I'd grown up in a liberal Jewish family, and for another, prohibitions for which I could find no justification had always on the contrary goaded me into defying them. But I couldn't at all imagine that 'part of my body and soul' could ever hold my being Jewish against me. But it's possible that back then the main reason was still deeply buried in my subconscious. I was internally certain that I'd have at least two longed-for children, a boy and a girl, and that they'd have typically Jewish dark eyes and black, curly hair.

My first marriage

I met my first husband, Ing. Hanus Eisler, in 1946, soon after his return from emigration to the United States. He was a childhood friend of my dorm roommate Eva. Up until then all my first loves and friendships had been platonic. His American behavior differed from my Puritan upbringing, and he got me into bed; I became convinced that I had to marry him.

We were married in November 1947 in the Clam-Gallas Palace on the Old Town Square in Prague. The first months after the wedding, I was truly happy. We had to skimp and save a lot, as we both had small salaries from which we had to furnish our household. Because back then everything was in short supply, and we were always happy when someone gave us something that they no longer needed. We were happy for every iron bed frame, old mattress or piece of carpet. At the end of December 1948 our son Petr was born, and I worked up until the doctors urgently advised me to take maternity leave early due to the danger of infection. I continued my studies by correspondence, because our cheerful and very active son was the center of my interests.

Alas, after our son was born, the problems in our marriage culminated. Already when I was marrying my first husband, I couldn't help but see certain features of his character from which one could suspect that life with him won't be a walk through a rose garden. But when a person is in love, and back then I really was, he moves in more elevated spheres and his feet barely touch the ground. I think that in no way was Hanus a bad person. Alas, he suffered from a strong jealousy complex, which was aimed at everything around us far and wide. Perhaps it was also caused by the fact that he grew up as an only child.

The German psychologist Alfred Adler developed a theory according to which a younger sibling has to come to terms with the lust for power, because he understandably wants to rule as much or even more than his older sibling, while an older child must learn to not be jealous of the younger one for getting more attention as the new addition to the family. When children grow up together, they learn in a natural way to come to terms with both problems, which weakens their childhood egocentricity, which of course is stronger in an only child. Another important factor is that through that same natural process, children learn to share things and attention in the family. [Adler, Alfred (1870-1937): Austrian-Jewish doctor and psychologist, founder of the school of individual psychology. Along with Sigmund Freud and a small group of his colleagues, Adler was among the co- founders of the psychoanalytic movement.]

In the beginning he was even jealous of my mother, when I wasn't pleased by his indecent behavior towards her and often took her side, then of my friends, when I for example dared to treat them to fried eggs that used up more eggs than was allegedly usual in our modest household, and after our son was born, he didn't like it at all when my mom or sister came to help me out. The situation wasn't easy, but I was convinced that I'd manage everything, and in any case, I wanted a second child. Hanicka was born in 1952, when I finished school and Petr was three.

After about a year, I wanted to start working again. By coincidence, it was at the time when the political trial with Jewish doctors was taking place in the Soviet Union 12. Another coincidence was that one of them was named Adler, the same as my maiden name, which was enough for me to not be able to find any work. This is an example of the anti-Semitism that I encountered after the war. Though I answered ads that were offering a position for a microbiologist, after a certain time, a negative answer would come. My friend Frantisek, who as a journalist had access to cadre materials, revealed to me the reason for my failure.

The head doctor at the Motol hospital helped me, by arranging for me to start working at Motol as a lab technician. And when the director changed, I was able to transfer to a microbiologist's position. I got a raise, and was even promised my salary would be matched three months back, but then the currency reform arrived 13 and nothing was remained of the money. Despite that, I've got to admit that poverty bothered me much less than relationships in our marriage.

One day, when I was once again taking the unheated streetcar to Motol, to work, I began daydreaming. Then I woke up and was truly horrified, when I realized what I'd been dreaming about: that World War III had broken out, that they'd drafted Hanus into the army, and I - had felt relieved! It terrified me that I could think of something like that lightheartedly, but on the other hand I forced myself to face the truth. I had to ask myself the hardest and most painful question of all: How is it possible that I don't love him any more? Up until then, I'd believed that love was eternal, that it never dies. It was actually only later that I realized that human love is a feeling, and that it's subject to change, as opposed to God's pure love, which is a state, and nothing can shake it. Slowly I began to realize that during eight years of marriage, my husband through his jealousy had managed to achieve that I no longer felt anything towards him.

Anyways, when things came to a head in our relationship and I couldn't provide a calm, happy and safe home for our children, I decided to leave. Our friends and later also lawyers advised me to try to preserve the marriage at any cost, and I remember courteously answering them, that I'd be glad to follow their advice as to how I should do my hair or how long my skirt should be, but I asked them to not try and influence me in such an important life decision.

Then the long journey of our divorce proceedings began. I had to go degradingly to the Ministry of Health and there ask for them to transfer me somewhere where I'd at least get one room for the children and me. So I was transferred to the Soviet sanatorium in Karlovy Vary 14. I'll mention just two experiences from there: for one a recollection of a man who spoke relatively openly about the conditions that existed in the Soviet Union, and was amazed as to why we wanted to outdo our big brother in everything, which was our motto, when for example our social facilities, from nursery schools to hospitals, were at a much better level than the Soviet ones. He was Maestro Mravinskij, a great conductor, and a great, brave person.

Another memory is of a decree, according to which when a patient was leaving, we had to count more blood cells and hemoglobin in his blood test than he had when he arrived. You see, the truth wasn't very popular with Communists. At Marxist-Leninist night school, which was mandatory for university students, they even taught us the heretic thesis that the truth changes with conditions and over time.

The divorce proceedings went on for an unbelievable seven long years, and I think that the saddest part of it was the fight over our children. Once again, the Communist Party 15 and its ideology had a part to play in it. Both Hanus and his mother were Communists, and after the wedding they'd decided to give me an ideological education as well. Up till then I'd never even had the slightest brush with politics, but because I'd come across class discrimination two or three times in British society, I agreed and submitted an application to the Communist Party. During my two years of candidacy, they were hard at work persuading me to end my membership in the Jewish religious community. If, as they claim, there's no God, why be in some group like that? But I, for my part, wasn't about to do that, especially because of solidarity with dozens of friends and relatives who'd died as victims of Nazism, back then not even so much because of some strong belief in God. I believed in Love, which leads and teaches us all our lives, but back then I didn't yet call it God.

I don't even know for what reason, but after two years of candidacy, the comrades swallowed my being Jewish and accepted me into the Party. I have my membership to thank for the fact that my children were with me those entire seven years when we were getting divorced. Otherwise they would probably have been taken away from me earlier. This way, they weren't taken away until we moved to Usti nad Labem, where I began working at the virology department of the local Regional Hygiene Station. My former husband and mother-in-law had managed to convince the court to grant them custody. The reason given was that while their paternal grandmother was a party member, and thus being in contact with her was commendable, their maternal grandmother wasn't in the Party, and it was thus necessary to avoid contact with her.

My children

Then that wild merry-go-round began, where I wasn't willing to give up my children at any cost, and where my ex-husband and his mother didn't intend to back down either. Alas, I went from court to court, and always lost. I appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, and the civil servant that met me at the security desk got into the paternoster lift with me, and we rode it round and round. It seemed strange to me that we weren't getting off but he then began talking: 'Look, madam, you love your children, and I love my children, too. That's why I'll tell you something, and will trust you to keep it between the two of us. I've studied your file, and it's clear to me that the decision is unjust, and their being taken out of your custody is groundless. But what I'd like to tell you is that you can't win this battle. This is because your opponent is the secret police 16.' Then I realized that this was something he couldn't tell me in his office - it would definitely have been heavily bugged.

Despite everything, the children were still with me, from time to time a lady from the children's welfare department would visit us and have a talk with them; she'd ask them where they wanted to be, and they always said that they wanted to be with me, and so for a while there'd be peace. Until one day, when a lady from the social welfare department called me at work, and in an agitated voice told me that my husband, armed with a copy of the court decision and with the assistance of his mother and two SNB officers 17, had picked up the kids from school and taken them away somewhere. There'd been a big commotion at the school because of it, because Petr's father had dragged him by force down the stairs, with little Hanicka walking behind them, meek as a lamb, with tears streaming down her face.

My children were in Prague and I remained in Usti with my great pain and justified worries about them. Not even ten days had gone by, when Petr ran away from Prague and returned to Usti. He apologized that he hadn't been able to take Hana with him for fear that his escape would be given away, but gallantly offered to go get her. I could well imagine how sad Hanicka must have been alone in Prague, and so I set out to her school. But I didn't find her at school; her father had hidden here away somewhere. Now my small, brave daughter decided to act. She took out of her piggy bank exactly as much money as she'd need for a half-price ticket from Prague to Usti, and got home without any problems.

So the children actually decided for themselves that they could stay with me. Because after that the street committee took things in hand. This was a local citizen's organization, which officially under the aegis of, in reality under the command of the Communist Party, was responsible for local civil matters and supervised the behavior of citizens in a given area and definitively decided that the children would stay with me.

As I've already mentioned, at first I worked as a lab technician, then as a science PhD at the autopsy department of Motol Hospital in Prague. In Karlovy Vary I worked for a year doing biochemistry at the Imperial sanatorium, and from there I went to become the head of the virology department of the Regional Hygiene & Epidemiology Station in Usti nad Labem. Back then, we were testing a polio vaccine. That was a big breakthrough in immunology back then, and for us it was an exciting project. Two American doctors had found a way to save thousands of children from death or lifelong paralysis, and needed to test this new vaccine.

Under socialism, our health care system was highly organized. Each child had to be registered, and had a record at the children's health center. Preventive vaccination was mandatory for everyone, and the law was that whoever didn't show up with their child for vaccination after receiving a written request, was to be summoned to see the police.

That was exactly what was needed for this project. Dr. Salk, the American doctor who'd developed the vaccine with his colleague Dr. Sabin, even came to Czechoslovakia to personally sign the appropriate agreement. The vaccine was given orally, and our virology laboratories were performing thousands of tests on children's stools for the presence of the weakened virus at various intervals after its administration. There was a lot of work involved, but the whole project was successful, and showed itself to be a major blessing for millions of children and their parents. Thanks to it, one of the most feared childhood diseases simply disappeared from the world.

I really enjoyed my work there, even though I've got to admit that I would've enjoyed it more if the absurdity of socialist management hadn't been so evident in it. At that time the activity and power of the party organization at our institute was at its zenith. Whatever its functionaries wanted, and of course whatever those higher up in the Party hierarchy wanted, had to be unanimously agreed to and performed. So once when a decree came that one of our young colleagues, who'd I'd come to know as a good and hard-working person, was to be thrown out of the institute for political reasons, I was the only one who defied the principles of so- called democratic party centralism, that is, the fact that the minority obeys the majority, and voted against his expulsion.

Another of my conflicts with the system came when I refused to vote for one candidate in elections to the party committee; but the climax of our mutual clashes didn't take place until a young lady doctor started working there as a hygienist. The faculty of hygienic medicine had been founded in socialist times, and gave Communists and their sympathizers an easier opportunity to get a university degree. This lady doctor soon began to act like the department head, and when I caught her taking a sterile syringe out of water where it had been boiling for a half hour with her un-sterile fingers, I knew that I had no intention of staying there. But where to go next? In Usti there was only one remaining choice for me: the regional lab for cultivation of mycobacteria, located at a detached hospital for lung and respiratory illnesses on Bukov Hill.

By coincidence, this very hospital was co-founded during the time of the First Republic by my beloved Uncle Hugo, my father's brother, who headed it until 1939, when he immigrated to Norway. When I asked the director whether they didn't need a microbiologist, he took me on immediately, and so I started there in 1959, and didn't leave until the day before my 55th birthday, when as a mother of two children, I was eligible for retirement.

Besides routine cultivation, isolation, tests for sensitivity to anti- tuberculosis substances and classification of various types of mycobacteria, there was also time for various experiments and research. Most of them were related to shortening incubation time. Mycobacteria grow much more slowly than other microbes; they need three to six, sometimes even nine weeks before they form colonies on substrates rich in egg protein and other nutrients. Once I heard one German professor say that mycobacteria must exude special volatile essences, vibrations or something that helps form beautiful relationships among people. Perhaps that's also the case, but definitely that slow growth of theirs plays a role.

Work and working conditions in this field were calm. No one was rushing to be the first to come up with some earth-shaking discovery. Everyone tried to share their scientific knowledge with their colleagues in a spirit of friendly collaboration. The relations in this field of medicine were really a rare exception in today's egocentric world.

Somewhere in the Five Books of Moses, I once found mention of the fact that the Lord spoke to him not only when awake, but also when he was asleep. Dreams played an important role in my life. When thanks to my English brother Russell Cleaver I got to know the work of Carl Jung and his teachings on dreams, I began recording them faithfully. Since that time, dreams have taught me and showed me the way. [Jung, Carl (1875-1961): Swiss psychiatrist, influential thinker, and founder of analytic psychology.]

Once at an opening of a show of children's drawings, I met a young violinist with guileless blue eyes, Milan Hala, and I fell in love with him. Milan was a Christian and steered me towards reading the New Testament; up till then I'd only read the Old. I began reading, and my heart melted. Here was the gospel of love expressed in the most moving picture of the embodiment of love itself, that of the gentle Nazarene. But soon I stood before a serious problem: Could I, as a Jewess, accept something like that? Wouldn't it be a character flaw, to be so enthused by Christianity the moment I fell in love with a Christian?

Right during that time I had a dream. I was at a concert, where Jews and Christians were sitting separately. I was among the Jews. But my neighbors were making so much noise that I couldn't hear the music at all, much less take it in. And then my Uncle Hugo came along, took me by the hand and sat me down amongst the Christians. Milan and I were married the day before my birthday in 1965. Milan was an angel, literally and to the letter, and my children accepted him readily. We spent a beautiful 41 years together. He died this last summer; we were together in the forest, picking mushrooms, and I'd just said: 'it's beautiful here' and suddenly I heard this thud. Milan was dead. Few are granted such a beautiful death, and I'm glad that Milan was one of them.

After the famous Prague Spring 18, after the entry of allied tanks onto our territory on 21st August 1968 19 and after the occupation of our country by the Soviet army, after Mr. Alexandr Dubcek 20 was forced to abdicate, all state employees were faced with tragicomic torture in the form of so-called political screening. I'm choosing the word 'tragicomic' because when I look back today, it seems to me to have been an unbelievably stupid farce, that every citizen of an occupied country was to answer the same main question, whether he agreed with the arrival of the troops. But it wasn't only a comical, nonsensical game. It was a tragedy, because almost all employees lied out of fear for losing their jobs and being persecuted, and thus actually confirmed the occupants' right to perpetrate the blatant injustice under which we all lamented.

I think that the screenings began shortly after the first anniversary of 21st August, when a large majority of the nation went to work that day in black, as a sign of mourning and protest. The Communists must have been beside themselves with rage, but they couldn't pillory us, because they couldn't object to the wearing of black or to walking. Besides, at that time there were many of us that went like this - hundreds and hundreds of citizens in every town. Which is probably why those in high places thought up the screening, to keep people afraid. Every employee had to come in front of the commission and answer that nonsensical, feared question about the entry of the troops, or brotherly assistance, which was the official terminology for the Russian occupation. Most people answered yes and signed a supplementary evaluation for their cadre materials, upon which they could leave the room and remained in their job positions.

When it was my turn, our director, who meant well, read me my evaluation and asked me whether I was willing to sign it. The first sentence read: 'Comrade Dr. R. H. agreed with the Party's politics both before August as well as with the Party's policies after 1968.' At first I thought that he was joking, and began laughing. It wasn't a joke, and finally I ended up in tears. When I told him that I can't sign something that doesn't make sense, and what's more isn't true, the director grew angry and asked me that feared question, which perhaps he had wanted to avoid with that formulation, because he was well aware of my opinions.

We were actually quite good friends, because he loved his boxer and I my poodles, and during the time of the thaw under Dubcek, we'd talked together quite openly several times while walking our dogs. I answered that I didn't agree with the entry of the troops. I asked whether the goal of this torment was letting some people go from work. The director answered that no, but when he read the final version of my evaluation, the last sentence said: 'We recommend that our comrade remain in her position she has held until now.'

So I can't help but note that my assumption was correct. The atmosphere grew tense. I told him: 'If you don't need me here, tell me, and I'll go work someplace else.' That was too much for him, and he shot back: 'You can be sure that with the evaluation you'd leave here with, you wouldn't get a job just like that somewhere.' By then I was in tears, but I asked him one more thing, why was he tormenting people like this, whether someone wasn't forcing him? That after all, I knew that a year ago his thinking had been quite normal. In front of all the members of that sad tribunal, the director had been forced to say that he'd been mistaken back then.

This moment of truth cost me a lot of money. Not only that I didn't get a raise when the long-promised and awaited wage reform in the health care sector was implemented, but I also lost my premiums, including the so- called 'funeral allowance' for working in the region with the worst air pollution in the whole country. But for my conscience it meant a huge relief. I left the Party during the time of Israel's conflicts with its neighbors. At a party meeting, someone addressed this issue in a report, and during the discussion that followed, our ambulance medic, Bohousek, a Russian by origin and still an illiterate, proclaimed that it was after all common knowledge that Jews are like rats leaving a sinking ship. All eyes turned to me, and I turned red from head to toe. I sat there stunned, and waited for someone to say something. No one said even a word. I took advantage of this incident to rid myself of a yoke that had long weighed on me.

I think that the Communists harassed me the most because of another thing related to the occupation of Czechoslovakia, this being that my son Petr had decided to emigrate right afterwards. So they once again summoned me to be interrogated, and tried to get me to say that he'd escaped because of the occupation. I started crying there - can you imagine what it's like when your child runs away, you don't know anything about him, and on top of that they torture you like this. I kept repeating that I didn't know why he'd escaped, that he hadn't let me in on his plans, which was also true, but they were adamant.

After several hours, I said to the person that was interrogating me: 'Excuse me, permit me to ask one question. Do you have children?' He said yes. I asked him: 'Can you imagine your son escaping. You don't know anything about him, you can't help him, you don't know what's happening to him out there in the world, so why are you torturing me because of it here? Is it of some use to you, or what?' So he then let me go, but it was really horrible.

Petr went to Canada, and I went there to see him in 1975, when he was graduating. It wasn't my first trip to the West, but it's true that such trips were few and far between. Actually, the first time I went abroad was in 1963. Beforehand, however, people from the secret police were coming to see me, saying that I must certainly have many friends in the West, and if I'll work for them [the secret police], I'll be able to go visit without any problems. I played dumb, that I wasn't capable, that I didn't even remember whom all I knew there... Then they came again when I was getting divorced, and at that time I argued that I wasn't after all going to go traveling when my children were being taken away from me.

So the first time I got to England after the war was in 1963, when a friend of mine from the ROH 21, a decent person, arranged an internship for me there. Upon my return, I had to write a report on my trip, and say which emigrants I'd met with, and what we did. So of course, I wrote up five copies of the report, but everything was only about laboratory methods that I'd learned there. I argued that the entire time I'd worked and worked, that I'd been shut up in a lab, and so didn't have time for anything else. I'd of course made use of the trip to meet up with my old friends, but after all that wasn't something I was going to tell them. One more thing about relations with investigators: I found out that when you find some sort of human connection with even the biggest snoop, you'll be able to come to some sort of agreement.

Actually, the way I got to go see Petr in Canada is also very interesting. In this I had help from my faithful canine friends, concretely poodles, that I was breeding. The puppies that they had were simply irresistible. We gave one of them to a friend of ours that worked for the passport and visa department, and soon the powerful department head himself developed a strong desire for a puppy like that, too. Because I used to go give Bobik regular haircuts, too, he really did help make my trip abroad possible. But I had to promise that I wouldn't tell anyone that it was through doggie acquaintances.

When I wanted to go visit my family in Israel in 1989, nothing similar helped me. I was retired, so if I'd emigrated the state would have only saved money on my pension, but the comrades dug in their heels and didn't want to give me permission to leave. They did offer me that I could meet my relatives in Romania, which was purportedly how other Czechoslovak Jews did it, but this solution was on the other hand not satisfactory to me.

This is why I sent a letter from Dresden to my cousin Yakov in Israel, for him to send my promised plane ticket and money to the Israeli consulate in Vienna, and mainly for him to not mention anything in letters written to me at home. Because I knew that the comrades were reading my mail. Some letters didn't arrive at all; other mail from abroad came regularly every Tuesday. My plans finally succeeded, and I traveled to the Holy Land in the spring before the revolution 22, in 1989.

The country thrilled me. In the beginning I was afraid of what sort of an effect it was going to have on me, so many Jews in one place, but the atmosphere there was excellent, this... participation. I had the feeling that the people there needed to be a part of the lives of others, everything interested them... For example, I'd just sat down in the bus, and already everyone was asking what I'd done during the war, what I'd experienced, which was beautiful. Also, when I was walking around, for the first time I felt truly free.

Alas, I've got to say that with every subsequent visit I felt that the situation there was getting worse. When I last visited my cousin, who lives in the north, an atmosphere full of fear, stress and hate weighed on me. Cars with loudspeakers were driving around and announcing that we should go into shelters.... it didn't at all leave a good impression on me. I've got to say that now I feel freer in India than in Israel.

And what's my opinion of Israel? I'm not a politician, and I can just state my subjective impressions. It's a beautiful country, full of holy light, but over which they'll keep arguing until they realize that all humanity is one family, and that we people have to share things. As to why I didn't emigrate there? When I returned home from England after the war, I was glad to be home and had no thoughts of another emigration. My cousins live in Israel, along with their large families; their names are Hanicka and Fricek, who calls himself Yakov after Grandpa Jakub.

Retirement

I retired the day before my 55th birthday, with great joy. I enjoyed my work, but my health wasn't the best, and I've also got to say that work was continually sadder and sadder. While in the post-war years tuberculosis was very widespread in our population, gradually the percentage of patients with it declined, and the percentage of those that had lung cancer grew.

Cancer is a much more dangerous enemy than tuberculosis. During my entire career, the best result we achieved in the treatment of cancer was survival for five years of 25 percent of patients operated upon. It's very difficult to diagnostically distinguish between carcinoma and tuberculosis, and often an exact diagnosis is impossible until you open up the chest. By chance, it was I that was given the responsibility for these diagnoses. It was extremely demanding work, and I was always very afraid that I'd hurt a patient through some mistake of mine.

But mainly it was extraordinarily sad work. The air quality in northern Bohemia definitely also had an influence on how rapidly the number of cancerous tumors was increasing. It was actually a written-off region. When you drove from Prague and were nearing Lovosice, you could already see this orange cloud above the city. The inhabitants used to get certain premiums for having to live there, but that three hundred a month for ruined health was ludicrous. What's more, this 'funeral money' was taken away from me after I disagreed with the entry of the occupational troops. [Editor's note: the last setting of the gold content of the crown took place with Act. No. 41/1953 on currency reform, when the gold content of the crown was set (unrealistically and outside of any wider context) to 0.123426 g of pure gold, which remained so until the end of the 1980s. ]

So as soon as it was possible, I left northern Bohemia and returned to my home region, to southern Bohemia. It's unbelievable, but I've already been retired the same amount of time as I spent working. At least I see how relative time is. The first 30 years dragged on in an unbelievable fashion, and these ones have gone by so fast that I don't even want to believe it. We got ourselves our miniature dachshund Cliff, and I used to take him for walks every day; here we'd pick herbs, there pine cones for heating...

When we lived in Budejovice, I among other things occupied myself with teaching English at the local Faculty of Education, and guiding tourists around town. Amongst the first guests that I was privileged to tour around was the Danish queen Margarethe II.

During retirement I also started painting. Up till then I thought that I don't know how, but one day my friend, the painter Jan Cihla, brought me an article by Winston Churchill, where it said that whoever hasn't tried to paint during his lifetime, has lost out on a lot. That all you need is a brush, paper, paint, and a good dose of courage. Winston Churchill was always a big authority for me, and to this day I claim that it was he who won the war for us, and so I started painting.

In amateur painting everything is allowed. At first I slavishly followed the subject, but then I found out that it after all doesn't have to exactly the same. Mainly the overall harmony can't be disturbed. There's harmony in the universe, in nature, and its disturbance is a big mistake. This criterion is also decisive for me in deciding what is kitsch and what isn't. When I look out the window and see blue sky, in it white clouds, in front of the house a pond with a swan, everyone would say that that's kitsch. But it's actually this Ladaesque harmony. [Lada, Josef (1887-1957): Czech painter, best known as illustrator of Jaroslav Hasek's World War I novel 'The Good Soldier Schweik.' Lada produced landscapes, created frescoes and designed costumes for plays and films. Over the years he created a series of paintings and drawings depicting traditional Czech occupations and situations.]

This is why painting is so beneficial, that a person learns to concentrate, and is forced to look at the world in such a way as to be able to pass on his point of view. I found out that every dot, line and free space is terribly important. That's also how I imagine the mosaic of our life; one could say that I've got this notion of a God that sits there and is putting a puzzle together. Each one of us is unique, has his own shape, his color and place in the world that belongs to him and him alone.

Today I know that all the joys and pains, all the successes and failures that life prepared for me were lessons from which I'm to draw lessons, that everything that once came to be must also disappear, and that there's not only the external world, in which this drama takes place, but also the internal one, the world of our unborn and immortal soul. Everything I lived through in my life was preparation for the commencement of searching for the truth about my soul, or a so-called spiritual journey.

Already at the age of 17, I was pondering on the purpose of life. Back then I wrote in my diary that I think that it's probably: 'To be happy and help others be happy.' When I was 37 and my children no longer needed to have their noses blown and behinds washed, I felt the need to stop that merry-go- round of everyday life, to ponder about things, and widen my earlier credo, which still counts for me. I asked myself questions that humanity has been asking itself since ancient times: 'Why am I here, what is the purpose of my life? Where have I come from, and where am I headed?' That was in 1963, and back then I was allowed to travel to England for the first time since 1945.

I threw myself on for us forbidden and thus inaccessible literature, and with the help of books by Carl Jung began my search for the Truth. For five full years I regularly recorded my dreams and contemplated them. I learned to sort through them and recognize which events originated in my subconscious, which means from unfulfilled desires or from strong, not yet processed experiences, and which ones come from somewhere up above, from some heavenly teacher or advisor. As soon as a person turns his attention inwards, further help is at hand.

In 1965, soon after my second wedding, I met my first spiritual teacher through my husband. He was a man with a big and loving heart, and until his departure from this world in 1994, thus for almost a whole 30 years, we exchanged countless letters and visited each other regularly. Besides exchanging many questions and answers, we also sat together in silence every time. We didn't call it meditation, but silence. Not until this teacher of mine 'preceded us,' did the teacher of all teachers let himself be known to me: Sai Baba, the incarnation of God walking among us in Puttaparthi, a small village in the south of India, where he was born. [Sathya Sai Baba: born Sathyanarayana Raju in 1926; a South Indian guru and religious leader.]

For ten years already, I've been translating his words from English to Czech, and I regularly go to India to see him, to 'be silent' in his ashram.For me Sai Baba is God incarnate. He came to teach and lead us, to remind us of who we are, and to console us. He teaches us that we aren't a body, but clean, unselfish love and clear consciousness, an eternal and immortal soul - the spark of Godliness.

Glossary

Ruth Hálová
Holubov
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Lenka Kopřivová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: červenec 2006 – březen 2007

Paní Rúth Hálová pochází z nádherného jihočeského města Český Krumlov. Ačkoli  velkou část života žila a pracovala někde jinde, po odchodu do důchodu se sem vrátila a já jsem ji navštívila v Holubově, malé obci rozložené v náruči kopců Českého lesa. Už cestou k ní jsem si říkala, že tak krásné lesy, jaké mají tady, jsem nikde jinde neviděla. A po setkání s paní Hálovou jsem přesvědčena, že tak krásného a milého člověka, jako je ona, jsem nikdy jindy nepotkala. Jak se sama zmiňuje, už od malička byla fascinována darem života - ten její byl zachráněn Nicholasem Wintonem, který jí a její sestře umožnil ještě před válkou odjezd do anglického exilu. Sice už je to nějaká doba, co oslavila své osmdesáté narozeniny, díky její vitalitě by jí ale takový věk nikdo nehádal. Paní Hálová je členkou plzeňské židovské obce a mimo jiné se velice angažovala za záchranu synagogy ve svém rodišti, Českém Krumlově.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války - pobyt v Anglii
Po válce
Glosář

Rodina

Život je největším z darů, které Bůh člověku uštědřil, a největším zázrakem je skutečnost, že život každého jsoucna ve vesmíru je jedinečný a neopakovatelný. V tomto svém životě jsem měla to štěstí, že mi byl darován dvakrát, a proto jsem byla požádána, abych vyprávěla, co si z něho pamatuji.

Pocházím z Českého Krumlova, kde jsem se roku 1926 narodila rodičům Leopoldu a Zdeňce Adlerovým jako jejich druhé dítě – moje sestra Eva se narodila o pět let dříve. Bohužel krátce poté, co jsem přišla na svět já, ho tatínek opustil – za první světové války byl legionářem a se svou jednotkou putoval Sibiří. Při překonávání jedné mohutné řeky tatínek odmítl nechat se převézt na lodi – ač by jako důstojník na to měl právo, ale rozhodl se přeplavat ji se svými vojáky. Stalo se mu to osudným, onemocněl a když mi bylo deset měsíců, zemřel. Aby nás maminka uživila, pracovala ve Spirově továrně jako sekretářka, a proto se o domácnost starala její matka, naše obětavá babička Marie Kohnová.

Babička Marie pocházela z Kostelce nedaleko Hluboké, kde její rodina hospodařila na statku. Když se provdala, žila se svým mužem v Protivíně a společně provozovali koloniál, narodily se jim tady také jejich dvě dcery, moje maminka Zdeňka a teta Olga.  Zatímco tato část mé rodiny byli Židé mluvící česky, tatínkovým mateřským jazykem byla němčina. Jeho maminka [Josefa Adlerová] pocházela ze Soběslavi, dědeček [Jakub Adler] odněkud z česko-rakouského pomezí. Jednoho dne se objevil, prodával maďarskou mouku a seznámil se s babičkou. Adlerovi pak žili v [Českých] Budějovicích a dá se říct, že to byla úřednická rodina. Ve stejném roce, kdy jsem se já narodila, tedy roku 1926, dědeček zemřel. Byla to vlastně budějovická babička, kdo pak držel celou rodinu pohromadě, na všechny židovské oslavy jsme se scházeli u ní. Babička vařila, pekla, obsluhovala, to byla ve svém živlu. Živila se tím, že prodávala pro nějakou švýcarskou firmu sýry značky Tygr. Chodívala jsem s ní v Budějovicích nakupovat a všude ji znali. Byla to taková známá, krásná, rozšafná paní. V židovské obci patřila k těm, co zaopatřují mrtvoly [Chevra Kadiša: aramejský termín označující dobrovolnou skupinu či spolek, který provádí poslední obřady a dohlíží na pořádání pohřbů – pozn. red.].

Tatínek pocházel z pěti sourozenců. Nejstarší byl strýček Max, profesor latiny a řečtiny nejprve na dívčím gymnáziu, potom na pražské německé univerzitě. Druhá byla teta Ida, tu jsem obzvlášť milovala. Provdala se do rakouského Linze, který leží asi 60 kilometrů od Krumlova, a já vždy toužila jezdit za ní, za strýcem Richardem a bratrancem Frickem na návštěvu. O to vroucněji, když jsem se dozvěděla, že jejich dobří známí chovají boxery – odjakživa jsem měla ráda zvířata. Bohužel, nikdy se mi to nepoštěstilo, strýček Richard mi psal a posílal pohádky o krásném modrém Dunaji, které mě měly utěšit. Útěcha to byla, ale v mých očích přeci jen slabá. Teta Ida s rodinou emigrovala ještě před válkou do Spojených států. Další tatínkův bratr se jmenoval Arthur a díky němu a jeho ženě Martě se moji rodiče vlastně seznámili. Teta Marta totiž byla po prvním manželství vdova, kromě dvou synů Franty a Karla ještě po svém muži zdědila starost o budějovickou továrnu na čokoládu, do níž maminka nastoupila jako účetní. Tatínkův nejmladší bratr Hugo byl ftizeolog a dlouhé léta řediteloval nemocnici v Ústí nad Labem, kde jsem po válce pracovala i já.

Dětství

Už odmalička jsem velice obdivovala přírodu. Mé nejranější vzpomínky se týkají stromů – ležím v kočárku a dívám se do jejich korun. Osoba, která kočárek tlačí, je moje milá babička Marie. Bohužel na to, abych doma měla nějaké zvíře, což bylo mé jediné přání ke všem narozeninám, nebyly podmínky. Při porodu svého druhého dítěte zemřela maminčina starší sestra Olga Ledererová a babička musela převzít, alespoň do doby, než se strýc Sigmund znovu oženil, starost i o její domácnost – o právě narozenou Haničku a o dva roky staršího Jeníka. Proto když prohlásila, buď zvíře nebo já, znamenalo to konec mých nadějí. Několikrát jsem se sice pokusila nějakého zvířecího nalezence domů propašovat, ale úspěch byl vždy dočasný. První zvíře jsem si mohla domů pořídit, až když jsem se podruhé provdala.

Jako malá jsem nechtěla chodit spát. Měla jsem totiž pocit, že život je příliš zajímavý na to, abych ho prospala. Ze stejného důvodu jsem později nechtěla ani číst – život je přece příliš cenný na to, abych ho promarnila čtením! Milovala jsem život a milovala jsem barvy. Velice mě trápilo pomyšlení, že někdo nevidí svět v jeho barevnosti. Pro mě totiž i každá číslice a samohláska měla svou barvu. Jednou jsem viděla na krumlovském mostě žebráka. Několik dalších nocí jsem se potom s pláčem budila ze sna – nemohla jsem snést pomyšlení na něj a na jeho smutný život. Babička s maminkou se sice snažily mě utěšit, ale nic nepomáhalo. Pak, jedné noci jsem se opět probudila a plakala pro slepého žebráka. Maminka s babičkou přispěchaly za mnou, ale já se styděla jim říct, že opět pláču pro něj. A tak jsem zalhala – řekla jsem, že pláču pro to, že nemám tatínka. Nebyla to pravda, tatínka jsem nikdy nepoznala, proto mi nemohl chybět, ze smutného výrazu jejich tváře jsem si ale hned uvědomila, jak moc je to mrzí. Zajisté se snažily dělat vše pro to, aby nám ztrátu otce nahradily. Tenkrát jsem jasně poznala, co je to lhát, a zařekla se, že už nikdy lhát nebudu.

V Českém Krumlově žilo tou dobou asi devět tisíc lidí. Polovina z toho mohli být Češi, druhá polovina německy mluvící občané Československé republiky 1. Město sice leželo v Sudetech 2, ale opravdu, až do doby, než přišel Henlein 3 a Němci začali s tím svým „Heim ins Reich“, jsme žili v poklidu. Moji kamarádi byli jak Češi, tak Němci a Židé a žádný problém v tom nikdo neviděl. Přesto strýček Max, tatínkův bratr, který se stal po smrti otce naším poručníkem, učinil moudré rozhodnutí a dal nás do německé školy. Jednak z důvodu, abychom se němčinu opravdu pořádně naučily, ale strýc také říkal, že v německých institucích je antisemitismus daleko více patrný než v českých – proto bude pro nás nejlepší, když si na něj zvykneme co nejdřív. Ukázalo se, že strýček měl pravdu, to ale až později, zpočátku jsem nic takového nepociťovala. Nastoupila jsem do německé obecné školy a zamilovala si svou učitelku, slečnu Marthu Nehybovou. Byla mladá, krásná, dlouhé černé vlasy nosila poskládané v cop na šíji. Mimo to byla také laskavá, pravdomluvná, spravedlivá a šlechetná a já myslím, že v tom prvním školním roce jsme nasály víc lidských hodnot než v několika následujících desetiletích. Martha před nedávnem zemřela, když jsem ji jednou navštívila, vzpomněla si, jak ji kdysi moje babička prosila, aby mi domluvila a já začala snídat. Babička totiž věděla, že vše, co řekne moje učitelka, bude pro mě svaté, a protože já byla hubené dítě, které se ráno tak těšilo do školy, že odmítalo snídat, informovala o tom slečnu učitelku. Martha se pak skutečně přede mnou zmínila, že snídat je dobré, já tedy snídat začala a po pár dnech se babička prý znovu objevila ve škole, aby jí poděkovala. Já o této epizodě neměla ani tušení, dozvěděla jsem se ji až nyní. Po válce byla Martha se svou rodinou odsunuta 4. Myslím, že právě takovým sudetským Němcům, jako byla ona, patřila omluva našeho bývalého prezidenta Havla 5 za odsun.

Z celkového počtu devíti tisíc obyvatel představovali členové krumlovské židovské obce nepatrný zlomek, asi jen jedno procento. Většina z nich byli zaměstnanci továrny na papír ve Větřní, jejíž majitelé, rodina Spirů, byli také Židé. Rabína jsme neměli, jezdil k nám budějovický, ale měli jsme vlastního kantora, pana Karla Krebse. Byl to milý mladý muž, který nejspíš pocházel z Maďarska, a velice se věnoval mládeži. Vyučoval nás náboženství, hrál s námi divadlo a podobně. Stavba krumlovské synagogy byla financována rodinou Spirů a myslím, že to zdaleka nebyli špatní zaměstnavatelé. Kromě toho, že postavili synagogu, založili také krumlovský židovský hřbitov a křesťanský kostel ve Větřní. My bydleli v jednom nájemním domě, patřícím do vlastnictví továrny. Dům byl rozdělen na pět bytů a pamatuji si, že jsme měli dokonce subvencovánu elektřinu. Platilo to pouze pro tu ze zásuvek, proto se u nás většinou svítilo stolními lampami a světla jsme zapínali velice zřídka. Až teprve nyní, s odstupem si uvědomuji, jak těžké to pro babičku muselo být, aby z maminčina skromného platu dokázala hospodařit v čtyřčlenné domácnosti. Já vlastně měla takové normální, šťastné dětství. Musím říci, že až do té doby, než Němci začali s těmi svými Turnvereiny 6 a začali proti nám štvát, plynul náš život v nerušeném poklidu. V létě jsme chodili na plovárnu, v zimě jsme bruslili a sáňkovali. 

Jednoho podzimního dne roku 1938 jsem jako vždy šla do školy. Vstoupila jsem do třídy, posadila se a začala si vybalovat z aktovky věci. Moji spolužáci ale začali skandovat heslo „Juden raus!“, „Židé ven!“, tak jsem si věci zase pěkně naskládala do aktovky a s mým židovským kamarádem Leem jsme třídu opustili. Byli jsme jediní dva Židé ve třídě. Pamatuji si, jak jsem mu před školou řekla: „Nejhorší na tom je, že teď už zůstaneme navždy hloupí, s žádným dalším vzděláním už nemůžeme počítat.“ Já byla v sekundě, když jsem byla ze školy vypuzena. Má sestra to měla ještě horší, studovala v maturitním ročníku. Několik následujících dnů jsme strávily doma a nemohly jsme vyjít ani na ulici – venku pochodovala německá mládež, Hitlerjugend 7, a slušného člověka byste na ulici nepotkal. Moje odvážná maminka však dále chodila do práce. Jednoho dne, ještě na začátku září, se vrátila s tím, že si máme sbalit to nejnutnější, protože v Krumlově už dál zůstat nemůžeme. Objednala taxi a poslala nás do Protivína, svého rodiště a města severně od hranice Sudet. Sama v Krumlově ještě zůstala s tím, že se pokusí zabalit naši domácnost. Je to zvláštní, ale musím se přiznat, že jsem o ni strach neměla. Dítě si asi plně neuvědomuje, jak moc může být situace nebezpečná, navíc jsem byla přesvědčena, že maminka si poradí se vším. Poradila si, navíc ji Spirovi, když opouštěli svou továrnu a stěhovali se do Prahy, nabídli místo pracovat několik hodin denně jako společnice staré paní Spirové. Maminka práci samozřejmě přijala, našla v Praze pro nás nějaké bydlení a my se z Protivína přestěhovali za ní do Prahy. Pár dní nato se náš domov stal součástí německé říše – Československo bylo donuceno přijmout potupnou dohodu a vzdát se svého pohraničí. Dodnes si vzpomínám na slzy v očích vojáků, kteří sice byli mobilizováni 8, ale vzápětí zase odvoláni a příležitost hájit svou vlast nedostali.

V Praze jsem znovu začala chodit do školy, kdežto má sestra už ve studiu nepokračovala. Místo toho se šla učit vařit a péct cukroví. Navštěvovala jsem školu na náměstí Krále Jiřího z Poděbrad, je to taková velká budova a dodnes se v ní učí. Jenže za nedlouho byla moje školní docházka opět přerušena – patnáctého března 1939 se na vratech školy objevil nápis, že až do odvolání se výuka nekoná. Přijeli Němci, Československo bylo okupováno. Byl chladný, šedivý den a německé tanky kreslily černé čáry na zasněžených pražských ulicích.

Postupem času se maminčina tvář stávala vážnější a vážnější. Nevím kde, ale někde se jí podařilo zjistit, že kdosi pomáhá židovským dětem dostat se do náhradních rodin v Anglii. A tak mě a sestru maminka vzala do kanceláře ve Voršilské ulici na registraci, potom jsme vystály dlouhatánskou frontu na pas a poslední červnový den jsem odjížděla z Wilsonova nádraží vstříc neznámému osudu. Měla jsem to štěstí, že jedna anglická rodina se rozhodla se mne ujmout. Mé sestře se rovněž podařilo do Anglie se dostat, jela v dalším transportu. V tom posledním, který Československo opustil. 

Za války - pobyt v Anglii

Maminka mi nemusela před cestou nic moc vysvětlovat. Byla jsem přece už velká a věděla jsem, že situace je vážná. Rovněž cestou ve vlaku jsem cítila, že ve svých třinácti letech patřím k starším účastníkům transportu, a proto bych měla pomáhat v péči o mladší děti – ty dvě ženy, kterým Němci povolili jet s námi, nemohly na dvě stě padesát dětí vystačit. V kupé, kde jsem seděla, jelo i jedno batole. Jeho maminka nám ještě před odjezdem strčila do okna láhev s mlékem pro něj. Vzala jsem ji, postavila na lavici, jenže když se vlak rozjel, láhev se převrhla a mléko se vylilo. Zbytek cesty jsme pak to malé krmili čokoládami, kterými jsme všichni byli na cestu vybaveni. Když jsme přejížděli německé hranice, hrozně dlouhou dobu jsme na nich stáli. Čekání se nám zdálo být nekonečné a zmocňoval se nás strach. Po nádraží chodily německé uniformy a my z výrazu tváří dospělých a úryvků hovoru pochopili, že jakési důležité dokumenty nejsou v pořádku, nebo snad dokonce chybí. Vše se nějak vysvětlilo, vlak se dal opět do pohybu a po dlouhých, nekonečných hodinách jsme přijeli do přístavu Hoek van Holland [Hook of Holland]. Nalodili jsme se na loď a když jsem vylezla na vrchní palandu lodní kabiny, měla jsem hrozný strach, že s ní ve spánku spadnu. 1. července jsme dorazili do Londýna. Shodou okolností to bylo v den narozenin mé maminky. Než si nás náhradní rodiče rozebrali, seděli jsme ve velké, zelené místnosti, snad tělocvičně. Kolem krku jsme měli cedulky se jménem a jasně si vzpomínám na svůj pocit ani ne tak smutku nebo nějaké tragédie, ale naprosté bezmoci. Tak si asi musejí připadat telata, když jsou oddělena od výživy a ochrany svých matek, předána do lidských rukou a vydána na milost lidským bytostem, říkala jsem si. Mých dětských kamarádů ubývalo a ubývalo, odcházeli se svými novými rodiči do nových náhradních domovů, až nakonec v celé velké místnosti zbylo nás několik, pro něž si nikdo nepřišel. Dovedete si představit, jak nám, malým poutníkům sedícím na svých kufrech, bylo úzko.

Ještě doma, v Československu, jsem dostala dopis od manželů, u nichž jsem měla bydlet. Věděla jsem tedy, že budu bydlet v Birminghamu u manželů Jonesových. Bohužel se jim nepodařilo si mě v Londýně vyzvednout, tak k nám přišel mladý muž a řekl: „Pojďte mládeži, já vás dovedu k vlaku a vaše rodiny si vás vyzvednou v Birminghamu.“ Až po letech, když jsem se s ním znovu setkala a věděla, o koho se jedná, jsem si uvědomila, že tento mladík byl Nicky Winton 9.

Jonesovi byli velmi milý, starší manželský pár. Bydleli na předměstí Birminghamu, kde provozovali trafiku spojenou s prodejem sladkostí všeho druhu a zmrzliny. Teta a strýc, jak jsem je oslovovala, byli ke mně velice laskaví a dostávala jsem od nich tolik zmrzliny, kolik jsem chtěla. Další mojí útěchou bylo, že Jonesovi měli doma fenku vlčáka Peggy. S ní jsem mohla mluvit česky a ona jediná mi rozuměla, když všichni ostatní ne. I když jsem se totiž před odjezdem nějaké základy angličtiny učila, přeci jen mé znalosti zdaleka nepostačovaly.  A tak já jsem vůbec nerozuměla Angličanům a oni nerozuměli mně. Když si Jonesovi všimli, jakou náklonnost chovám vůči Peggy, náš domácí zvěřinec se ještě rozrostl: přibyla kočička a andulka. Dalším člověkem, který se snažil sžívání s novým prostředím co nejvíce ulehčit, byl řeznický pomocník z vedlejšího krámu. Věkově jsme byli přibližně stejně staří a on, vždy, když si všiml mých slz, mě posadil na vozík své tříkolky mezi klobásy a maso a vozil mě po okolí. Byl to také můj první učitel angličtiny, a má angličtina se brzy začala podobat jeho. Problém byl v tom, že měl silný birminghamský přízvuk, o čemž jsem samozřejmě nevěděla, takže styl mé mluvy musel drásat citlivé uši.

Ve škole se mi líbilo a rychle jsem se se svými spolužačkami spřátelila. Mé anglické okolí se tedy ke mně chovalo velice mile a všemožně se snažilo pomoci mi zvyknout si na nové prostředí. Přesto jsem s tím měla velké problémy. Měla jsem problémy zvyknout si na Anglii a po návratu zvyknout si znovu na Československo. V Anglii mi hodně vadilo, že se klade větší důraz na formu než na obsah. Všichni říkají „sorry“, ale přitom jim to vůbec není líto. Také věta: „Tohle se nedělá,“   „That´s not done“ mě vždy velice rozčilovala a nemohla jsem si na ni zvyknout.

Když se chýlil ke konci můj první školní rok v Anglii, chýlila se ke konci také má povinná školní docházka. Mělo to pro mě znamenat také konec mého dalšího vzdělání? Nechtěla jsem se smířit s tím, že po celý život už budu tak hloupá, jak jsem si tenkrát připadala. Jonesovi měli v plánu zřídit mi v jednom krámku obchůdek, v němž bych prodávala bavlnky, vlnu a hedvábí a učila lidi plést, háčkovat a vyšívat. Což o to, ruční práce jsem měla vždycky ráda, ale představa, že celý život budu jen sedět a vyšívat, případně prodávat vlnu? Naštěstí, řešení se našlo. Jonesovi by na to, aby mě vydržovali na nějaké střední škole, neměli prostředky. Prostředky dokázala obstarat paní Evelyn Sturge, vlastně to nebyla paní, ale postarší neprovdaná dáma, která nás, emigrantské děti, chodila čas od času navštěvovat a zjišťovala, jak se nám daří. Prostě jednou přijela, zeptala se, jak se daří, pak se zastavila u nás ve škole a zase odjela. Několik dní nato přišla zpráva, že se nám z Birminghamu stěhovat do Rugby a že tam budu navštěvovat střední školu!!! Je velice dojemné vzpomínat na člověka, který mi to umožnil. Cestou do Rugby jsem se stavila na výročním shromáždění kvakerů [kvaker: příslušník náboženské společnosti odmítající obřady a tradiční dogmatickou teologii – pozn. red.] v Birminghamu a slečna Sturge mě seznámila s bělovlasým pánem s kulatou laskavou tváří. Pan Albright chodil o holi, když jsme se setkali, jen mě pohladil po vlasech a řekl: „Tak Ty jsi Ruth? Vida, vida.“ Později, mnoho let po jeho smrti, mi slečna Evelyne prozradila, že to byl on, kdo moje studium umožnil. Nepřál si, abych se o tom dozvěděla, pokud bude živ. Tak krásní lidé žijí mezi námi...

V Rugby jsem bydlela u rodiny Cleaverových. Pán se jmenoval Eric, paní Phyllis a měli dvě děti, Rusella a Rosemary. Později, když už jsem odcházela, se jim narodil ještě druhý syn Markus, ještě jsem pomáhala žehlit jeho plínky. A taky u nich bydlela krásná dlouhosrstá kouřová kočka Smoky. Jenže přeci jen, starat se kromě svých dětí ještě o jedno emigrantské představovalo pro průměrnou anglickou rodinu za války zátěž. Hlady jsme sice netrpěli, ale jídlo bylo na příděl. A tak se stávalo, že se o nás, emigrantské děti, staralo více rodin a my mezi nimi pendlovaly. Bylo to tak jednou za půl roku nebo za rok, čili ne nějak extrémně často, ale přeci jen, když si konečně člověk na svůj nový domov zvykl, stěhoval se zase jinam. Já takto bydlela u Cleavrových a u Boagových. Jack Boag byl jen o patnáct let starší než já a svou ženu Isabelu si vzal krátce před tím, než jsem k nim přišla. Bydleli v překrásném bungalovu na okraji Rugby a z oken jejich jídelny byl výhled na louky a pole zralého obilí. Abychom se mohli toho krásného pohledu dosyta nabažit, sedávali jsme všichni tři z jedné strany jídelního stolu a krmili nejen tělo potravou, ale zároveň i ducha krásou.

Městečko Rugby leží nedaleko od Coventry, a tak když bylo Coventry vystaveno ničivým německým náletům, i Rugby si zažilo své. Byl to velice nepříjemný pocit, když nám nad hlavami přelétávaly německé bombardéry. Jack byl členem hasičského sboru a vždy, když byl odhoukán nálet, vzal si ochranou helmu a baterku a šel do služby. Já s Isabelou jsme se mezitím schovaly pod schody do podkroví a pletly ze škrábavé khaki vlny šály, rukavice a ponožky pro vojáky. Když bylo Coventry po několika nočních náletech téměř srovnáno se zemí, Boagovi k nám jednoho rána přivezli starší manžele z Coventry a jejich duševně nemocnou dceru, kteří přišli o střechu nad hlavou. Protože ta paní byla upoutána na lůžko, Jack s Isabelou jim dokonce přenechali svou ložnici. A tím výčet nových obyvatel našeho domu v této době nekončí. Moje sestra Eva chodila v Anglii do školy pro ošetřovatelky při ortopedické nemocnici v Birminghamu. V době náletů na Coventry vypomáhala v nemocnici v Rugby a i jí umožnili Boagovi u nás bydlet, sdílela se mnou můj malinký pokojík. Tenkrát mi tohle všechno připadalo zcela přirozené, ale když se dnes podívám zpět, cítím hluboký obdiv ke svým pěstounům, kteří mi svým postojem a jednáním ukázali téměř nedostižný příklad nesobecké služby. Rozhodně nasadili laťku mého překážkového běhu životem hodně vysoko.

Boagovi se hlásili, stejně jako slečna Sturge a pan Albright, ke kvakerům. Mimo to ale byli i metodisté, takže jsme chodili v neděli na bohoslužby jak k těm, tak k těm, a nic zvláštního na tom nebylo. S nikým z židovské společnosti jsem se nestýkala, žádná příležitost se k tomu ani nikdy nenaskytla. Vím, že Nickymu Wintonovi jacísi rabíni vyčítali, že dává židovské děti na výchovu do křesťanských rodin. Nicky jim na to odpověděl ve smyslu, jestli je jim milejší mrtvé židovské dítě než židovské dítě dané na výchovu do křesťanské rodiny, tak jemu rozhodně ne a ať dělají oni sami něco pro jeho záchranu. 

Škola, na níž jsem studovala, byla elitní Rugby High School. Líbilo se mi tu velice, jednak jsem tu měla svou milovanou přítelkyni Anne, jednak svou milovanou učitelku Connie Everetovou. Anne Heidenheimová byla se mnou na stejné lodi. Také to bylo židovské dítě, které bylo posláno do emigrace, na rozdíl ode mě však z německého města Chemnitz. Já jí říkala „Ducky“, ona mě „Dicky“. Každý den jsme se setkávaly na půli cesty do školy a pak jsme, držíc se za ruce, jely dále společně. Anna byla o rok starší než já. Moc jsem toužila být s ní ve stejném ročníku, a díky tomu, že jsme měli uznalou ředitelku naší školy, bylo mi to umožněno. Seděly jsme ve stejné lavici, půjčovaly si oblečení, dělily se o jídlo i o všechny své starosti a radosti. Connie Everettová vyučovala biologii a svou lásku k ní jsem přenesla i na její předmět. Nejsem si tím úplně jistá, ale je možné, že Connie jsem tak moc zbožňovala i proto, že měla určité shodné rysy s Marthou, mou učitelkou z obecné školy. Jednoho dne jsem byla pro nachlazení a teplotu poslána ze školy domů, abych se vypotila. Cestou jsem míjela knihovnu, a tak mě napadlo, že bych si mohla půjčit nějakou knihu, aby se mi lépe stonalo. Přistoupila jsem k polici a namátkou po nějaké sáhla. To, co jsem vytáhla, byl životopis Louise Pasteura. Už dávno jsem přestala věřit na náhody. Existuje vesmírný plán a ten, kdo je jeho autorem, je také jeho dramaturgem a režisérem. My jsme pouze herci na jevišti života. Kdo jiný mohl vést ruku usmrkané, ukašlané patnáctileté školačky? Jedna věc je jistá: Od toho dne jsem věděla, že chci být mikrobiologem a nic jiného už nepřicházelo v úvahu. Mikrobi, kteří žijí všude kolem nás i uvnitř našeho těla a jsou tak malí, že je nerozezná ani nejostřejší lidské oko, mě natolik fascinovali, že mi zájem o ně vydržel po celý život a do každého nového dne mého aktivního života přinášel radost a pocit uspokojení.

Své studium na Rugby High School jsem ukončila zkouškou zvanou Oxford School Certificate. Boagovi se stěhovali na venkov, a tak jsem se znovu vrátila ke Cleaverům. Pochopitelně jsem se snažila co nejdříve najít si práci, abych už dále nezatěžovala rodinný rozpočet. Mojí prioritou byla práce v laboratoři, obeslala jsem jich několik desítek se svou žádostí, ale bez úspěchu. Byla válka a státní instituce měly zakázáno zaměstnávat cizince. A tak jsem nastoupila do místní drogérie... Když mi bylo sedmnáct, dostala jsem ten nejkrásnější dárek k narozeninám. Dopis od Boagů, kteří se mezitím přestěhovali z venkova do Londýna, a psali mi, že se můžu přestěhovat opět k nim a nejen to: Jack pracoval v nemocnici v Hammersmith a hovořil o mně s přednostou bakteriologického oddělení. Zrovna urgentně sháněli novou sílu do bakteriologického oddělení a pan přednosta se rozhodl obejít v mém případě zákon a přijmout na to místo mě!!! A já na toto místo nastoupila a byla jsem absolutně šťastná...

Jenže hlavnímu laborantu a mému nadřízenému se můj sen stát se laborantkou moc nezamlouval. Pořád mě popichoval tím, že mám na víc, než abych dělala navždy laborantku, ještě k tomu v Anglii, kde jsou platy laborantů velice nízké. Tlačil na mě, abych se snažila dále studovat a za tímto účelem požádala československou exilovou vládu o stipendium. Jenže já to odmítala, stála jsem si za tím, že prostě chci zůstat tam, kde jsem a získat kvalifikaci laboranta. A tak, když jsem se neměla k tomu já, navštívil naše exilové ministerstvo on. Od tamějších úředníků se dozvěděl, že se právě otvírá československá exilová škola ve Walesu, že mám nastoupit na ni a dodělat si tam českou maturitu, kterou budu stejně po návratu domů potřebovat. O mém stipendiu se bude uvažovat až po maturitě, pokud do té doby neskončí válka.

Snad nemusím moc zdůrazňovat, že jsem neměla nejmenší chuť laboratoř opouštět. S těžkým srdcem, ale přeci jen, jsem se na podzim 1943 odebrala do Llanwrtyd-Wellsu, kde jsem v československém gymnáziu internátního typu strávila dva přátelské roky, na které moc ráda vzpomínám. Naše společnost byla pestrá: většinu studentů představovaly děti z dětských transportů, kterým, stejně jako mně, zachránil život Nicholas Winton. Část z nás byla také dětmi vojáků a letců, kteří sloužili v britských ozbrojených jednotkách, nebo dětmi úředníků a vysokých představitelů československé exilové vlády. Po dvou krásných letech jsem zde odmaturovala. Byl květen 1945, konec války.

Moc informací o tom, co se děje doma, jsme neměli. Přesto jsme tušili, že se nejedná o nic pěkného. Všichni jsme žili v nejistotě, jaký osud potkal naše blízké a já si dodnes přesně pamatuji na den, kdy jsem se dozvěděla, co je s maminkou. Byl to jeden z těch nejšťastnějších dnů v mém životě. Pošta se ve škole rozdávala při obědě v jídelně. Jednoho květnového dne jsem obdržela korespondenční lístek psaný tužkou a ofrankovaný první československou známkou po šesti letech. Byl od jednoho známého naší rodiny, který se jako voják vrátil do vlasti hned po Dni vítězství a setkal se v židovském ghettu v Terezíně 10 s mou maminkou. Moje nejsmělejší naděje se splnila, moje nejhoroucnější modlitba byla vyslyšena. Dalších několik týdnů, které mě dělily od naší repatriace 25. srpna a následného setkání s maminkou na nástupišti ústeckého nádraží, jsem prožívala v jakémsi transu, jako bych se vznášela v růžovém oparu štěstí a moje nohy se sotva dotýkaly země. Vše, co si dovedu jasně vybavit, je, že v onen velký den jsem chtěla vypadat co nejlépe a vzala jsem si jasně červenou rádiovku, jakou nosil maršál Montgomery, která mi odlétla z hlavy a kutálela se po perónu v okamžiku, kdy jsem já vletěla mamince do náruče. Setkaly jsme se v Ústí nad Labem, bylo tak nějak na půl cesty mezi Prahou a Teplicemi, kde maminka po válce bydlela. Moje sestra tou dobou už byla doma, jakožto zdravotnice se vrátila hned po skončení války a pomáhala v Terezíně likvidovat epidemii tyfu.

Jaký byl osud mé rodiny poté, co jsem odjela do Anglie? Maminka s babičkou musely opustit náš pražský byt a přestěhovaly se do jakéhosi malého kumbálku v Kouřimské ulici, kde žily až do maminčiny deportace do Terezína. Deportováni byli vlastně téměř všichni členové mé rodiny, až na rodinu tety Idy, která zavčas stihla emigrovat do Spojených států, rodinu strýčka Huga, která emigrovala do Norska, a na babičku Marii Kohnovou. Babička zemřela krátce po odjezdu maminky, asi smutkem, v židovské nemocnici v Praze na Starém Městě. Bohužel, z těch, co šli do Terezína, velká většina šla i dále, a tak z rodiny nikdo další nepřežil. Přežila maminka, v Terezíně pracující jako laborantka u rentgenu, a to díky svému bratranci Arnoštovi. Arnošt byl inženýr a měl na starosti terezínskou vodárnu. Zatajili totiž, že jsou bratranec a sestřenice, a uzavřeli v Terezíně sňatek. Díky tomu maminka v Terezíně zůstala a dál už nešla.

Po válce

Po návratu do Československa mě nejvíce překvapilo, jak byla všechna česká města a náměstí malá a jak úzké bylo Václavské náměstí v Praze a všechny krumlovské uličky v porovnání s obrazy, které po všechna léta žily v mé paměti. V Československu byl nedostatek úplně všeho: potravin, teplého oblečení a bot, elektrického proudu i veřejné dopravy, ale to mi tolik nevadilo. Co se mě dotýkalo mnohem bolestněji, byla mentalita mých spoluobčanů. Zvykla jsem si na anglickou zdvořilost a trpělivost, na způsob, jak ukázněně stáli ve frontách, a nedokázala jsem se rvát dopředu a vybojovat si místo v přeplněné tramvaji, autobusu či vlaku. Všechny dopravní prostředky byly v té době skutečně přecpané a s ničím si nezadaly s obrázky z přeplněné Indie s cestujícími visícími v hroznech kolem dveří a oken vagónů jako bobulky tmavého vína.

Zatímco do Anglie jsem odjížděla s jedním kufrem zavazadel, domů jsem se vracela se dvěma. Tudíž jsem mohla říct, že jsem si vlastně polepšila, nasbírala jsem v Anglii nějaké ošacení, které jsme dostávali od Červeného kříže, a pak také nějaké knihy, od nichž jsem se nemohla odloučit. Jenže moc velká sláva to nebyla. Pamatuji si, že velkým problémem byly zimní boty. V Anglii totiž nikdy nějaká příliš tuhá zima nebyla, proto stačily polobotky, kdežto tady mrzlo pořádně. Mamince se podařilo někde sehnat načerno kůži, a tak mi z ní nechala u ševce ušít takové holiny na míru. Z Anglie jsem si přivezla také omrzliny. Angličané totiž, jak jsou přesvědčeni o tom, že pořádnou zimu nemají, měli v domech jen jednoduchá okna a jedno jediné topení, tím je krb. A tak vždycky, když jsme přišli zvenku promrzlí, honem jsme spěchali ke krbu, natáhli k němu ruky a snažili se ohřát. Omrzliny se mi udělaly hned ten první rok, a vydržely několik let. Jsou to takové velké boláky, které hodně svědí. Já je měla jen na nohou, kdežto má přítelkyně Anne i na rukách.

S pocitem vlastenecké pýchy jsem se zapsala jako posluchačka přírodovědecké fakulty staroslavné Karlovy univerzity v Praze. Těžko by asi pochopili dnešní studenti, co pro mne tehdy znamenalo, že naše česká univerzita přežila německou okupaci a šest let války, že jsem tuto hrůznou dobu přežila i já a že mi bylo dovoleno vstoupit na akademickou půdu, založenou tak osvíceným a moudrým panovníkem, jako byl náš Otec vlasti Karel IV. [Karel IV. (1316 – 1378): český král, od 1355 římský císař – pozn. red.], k němuž dodnes chovám velkou úctu a obdiv. Obor, který jsem si vybrala, byla, jak jinak, mikrobiologie. A dodnes jsem přesvědčena, že to byla správná volba, je to krásný obor, je to vzrušující, je to zajímavé a pro ženu velmi vhodné zaměstnání. Nejsou u něj noční, víkendové směny... Našla jsem si podnájem u pražské rodiny výměnou za to, že jsem obě dcery učila anglicky. Doufám, že moje služba byla lepší než kamrlík, který mi byl přidělen v krásném buržoazním bytě na Nábřeží Legií na Smíchově. Byl to malý kumbál za kuchyní, zřejmě míněn pro služebnou, a nebylo tam žádné topné zařízení. Během první zimy v Praze jsem tedy pořádně trpěla a moje omrzliny z Anglie se mě za tu první zimu v Praze dost natrápily. Přednáškové místnosti na fakultě, stejně jako vlaky, kterými jsem jezdívala každý pátek za maminkou do Teplic, bývaly přeplněné a v mnohých vagónech chyběla skla v oknech. Když jsem se jednou dostala do takového podchlazeného vagónu a seděla celá zkřehlá v průvanu, potkala jsem dalšího anděla, který vkročil do mého života. Byl to starší pán bez jediného zvláštního rysu, který by se mi zapsal do paměti, kromě jeho vzácné laskavosti. U toho rozbitého okna mi tehdy slíbil, že mi příští pátek přinese na nádraží elektrická kamínka. Říkal, že je může snadno postrádat – a opravdu mi je za týden přinesl. Ještě dnes ti, můj anděli, děkuji, protože za nějakou hodinu angličtiny navíc jsem je směla ve svém kumbále zapínat, a tak jsem tu první zimu přečkala bez úhony.

Jakmile to šlo, našla jsem si práci v diagnostické laboratoři při nemocnici v pražském Motole. V té době jsme vyšetřovali mnohé poválečné infekční choroby. Mezi malými dětmi řádil záškrt, mnoho mladistvých i starých lidí trpělo tuberkulózou. O laboratorní diagnóze záškrtu jsem později psala svou disertační práci, abych získala doktorát na přírodovědecké fakultě. Na tuberkulózu tehdy umíralo tolik lidí, že se na naší prosektuře pitvalo několik případů denně. Jen velmi špatně těsnící staré dveře oddělovaly bakteriologickou laboratoř od pitevny, a skutečně během let 1945 – 1948 se všichni zaměstnanci prosektury, s výjimkou primáře patologa a mne tuberkulózou nakazili. Snad aby nám byla nebezpečnost této práce částečně kompenzována, dostávali jsme mimo běžné potravinové lístky ještě zvláštní přídavky, tuším, že to bylo třicet vajec, nějaké máslo a nějaké mléko na měsíc, jestli i maso, to už si nevzpomínám. Ale tyhle zvláštní lístky jsem vozila domů našim do Teplic, protože ti byli po Terezíně pořádně vyhladovělí a žádné zvláštní pomoci se nedočkali.

Nikdy jsem nebyla moc vášnivou čtenářkou, snad s výjimkou několika období ve svém životě, kdy jsem napřed hltala knihy Axela Muntheho, potom romány Romaina Rolanda, později Franze Werfla a posléze Dostojevského. Když jsem jedním dechem přečetla všechny jeho romány a dospěla jsem k jeho deníku, byla jsem šokována jeho antisemitismem a zklamána jeho názorem, že Rusko spasí svět. Jinak jsem se snažila kromě sledování odborné literatury také čas od času rozšiřovat svůj obzor. Jednoho dne jsem začala číst i Schopenhauera. Musím přiznat, že moc daleko jsem se v té četbě nedostala, ale neviditelná ruka musela neviditelným prstem ukázat právě na to místo, které jsem měla číst a které se nesmazatelně vrylo do mé paměti. Byla to hluboká moudrost, která se vztahovala k mému prvnímu manželství, a z pohledu retrospekce bych řekla, že mohla ovlivnit i volbu mého partnera. Schopenhauer věří, že mladého člověka přitahuje právě ten partner, kterého je třeba, aby se z jejich spojení mohlo narodit přesně to dítě, po němž touží nebo které je mu souzeno. To je hlavní silou, která zažehává první lásky u nezkušených mladých dvojic a zřejmě už nepůsobí při volbě partnera v zralejším období života. Protože jsem se s antisemitismem setkala již v mládí a věřila jsem, že můj budoucí manžel bude muset být se mnou jedno tělo a jedna duše, trpěla jsem fixní ideou, že si musím vzít za manžela Žida. Ne proto, že ortodoxní víra zakazovala smíšené manželství. Jednak jsem vyrůstala v liberální židovské rodině, jednak mne odjakživa zákazy, pro něž jsem nemohla najít žádné opodstatnění, spíše nutily, abych je porušovala. Ale nedovedla jsem si vůbec představit, že by mi „část mého těla a duše“ mohla někdy můj židovský původ vyčíst. Je možné, že ale hlavní důvod byl tehdy ještě hluboko zasunutý v mém podvědomí. Byla jsem si vnitřně jistá, že budu mít alespoň dvě vytoužené děti, kluka a holčičku, a že budou mít typicky židovské tmavé oči a černé kudrnaté vlasy.

Se svým prvním manželem, Ing. Hanušem Eislerem, jsem se setkala v roce 1946 brzy po jeho návratu z emigrace ve Spojených státech. Byl to známý z dětství mé spolubydlící na kolejích Evy. Až do této doby byly všechny moje první lásky a přátelství platonické. Jeho americké chování se lišilo od mé puritánské výchovy a když mě dostal do postele, nabyla jsem přesvědčení, že si ho musím vzít.

Brali jsme se v listopadu 1947 v Clam-Gallasově paláci na pražském Staroměstském náměstí. První měsíce po svatbě jsem byla opravdu šťastná. Museli jsme hodně šetřit, protože jsme oba měli malé platy, ze kterých jsme si museli zařídit domácnost. Protože v té době bylo všechno ještě nedostatkovým zbožím, byli jsme vždy šťastni, když nám někdo dal něco, co už nepotřeboval. Radovali jsme se z každé kovové kostry na lůžko, staré matrace nebo kusu koberce. Koncem prosince 1948 se nám narodil syn Petr a já pracovala až do doby, než mi lékaři naléhavě radili, abych kvůli nebezpečí infekce odešla na mateřskou dovolenou dříve. I ve studiu jsem pokračovala externě, protože středem mého zájmu byl náš usměvavý a velmi živý synek.

Bohužel, po synově narození kulminovaly problémy v našem manželství. Už když jsem si svého prvního muže brala, nemohly mi uniknout jisté rysy v jeho povaze, z nichž se dalo tušit, že život s ním nebude procházkou růžovým sadem. Jenže když je člověk zamilován, a to já jsme tehdy opravdu byla, pohybuje se ve vyšších sférách a jeho nohy se sotva dotýkají země. Myslím, že Hanuš v žádném případě nebyl špatný člověk. Bohužel ale trpěl silným komplexem žárlivosti, který byl namířen na celé naše široké okolí. Snad tomu zavdalo příčinu i to, že vyrůstal jako jedináček. Německý psycholog Alfred Adler rozvinul teorii, podle níž se musí mladší sourozenec vyrovnat s touhou po moci, protože pochopitelně chce zvládnout tolik nebo ještě více než jeho starší sourozenec, zatímco starší dítě se musí naučit nežárlit na toho mladšího za to, že je mu jako novému přírůstku do rodiny věnována větší pozornost. Když děti vyrůstají spolu, naučí se přirozenou cestou, jak se s oběma problémy vyrovnat, a také se u nich zeslabuje dětský egocentrismus, který je samozřejmě u jedináčků výraznější. Dalším důležitým faktorem je, že se děti naučí toutéž přirozenou cestou s ostatními se o věci a pozornost v rodině dělit. Hanuš tuto příležitost neměl a později, jako mladý muž, manžel a otec už nedohnal to, oč v dětství přišel. Zpočátku žárlil dokonce na svou matku, když jsem nelibě nesla jeho nedůstojné chování vůči ní a často jí stranila, pak na mé přátele, když jsem si například dovolila pohostit je smaženými vajíčky, sestávajícími z více vajec, než bylo v naší skromné domácnosti prý obvyklé, no a po narození syna velice nelibě nesl, když mi maminka nebo sestra přišly pomoci. Situace nebyla lehká, já jsem ale byla přesvědčená o tom, že všechno zvládnu a každopádně jsem si přála druhé dítě. Hanička se narodila, když jsem dokončila školu a Péťovi byly tři roky.

Asi po roce jsem chtěla znovu nastoupit do práce. Shodou okolností to bylo v době, kdy v Sovětském svazu probíhal politický proces se židovskými lékaři 11. Další shoda okolností byla, že jeden z nich se jmenoval Adler, stejně jako já za svobodna, což stačilo k tomu, že jsem žádnou práci nemohla najít. Tohle je příklad antisemitismu, se kterým jsem se setkala po válce. I když jsem odpovídala na inzeráty, nabízející místo mikrobiologa, po určité době přišla zamítavá odpověď. Můj přítel František, který měl jako novinář přístup ke kádrovým materiálům, mi odhalil příčinu mého neúspěchu. Pomohl mi primář motolské nemocnice, který zajistil, že jsem do Motola nastoupila jako laborantka. Až když se změnil ředitel, mohla jsem přejít na místo mikrobiologa. Dostala jsem přidáno a dokonce mi bylo slíbeno vyrovnání platu tři měsíce dozadu, jenže do toho přišla měnová reforma 12 a z peněz nebylo nic. Přesto musím uznat, že naše chudoba mě trápila mnohem méně než vztahy v našem manželství. Jednoho dne, když jsem opět jela nevytopenou tramvají do Motola do práce, jsem se zasnila. Pak jsem se probrala a vyděsila se opravdu pořádně, když mi došlo, o čem jsem snila: o tom, že vypukla třetí světová válka, že Honzu povolali do armády a já – při tom cítila úlevu! Vyděsilo mě, že na něco takového můžu myslet s ulehčením, na druhou stranu jsem se ale přiměla postavit se k pravdě čelem. Musela jsem si položit tu nejtěžší a nejbolestnější otázku ze všech: Jak je možné, že už ho nemiluji? Až do té doby jsem věřila, že láska je věčná, nikdy neumírá. Vlastně až později jsem pochopila, že lidská láska je cit, a ten podléhá změnám, na rozdíl od čisté lásky Boží, která je stav a nic jí neotřese. Pomalu jsem si začala uvědomovat, že za osm let manželství se mému muži podařilo dosáhnout svou žárlivostí toho, že jsem k němu už nic necítila.

Zkrátka a dobře, když se náš vztah vyhrotil a já našim dětem nemohla zajistit klidný, radostný a bezpečný domov, rozhodla jsem se odejít. Naši přátelé a později i advokáti mi radili, abych se za každou cenu snažila manželství zachovat, a já si pamatuji, jak jsem jim zdvořile odpovídala, že se budu ráda řídit jejich radou, jaký mám nosit účes nebo jak dlouhá má být sukně, ale prosila jsem je, aby se mě nesnažili ovlivňovat při tak životně důležitém rozhodnutí. Potom nastala dlouhá peripetie našeho rozvodového řízení. Potupně jsem se musela vydat na ministerstvo zdravotnictví a tam žádat, aby mě přeložili někam, kde bych dostala alespoň jednu místnost pro sebe a děti. Stalo se, byla jsem přeložena do sovětského sanatoria v Karlových Varech 13. Odtud zmíním jen dva zážitky, jednak vzpomínku na muže, který poměrně otevřeně hovořil a poměrech panujících v Sovětském svazu a divil se, proč že chceme ve všem předehnat svého velkého bratra, což bylo naše heslo, když například naše sociální zařízení, od mateřských školek po nemocnice, jsou na mnohem vyšší úrovni než ta sovětská. Byl to Maestro Mravinskij, velký dirigent a velký, odvážný člověk. Další vzpomínka je na nařízení, podle nějž jsme museli při odchodu pacienta napočítat v jeho krevním obrazu více krvinek i hemoglobinu, než jich měl při svém příchodu. Pravda se totiž u komunistů moc nenosila. Dokonce nás na večerní škole marxismu-leninismu, která byla pro vysokoškoláky povinná, učili rouhačské tezi, že pravda se mění s podmínkami a časem.

Rozvodové řízení se protáhlo na neuvěřitelně dlouhých sedm let a myslím, že jeho nejsmutnější částí byl zápas o naše děti. Opět v něm měla slovo komunistická strana 14 a její ideologie. Jak Honza, tak jeho maminka byli komunisté a po svatbě se jali ideologicky vzdělávat i mě. Já sama do té doby o politiku ani nezavadila, ale protože jsem se v anglické společnosti setkala jednou nebo dvakrát s třídní diskriminaci, souhlasila jsem a podala jsem si přihlášku do Komunistické strany. Během dvou let kandidatury jsem byla pilně přesvědčována, abych ukončila své členství v židovské náboženské obci. Když prý žádný Bůh není, nač být v nějakém takovém spolku? Jenže to jsem zase já nehodlala udělat, zejména kvůli solidaritě s tucty příbuznými a známými, kteří zemřeli jako oběti nacismu, tehdy ani ne tak kvůli nějaké silné víře v Boha. Věřila jsem v Lásku, která nás celý život vede a učí, ale v té době jsem ji ještě nenazývala Bohem. Ani nevím, z jakého důvodu, ale po dvou letech kandidatury soudruzi moje židovství překousli a do strany mě přijali. Svému členství vděčím za to, že děti byly celých těch sedm let, kdy jsme se rozváděli, se mnou. Jinak by mi asi byly odebrány už dříve. Takto k odebrání došlo až v době, kdy jsme se přestěhovali do Ústí nad Labem, kde jsem začala pracovat na virologickém oddělení tamní Krajské hygienické stanice. Mému bývalému manželovi a tchýni se totiž podařilo přesvědčit soud, aby je svěřil do péče jejich. Odůvodnění bylo, že zatímco babička z otcovy strany je stranička, a tudíž styk s ní je chválihodný, babička z matčiny strany ve straně není, a proto je nutno styku s ní zamezit.

Nyní nastal ten zběsilý kolotoč, kdy já jsem nebyla ochotna za žádnou cenu se svých dětí vzdát, a kdy ani můj bývalý manžel a jeho matka nehodlali couvnout. Bohužel, chodila jsem od soudu k soudu a vždy prohrávala. Odvolala jsem se až k Nejvyššímu soudu a úředník, který si mě vyzvedl na vrátnici, se mnou nastoupil do páternosteru a jezdil se mnou pořád dokola. Bylo mi divné, že nevystupujeme, ale on pak začal hovořit: „Podívejte se, paní, Vy máte ráda svoje děti a já mám svoje děti také rád. Proto Vám něco řeknu a budu spoléhat na to, že to zůstane mezi námi. Prostudoval jsem Váš spis a je mi jasné, že to rozhodnutí je nespravedlivé a odnětí z Vaší péče neopodstatněné. Chci Vám ale říct, že spor nemůžete vyhrát. Vaším oponentem je totiž tajná policie 15.“ Pak mi došlo, že ve své kanceláři mi tohle říct nemohl – určitě byla prošpikována odposlouchávacími zařízeními. Děti přesto zůstávaly u mne, čas od času nás navštívila pracovnice úřadu péče o mládež, pohovořila s nimi, zeptala se jich, kde chtějí být, ony vždy řekly, že se mnou, a tak byl na čas zase klid. Až do dne, kdy mi jednou zavolala do práce paní ze sociální péče a rozčíleným hlasem povídá, že můj muž, vyzbrojen kopií soudního rozhodnutí a za asistence své matky a dvou SNBáků 16 vyzvedl děti ze školy a odvezl neznámo kam. Ve škole z toho bylo velké pozdvižení, protože otec vlekl Petra násilím po schodech a malá Hanička šla za nimi mlčky jako beránek a po tváří ji tekly slzy. Děti byly v Praze a já zůstala v Ústí se svou velkou bolestí a oprávněnou starostí o ně. Neuběhlo ani deset dní a Petr utekl z Prahy a vrátil se do Ústí. Omlouval se, že Hanu nemohl vzít s sebou ze strachu, že by se jeho útěk prozradil, ale galantně nabídl, že pro ni pojede. Dovedla jsem si představit, jak muselo být Haničce samotné v Praze smutno, a tak jsem se tam za ní vydala do školy. Jenže ve škole jsem ji nezastihla, otec ji někde ukryl. Teď přistoupila k činu moje malá, statečná dcera. Ze své pokladničky na desetníky vybrala přesně tolik peněz, kolik jí stačilo na poloviční lístek z Prahy do Ústí, a v pořádku přijela domů. Tak vlastně děti samy rozhodly o tom, že u mě mohly zůstat. Věci se potom totiž ujal uliční výbor, to byla místní organizace občanů, která oficiálně pod záštitou, ve skutečnosti pod komandováním Komunistické strany, měla na starosti místní občanské záležitosti a dohled nad chováním občanů v daném okrsku) a rozhodl, že děti zůstanou definitivně se mnou.

Jak jsem se již zmínila, pracovala jsem nejprve jako laborantka, posléze jako doktorka přírodních věd na prosektuře v nemocnici v Motole v Praze. V Karlových Varech jsem rok pracovala na biochemii v sanatoriu Imperial a odtud jsem přešla na místo vedoucí virologického oddělení Krajské hygienicko-epidemické stanice v Ústí nad Labem. V té době se u nás testovala vakcína proti poliomyelitidě, neboli dětské obrně. To byl velký průlom do tehdejší imunologie a pro nás vzrušující projekt. Dva američtí lékaři našli způsob, jak zachránit tisíce dětí od smrti nebo celoživotního postižení obrnou, a potřebovali tuto novou vakcínu vyzkoušet. Naše zdravotnictví bylo za socialismu vysoce organizované. Každé dítě muselo být registrováno a mělo na dětském zdravotním středisku svůj záznam. Ochranné preventivní očkování bylo pro všechny povinné, a bylo uzákoněno, že kdo se na písemnou výzvu se svým dítětem k očkování nedostaví, má být předvolán na policii. To bylo přesně to, co bylo pro tento projekt třeba. Doktor Salk, americký lékař, který se svým kolegou Dr. Sabinem vakcínu vyvinul, přijel dokonce do Československa osobně, aby podepsal příslušnou dohodu. Vakcína se podávala perorálně a naše virologické laboratoře prováděly tisíce zkoušek dětských stolic na přítomnost oslabeného viru v různých intervalech po jejím podání. Bylo s tím spojeno mnoho práce, ale celá akce byla úspěšná a ukázala se být velkým požehnáním pro miliony dětí a jejich rodiče. Díky ní jedna z nejobávanějších dětských nemocí prostě zmizela ze světa.

Práce na tomto pracovišti mě velice bavila, i když musím přiznat, bavila by mě víc, kdyby se tu tak zřetelně neprojevovala absurdita socialistického zřízení. V této době byla aktivita a moc stranické organizace v našem ústavu na vrcholu. Cokoli si její funkcionáři přáli, a samozřejmě cokoli si přáli ti výše postavení ve stranické hierarchii, muselo být jednomyslně odsouhlaseno a provedeno. Tak když jednou přišlo nařízení, že jeden mladý kolega, kterého jsem poznala jako dobrého a pracovitého člověka, má být z politických důvodů z ústavu vyhozen, byla jsem jediná, kdo se vzepřel zásadám tzv. stranického demokratického centralismu, tedy tomu, že se menšina podrobí většině, a proti jeho vyloučení jsem hlasovala. Další můj konflikt se systémem přišel, když jsem odmítla hlasovat pro jednotnou kandidátku ve volbách do stranického výboru, ale vrchol našich vzájemných střetů nastal až ve chvíli, kdy na naše pracoviště nastoupila mladá doktorka hygienička.  Hygienická lékařská fakulta byla založena v dobách socialismu a dávala komunistům a jejich sympatizantům snadnější možnost získat vysokoškolský titul. Paní doktorka si brzy začala počínat jako vedoucí oddělení, a když jsem ji přistihla, jak svými nesterilními prsty vybírá sterilní stříkačku z vody, v níž se předtím půl hodiny vyvařovala, věděla jsem, že na tomto pracovišti dále zůstat nehodlám. Jenže kam jít dál? V Ústí mi zbývala jediná možnost: krajská laboratoř pro kultivaci mykobakterií, sídlící při detašované nemocnici plicních a respiračních chorob na kopci Bukově.

Shodou okolností právě tuto nemocnici spoluzakládal za první republiky můj milovaný strýček Hugo, tatínkův bratr, a vedl ji až do roku 1939, kdy emigroval do Norska. Zdejší pan ředitel mě po otázce, jestli nepotřebují mikrobiologa, okamžitě přijal, nastoupila jsem tedy v roce 1959 a odcházela až poslední den před svými padesátými pátými narozeninami, kdy jsem jako matka dvou dětí mohla odejít do důchodu. Vedle rutinních kultivací, izolací, zkoušek citlivosti na antituberkulozní látky a typizací různých druhů mykobakterií, zbýval ještě čas na různé pokusy a výzkumné práce. Většina z nich se týkala zkrácení doby inkubace. Mykobakterie rostou mnohem pomaleji než ostatní mikroby, potřebují tři až šest, někdy dokonce devět týdnů, než utvoří kolonie na živných půdách bohatých na vaječnou bílkovinu a jiné živiny. Jednou jsem slyšela jednoho německého profesora prohlásit, že mykobakterie musí vydávat speciální prchavé esence, tresti, vibrace či cosi, co napomáhá krásným mezilidským vztahům. Snad tomu tak i je, ale rozhodně hraje roli ten jejich pomalý růst. Práce i pracovní poměry byly v tomto oboru klidné. Nikdo se nehonil, aby s nějakým světoborným objevem přišel jako první. Všichni se v přátelské spolupráci snažili podělit o svá vědecká poznání s ostatními kolegy. Vztahy v tomto oboru medicíny byly opravdu v dnešním egocentrickém světě vzácnou výjimkou.

Někde v pěti knihách Mojžíšových jsem kdysi našla zmínku, že Hospodin s ním mluvil nejen ve stavu bdělosti, ale i ve spánku. Sny hrály v mém životě důležitou roli. Když jsem se díky svému anglickému bratrovi Russellu Cleaverovi seznámila s dílem Carla Junga a jeho učení o snech, začala jsem si je poctivě zapisovat. Od té doby mě sny učily a ukazovaly mi cestu. Jednou jsem se na vernisáži dětských kreseb seznámila s mladým houslistou s bezelstným pohledem v modrých očích, a do tohoto Milana Hály jsem se zamilovala. Milan byl křesťan a přivedl mě k četbě Nového zákona, do té doby jsem četla jen Starý. Začala jsem číst a mé srdce roztálo. Zde bylo evangelium lásky vyjádřeno těmi nejdojímavějšími podobenstvími samotným vtělením lásky, něžným Nazaretským. Jenže, brzy jsem stála před palčivým problémem: Můžu já jako židovka něco takového přijmout? Nebyla by to vada charakteru, kdybych se tak nadchla křesťanstvím hned, když jsem se zamilovala do křesťana? A právě v té době se mi zdál sen. Byla jsem na koncertě, kde seděli odděleně židé a křesťané. Já byla mezi židy. Jenže moji sousedé dělali takový rámus, že jsem hudbu vůbec neslyšela, natož abych ji mohla vnímat. A tu přišel můj strýc Hugo, vzal mě za ruku a posadil mezi křesťany. S Milanem jsme se brali den před mými narozeninami v roce 1965. Milan byl anděl, doslova a do písmene, moje děti ho výborně přijaly. Strávili jsme spolu nádherných 41 let. Zemřel letošní léto, byli jsme právě spolu v lese na houbách, já jsem řekla: „tady je krásně“ a najednou slyším žuchnutí, Milan byl mrtvý. Taková krásná smrt je dopřána málokomu, a já jsem ráda, že zrovna Milanovi se jí dostalo.

Po slavném Pražském jaru 17, po vstupu spojeneckých tanků na naše území 21. srpna 1968 18 a po okupaci naší země sovětským vojskem, po tom, co pan Alexandr Dubček 19 byl donucen abdikovat, čekalo všechny státní zaměstnance tragikomické mučení v podobě tak zvaných politických prověrek. Volím slovo „tragikomické“, protože když se dnes na to dívám zpátky, zdá se mi to jako neuvěřitelně hloupá fraška, že každý občan v okupované zemi měl odpovědět jednu stěžejní otázku, zda souhlasí se vstupem vojsk. Jenže to nebyla jen komická, nesmyslná hra. Byla to tragédie, protože téměř všichni zaměstnanci ze strachu, aby nepřišli o místo a nebyli pronásledovaní, lhali, a tím okupantům vlastně potvrdili právo na nehorázné bezpráví, pod nímž jsme všichni úpěli.

Myslím, že prověrky začaly brzy po prvním výročí 21.srpna, kdy velká většina národa šla v ten den do práce pěšky v černém, na znamení smutku a protestu. Komunisté museli být vzteky bez sebe, ale nemohli nás pranýřovat, protože proti nošení smutku nebo chození pěšky nemohli nic namítat. Kromě toho nás tehdy takto šlo moc – stovky a stovky občanů v každém městě. Asi proto ti nahoře vymysleli prověrky, aby drželi lid ve strachu. Každý zaměstnanec musel přijít před komisi a odpovědět na tu nesmyslnou obávanou otázku o vstupu vojsk neboli bratrské pomoci, což byl oficiální název používaný pro ruskou okupaci. Většina lidí odpověděla, že ano, podepsala dodatečný posudek ke kádrovému materiálu, načež mohli odejít z místnosti a zůstávali dále na svých pracovních místech. Když jsem přišla na řadu já, náš ředitel, který to se mnou nemyslel špatně, mi přečetl můj posudek a zeptal se, jestli jsem ochotná ho podepsat. První věta zněla: Soudružka Dr.R.H souhlasila s politikou strany jak před srpnem, tak i s politickou linii strany po roce 1968. Zprvu jsme myslela, že žertuje, a začala jsem se smát. Nebyl to žert a nakonec jsem skončila v slzách. Když jsem mu řekla, že nemohu podepsat něco, co nedává smysl a navíc to není pravda, pan ředitel se rozzlobil a položil mi tu obávanou otázku, které se možná právě tou formulací chtěl vyhnout, protože moje názory dobře znal. Byli jsme totiž docela dobrými přáteli, protože on miloval svého boxera a já pudly, a v době dubčekovského tání jsme si několikrát při venčení psů docela otevřeně popovídali. Odpověděla jsem, že se vstupem vojsk nesouhlasím. Ještě jsem se zeptala, zda účelem tohoto týrání je propouštění některých lidí z práce. Pan ředitel odpověděl, že ne, ale když četl konečnou verzi mého posudku, v poslední větě stálo: Doporučujeme soudružku ponechat ve funkci, kterou dosud zastávala. Neodpustila jsem si poznamenat, že můj předpoklad byl tedy správný. Atmosféra houstla. Řekla jsem mu: „Jestli mě tu nepotřebujete, tak mi to řekněte, a já půjdu pracovat jinam.“ To už bylo na něho příliš a odvětil: „Můžete být ujištěna, že s posudkem, se kterým byste odtud odešla, Vás hned tak někde nezaměstnají.“ To už jsem byla v slzách, ale ještě jsem se ho zeptala, proč takto lidi týrá, jestli je tím někým donucován? Že přece vím, že před rokem smýšlel docela normálně. Před všemi členy toho smutného tribunálu byl soudruh ředitel nucen pronést větu, že byl tehdy pomýlený.

Tato hodina pravdy mě stála hodně peněz. Nejen, že jsem nedostala přidáno, když konečně vešla v platnost dlouho slibovaná a očekávaná reforma mezd ve zdravotnictví, ale přišla jsem i o příplatky, včetně tak zvaného „pohřebního“ za práci v kraji s nejvíce znečištěném ovzduší v celé republice. Avšak pro moje svědomí to znamenalo obrovskou úlevu. Ze strany jsem vystoupila v čase konfliktu Izraele s jeho sousedy. Na stranické schůzi se ve svém referátu někdo situaci věnoval a v následné diskusi prohlásil náš sanitář Bohoušek, původem Rus a stále ještě analfabet, že je přeci známo, že židé jsou jako krysy, které opouští potápějící se loď. Všechny oči se obrátily na mne a já jsem se červenala až po kořínky vlasů. Seděla jsem jako opařená a čekala, že někdo něco řekne. Nikdo nepronesl ani slovo. Využila jsem této příhody, abych se zbavila jha, které mě dlouho tížilo.

Myslím, že nejvíc mě páni soudruzi trápili v další souvislosti s okupací Československa, a to proto, že můj syn Petr se bezprostředně po ní rozhodl emigrovat. To si mě opět předvolali k výslechu a snažili se ze mě dostat, že utekl kvůli okupaci. Tenkrát jsem se tam rozplakala – dovedete si představit, jaké to je, když vám uteče dítě, nic o něm nevíte, a ještě oni vás tam takto týrají. Opakovala jsem, že nevím, proč utekl, že mě do svých plánů nezasvětil, což také byla pravda, oni ale byli neoblomní. Po několika hodinách jsem tomu člověku, co mě vyslýchal, řekla:  „Prosím Vás, dovolte mi jednu otázku. Máte děti?“ Řekl, že ano. Zeptala jsem se ho: „Dovedete si představit, když vám syn uteče,  Vy o něm nevíte, nemůžete mu pomoct, nevíte, co se s ním v tom světě děje, tak proč mě tady kvůli tomu týráte? Vy z toho máte nějaký užitek nebo co?“ Tak pak mě pustil, ale opravdu to bylo hrozné.

Petr šel do Kanady a já jsme se za ním podívala v pětasedmdesátém roce, když měl promoci. Nebyla to má první cesta na Západ, ale je pravda, že takovýchto cest bylo poskrovnu. Vlastně poprvé jsem vyjela až v třiašedesátém roce. Předtím za mnou sice chodili z tajné policie s tím, že mám určitě na Západě mnoho známých, a že když pro ně (tajnou policii) budu pracovat, můžu se tam podívat bez problému. To jsem hrála hloupou, že na to nemám, že už si ani nepamatuji, koho tam všechno znám... Pak znovu přišli, když jsem se rozváděla, to jsem zase argumentovala, že přeci nebudu nikam jezdit, když mi berou děti. Poprvé od války jsem se tedy dostala do Anglie v třiašedesátém roce, kdy mi tam jeden známý z ROH 20, slušný člověk, zařídil stáž. Po návratu jsem musela napsat o cestě zprávu a v ní, s kým z emigrantů jsem se setkala a co jsme dělali. Tak samozřejmě, zprávu jsem napsala v pěti vyhotovění, ale vše jen o laboratorních metodách, které jsem se tam naučila. Argumentovala jsem tím, že jsem celou dobu pracovala a pracovala, byla zavřená v laboratoři, čili jsem neměla na nic jiného čas. Jistěže jsem cestu využila k tomu, abych se setkala se svými dávnými přáteli, to jim tam ale přece nebudu vykládat. Co se ještě týče styku s vyšetřovateli, zjistila jsem, že když najdete lidskou notu i k tomu největšími špiclovi, tak se s ním nějak domluvíte.

Vlastně i způsob, jak jsem se dostala za Petrem do Kanady, je velice zajímavý. V tom mi pomohli moji věrní psí přátelé, konkrétně pudli, jejichž chovatelkou jsem se stala. Štěňata, která jsme odchovali, byla prostě neodolatelná. Jedno z nich jsme dali známému na tehdejším oddělení pasů a víz a záhy zatoužil po právě takovém štěněti i sám mocný šéf svého oddělení. Protože jsem Bobíka chodívala i pravidelně stříhat, stalo se a opravdu mi k umožnění cesty do zahraničí pomohl. Musela jsem ale slíbit, že nikomu neřeknu, že je to skrz psí známosti. Když jsem se v roce 1989 chtěla podívat za rodinou do Izraele, nic podobného už mi nepomohlo. Sice jsem byla důchodkyně, takže i kdybych emigrovala, stát by jedině ušetřil na mém důchodu, ale soudruzi si postavili hlavu a svolení k výjezdu mi dát nechtěli. Sice mi nabízeli, abych se se svými příbuznými setkala v Rumunsku, jak to prý dělali jiní českoslovenští židé, ale tohle řešení zase neuspokojovalo mne. Proto jsem z Drážďan poslala dopis mému bratranci Jakovovi v Izraeli, aby mi slíbenou letenku a peníze poslal na izraelský konzulát ve Vídni a hlavně, aby se o ničem nezmiňoval v dopisech psaných ke mně domů. Věděla jsem totiž, že soudruzi mou poštu pročítají. Některé dopisy mi nepřišly vůbec, ostatní pošta ze zahraničí chodila pravidelně v úterý. Cesta do Izraele se zdařila a já se do Svaté země podívala, bylo to na jaře před revolucí 21 v osmdesátém devátém roce. Zemí jsem byla nadšená. Ze začátku jsem měla sice strach, jak to tam na mě bude působit, tolik židů pohromadě, ale byla tam výborná atmosféra, takové... účastenství. Měla jsem pocit, že místní židé mají potřebu být účastni na životu druhých, všechno je zajímalo... Třeba jsem jen nasedla do autobusu a hned se každý ptal, co jsem dělala za války, co jsem prožila, bylo to krásné. Také, když jsem se procházela, jsem se cítila poprvé opravdově svobodná. Bohužel musím říct, že s každou další návštěvou jsem cítila, jak se tam situace zhoršuje. Když jsem byla naposledy u sestřenice, která žije na severu, doléhala na mě atmosféra plná strachu, stresu a nenávisti. Projížděla tam auta s ampliony a hlásila, že máme jít do krytu... vůbec to na mě nepůsobilo dobře. Musím říct, že nyní se cítím svobodněji v Indii než v Izraeli. A jaký je můj názor na Izrael? Nejsem politik, mohu říci jen své subjektivní dojmy. Je to země nádherná, plná svatého světla, o kterou se ale pořád budou hádat, dokud nepochopí, že všechno lidstvo je jedna rodina a že o věci se my, lidé, musíme dělit. Snad ještě k otázce, proč jsem tam neemigrovala? Když jsem se po válce vrátila z Anglie domů, byla jsem ráda, že jsem doma a na žádnou další emigraci jsem nepomýšlela. V Izraeli žijí má sestřenice Hanička a bratranec Fricek, který si tam říká Jakov, podle dědečka Jakuba, a jejich početné rodiny.

Do důchodu jsem odcházela den před svými padesátými pátými narozeninami s velkou radostí. Má práce mě sice bavila, ale nebyla jsem na tom zdravotně moc dobře a také, musím říct, práce byla pořád smutnější a smutnější. Zatímco v poválečných letech byla v naší populaci velice rozšířená tuberkulóza, postupně podíl takto nemocných pacientů klesal a rostl podíl těch, kdo měli rakovinu plic. Rakovina je mnohem nebezpečnější nepřítel než tuberkulóza. Za celou dobu své pracovní činnosti nejlepší výsledek, kterého jsme při léčbě rakoviny dosáhli, bylo pětileté přežití 25 % operovaných pacientů. Je velice obtížné diagnostikovat mezi karcinomem a tuberkulózou, a často je přesná diagnóza nemožná, dokud se neotevře hrudník. Shodou okolností jsem byla tímto diagnostikováním pověřena já. Byla to práce nesmírně náročná a já měla vždy velký strach, abych pacientovi nějakou svou chybou neublížila. Hlavně to ale byla práce neobyčejně smutná. Na to, že vzrůst počtu rakovinných nádorů byl tak rapidní, mělo rozhodně vliv i ovzduší, které v severních Čechách bylo. Vlastně to byl odepsaný kraj. Už když se od Prahy přijíždělo k Lovosicím, byl nad městem vidět takový oranžový dým. Zdejší obyvatelé sice dostávali za to, že zde musí žít, určité přídavky, ale ty tři stovky [k poslednímu stanovení zlatého obsahu koruny došlo zákonem č. 41/1953 o peněžní reformě, kdy byl zlatý obsah koruny stanoven (nerealisticky a bez širších souvislostí) na 0,123426 g ryzího zlata, což zůstalo až do konce osmdesátých let – pozn. red.] měsíčně  byly za zničené zdraví směšné. Navíc tohle „pohřebné“ mi bylo odňato poté, co jsem nesouhlasila se vstupem okupačních vojsk.

Hned jak to tedy bylo možné, severní Čechy jsem opustila a vrátila se do svého rodného kraje, do jižních Čech. Je to neuvěřitelné, ale už jsem v důchodu vlastně stejnou dobu, jako jsem byla v práci. Alespoň vidím, jak  je čas relativní. Těch prvních dvacet tři let se neuvěřitelně vleklo, a že tady tyto tak rychle uběhly, se mi nechce ani věřit. Pořídili jsme si ratlíka Cliffa, já s ním chodila každý den na procházky, tu jsme sbírali byliny, tu šišky na otop... Když jsme bydleli v Budějovicích, zaměstnávala jsem se mimo jiné tím, že jsem učila na místní pedagogické fakultě angličtinu a  prováděla jsem po městě turisty. Mezi prvními hosty, jimž jsem měla tu čest dělat doprovod, byla  královna dánská Margarethe II. Také jsem v důchodu začala malovat. Do té doby jsem si myslela, že to neumím, ale jednoho dne mi můj přítel, malíř Jan Cihla [-], přinesl článek Winstona Churchilla, kde se praví, že kdo nikdy v životě nezkusil malovat, ten o hodně přišel. Stačí prý jen štětec, papír, barva a notná dávka odvahy. Winston Churchill byl pro mě vždy velkou autoritou, dodnes tvrdím, že to byl on, kdo nám vyhrál válku, a tak jsem začala malovat. V amatérském malování je vše dovoleno. Zpočátku jsem se otrocky držela předlohy, ale pak jsem zjistila, vždyť to přece nemusí být úplně stejné. Hlavně nesmí být narušena harmonie celku. Ve vesmíru, v přírodě harmonie je a její porušení je velkou chybou. Toto kritérium je pro mě rozhodující i pro to, co je kýč nebo není. Když se podívám z okna a vidím modré nebe, na něm bílá oblaka, před domem rybník s labuťákem, každý by řekl, že to kýč je. Jenže ona je to taková ladovská harmonie. V tom je právě malování tak přínosné, že člověk se učí soustředěnosti a je nucen dívat se na svět tak, aby svůj pohled mohl předat. Zjistila jsem, že každá tečka, čárka, volný prostor je ohromně důležitý. Zrovna tak si představuji mozaiku našeho života; dalo by se říci, že mám představu Boha, který sedí a skládá puzzle. Každý z nás je unikátní, má svůj tvar, svou barvu a místo ve světě, které patří jen a jen jemu.

Dnes vím, že všechny prožité radosti a bolesti, všechny zdary a nezdary, které mi život nachystal, byly lekce, z nichž se mám poučit, že všechno, co vzniklo, musí opět zaniknout a že tu je nejen svět vnější, v kterém se toto drama odehrává, ale i vnitřní, svět naší nezrozené a nesmrtelné duše. Všechno, co jsem v životě prožila, bylo přípravou k nástupu hledání pravdy o mé duši neboli tak zvané duchovní cesty. Již ve svých sedmnácti letech jsem přemýšlela o účelu života. Tehdy jsem si
zapsala do deníčku, že si myslím, že to asi bude : "Žít šťastně a pomáhat druhým ke štěstí." Když mi bylo 37 a děti už nepotřebovaly vysmrkávat nosíky a omývat zadečky, pocítila jsem potřebu zastavit se na chvíli v tom kolotoči všedních dnů, popřemýšlet a svoje dřívější krédo, které pro mne stále platí, rozšířit. Kladla jsem si otázky, které si klade lidstvo už od pradávna: "Proč jsem tady, jaký účel má můj život? Odkud jsem přišla a kam se ubírám?" To bylo v roce 1963 a tehdy jsem směla poprvé od roku 45 vycestovat do Anglie. Vrhla jsem se na u nás zakázanou  a tudíž nedostupnou literaturu a s pomocí knih Carla Junga začalo moje hledání Pravdy. Pět plných let jsem si pravidelně zapisovala svoje sny a zamýšlela se nad nimi. Naučila jsem se je přebírat a rozeznat, které děje pocházely z mého podvědomí, to znamená z nesplněných tužeb nebo ze silných, ještě nezpracovaných zážitků, a které přicházejí odněkud shůry od nějakého nebeského učitele či rádce. Jakmile člověk obrátí svou pozornost do nitra, hned mu přichází další pomoc. V roce1965 jsem se brzy po své druhé svatbě prostřednictvím svého muže seznámila se svým prvním duchovním učitelem. Byl to pán s velikým a milujícím srdcem a až do jeho odchodu z tohoto světa v roce 1994, tedy téměř celých 30 let, jsme si vyměňovali nespočet dopisů a pravidelně jsme se navštěvovali. Kromě výměny mnohých otázek a odpovědí jsme pokaždé spolu také poseděli v tichu. Neříkali jsme tomu meditace, ale mlčení. Až když tento můj učitel "nás předešel", dal se mi poznat učitel všech učitelů avatár Saí Baba, božské vtělení, chodící mezi námi v Puttaparthi, malé vesnici na jihu Indie, kde se narodil. Již deset let překládám jeho promluvy z angličtiny do češtiny a pravidelně jezdím za ním do Indie "mlčet" v jeho ášramu. Pro mne je Saí Baba vtělený Bůh. Přišel, aby nás učil a vedl, aby nám připomněl, kdo jsme, a aby nás utěšoval. Učí nás, že my nejsme tělo, ale čistá, nesobecká láska a čiré vědomí, věčná a nesmrtelná duše – jiskra Božství.

Glosář:

Lev Mistetskiy
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: July 2004

Lev Mistetskiy is a short full-bodied man. He has a charming childish smile winning over people at once. Lev has thick hair with gray streaks. He limps slightly and walks slowly with a stick. Lev is a very sociable and friendly man. He lives with his wife Galina. They have a two-bedroom apartment, plainly furnished, in a house built in the 1980s in a new district in Kiev. The Mistetskiys have not lived in Kiev for long, but they have a number of acquaintances here. They always welcome guests in their home.

My father's family lived in Zhytomyr [150 km from Kiev]. Zhytomyr is one of the oldest towns in Ukraine. In the early 20th century it had a population of a little under 100,000 people. From the middle of the 16th through to the late 18th century Zhytomyr belonged to Poland; afterwards it was annexed to the Russian Empire. The population consisted of Russian, Polish and Jewish inhabitants. Before the Russian Revolution of 1917 1 Zhytomyr was located within the Pale of Settlement 2 and Jews constituted the bigger part of the population. In 1917 the Soviet regime stopped the Pale of Settlement. Jews settled down in the central part of the town, and so did the Russian and Polish intelligentsia. There were two-storied stone houses in the center of town. Jews dealt in crafts and trades, and there were also Jewish doctors and teachers. After the Revolution the Soviet authorities didn't nationalize smaller stores owned by Jews where members of their families worked. Most Russian and Ukrainian residents lived in the suburbs and were farmers supplying food products to the town.

There were several synagogues in Zhytomyr. Even after the period of the Soviet struggle against religion 3 and World War II there were at least five synagogues left in the town. There were cheders, Jewish schools and a yeshivah in the town before the Revolution, but after 1917 the cheders and the yeshivah were closed while two seven-year Jewish schools operated almost until the Great Patriotic War 4. There was a shochet in each synagogue. There was a big Jewish community in Zhytomyr that organized charity and provided assistance to the needy. There was a Jewish children's home, an old-age home and a Jewish hospital in town. During the Civil War 5 there were Jewish pogroms 6 in Zhytomyr made by gangs 7 or Denikin troops 8. Jewish families often found shelter in Polish and Ukrainian homes. Mama told me about the pogroms, but I don't remember any details. The local population had a positive attitude towards Jews. All townspeople could speak Yiddish, Polish and Ukrainian.

All I know about my father's family is that my grandfather's name was Abram Mistetskiy. My grandmother's first name was Sura; I don't know her maiden name. My father had several sisters and brothers, but I only knew two of them. Aizik Mistetskiy, the oldest of the children, was born in 1878. After the Revolution he moved to Kiev. I think, Aizik dealt in trade. He was married, but I didn't know his wife, and had two children: Mikhail, born in 1920, and Lisa, born in 1922. Aizik was an atheist. I also knew a second of my father's brothers: Lev, whose Jewish name was Leib. My father, Fridel Mistetskiy, was born in 1885. I don't know how religious my father's parents were, but his two brothers were atheists. My father never told me about his childhood and teenage years. All I know is that he could read and write in Russian and Yiddish.

My mother's family lived in a village near Zhytomyr. I think, it was Korostyshev. My mother's father, Froim Weisman, was a cantor in the synagogue. My grandmother died before I was born, and I don't even know her name. There were two children in the family: mama's older sister, Tsylia, and my mama Mariam, born in 1889. Mama's parents must have been religious, particularly as my grandfather was a cantor. I'm sure they celebrated Sabbath and observed all Jewish traditions. Mama could read in Hebrew and Yiddish, as well as in Russian. She was religious. Her sister Tsylia grew fond of revolutionary ideas before 1917 and became a professional revolutionary. Mama didn't tell me about what happened to her sister. I saw my grandfather once: I remember an old gray-haired man wearing black clothes and a black hat. Grandfather Froim died in the late 1920s. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery of Zhytomyr according to the Jewish ritual.

My parents must have met through a shadkhan, which was quite customary at the time. Mama never told me about the wedding, but I'm sure it was a traditional Jewish wedding. My parents got married in the early 1910s and my mother moved to Zhytomyr where my father lived.

My older brother, Mikhail, was born in 1914. His Jewish name was Moisey. My second brother Iosif was born in 1917 and my sister Polina followed in 1921. Her Jewish name was Pesia. I was born on 21st April 1924. My parents named me Lev, Leib in Jewish. Though my father was an atheist, his sons had their brit milah according to Jewish tradition. We only spoke Yiddish at home but the family knew Russian and Ukrainian.

My father worked as a mechanic at the bicycle plant and after work and on weekends as a cabdriver transporting people and loads to earn extra money in order to support his family of six. He rented horses and a wagon and came home late at night. He worked very hard and we rarely saw him. Mama was a housewife.

After the Civil War life was hard. My grandfather and grandmother and my father's sisters and brothers were rather poor and they decided to move to America. In 1925 the family was ready to leave and we joined them. I was just a baby at the time. Mama's parents didn't want to go with us. We boarded the train, when mama's father Froim came onto the platform. He started telling mama to stay and think about her old parents. Mama burst into tears and got off the train holding me. My father got our luggage off the train and we stayed. My father's family left. We had no contact with them: it was dangerous during the Soviet period [to keep in touch with relatives abroad] 9.

I only have information about my father's brother, Lev. He was a student, grew fond of communist ideas and joined the Communist Party. He became a trade union activist and organized strikes. He was imprisoned and when they released him, he decided to come back to the USSR. Since he was a communist and oppressed for his ideas the Soviet government allowed him to return. In 1934 Lev left the USA. He was single. The rest of my father's family stayed in the USA. Lev lived with his older brother Aizik in Kiev. I don't remember what he did for a living.

Our life was miserable. When kolkhozes 10 started, my father heard there was going to be a Jewish kolkhoz 11 in Dnepropetrovsk region and that the Agro-Joint 12 was constructing houses for future kolkhozniki. My father went there to get information and when he returned, he and mama decided to move there. The settlement we went to consisted of one street with one- storied houses on both sides. The settlement and the street didn't have names. The Joint funded the construction, and people who arrived to work in the kolkhoz where to build their own houses. They built houses from air bricks: cut straw mixed with clay and dried in the sun. Air bricks were strong and the houses were warm in winter. They had tiled or steel sheet roofs. There were two rooms and a kitchen in each house, and sheds adjoining the houses. Like everyone else we lived in tents for about two years after we arrived at this village. My father went to the construction site every day. Then we moved into the house.

Mama bought a cow and kept it in the cow shed another part of which served as a chicken house. There were 35 houses in the village. Every family had one hectare of land for a garden. We grew corn to feed the cow and chickens on one half of our land and on the other we grew potatoes, onions, beets, beans - everything the family needed. There was no store in the village. The products were supplied from Gulyaypole, eight kilometers from our village. There was also a market in this village. Mama made butter and cottage cheese, which she sold at the market in Gulyaypole. Sometimes the chairman of the kolkhoz provided the women with a horse-drawn wagon to go to the market. Sometimes mama returned home in tears, when she failed to sell what she had taken with her.

The Joint also helped to purchase agricultural equipment: tractors, a reaping machine, a winnowing machine and other necessary things. Papa took up a course for tractor operators and began to work after finishing it. Then he caught a cold, which resulted in pneumonia and finally tuberculosis. My father got very weak. He went to work as a janitor, but a short time later he couldn't do any work and had to stay in bed most of the time. Mama took up any job she could to support the family: weeding, tying sheaves, milking cows and working with the threshing machine. I remember mama standing by a threshing machine in a cloud of dust feeding in sheaves. She had a kerchief covering her head and face. She even had a band to protect her eyes from dust. Mama was the best worker in the kolkhoz. The kolkhoz sent her to different congresses where she was a delegate. They were even about to award the title of Hero of Socialist Labor to her, but this was in 1941, and mama never got this award due to the war.

We, children, tried to help mama as much as we could. At ten we went to work in the kolkhoz. Of course, we had to attend school, but we could work in the kolkhoz during vacations. We also worked in our vegetable garden. When I came home from school, mama told me which part of the garden I had to do. I hurried to have some time left to play with other boys, but mama told me that I always had to complete my task first. She brought up my older brothers and sister in the same way.

In 1932-33 there was a terrible famine in Ukraine 13. NKVD 14 officers came to villages and took away all grain stocks that peasants had made for the winter. They took it all and people were doomed to die. It was easier in towns where there were some food supplies, but in villages it was horrible. In our kolkhoz they also made the rounds of the houses taking away grain, potatoes, cereals. People starved. We survived thanks to some soy beans that we had: once mama turned a bottle of kerosene for the Primus stove over a bag of soy beans in the kitchen. The soy beans were no good for eating any longer, but mama decided to keep them and took the bag into the attic. This saved us. It was still impossible to eat them, but we used them as bait for sparrows scattering them in the attic and opening the window. The sparrows flew in, we closed the window and hunted sparrows. Mama plucked them and boiled them with soup and some herbs.

My older brothers finished four grades of the Jewish school. My sister finished the 1st grade, when the school was closed and turned into a three- year Ukrainian school. I went to this Ukrainian school. Our teachers were Jewish, but they taught us in Ukrainian. I became a young Octobrist 15, and a pioneer [see all-union pioneer organization] 16. I remember how happy I was, when I had a red necktie round my neck. Pioneers were tutors of young Octobrists. We arranged meetings and excursions for them and helped them with their studies. This was the only school in our village. After finishing it we continued our studies in a ten-year Ukrainian school in Gulyaypole. We walked to school and it took us over two hours to get there.

In winter my friend, Haim Sokolovskiy, and I rented a room in Gulyaypole. Our parents paid 10 rubles monthly and our landlady provided meals for the money. We spent winter vacations at home. This was wonderful: we skied and skated on a frozen pool all day long. There were one or two Jewish students per class in my school in Gulyaypole; the rest were Ukrainians. I faced anti-Semitism for the first time. The word 'zhydy' [kike] began to be used after the outbreak of World War II; at my time they called us 'natsmen' - which is short for 'natsionalnoye menshinstvo' ['national minorities'] - and I often heard this word addressed too me.

I earned the amount of my rent by working in the kolkhoz in summer. Of course, I earned less than they paid adult workers, but at least mama didn't have to squeeze these 10 rubles out of her family budget. I did weeding, threshing, shepherded the cattle and delivered water to farmers in the field. I also took daily information about the kolkhoz to the district town, riding a horse. I also looked after our domestic livestock. We had a cow, chickens and one or two pigs for sale.

We didn't celebrate Jewish holidays at home. Mama baked matzah on Pesach, but this was the only tribute to traditions. There was a prayer house in the village. On Sabbath and other Jewish holidays mama went to pray there. At school we were raised atheists. I don't remember any Soviet holidays in the kolkhoz. I remember the harvest festival. After the harvest women cooked food and there were long tables in the street and people began to party. I remember lots of compote [fruit drink] - it was a delicacy for us. We sang Jewish songs. Mama loved singing and knew many Jewish songs. I inherited my good voice and ear from her.

Approximately in 1936 the USSR began to refuse assistance from the Joint, and life in the Jewish kolkhoz became more difficult. I remember arrests that started in 1936 [during the so-called Great Terror] 17. There were numbers of Ukrainians arrested as enemies of people 18. Our landlord in Gulyaypole had been a soldier in the tsarist army, when he was young. When I knew him, he was an old man and always ill. One night in winter the 'black voronok' vehicle drove to the house. [Editor's note: 'voron,' diminutive 'voronok,' means 'raven' in Russian, supposed to bring trouble.] The officers came into the house and took the man away with them. His wife was crying. I said, 'Why arrest him? He is ill. What has he done to you?' - 'Shut up! Or you will go with us, too'. He never returned to the village.

We had a nice Ukrainian teacher of chemistry and physics. We liked her and her classes. We noticed that she always had red eyes from crying. Once she couldn't hold back her tears in class. She probably knew what she was up to. One day the director came into the class and said that she happened to be an enemy of the people, a Ukrainian nationalist, and had been arrested. It's not that we believed our director, but we couldn't help thinking: 'How come she can be an enemy of the people?' My classmate Zhenia Skrypnik was the daughter of the chairman of the Gulyaypole village council. She was a smart and nice girl. When her father was arrested, we had a hostile and suspicious attitude towards her.

Our teachers told us that enemies of the people pretended to be good concealing their real self and in reality were trying to do harm to the Soviet power. Of course, we believed it, in the same way we thought Stalin was infallible. We believed in the Communist Party. We were raised in the communist ideology. I remember reading about the murder of Kirov 19 in a district newspaper in 1934 and felt indignant about how treacherous enemies of the people were. We were raised patriots. We read books in which the Soviet regime was presented as the best ever, the most humane. We also watched patriotic movies.

We had military training at school. We usually had classes in the woods. The class was divided into two teams: we were to find and capture the other group. When we found them and surrounded them shouting: 'Hurrah! Surrender!' We had to pass sport standards to receive RWD ('ready for work and defense']. Of course, we knew about Hitler and that he invaded Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria, but we didn't know that Hitler exterminated Jews. When the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 20 was signed, we were happy that our country was not to be attacked by Hitler.

In the late 1930s Jews began to leave the kolkhoz, mainly because people were tired of listening to others saying that cunning Jews didn't want to work, but only wanted to have a good life. Jews worked very hard in the kolkhoz while Ukrainians kept saying that they were idlers. After finishing their school in Gulyaypole my older brothers and sister also left the village.

After finishing the 10th grade my brother Mikhail went to Dnepropetrovsk [regional town, 500 km from Kiev]. He worked at the metallurgical plant: he was a proofreader with the plant's newspaper. Iosif, the middle brother, finished the 7th grade and courses of electric mechanics. He worked as an electrician in our village. He was smart. There was no electricity in other villages before the Great Patriotic War, but he managed to provide electricity in our village. The kolkhoz bought a power machine and Iosif installed an autonomous power plant. Iosif went to Krivoy Rog [about 450 km east of Kiev], where he worked as an electrician in a mine. Then he was recruited to the army. After demobilization he entered the infantry school in Simferopol [900 km south of Kiev] in the Crimea. After finishing this school he stayed to serve in a military unit in this town. My sister Polina entered the Dnepropetrovsk Medical School. After finishing it she got a mandatory job assignment 21 to a village in the Dnepropetrovsk region where she worked as a medical nurse. I helped my mother at home.

After finishing the 8th grade I wanted to enter an Air Force School, but I failed; I don't remember for what reason. Then I wanted to go to a drama school, I even took entrance exams where I sang something, I remember, but they didn't want me either. I went back home and continued my studies at school. In the 8th grade I joined the Komsomol 22. I walked to the district town 33 kilometers away to obtain my Komsomol membership card at the district Komsomol Committee.

In 1940 I went to the 10th grade. My father was very ill and I had to miss school to take care of him, take him to see the doctor in hospital and take care of the cow and chickens. In January 1941 my father died. Mikhail and my sister came to his funeral. There was no cemetery in our village. We buried my father in a Jewish cemetery in a Jewish village. Iosif arrived after the funeral. Then my brothers and sister left. In June 1941 I took my graduation exams. I was told to take two exams in fall since I had missed too many classes in those subjects.

Mama and I heard about the war on the radio. There was one radio in the village, in the kolkhoz office. Mama and I went to the cattle farm and saw a crowd of people near the office. We went there and listened to Molotov's 23 speech, in which he said that Germany had violated the non-aggression treaty and attacked the USSR traitorously. Then Stalin spoke and said that we would win.

Mama stayed in the kolkhoz. I and those who weren't subject to recruitment went to another village to dig trenches. The Germans were approaching Dnepropetrovsk. Our commanders were from the local kolkhoz management or party officials. One day they disappeared. We didn't know what to do and decided to go home. When I came home, Smoliar, the chairman of our kolkhoz came to see me. He said the Germans were already near Krivoy Rog, which was 65 kilometers away. There were Germans planes flying over us. He said I had to take the kolkhoz cattle where there were no Germans. I told mama that we had to move on. She was crying and didn't want to leave home. I convinced her to go. We packed some luggage: we were sure the war would not last long and we would be back home soon. We put the bicycle, the most valuable belonging that we had into the cellar. Mama sat in the wagon, and I and another guy from the kolkhoz rode our horses. Mama kept crying.

We moved the cattle in the direction of Dnepropetrovsk, 150 kilometers away. We didn't have saddles and riding was tiring. So we took turns to take a rest and sit on the wagon. We reached Dnepropetrovsk and were to move the cattle across the Dnieper over the bridge, when German bombers attacked the people firing at them flying on contour lines. This was the first time I saw children, women and old people being killed. We were lucky to survive. We moved on to Donetsk [regional center in the east of Ukraine, 750 km from Kiev], another 300 kilometers we had to cover. On the way we milked cows and drank milk. Occasionally we sold cows to local villagers to get some money for food. They paid 50 rubles per cow. This was little money, but we were happy to get it.

We arrived at Yenakiyevo [40 km from Donetsk] in Donetsk region where we took cows to the butchery and stayed to work in the kolkhoz. Germans were getting closer to Donetsk and we decided to move on. Evacuation began in Yenakiyevo. Mama and I took a train to Stalingrad [present-day Volgograd in Russia, 1,000 km from Moscow]. We were accommodated in the stadium in the open air. We received rationed food and blankets. From there we moved to Astrakhan [1,500 km from Kiev] in Central Asia and across the Caspian Sea by boat. There was a storm and some people died. The dead were thrown into the sea. In winter 1941-42 we reached Kazakhstan, the village of Grebenshchikovo [400 km from Astrakhan]. We were accommodated in a local house. Mama and I went to work in the kolkhoz. We received rationed food: I got 150 grams of bread, mama got 300 grams, we also received some cereals and a little fat. We had a little money with us and bought winter clothes.

In March 1942 I fell ill with typhus. I was unconscious for over a month. Mama took me to a hospital 30 km from Grebenshchikovo. I survived. When I recovered, the doctor asked me where I was going. I said I was going to my mama. He said she had passed away. She had contracted typhus from me and died in the hospital. She was buried in the hospital cemetery. They showed me the grave - there wasn't even her name on it.

I was alone in the whole world and didn't know where my brothers or sister where. I returned to Grebenshchikovo and went to work as a librarian. Then a geodesic expedition arrived from Kiev. They were going to search for coal deposits in Kazakhstan. I asked whether I could join them and they were positive about it. I had a horse-drawn wagon to take the geodesists to their work places. Then they were to relocate to the village of Kalmykovo about five kilometers away in Northern Kazakhstan. In order to go with them I had to obtain a permit from my workplace. I took the geodesists to this village and returned to my village. The chairman of the village council, an old Kazakh man, refused to issue me the permit. He had a stamp on his desk. When he went out of his office, I wrote the permit and stamped it.

I left for Kalmykovo and became a geodesist assistant. I delivered water to them at work and cooked for them. In August 1942 I was invited to the district town. The chairman of the district council told me that it was time for my recruitment to the army, but that he was going to make me stay since the district needed educated people and I had secondary education. I remember how in lines for bread local people were muttering about those in evacuation: 'they ran away from the Germans and don't want to fight...' I said that I would join the army so that nobody thought I was a coward. The gathering point was in the town of Uralsk, Orenburg region [2,500 km from Kiev]. The chairman of the district council gave me food to take with me and I left for Uralsk. There I entered the Leningrad military communications school evacuated to Uralsk. We had advanced eight-month training. After finishing the school we went to the front. I was awarded the rank of sergeant and sent to Sokolniki near Moscow. A captain came to our barrack and read the order that I and a few others were appointed communications operators in the 15th fighting engineering brigade.

Two days later we were to get a bus to drive us to our point of destination. One of our group told the captain that he was from Moscow and that his son and wife were there and asked permission to go and see them. The captain said it was all right, but he wanted to join him. I went with them. He was a handsome man, older than me. We visited his family. I am telling you this because I met with this man several times afterward, but at that time we were in different divisions.

I was sent to Domodedovo near Moscow where I took up three-month field engineering training. There were five battalions in this engineering brigade. I was appointed chief of communications of the 73rd battalion. We got poor food and I was always hungry. Once something funny happened. My partner and I were given the task to support communications at the distance of five kilometers from each other. I found a field of green peas and turned on the radio. I put my gun aside to eat some peas, when I heard a loud radio call, which should have been much weaker at the distance of five kilometers. I looked around and saw my partner eating peas close to me.

Three months later we were sent to Lebedin, Sumy region, Ukraine [300 km from Kiev], by train. From there we covered almost 400 kilometers to the town of Kanev on the Dnieper [100 km from Kiev], to the front line in late September 1943 where we joined the 47th army. We had to carry our radios and weapons. Then we reached the front line: there was firing, bombs were falling... There was a lake and a bridge across it. We were to run over the bridge one after another. There was a German sniper on the opposite side shooting at the soldiers. He killed the soldier running before me, but I managed to cross the bridge. On the opposite side we dug trenches and got ready.

The next day the commanding officer of our company ordered me to support the installation of a bridge across the Dnieper. I was to transfer his commands to the engineers installing the bridge. They could only work at night. They had already installed about 200 meters of the bridge, but German bombs destroyed about 60 meters of the bridge and they had to stop construction. It was decided to cross the river on pontoons. On 5th October 1943 twelve of us boarded a raft that the engineers had made and moved to the opposite bank of the river. I had to continuously give information on how many soldiers managed to reach the other side.

Alexandr Popov, the commander of our platoon - a young lieutenant, who had just finished a military school - was on this raft. Ania Zimakova, our assistant doctor, was in love with him. She wanted to get on this raft with him, but they didn't allow her to. She lives in Rostov now and we correspond. Before we reached the middle of the Dnieper this lieutenant was killed. This was his first and last battle. Two of us were wounded. The Germans never stopped shooting. This was scaring. The river was stirred by shells, bombs and bullets and there were flares lighting the surrounding. When we reached the opposite bank, the commander of the platoon counted the soldiers and equipment and I transferred this information by phone. We weren't allowed to use radios since Germans could have found out our location. On this day 6,720 soldiers, 80 antipersonnel mines and 15 tons of food crossed the river.

I was the youngest radio operator and they sent me to the most difficult spots. Our division was heading to Kiev. Our tanks entered Darnitsa, the left bank suburb of Kiev, in late October 1943. I was in a tank with my radio. We crossed the Dnieper and started with the clearing of mines of the town. We were to support safe entrance of the 3rd guard tank army. We cleared the railway station of mines and then started demining the main streets of the town. I was also involved in the demining process. After the liberation of the town we moved in the direction of Vinnitsa: to Fastov, Kazatim and further on. In March 1944 our engineering brigade constructed a bridge near the village of Voroshilovka, Vinnitsa region. Then our unit was the first to arrive in Vinnitsa. During the Great Patriotic War Vinnitsa region was the area of ghettos and concentration camps: it was called Transnistria 24. Inmates of the ghettos were happy to see us. Our engineering brigade was awarded the title of the Vinnitsa Red Banner Engineering Brigade.

I didn't face any anti-Semitism during the war. There were other values at the front line: people were treated as they deserved to be. Nobody cared about nationality: whether one could rely on this person in critical situations was what mattered. Moisey Barash, commanding officer of our 15th engineering brigade, was a Jew, and senior lieutenant Dobkin, commanding officer of a company in our battalion, was Jewish, too. I never heard anybody speaking disrespectfully of them in connection with their Jewishness.

On 11th May 1944 we liberated Lipovets district, Vinnitsa region, and entered the town of Lipovets [about 200 km from Kiev]. The Germans were six kilometers away from Lipovets. I ran to the battalion headquarters to get a battery for my radio, when they told me there was no telephone communication and asked me to restore it. I went out to search for a tear. I was thirsty and came into a house asking for water. A teenage girl gave me some water and I asked her name. She said her name was Galina and asked me why I wanted to know her name. I said that we might see each other again one day and left. Of course, I didn't think we would ever meet again. I didn't know then that this morning I had met my future wife Galina. I found the tear and tried to connect the ends of the wires, but the headquarters was continuously calling, and the wires were under current. I began to connect and disconnect the ends to send them a signal to stop calling until they finally got it and gave me some time to fix the connection. The front line was quite near.

We moved on: to Zhmerinka, Kamenets-Podolskiy ... and arrived in Western Ukraine. We marched across swamps, engineers had lots of work to do - it's hard to tell it all. In August 1944 we were near Lvov. I went to the division headquarters to get a battery. When I went in to see the chief of the brigade communications to ask for batteries, I recognized him: he was that man from Moscow, who had showed me around Moscow when I was in Domodedovo. All of a sudden there was combat alarm. He ran to his truck and I ran to mine. There was a jam of vehicles on the road, when all of a sudden German planes began firing at the vehicles. After their first attempt I jumped into a cuvette. German planes were dropping heaps of grenades, bombs. One attempt, another attempt...

When they flew away, I got out of the cuvette, went to my truck and saw this man from Moscow, dead. I called the medical nurse, she saw him and exclaimed: 'Oh, Ksendjik is dead!' This was a rare surname and I remembered it. Then she examined him and said that his heart was beating, he was alive. She asked me to bring some water, we started artificial ventilation, something else and then he got up and walked. He was shell-shocked, but if I hadn't seen him, he would have died. The army commander came to the jam spot and ordered to push empty vehicles to the side to free the way for other vehicles. The vehicles were pushed aside without looking at the dead and this man might have been left there as well. I never saw him at the front again, but I will tell you about our last meeting at this point.

I went to Moscow on business in 1985. I saw an inquiry booth and recalled his name. I remembered that he lived somewhere near the Kursk railway station. I went to the inquiry and asked the girl to find this name, but this was only his surname that I knew and she asked me his first name and year of birth, which I didn't know. I explained to her how I had come to know him and she promised to help me. She found three people with the surname of Ksendjik, one of them seemed to be the one I was looking for judging by his year of birth. She gave me his address and phone number. I went to his home. An aged woman opened the door for me. I explained who I was. She started crying. She told me their son had died, but after the war they had two daughters. Her husband was a colonel of the KGB 25; he was all right, but a few years ago he started having seeing and hearing problems. Then this Ksendjik came in and asked his wife who I was. She told him that I had saved his life. He knew that a sergeant had saved his life, but he didn't know my name. He started crying, hugged me, called his daughters, invited guests and we had dinner. Then he took me to the railway station. We kept in touch. He has passed away by now.

There were different occurrences during the war. When we were advancing near Kamenets-Podolskiy, two soldiers joined us. They wore ordinary uniforms. We asked them who they were, and they replied they had escaped from captivity and wanted to join a military unit. Our commanding officer unbuttoned the shirt on one of them: there was German underwear underneath. He shot both of them. There were SMERSH officers in each regiment [Editor's note: special secret military unit of the NKVD for the elimination of spies, lit. 'death to spies']. Their task was to identify spies at the front line, but most of the time they investigated what the military talked about and whether some of them weren't happy about the situation. They treated those like they had treated enemies of the people before the war. At the beginning of the war our army incurred big losses and many military were captured. If some of them managed to escape, they were subject to investigation by SMERSH officers. Very often those people, who had taken every effort to escape and get to their own forces, were arrested and exiled to the north. Actually, the purpose was to develop the northern areas, and prisoners were the best option to resolve this issue. In most cases these were innocent people, but SMERSH officers just needed grounds to arrest people and they usually got them. They had their informers in each unit and you could never be sure that you weren't talking to an informer.

Let me tell you how the SMERSH officers made me their informer. In early April 1945 a captain, commander of the SMERSH, came to talk to me. I don't remember his surname. He said that he knew I was a Komsomol member and that my commanders gave me good recommendations. He concluded that the war was coming to an end while there were many enemies of the people and spies among us and that I had to help him. And that I knew how they treated those who refused to help the Soviet power. This was very clear and I was pretty sure that if I refused I would become a spy or an enemy of the people. It was clear that the war was nearing its end, our forces were in Germany and I had a chance to survive. I didn't feel like going to the Gulag 26. What was I to do? I followed him. We went to a house where the first sergeant of our company, Shevtsov, was waiting for us. He said he would give me tasks and I was to fulfill them and report to Shevtsov in secret. I agreed. The captain told me to sign a paper. So, I thought, he already had a paper that I was to help the SMERSH. I looked at the first sergeant and he nodded. So I signed the paper, but nobody gave me any tasks and a short time later I was wounded.

There were penal battalions at the front. I knew one man, who was sent to a penal battalion. Our telephone operator Vassiliev once stole some honey from a village house. For this he was sent to a penal battalion where men fought till the first wound. After hospital they were sent to an ordinary military unit. This was called 'redeeming one's guilt with blood'.

When I watch movies or read books about the war, they always say that the military attacked shouting, 'For the Motherland! For Stalin!' I never heard anything like this. We attacked shouting 'Hurrah!' I was at the very front line. We were often to demine the trenches and pass-ways for tanks. The time of attacks was kept a secret. Of course, we knew that if tanks and 'Katyusha' units were approaching this meant that there was to be an attack. So we made pass-ways for tanks; the infantry was following the tanks. We tagged the pass-ways, but always one of us had to run ahead showing the way. I also had to do this very often. Then, if there wasn't sufficient infantry, we had to run with them.

Our division moved to the Carpathians and then to Subcarpathia 27. Many local Ukrainians were joining us on the way. They were partisans during the occupation: they had to take some training before they joined us for military actions. They became field engineers, and field engineers had to be capable of installing a mine or removing it. We had to know German weapons as well. There was the saying that 'a field engineer can make a mistake only once in his life'. They also taught them to shoot and clean their weapons and how they were to act in combat action.

In the Carpathian Mountains I was slightly wounded. Some time before a shell splinter broke through my trousers, but it didn't touch me. I never patched this hole and believed it to be my talisman. We installed tents in the mountains, when the Germans started firing. A shell exploded right beside my tent. The tent was torn apart, and a stray bullet scratched me. I had a bandage applied and remained in the ranks.

Our division liberated Mukachevo in Subcarpathia. We were the first to arrive in the town. Ten days later we moved in the direction of Uzhgorod and from there to Slovakia, to a small town, the name of which I don't remember. There was a big lake that four battalions had to cross. Our unit was the first to cross it. I had my radio box on me. This happened on 25th November 1944. The water was very cold. We started about 7pm, it was dark. We had two radios. I had to speak very softly since the Germans were only 500 meters away from us. They shot flares, but this was merely all they did. They didn't expect us to dare to cross the lake. There was one horse to carry the radio on its back, given to me. When the water was stomach deep I told the others to stop fearing that the radio might get wet. I gave the radio to the soldier on the horseback.

The crossing took about two hours. I stayed on the opposite bank of the lake and our units moved about 500 meters forward. We had a special code to cipher messages. I had to tell the others, when they could start crossing and of course, my saying 'start crossing the lake' was out of the question. Other soldiers covered me with tents on all sides so that the Germans couldn't hear me speaking. One tall soldier held the antenna. I started pronouncing my message - no connection. I tried the Morse - it was all right. I sent the message for other units to start moving.

It was cold and we were wet. We were sitting there looking at the town lights. The attack was to start at 6 in the morning. We couldn't wait until it started hoping to at least get warmer. At 6 the artillery preparation began and then we attacked. There was a lot of noise, shooting, yelling. Germans jumped out wearing just their underpants or a shirt. I was to stay near Major Gurov, chief of headquarters. I carried the radio and another soldier carried the battery box. When I fixed the connection, the major went ahead with the advancing unit and I had to remove the antenna and lost sight of him. I ran forward looking for him, when a woman came out of the house I passed and pointed at the shed. I had a gun and came closer to the shed. She let me know there was a cellar in it. I opened the lid and fired my gun. There were Germans in there, shouting, 'Hitler kaput!' I yelled, 'Get out of there, drop your weapons!' I spoke Russian and he spoke German, but we happened to understand each other. They came out of there. I wounded one on his arm.

I convoyed them to the headquarters, when I bumped into the chief of headquarters. He cursed at me. I said I had captured Germans, but he said he didn't need Germans, he needed communications. He was very angry and said all others would get awards for this battle, except me. Well, I had to support communications anyway. I settled in a cemetery, hung my antenna on a tree, turned on the radio - it worked. At dawn the Germans sent their tanks and infantry on us. They wanted to throw us back to the lake. An artillery captain was beside me sending messages to the artillery and 'Katyusha' units. If it hadn't been for this radio, we would have been thrown back into the lake. It lasted all day long till the Germans went away. It was quiet. This was a hard battle and we were allowed to rest for ten days. General Moskalenko, the army commander came to our positions and ordered to award all of us. I was awarded the Order of the Red Banner 28, and the chief of headquarters could do nothing about it.

I sent a letter addressed to my brothers and sister to my village. My brothers and sister happened to write there as well. And our co-villagers helped us to find each other. There were no Jews left in the village. Before the beginning of the war there were less than ten Jewish families staying in the village. The rest were Ukrainians. One of them named Tereschenko, who moved there before the war, became a policeman. They killed all Jews in the village. Our neighbors, the Brainus family, were very poor. The father of the family went to the front. His wife and four children were hiding in the attic, but someone reported on them. They were killed. My Ukrainian neighbors told me about it.

My older brother wrote to me. He was in evacuation. I corresponded with Iosif. He finished an infantry school and went to the front in the rank of lieutenant. By the end of the war he was in the rank of captain. He was chief of the regiment intelligence unit in the 3rd Baltic Front near Konigsberg [today Kaliningrad, Russia]. He wrote to me saying that he wanted me to serve in his unit. His division headquarters sent a request about my transfer to the commanding officer of my unit. In March 1945 our commander of battalion asked me to tell my brother that we would meet after the war since my division needed me very much. He promised to let me go to my brother's unit after the war. I wrote the letter, but it returned with the stamp: 'The addressee is unavailable'. I knew what it meant. Later I got to know that my brother perished on 29th May 1945 in Eastern Prussia. My sister was in evacuation in Andijan, Uzbekistan. She worked as a medical nurse in a hospital. Later my brother Mikhail joined her and stayed to live in Andijan. He worked as a builder.

On 15th April 1945 our company demined a front line in a village in Slovakia. The commanding officer of my company was Kuznetsov and I was his subordinate. We were staying in a house, which happened rarely since we usually made earth huts or blindages. We were happy to stay in houses or sheds, when we managed. We stayed overnight and in the morning the bombing began. Shells and bombs were falling right next to the house. The commanding officer told us to run to the nearby forest. I needed about five minutes to pack the radio antenna. He told me to follow them as soon as I could. So, I packed my radio and ran after them. The shells and bombs were exploding around me. I decided to hide in a pit and wait till the bombing was over. I saw one and ran to it, when all of a sudden I felt something burning on my left side. I jumped into the pit and saw that my left arm and leg were injured, I was bleeding and felt pain.

I was lucky that our new chief of headquarters, Major Yegorov, needed to find our company immediately. He was told that the company was moving to the forest and he was going there, when he bumped into me. Yegorov knew me from the time I was his communication operator, when we were forcing our way across the Dnieper. He jumped into the pit where I was, took off his shirt, tore it to bands and applied them to my arm and leg. He also had to tear my shirt. I don't know how much time passed till two attendants with stretchers came by. Yegorov told them to help me, but they replied, 'He is not ours'. He pointed his gun to them and said that if they didn't help me he would kill them. They put me on their stretchers and we were off while Yegorov went to the forest.

When the bombing got stronger the attendants left me in an open area and went into hiding in pits. This happened several times. I was lucky. They managed to carry me as far as the forest where our sanitary plane Po-2 was waiting for all the wounded to take them to the rear. A medical nurse applied a bandage on me. They were sending the most severely wounded in the first turn. It wasn't until evening, when I was taken in the plane that took us to Glauchau in Germany. In Glauchau they put me on a wagon driven by an old German man, who moved to the hospital with me on my stretchers on his wagon. He stopped by a building and went in to find out which department was going to take me. He asked me to hold the reigns in my right hand. All of a sudden German planes appeared in the sky dropping bombs. The horse got scared and bolted till it ran into a shed and stopped. The old man was running around calling me. I responded and he took me to the hospital.

I stayed in Glauchau for about two weeks, almost till the end of the war. From there I was moved to a hospital in Lvov. I was there on 9th May 1945, Victory Day 29. We heard on the radio that Germany had signed the Pact of Unconditional Capitulation. We were happy, congratulated each other and made plans for our peaceful life. In the evening there were fireworks. Those who couldn't walk were taken outside on stretchers to watch the fireworks. At the end of the war I had the rank of senior sergeant.

The war was over and peaceful life began, but this was not the end of military service for me. The recruits, born in 1924, were to finish their compulsory service. After I was released from hospital in September 1945 I received an assignment to the 159th artillery fortification unit in Ostrog Rovno region. I was appointed commanding officer of the communication unit. Later this unit was disbanded and I was sent to the school of aircraft electric equipment mechanics in Vinnitsa. From Vinnitsa this school moved to the town of Dubno in Rovno region. I had almost all excellent marks in this school. I knew that after finishing this school I was to go to the Prikarpatskiy military unit near Lvov. I was also to get one month leave after finishing this school. I was eager to visit my brother and sister in Andijan.

At this time the election to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR 30 took place. A party official came to the meeting in our unit. Discussion of nominee names began and this official offered my name for discussion. I'd never been elected before, besides, this wasn't the time for me to work in the electoral commission that was appointed to work for three months before the election: I had scheduled to go on leave! I said, 'Why would you want to recommend me, when I don't know you and you don't know me'. What a mess it caused! This was the first election after the war, and I refused to take part in it. They expelled me from the Komsomol, cancelled my appointment to the Prikarpatskiy military unit and sent me to serve in Chkalov, present- day Orenburg, 2,000 kilometers away. They took away my decent uniform and gave me torn trousers and a torn shirt instead, and also a coat that was too long for me.

I had to change trains in Kiev. My father's older brother Aizik, whom I had never seen before, lived in Kiev. He was over 70 years old. I decided to visit him. I went to his house, saw my reflection in the window glass and felt so very uncomfortable about my shabby looks that I just left. In Orenburg I was sent to the Air Force fighter school. I was to become a mechanic. I lived in a barrack with other cadets.

One day in 1947 I was summoned to an office on the 1st floor. I came down and opened the door. There was a KGB major in the room: 'Come here. Are you Mistetskiy?' 'Right'. - 'Sit down'. I did. 'Did you sign up to work for us?' 'I did, but a long time ago'. 'Now you will be helping us'. I was bewildered. Nobody addressed me during this time and I was hoping they had forgotten about me. The major said I was to watch and listen to the discussions of a Russian and a Ukrainian man in our unit and report to him. Of course, I would never report on people. I already heard that even if one reported on people sooner or later they also arrested informers. So my situation was miserable. I couldn't tell these two that I was ordered to watch them since I had signed a non-disclosure paper and could be arrested if they found out that I had disclosed my mission to these two. And I couldn't report on their talks either. And I plotted a way out.

When this officer called me, I started telling him stories about how one of them was seeing a girl, or how he had stolen apples from the kolkhoz garden, when he was a child. And I told about another man how he was concerned about his mother, and about his wife and children. The major explained that he didn't need this nonsense, but that he wanted to hear about their captivity and their thoughts about the Soviet power. I told him they never talked to me about it. The major told me to try and provoke them to an open discussion and report on the results to him. I recalled how in my childhood a dog tore my pants and how I went to school and next time I met with this major I told him the stories as if they had been told by these two men. I knew I couldn't just keep silent, but rather had to tell things in order to look serious. The major got angry and said that I was either a fool or pretended to be a fool and that he didn't want to deal with me again. He made me sign a non-disclosure paper and sent me away. They never addressed me again. I never told anyone how I 'helped' the KGB till the end of perestroika 31.

In 1948 Israel was established and recognized officially [see Balfour Declaration] 32. It meant for me that Jews finally had their own state. It seemed to me that Jews would never be oppressed or abused again and that our own state would protect us. I admired those who went there to build up their own country. I couldn't move there due to my army service, but I wanted to go so much.

Also, in 1948 the campaign against cosmopolitans 33 began. Newspapers and the radio reported on them. At first I believed that these people were guilty and so did most of our people, but gradually I stopped believing. I had already seen life and began to understand things.

After a year of my service a few military came from the Air Force school in Krasnograd, Kharkiv region [380 km from Kiev]. They selected several people, including me, for their school. I moved to Krasnograd. I studied there for some time and then the school was disbanded. They sent me to finish my studies in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. I corresponded with my sister and brother. My brother worked at a construction site in Andijan. My sister moved to Kiev and went to work as a medical nurse. Uncle Aizik had three families living in his two rooms, and she had to rent a room elsewhere. I was rather worried about her. She was 28 years old, but was still single. She had a small salary while she needed to pay her rent and support herself. I was to demobilize in 1950. I didn't have a place to live. My uncle had no vacant space and my sister didn't have a dwelling of her own. What was I to do? I decided to stay for additional service to earn some money. I received a salary of 550 rubles. This wasn't much, but I didn't spend much either. I was provided meals and I could save a little and send my sister some money to cover her rent. I served for a year and one month before my service was over. I was promoted to the rank of junior lieutenant. I must have been worth something.

The unit had old ply-wood planes. They began to dispose of them. There was a transition to jet aircraft. I got an offer to take up training in Germany. I considered it: I was 26 years old and if I were to go to Germany and start training again, how would I be able to achieve something? And I got tired of living without a home and a family. Of course, I was rather concerned about a civilian life. I was familiar with life in the army, but I was to face uncertainty there. In the end I made up my mind, demobilized and moved to Kiev. Uncle Aizik offered me to sleep in his closet in the attic while it was warm.

Since I was a veteran and demobilized from the army I obtained a residence permit 34, which was very hard to get in Kiev. This was important since it was impossible to get a job without this permission. I stayed five days in my uncle's home and then went out looking for a job that would also provide me accommodation. I was offered a job in the aircraft hangar where I could also put a bed and live. I was about to agree, when I met my former schoolmate Haim Sokolovskiy, Yefim in Russian [see common name] 35, who had lived in our village. He finished an infantry military school and became an officer at the front. He demobilized after the war and got married. His relatives lived in Pogrebische district, Vinnitsa region, and Yefim and his wife moved there. He went to work as a supplier and was promoted to superintendent of a storage facility.

When we met he was the director of the Zhmerinka vegetable and fruit supply office. Haim said I wouldn't find a job and accommodation in Kiev, and that he could help me with a job in Vinnitsa region. I went to Vinnitsa with him. He also promised to help my sister find a job within two or three months. I went to Vinnitsa with Haim. I was sent to attend a course of commodity experts. While I studied, my sister married Ivan Antonenko, a Ukrainian man from Taganrog. She didn't change her last name, though. Ivan was born in 1909. He had a house in Taganrog and my sister moved there in 1951. Their son Valentin was born in the same year. Their second son, Victor, was born in 1958. Polina worked as a medical nurse there as well.

My uncle Lev, who had returned from the USA, had been at the front during the Great Patriotic War. He was wounded in his both legs. He had one leg amputated in hospital and was demobilized as an invalid. Some time later he had the other leg amputated. Lev died in Kiev in 1969. Uncle Aizik died in 1954.

After finishing my course I was appointed director of cattle breeding stocks in Lipovets. When going to the office I passed a house that seemed familiar to me. I recalled how during the war a fair-haired girl had given me some water in this house. I even recalled her name: Galina. When I came into the house, I asked the woman, who had opened the door for me, whether Galina was at home. He replied that Galina studied in the Pedagogical College in Uman. This woman was her mother, Yefrosinia Drinkovskaya. When Galina came home on vacation, I went to see her. She welcomed me warmly. Galina was born in 1928. Her younger sister, Lilia, was born in 1944. They lived with their mother. Yefrosinia was a janitor. Galina and I began to see each other. Then we got married and I moved into her house. After finishing college Galina went to work as an elementary school teacher in Lipovets.

I was a commodity expert: I received sheep wool from kolkhozes and assessed astrakhan fur skins. I was a decent worker, but I often heard unfair words and suffered just for being a Jew. This always happens: if something goes wrong, they will always find a Jew to blame. Doesn't matter, whose fault it is. People began to drink after the war. They drank at work and this wasn't considered to be a violation of rules. Our director was a retired lieutenant colonel, who didn't know a thing about our business, but liked commanding and yelling. He was always drunk at work. He was hard to deal with. I finally quit. I was sent to Tulchin in Vinnitsa region. Then I worked in Yampol and other towns of Vinnitsa region. I was appointed to do work as a good specialist, and my bosses asked me to train my replacement, when I was to take another job. My wife and children moved with me. Our older son Iosif, named after my deceased brother, was born in 1953 in Tulchin, and the younger, Anatoliy, was born in Tulchin in 1957. Our youngest, Lilia, was born in the town of Aratov, Vinnitsa region, in 1960.

I was working in Yampol in 1953 when the Doctors' Plot 36 began. At that time I knew that it was all undertaken against Jews. Anti-Semitism was growing stronger and people had hostile attitudes towards Jews. There were rumors that Jews were to be deported to the Far East. This lasted two months. On 5th March 1953 Stalin died. People were openly crying and so was I, but when Nikita Khrushchev 37 spoke about the crimes of Stalin's regime at the Twentieth Party Congress 38, I believed him at once. We knew this all, but we didn't want to believe or admit this truth. I recalled the arrests in 1937, when they imprisoned outstanding people, military commanders and party activists. They told us back then that Yakir 39 and other military commanders were enemies of the people and we believed this, until it turned out they fell victim to unjust arrests. Everything Khrushchev said confirmed what I had in mind.

I didn't join the party. When I served in Vilnius, I became a candidate to the party. I had recommendations and everything necessary, but I demobilized before I joined the party. They sent me my documents from Vilnius, but after some time I decided to stay away from the party. I am an honest man, but it was impossible to remain honest at the job I had. To report fulfillment of their plans, kolkhozes had to falsify documents. For example, kolkhozes delivered sheep wool to my office. They didn't deliver any during the month, but at the end of it they start delivering 5-6 tons per day. I could only receive 1-2 tons per day, but who cared? The chairman of a kolkhoz came to see me. He said he was to report that the kolkhoz had fulfilled the plan, and that I could inspect the wool afterward. Everybody knew about such lies, but they all kept silent. I understood and didn't like it whatsoever. I had to always act against my conscience. I decided I didn't want to join the party that accepted lies.

I faced everyday and state anti-Semitism. There were few Jews left in Vinnitsa region after the war. I was the only Jew in my town, and there were only five Jewish families in the district. There were Russian and Ukrainian people in my surrounding. I worked well and everyone recognized this, but still, they awarded the title of pace makers to others, who didn't work better than me, but they were not Jews. Of course, not all people I met were anti-Semitic and I got along well with many, but when a person came in and cursed me without any reason, just because I was a Jew - I felt hurt. If there is one scum among 100 people this is sufficient for a Jew. Even when a drunk man abuses you, it hurts. It was more difficult for me to work, being a Jew, though district and regional authorities knew and trusted me.

My wife and I saved money to build a house in Lipovets. I gave our savings to my mother-in-law, but when the construction was finished, she didn't want to give us the house. I had to sue her, and the court issued its verdict in our favor. In 1962 my family moved to Lipovets.

My wife is Ukrainian and we didn't observe Jewish traditions at home. We celebrated Soviet holidays: 1st May, 7th November [see October Revolution Day] 40, Victory Day, Soviet Army Day 41, New Year's. We always celebrated our birthdays. We invited guests and had jolly parties.

My older son Iosif entered a medical school after finishing the 8th grade. After finishing medical school he joined the army. Iosif served in Germany. He was an assistant doctor in a medical unit. My son wanted to become a doctor. After demobilization he went to take entrance exams for the Medical College in Kiev. He failed. My acquaintance's son was assistant professor in this college. I asked him for help. I just wanted him to help with an unprejudiced attitude to my son. During the Soviet period it was hard for Jews to enter higher educational institutions. We went to Kiev and met with this man. He clearly indicated to us that there was an unspoken rule not to admit Jews. My son didn't try another time. He married Tatiana Derun, a Ukrainian girl, and they moved to Anapa in the Caucasus [1,000 km from Kiev]. Tatiana was born in 1959. She finished a trade school. She works in a store now. Iosif works as an assistant doctor. They have two children: Yelena, born in 1979, and Alexandr, born in 1985.

Our son Anatoliy moved to my sister in Taganrog after finishing the 8th grade where he entered the electric engineering faculty of the metallurgical technical school. After this school he received the diploma of an electrician and joined the army. He served in Czechoslovakia. After demobilization he moved to Kiev and went to work as an electrician with the Kiev metro. Later he went to work at a garage. Anatoliy was married three times. Victor, his son in the first marriage, was born in 1980, Vladislav, in the second marriage, was born in 1989. Anatoliy is now married for the third time. His wife Diana Voloshkova, a Ukrainian, was born in 1981. She works in an audit office. Their son Arseniy will turn three soon. They live in Kiev.

My daughter finished the Pedagogical College in Vinnitsa. She married Sergey Riabokon, a Ukrainian. They are the same age. Lilia didn't change her surname. Lilia worked as a teacher in a kindergarten. Lilia's first daughter, Svetlana, was born in 1981, and her second, Anna, in 1987. In 1992 Lilia died in an accident. Sergey's mother, who lives in Vinnitsa, is raising her daughters. Of course, my wife and I support them and send them money and gifts. It's hard to outlive one's child. This grief will never go away.

In the 1970s mass emigration of Jews to Israel began. I didn't consider moving there: my wife and children wouldn't have come with me, and I couldn't imagine my life without them. I understood people who were leaving the USSR and sympathized with them. They wanted to run away from anti- Semitism and humiliations; they didn't want to be second-rate people. I thought they were right. Once a fellow train passenger from Georgia told me he was going to Israel soon. I asked him why and he said he had a good apartment, a good job, but he didn't want anybody to call him a zhyd [kike], and didn't want to be humiliated. Most Jews were leaving for this reason.

In the early 1990s my older brother, Mikhail, moved to Israel. He had a hard life. Mikhail got married after the war. I don't remember his wife's name. His older son, Israel, was born in 1950. His second son, Valeriy, was born in 1955, and two months later Mikhail's wife died. My brother never remarried. Mikhail worked at a construction site and sent his children to a children's home because he had no time to raise them. After finishing school his older son became an apprentice to a turner at a plant and then stayed to work at the plant. He got married and had three sons. Mikhail's younger son entered the Polytechnic College in Andijan. After finishing college he went to work as an engineer at a design office. Valeriy had one son. In 1990 Uzbek people forced Russians and Jews to leave their lands. The situation was dangerous there. Mikhail's older son and his family moved to Rzhev, Moscow region. He was a highly skilled turner, but it was hard for him to support his family. His wife couldn't find a job and they had three children. I supported them as much as I could. They decided to move to Israel. My second nephew and his wife moved to Rostov where his wife came from. Later Valeriy and his family and my brother also decided to move to Israel. They live in Arad, Hadarom. They have a good life and no regrets for leaving.

I have never concealed my Jewish identity. In 1967 Israel defeated the Arabs [in the Six-Day-War] 42, and I used to say proudly that even the weapons supplied by the USSR didn't help them much. I am proud that Jews managed to turn the stone desert into a blooming garden, that this little country prospers, though it is surrounded by enemies. Of course, I wish Israel peace and quiet from the bottom of my heart. I know what a war is like and I know it from first-hand experience. The war that is on-going in Israel today is even more horrific - it has no front line or rear and each citizen of Israel is on a fire line.

My sister Polina lives in Taganrog. Her husband, Ivan Antonenko, died in 2003 at the age of 94. She lives alone: both her sons moved to the USA after the breakup of the USSR. I have no contact with them. My sister and I write to each other and I call her every month. My wife and I used to visit her once a year before, but now I have heart problems, and my wife fell ill with bronchial asthma after our daughter died. My sister has everything she needs for life, but she suffers from loneliness very much.

I've kept in touch with my comrades-in-arms. They found me through a newspaper, and since then we have been meeting in Vinnitsa every year on 20th March, the day of the liberation of Vinnitsa. It's sad that each year there are fewer of us, veterans. Last time there were only five of us at this meeting. The rest are gone.

By the 20th anniversary of the victory over Germany I was awarded the Order of the Great Patriotic War, 1st grade. I have medals for the liberation of towns, memorial medals to the jubilees of victory. I wear my awards when I meet with my fellow veterans and on Victory Day. It's no secret that many people believe that there were no Jews at the front and that they just 'fought' in Tashkent [Editor's note: Tashkent was the town where many people evacuated to during the Great Patriotic War, including many Jewish families. Many people thought that the whole Jewish population was in evacuation rather than at the front and anti-Semites spoke about it in mocking tones.] Once I wore my orders, when a man asked me, 'What, you fought at the front?' Once a woman approached me and said that her father was killed at the front, and I was showing off with my orders. I was very annoyed. I'm sorry that her father was killed, but was it my fault that I survived? I fought honestly and never hid behind anybody's back, and I deserved my awards.

When Mikhail Gorbachev 43 started perestroika in the USSR in the late 1980s, I was enthusiastic about it. I liked it that they allowed private businesses and thought that it was to be for the good of the country and the people. It's no good, when everything is common property. When there is no owner, nobody cares about things, but in reality hardly anything changed. Many government people hindered perestroika and didn't give way to Gorbachev. This finally resulted in the breakup of the USSR. Many people say that it was better during the Soviet regime, and that they want the Union back, but I believe that the USSR was about to break up, it had existed too long anyway.

I don't agree that life was better during the Soviet regime. It's just that some people have short memory. I thought that when Ukraine became independent and people would work for themselves, life would become better, but it didn't happen. Either people have forgotten to work decently or they are not given such opportunity. Former kolkhoz farms are deserted, plants closed. Factories don't operate, land isn't farmed. When they tell me that Jews don't work I always reply that Israel stands on mountains and stones, but Israeli people feed their own country and export grain and ask for no alms while Ukraine with its black soil that nobody else in the world probably has, is starving. So, is this the fault of Jews? I think, there is no state anti-Semitism, but there are everyday demonstrations of it.

In 1992 I was given the status of a war invalid. It's hard for me to walk, my wounded leg bothers me. The military office provided me a small capacity car. I retired in 1996 and my younger son Anatoliy convinced me to move to Kiev into his apartment. He lived with his wife. My wife was very ill, and here the hospital is close by. When we moved to Kiev, I was allowed a piece of land for a garage for my car near the house, being an invalid of the war. We constructed a garage where I brought my car from Lipovets and immediately my neighbor commented that he couldn't get a place for his garage, but I, being a cunning Jew, managed to get this space. I really think it will take more than one generation before anti-Semitism disappears from our life.

Hesed 44 helps us a lot. They deliver food packages, free medications, and that's a great support for us, pensioners. We receive little pensions, lower than the living minimum. There are also interesting lectures in Hesed, clubs, concerts, and we celebrate birthdays and Jewish holidays there. I rarely go to Hesed - it's a long way to drive, which is too much for me, but I always attend concerts of Jewish songs and music, however hard it may be for me. I like this so much. I also regularly receive and read Jewish newspapers. When I moved to Kiev, I got to know that there is an association of Jewish war veterans and I registered there right away. I try to attend all meetings there.

I would like the attitude towards Jews to change. As long as this world has existed people have believed Jews to be their enemies. May our children and grandchildren live in a world with no anti-Semitism. May they achieve everything in life by means of labor and knowledge. May they have a happy life.

Glossary:

Eva Ryzhevskaya is a petite lady. She has cropped blond hair, which used to be of copper color. Eva is as slender as a girl and I think this is the reason why she looks much younger than her age. Her voice sounds youngish as well. She is of honorable age. She turned 85 in December 2004. Eva lives in a small two-room apartment of a five-storied house built in the 1970s. Her apartment is immaculately clean. There are a lot of window-sill plants, well-taken care of by the hostess. Eva is very close with her daughter Olga, who is tenderly looking after her mother. Eva is an avid reader. She is keen on novices of literature. In spite of all the trouble in the life of this fragile lady, Eva managed to preserve something childish and touching.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

My father's parents lived in the Ukrainian village of Pismennoye, Dnepropetrovsk oblast, located 100 kilometers from Dnepropetrovsk [450 km from Kiev]. Dnepropetrovsk oblast was included in the [Jewish] Pale of Settlement 1, and there were a lot of truly Jewish towns. Pismennoye was a Ukrainian village. There was only one Jewish family in that village - my father's. Grandfather Moses wasn't born in Pismennoye. He came from Poland. I don't know exactly where he was from. I know for sure that he was Polish- born. I have no idea how he turned out to be in Ukraine. [Most of the territory of both, today's Ukraine and Poland, belonged to the Russian Empire up until the end of World War I.] He settled in Pismennoye, got married and started a family .Grandmother was born in Dnepropetrovsk oblast, but I don't know exactly where.

I never met my grandparents. Both of them had died before I was born. Grandfather's name was Moses Ryzhevskiy. I don't know my grandmother's name. There is little I know about my father's prenuptial life. I don't know what my grandfather did for a living. I assume, Grandfather was the bread-winner of the family, and Grandmother was a housewife, as was customary for patriarchal Jewish families.

The Ryzhevskiy family had five children. The eldest was Jacob [see common name] 2; his Jewish name was Jankiv. Then Abram, Simeon [Jewish name: Shimon] and their daughter Manya were born. My father Samuel [Jewish name: Shloime] was the youngest in the family. He was born in 1885.

As I said before, Pismennoye was a Ukrainian village. There was neither a synagogue nor a cheder there. However, my father and his brothers got some Jewish education. I think Grandfather was teaching them. All of them knew Ivrit; they could read and write in Ivrit. Father and his brothers finished the Ukrainian four-year elementary school in the village. There was no other educational institution in that village. Father was very gifted, and wanted to continue studying. He applied for the Russian lyceum in Dnepropetrovsk. Most of the students had to pay tuition, but the headmaster of the lyceum was entitled to admit some gifted students free of charge, as some charity organization was paying for them. But my father didn't succeed in that. He was told that there were only three percent out of the overall number of students, who didn't have to pay tuition, and those three percent had already been admitted. Besides, there was a five percent quota 3 for Jewish students admitted to educational institutions. Even if there had been money for tuition, my father still might not have been admitted because of that quota. He began studying independently. He had a lot of books. He bought both textbooks and fiction. During his adolescence my father began writing his own stories and novels. He still had that hobby at a mature age.

I don't know how religious my father's family was. The grandparents probably kept Jewish traditions. As an adult, my father was an atheist and so were his siblings. Only my father's older brother, Abram Ryzhevskiy, remained religious. Father's brothers got married. They had children. All of them stayed in Pismennoye. They built a small adobe house close to Grandfather's house, and lived there with their families. When their parents died, the eldest son, Jacob, moved into my grandfather's house with his family. All my father's brothers were involved in agriculture. They rented plots of land and grew wheat and sold it. Father's sister Manya was married to a Jew, who lived in a Jewish colony close to Dnepropetrovsk. She moved to her husband after getting married. My grandparents died in the late 1910s, before I was born. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Pismennoye.

My mother's family lived in the small town of Ingulets not far from Krivoy Rog, which also belonged to Dnepropetrovsk oblast [370 km south-east of Kiev]. My grandparents weren't born in Ingulets. Both of them were born somewhere in the vicinity of Krivoy Rog. They moved to Ingulets after getting married. There were several Jewish families in Ingulets, but most of its inhabitants were Ukrainians. My grandfather's name was Morduh Gitin, and grandmother's [Jewish] name was Golda, but Ukrainian peasants called her Olga. Grandfather rented a plot of land from a landlord and grew wheat on it. When the children had grown up a little bit, they started helping out their father. My mother's family was neither rich, nor poor. Grandfather built a nice, spacious house. The family was large, and I don't remember the names of all the children. One of my mother's older brothers was called Mikhail. She had several brothers, but I don't remember all of them. Then two daughters were born, Manya and my mother Sofia [Jewish name: Sols]. Mum was born in 1892. Two more children were born after her: her brother Joseph and her sister Esfir. All daughters were very beautiful, especially the eldest one, Manya. She was a belle.

Mother's parents were very religious. In my mother's words they always observed Sabbath and major Jewish holidays. Grandfather prayed at home, as there was no synagogue in Ingulets since there were only few Jews. Yiddish was spoken at home. We spoke Russian or Ukrainian with our neighbors - non- Jews.

When the sons grew up they became farmers. The younger, Joseph was involved in viniculture. He rented a large vinery, where he cultivated vintage sorts of grapes. The rest of my mother's brothers grew wheat. All of them were married. Unfortunately, it was such a long time ago, and I don't remember the names of their wives and children. We saw each other very rarely, when some of them came to Moscow.

I don't know anything about the education of my mother and her siblings. There was no Jewish school in Ingulets. I know that before getting married, Mother worked in the local village school as a teacher. She taught Russian language and literature.

My mother told me the story of how she met my father. One of my mother's relatives asked to invite my father to the family get-together on the occasion of the engagement of my mother's sister Manya. Father attended the party. He saw my mother there and fell in love with her. When he came back home, he wrote a letter to my grandfather in Ivrit, in which he asked for the hand of the middle daughter, Sofia. Grandfather was so moved that the letter was written in Ivrit that he blessed the coming marriage. The wedding took place in Ingulets in accordance with the Jewish traditions. My parents left for Pismennoye after the wedding.

My parents settled in a small house, which was built on the territory of the yard of my grandfather's house. Our house was a small adobe house with a thatched roof. There were two small rooms, one to the left of the hall, and the other one to the right. In front of the hall there was an entrance to the kitchen with a big Russian stove 4. To the right of the house an annex was built, which was used as a pen for the cattle. We kept a cow there. The door to the pen was from the hall. There was a door to the shed on the other side of the hall. There was a hatchway to the cellar right in the center of the hall. Mother kept firewood in the shed. In fall we put vegetables in the cellar to be stored for winter. Mother used to make a lot of jam. She also made sauerkraut and pickles in large barrels, which were also stored in the cellar. We had the earth floor covered with clay. We had a primitive house, even for a hamlet. We had an orchard behind the house. The village was facing the bank of the river Sura, which was a feeder of the Dnepr.

Of course, Mother had a hard life after getting married. The living conditions at her parents' house had been much better, as they were much better off. Nevertheless, we never heard our mother complain. She was constantly busy with the chores, but she always found time to talk to her children and help them out.

The first-born of our family, Mikhail [Jewish name: Moishe], born in 1914, was named after our paternal grandfather. When World War I was unleashed in August 1914, my father was drafted into the tsarist army. When my father was in the lines, my pregnant mother went to her kin in Ingulets. My elder brother was born there. Father didn't manage to see his first-born, as he was in the lines. Father was a signaler in the army, and he was responsible for telephone communication. There were times when he had to restore torn wire in the moment when the adversary was firing. Father was awarded with a St. George Cross 5 for bravery. It was a very precious award, and there were very few awardees. He came back from the lines in 1917. Father came straight to Ingulets. Mother said that her relatives played a joke on my father. They brought somebody's three-year-old child, and when my father saw that toddler he took him in his arms and started kissing him. Then he was shown his own son. Father stayed in Ingulets for a while, and then he took Mother and Mikhail to Pismennoye.

Grandfather Morduh died in 1923 and Grandmother died in 1926. Both of them were buried in the common village cemetery in Ingulets, as there was no Jewish cemetery there. The graves of my grandparents were a little way away from the other tombs. I don't know whether they had a traditional Jewish funeral.

Growing up

I was born in 1919. My Jewish name is Hava, which sounds like Eva in Russian. In 1925 my younger brother Lev was born. My sister Olga, born in 1927, was named after our maternal grandmother. Her Jewish name was Golda.

In 1917 the revolution broke out in Russia [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 6. My parents were rejoicing on that occasion. Before the revolution Jews had very restricted rights. There was a pale of settlement. Jews weren't permitted to live anywhere they wanted; besides there was a quota of admission to institutions of higher education. My parents were poor, so they didn't lose anything when the Soviet regime was established. There was nothing to sequestrate from them. My parents were happy that their children would be able to study and do what appealed to them.

Father became a farmer after his return from the army. We had a plot of land, which almost reached the river Sura. Father uprooted the trees and made an orchard there. His brother Simeon's plot of land was nearby. When the Soviet regime began to divide land, Father was also given a plot of land. He began to grow and sell wheat. When the Soviet regime introduced collectivization 7, my father was one of the first ones in the villages, who joined the kolkhoz 8. Mother also became a kolkhoz member.

Father was respected in the village. He was a literate man, which was a rare thing in villages. All villagers asked him to assist in writing an application or a letter. Father never refused anybody. All Ukrainians treated our family very well.

Mother worked the hardest. She got up earlier than anybody. When we woke up, the bread had been baked and the food had been cooked. Mother managed to do all the things. First she helped Father with the field work. When the kolkhoz was founded, she worked there full time. She also had to raise four children. Except for her main job, my mother did odd jobs as well, as there was a need of money. She was teaching a few schoolchildren to cram them for the studies in the city. Mother was also a good seamstress. She had a Singer sewing machine. It was her dowry. Mother sewed things for our family, and besides she took orders from our neighbors. Some people paid her with money, others with food. All house chores and husbandry was in my mother's hands as well. Mother never showed that it was hard for her to do all those things. She was always smiling and joking. We, in our turn, tried to help her out as well.

Russian was mostly spoken at home, though all the villagers spoke Ukrainian. Maybe the reason for it was the fact that Mother used to teach Russian before she got married. My parents spoke Yiddish on very rare occasions, usually when they wanted to conceal something from me. We had books at home. Mother brought the classics of Russian literature - Lev Tolstoy 9, Chekhov 10, Pushkin 11 - from Ingulets. We had known about those authors since childhood. Mother used to read us the books before we went to bed. Later we read books ourselves. I learnt how to read before I started school. Father was also a book-worm. He spent his spare time on self-education. After the revolution he started writing articles about village life and sent them to the local Dnepropetrovsk paper. Sometimes my father's articles were published. They even sent a certificate for part- time reports. Father took pride in it.

Jewish traditions weren't observed at home. We, children, were not brought up as Jews. After the revolution my father's brother Abram was the only one who remained religious. He lived in a house in front of our house. There was no synagogue in Pismennoye, so Abram prayed and read the Torah at home. Sabbath was always observed in his house. On Friday night Abram's wife lit candles. She didn't do anything after she had finished praying. Abram spent Sabbath at home. He put on his tallit and read religious books. I came to them to put on the light in the evening, light the stove and help about the house. Abram always invited us to come to their house on Sabbath and on Jewish holidays. Our family got together in his house. On Chanukkah Abram gave us petty money [Chanukkah gelt] and we were agog to get presents from him. We were rather poor and were able to buy a dainty thing, a lollipop only with the Chanukkah gelt we got.

There was only one school in the village. It was a seven-year school. All subjects were taught in Ukrainian. I started school in 1927. There were very few Jews in the village: only our family and Father's brothers' families. In my class there was only one Jewish girl, the daughter of my father's brother Simeon. Both teachers and students treated us very well. There was no anti-Semitism at all. I was an excellent student for the entire seven-year period. I was a young Octobrist 12, then a pioneer [see All-Union pioneer organization] 13 like the rest of the children.

In the late 1920s collectivization started. Our village was also affected by it. The Soviet regime divided all peasants into three categories: kulak 14, middle and poor. Our family belonged to the third category, and we had nothing to lose. There were so-called kulaks in our village - hard- working people, whose families, including children, were involved in hard agricultural labor from morning till night. Of course, they had good houses, horses and cows. Everything was taken away from those people, and they were sent to Siberia. We weren't touched, as there was nothing they could have taken from us. The kolkhoz was founded after the dispossession of the kulaks.

In 1932 there was dreadful starvation in Ukraine [see Famine in Ukraine] 15. Maybe it was not so noticeable in the towns, but in villages people suffered a lot. There were villages in Dnepropetrovsk oblast where almost the entire population died of hunger. Not very many people died of hunger in our village, but still there was great suffering. We had some potatoes and mother cooked a pottage from it, and she made fritters from potato peelings. We went to pick nettle and sorrel. Good thing, my parents had their wedding rings. Mother took them to Dnepropetrovsk, to a Torgsin store 16. ?here were some stores, where it was possible to buy food products for currency and gold. Mother was able to buy two sacks of millet for two golden rings. Once a day my mother cooked millet porridge and added nettle to it. So, we were able to survive those hard times.

Having finished seven years of school, there was no place for me to study. I went to Dnepropetrovsk at the age of 13 and entered the 8th grade of a Russian ten-year school. Mother came with me and rented me a room from an elderly Jewish lady. Mother couldn't stay with me, she just found a lodging and left. I remained by myself. My parents sent me some money each month for me to buy things. I went to school. Besides I cooked for myself and did the laundry. I had to take water home from the water pump, located outside, and stoke the stove. All those things were easy for me, as I had been raised in the village. On holidays I came home to my parents to get some rest, and help them. My elder brother Mikhail left for Leningrad. He finished ten grades at school and entered the engineering and construction institute. He lived in the institute dormitory.

Dnepropetrovsk was a large and multinational city. There were a lot of Jews. A third of the students in my class were Jews. There were Jews among the teachers as well. Students accepted me well, without bias, which was usually felt towards the novices. I joined the Komsomol 17 in the 8th grade.

When we were transferred to the 9th grade an experiment in the educational system was undertaken. The students of our school were entitled to enter the institute after the 9th grade on condition that they had all excellent marks for the entrance exams, or one good mark and the rest excellent marks.

My father wanted me to become a doctor. He thought it was the best thing to heal people. I liked that profession very much. After I had finished nine grades in 1935, I submitted my documents to the Dnepropetrovsk Medical Institute. Of course, I had worked very hard preparing for the exams, and succeeded. I passed all entrance exams and was enrolled in the first course of the therapeutic department. There were quite a few Jews in my group in the institute as well. Teachers were also of different nationalities, there were also Jews among them. There was even one German teacher, because close to Dnepropetrovsk there was a German colony 18, and there were many ethnic Germans there. I studied well. I wasn't involved in any Komsomol activities, I preferred studying medicine. Anatomy is the scariest subject for a freshman of the medical institute. I liked that subject very much, and I was aware that a good doctor wouldn't be able to work with poor knowledge in anatomy. In all the years of my studies at the institute I had mostly excellent marks in all subjects.

First, I lived in the room which my mother rented from the elderly lady. Then I rented another lodging, closer to the institute. The hosts were common Jewish people. The host was a tailor and his wife was a housewife. It was a room in their private house, where the son of the hosts lived as well. He was a poor student at school, and the hosts asked me to tutor him in accordance with the school syllabus. Owing to that, they let me live in their house for free. When I was in my second year of studies, the host said that a student wasn't supposed to wear a coat that was too small for him. So he made a coat for me, and again he didn't take money from me. Besides, he recommended me to his neighbors, whose children went to school. I gave private lessons and was paid for that. I also got a scholarship for being an excellent student. My earnings were enough to buy food; my parents couldn't help me with money. Sometimes, my parents came for a visit and brought me some products. It was a good support, but I usually provided for myself. When I was in the third year of my studies, I was given a room in the hostel, close to the institute. It was a room for four people. My roommates were three Ukrainian girls. We made friends, did the chores together, went to the cinema and theater.

In the middle of the 1930s repressions began [during the Great Terror] 19, reaching their peak in the year 1937. There were many articles in the papers and radio broadcasts on divulged saboteurs, the enemy of the Soviet regime, the so-called enemy of the people 20. Key military commanders, party and state activists were arrested. We believed in things we were told. We were blind, and tried not to notice the obvious. Though, now it is obvious to me. Back then we didn't question official information. Our belief in the Party and in Stalin gave no grounds for doubts. Sometimes, we discussed the topic of arrests, but we never questioned the guilt of the arrested.

During the war

Politics wasn't my cup of tea at that time. I had my own 'realm,' and I didn't care what was going on beyond it. Only when the war in Poland began in 1939 I began to listen to the radio and follow the events. After the war [Editor's note: Interwar Poland was divided up between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union in 1939.] there was a division of the Polish territory [see Annexation of Eastern Poland] 21, and we sincerely believed that we had set the Poles free from the suppression and given them the chance to live under the Soviet regime. When Hitler and Stalin concluded the Molotov- Ribbentrop Pact 22 I felt at ease. We knew that the USSR was assisting Germany, sending provision there. What was the sense in attacking if the assistance was coming from us? Of course I couldn't have pictured the horror that was to come.

In 1940 I graduated from the medical institute. I got a mandatory job assignment 23 to Donetsk oblast, Gorlovka [about 600 km from Kiev]. I was given a room in a two-room communal apartment 24 in Gorlovka. The second room was taken by a Ukrainian lady, who worked in the office of the coal mine, which was located nearby. We became friends. She came to see me rather often after the war.

It took me a long time to get to work. I had to take a bus. I worked as an ambulatory surgeon in the medical office of the coal mine. Of course, I didn't have any experience, just the knowledge acquired at the institute. I had to read a lot of textbooks and ask experienced doctors for advice.

The majority of my patients were coal-miners. I tried to study their labor conditions, their duties, and the main industrial injuries. I thought I had come there to stay. I had no idea that our peaceful life would be over soon. I descended into the mine to see how the miners worked. I was given a helmet and overalls. I went in the cage with the crew of miners. We went down a few hundred meters. It was scary, I could hardly breathe. I was constantly being reminded to breathe calmly and steadily. I wanted to see the working conditions for each profession. There were a lot of them. There were coal cutters, then there were timber men, who were supposed to set coal face, so that the walls wouldn't collapse. Chunks of coal were cut, sorted and loaded on trolleys. The trolleys ran on rails and were drawn by horses. Those horses stayed underground, and weren't brought back to the surface. They were buried in the mines as well. Trolleys came to special hoisters, in which the coal was taken to the surface. I was scrutinizing which traumas were most likely for each profession.

I had worked in the mine for a few months, and in spring 1941 I was summoned to the military enlistment office. Medical officers were supposed to be drafted into the army, no matter what they were specialized in. They told me to attend the courses of surgeons in Kharkov [440 km from Kiev]. Probably, in the highest strata of the government they had anticipated war and thought that there should be more surgeons. I didn't manage to finish the courses. On 22nd June 1941 [the beginning of the Great Patriotic War] 25 Molotov 26 made the announcement on the radio that Germany had attacked the USSR without having declared war. It happened on Sunday. The next day we were told about demobilization at our courses.

All my simple chattels fit in one suitcase. I sent the suitcase to my parents as well as a letter, and went to the collecting point. We were given uniforms according to our size. At the beginning of the war there were no uniforms for ladies. We were given soldier trousers, jackets and boots, and even warm underwear, though it was warm in summer. We got assignments straight at the collecting point. I was sent to the operative dressing platoon of Medical Battalion 264 of Division 244 of the Ukrainian front as an attending surgeon. We were not given transport. I was taken to the hamlet of Kornevo, in the vicinity of Kharkov. It was the place where my division was positioned. I was assigned to the advanced detachment of the operative dressing platoon. From Kornevo our division had to walk to Krasnograd, then to Poltava, then Kremenchug... We were retreating, and there was no end to it.

Our divisions were in close battle being besieged by adversaries. We tried to walk through the forest, which was a kind of a cover. There were a lot of wounded. We had no opportunity to deploy a medical battalion. We made halts in the forest to assist to the wounded. Sometimes we managed to get at least one tent to be used for operations, and in most cases we made some sorts of huts from branches. We put the branches on the earth, covered them with a waterproof cape and made operations on the so-called impromptu table. There were so many wounded that the orderlies didn't manage to bring all of them to us. I was walking around the forest with the crew of orderlies to see who needed to be aided in the first place, and who might wait a little bit. I was making marks on the jackets: 1st, 2nd and 3rd priority. Of course, the first priority was to take those who were hemorrhaging. There were no conditions to conduct operations. Often there wasn't even water to wash your hands, let alone for a thorough hand-wash before an operation. Good thing we had a large reserve of abacterial surgical gloves and tools.

In general, the first years of war were the most complicated in terms of working conditions and moral state. Before the war we had been convinced that if somebody dared to attack us it would be an overnight war on the territory of the enemy. We believed in that, but it happened to be the other way around. Germans were moving forward, and our troops had to leave more and more towns and villages. We had severe casualties and it seemed to us that the end was near. At the beginning of the war our militaries had hardly any trucks. We weren't able to transport the wounded. The soldiers had to carry the wounded on stretches to any populated place that wasn't captured by the Germans. Due to the lack of trucks there was a bad supply of equipment and medicines.

There were mostly young women in medical battalions. Apart from a weapon and the sack with an anti-gas mask, each of us was supposed to take the required tools, trying to lift as much as possible. Often there wasn't even drinking water, nothing to say of food. We were drinking from the dirty puddles, and that water seemed to taste so good! We walked for many kilometers each day. Maybe this is the reason why my legs and veins are hurting now. When we stopped the soldiers and orderlies were making huts and dug-outs for the operation unit. Lightly wounded ones weren't sent to the rear, they just stayed in the medical battalion. They were like attending nurses, taking care of the severely wounded.

Sometimes we were lucky, when we entered some sort of populated area and were able to take some devastated building. These were the cases of relative comfort. We were operating all day long. The operating unit was teeming with wounded. At daytime we operated in daylight. Of course, we couldn't even dream of operating with surgical lamps. At night we used any source of light we were able to find. If there were trucks close by, we were operating using the light coming from the car headlamps, which were removed from the car and connected to an electric generator. Some lightly wounded person was turning the handle of the electric generator. If there was no truck, we used a jar, poured oil in there and put a wick in there. The wick light was very dim, so somebody had to stay very close to the operating table and keep the jar very close to the surgeon. We were almost working by grope, but we had no other way out. One minute of hindrance might end in death. There was no fear; we simply had no time for it. We were focused on the operation, things we were supposed to do, and succession of our actions. There were three to four surgeons in a medical battalion and the chief surgeon of the medical battalion - the only one who was an experienced surgeon. The rest were like me, graduates of the medical institute with work experience of less than a year.

There were very harsh conditions of personal hygiene. We had soap, but we didn't always have water, even drinking water. Of course, it was the reason why there were so many lice-ridden people. When we took a train to another location, we were put in a sanitary car. We were told to take our uniforms, which were sent to the sanitary processing, and after taking a bath we were sitting naked, waiting for our clothes in the anteroom. I had thick curly hair of copper color. I had to make a crew cut, so as not to be ridden with lice.

I didn't know what had happened to my family. I managed to find my elder brother Mikhail. During the war there was an organization, which assisted in finding people who were in the lines. The procedure was to write a letter indicating the name and surname of the person in question, fold the letter in the form of a triangle and send it to that organization, which tracked down the person and sent him the letter. My brother sent me a letter with the number of his field post. We kept in touch from then on. My brother had graduated from an engineering and construction institute, so he was sent to the combat engineering platoon. There was no communication with my parents, younger brother and sister. From papers I found out that Dnepropetrovsk oblast was taken by the Germans in 1941. I wrote to my parents a few times, but there was no answer. I hoped they had managed to get evacuated. My brother didn't know anything either.

Only later on, in the year 1943 when our troops had liberated Dnepropetrovsk oblast, I asked the regiment commander for a leave to go home and find out about my parents. I was given a truck and went to Pismennoye. I was told by the neighbor that the Germans had taken my family away. There was only one Jewish family in the village: I mean our entire family, including my father's brothers and their families. The whole family was arrested and kept in some sort of jail. There were about 30 of them. Then the Germans took them somewhere, and there was no trace left. They must have been shot, but it is not known where and when. Before the arrest, my parents had brought the pictures and most precious things to the neighbors, including the Singer sewing machine, and asked them to give them to me. Of course, I couldn't take anything but the pictures. I left the rest of the things with the neighbors, as I came there for just a couple of hours to clear things up and then went back to the front. There was nothing I could do, just mourn over my kin. During the relocation of our hospital, when the war was about to end, somebody stole my backpack with some personal things, photographs and the last letter from my parents.

I was assigned commander of the operative and dressing platoon. During the battles there was an acting forward detachment. A surgeon and two or three nurses went to the battlefield to administer first aid to the severely wounded - the most drastic measures - to remove fragments of shell and suppress hemorrhage. Then the orderlies took the wounded to the medical battalion. When our commander asked who would go to the forward detachment, I was the first to say that I would go. I was the chief of four men, who were permanently trying to talk me out from taking up the most dangerous tasks. I felt no fear to go to the forward detachment. It was not a kind of bravado or the desire to stand out by courage. It was just because nobody was waiting for me at home; my family had perished. And my subordinates had wives, children, parents, who were waiting for them. If I were to perish, nobody would suffer from that, but me. I kept saying that and it was true. My elder brother was the only survivor of my kin. He was also in the lines, and might have died any minute. Combat engineer was one of the most perilous military professions with a very high lethality rate.

In summer 1942 our division was sent to Stalingrad. We approached the left bank of Stalingrad, but we were supposed to cross to the right bank. There were not enough boats. We were told that boats were used to transport equipment. Those who knew how to swim were supposed to swim to the opposite bank. I was lucky that I had been a good swimmer since childhood. I took off the uniform and boots and put them in a bundle. I tied it up to my head and swam to the other bank in my underwear. The Volga is a very wide river, and the place where we were positioned was a rather narrow part of the Volga - not exceeding 500 meters. I managed to reach the opposite bank. At that time the Germans had not started fire yet.

When we came to Stalingrad it wasn't devastated yet. Houses were not demolished. We stopped by a tractor plant and deployed a medical battalion there. The siege of Stalingrad began on 13th September 1943 [see Stalingrad Battle] 27. The plant was totally demolished because of systematic shooting by the Germans. Only bricks were left of the plant. Bombings and shooting were almost constant. Germans had been firing from morning till night, so we had to move to the basement of a semi-devastated house. We used bunks as operating tables. The most important was that the wounded were put on the bunks so we could remove the fragments of shells, suppress hemorrhage. The squads that were fighting in Stalingrad brought us the wounded straight from the battles. There was no light in the basement and some Uzbek soldiers were told to help us. They were afraid of the blasts. And the latter were constant, sometimes with the interval of a few seconds. As soon as the blast started, the Uzbeks lay down on the floor. There was no way we could interrupt operations. Such a fragile girl as I had to command, 'Get up, immediately!' They got up, and lit the candles at once.

Now I wonder how we could have possibly been working during the blasts. Usually hands shiver when there are loud sounds. But, I didn't hear the explosions as I was so immersed in my work. Usually one surgeon worked on five or six tables removing the fragments, suturing the vessels. Then the nurse was supposed to take up stitching and making anti-tetanus injections so that the surgeon could go to another patient. There were no narcotics. Operations were made even without local anesthesia and the soldiers were enduring pain. They even tried to comfort me saying that it didn't hurt that much as I had a light hand. We worked almost round the clock, as they were constantly bringing wounded, by the thousands. At times my eyes were closing down, and I took a half-hour break. Somebody was on supply for me for that time and I went to sleep by the wall for people not to step on me. After a catnap I had to regain my work.

All nonbacterial tools, bandages and medicines were brought to us in sterilized boxes from the rear. When they left again they took the wounded with them. The wounded were carried on stretchers to the crossing, and from there they were sent to the left bank of the Volga [Stalingrad stood on the right bank] to the hospital in the rear. The Germans were constantly bombing the crossing. When it got dark, the Germans used to flare lights. There were frequent cases when the transport with the wounded was sunk, and nobody could be saved.

My most dreadful recollection of the war goes back to the time of the siege of Stalingrad. The Germans were bombing incessantly, but they had their intervals, and we knew about them. The Germans were very punctual and had 15-20 minute breaks for breakfast and lunch. It was the time of our rest as well. We could go outside, inhale fresh air and see the sunlight. Once we left the basement of the house we were settled in and went upstairs. We were so surprised to see a ten to twelve-year-old girl in one of the rooms. A slender fair-haired girl was sitting at the grand piano. We started asking her questions. She said that her family had lived in that house. Her parents had died during the bombing and she remained by herself. Somebody asked if she knew how to play the piano. She unplaited her tresses, so that her loose fair hair covered her back. It turned out that she went to music school. We asked her to play something for us. At the top of her lungs she announced like a compere that she would perform Symphony #6 by Tchaikovsky 28 and sat at the grand piano. While she was playing, we were listening to her with bated breath. Can you imagine: war, a devastated house, a short recess in bombing, and a girl with loose fair hair playing Tchaikovsky...She finished playing, put her hands on the keys. We burst into applause and at that moment the Germans started bombing.

I asked the girl to stay with us. She promised that she would come to the basement, but later. She said she had to do something first. We went down to the basement, our operations started again. The girl didn't show up. When the bombing came to a halt again, we rushed to her apartment. We couldn't find her there. We went outside and saw her lying by the fence in a pool of blood. Her intestines were falling out from her abdomen, as a result of a shell fragment that had pierced her belly. Her serene and bright face and fair hair were covered in brick dust. I wasn't the only one who was crying. Even battle-seasoned soldiers, who went through pandemonium, were crying like babies. We couldn't get over that. Soldiers were supposed to die at war, not children, not the girl who was playing the piano. I would never forget that, even if I had lost my memory I would have never forgotten that girl. I will remember her till my death. She wasn't the first child murdered by the Germans. When we were retreating at the beginning of the war and moving towards Ukraine, we often saw the wells full with bodies of children. It was horrible, but these were nameless children. I saw the heaps of the murdered soldiers on the streets of Stalingrad. Death was everywhere. Everybody has his own perception and image of war. As for me, the image of war is that slender fair-haired girl lying in a pool of blood...

In early January 1943 the Soviet commandment delivered an ultimatum to the Stalingrad group of the German troops regarding full strategic surrender. The Volga battle was over on 31st January 1943 and resulted in the resounding defeat and destruction of the picked Hitler troops: 24 generals headed by a commander. 22 German divisions, army # 6, tank squad # 44 and 60 separate German squads were besieged. There were about 330,000 people. The Stalingrad battle brought a radical change to the course of the Great Patriotic War, and the Soviet Union was in the advantageous position. The president of the USA, Roosevelt sent a missive letter to Stalingrad. I have the text of that letter. These were the great words of the great man. Roosevelt wrote: 'On behalf of the United States of America I deliver this missive letter to Stalingrad to express our admiration of its valiant defenders, whose courage, great spirit and dedication during the siege lasting from September 13, 1942 till January 31, 1943 will always inspire the hearts of all free people. Their glorious victory stopped invasion surge and became the turning point in the struggle of the unified nations against the forces of aggression.' The radical turn in the course of the Great Patriotic War was commenced in favor of the Soviet Union. Roosevelt appreciated and understood the role of our army in the victory in World War II.

Our division was not in Stalingrad on those days. We had terrible casualties, almost nothing left from the city. The surviving soldiers would hardly make up a regiment. We were taken from Stalingrad via the Volga. It was frightening. The crossing was constantly being bombed. The remnants of the division were sent to the suburbs of Moscow for reformation.

Owing to my work in Stalingrad, the commandment included me in the list of awardees of the Order of the Combat Red Banner 29. I didn't receive this order; I was given the Medal for Military Merits 30. It was my first award. When we left Stalingrad, the commander of the division gave us the awards right in front of the line of columns. When we started attacking I received my second award - an Order of the Red Star 31 and in September 1943 I was given the Medal for the Defense of Stalingrad 32.

The course of war changed after the Stalingrad battle. Now it was the Germans who were retreating. We were moving forward, and Berlin was our destination. Of course, we were in quite different spirits. We were not despondent as we had been during the times of retreat. It was easier from a moral point of view, but it was also easier from the physical standpoint. The army was now being supplied with trucks. We didn't have to walk and drag all those medical tools with us. Our equipment was transported in trucks, and usually there was room for us as well. We were given tents. Now, it was easy to deploy the medical battalion when we came to a new location. It was also better with the food supply. It was the time when we were supplied by our allies - the USA. American canned pork was a big help for us. When there were no heating means, we ate that meat with jellied fat.

We had to operate anywhere. Sometimes we had a chance to take the premises of a school or a hospital. Apart from working in the operation unit, we were supposed to set up the wards for the wounded. If we had sacks, we put hay and straw in them so that the wounded could lie down on them. There were a lot of operations. Each surgeon was operating on several tables simultaneously. We were not thinking of the conditions in the battlefield. We operated when it was raining or snowing. The only goal was to save human life. We were assisting people no matter what. We went to the front line along with the infantry. I was never hiding, and maybe this is the reason why God was sparing me. I was only once afflicted with contusion. I couldn't hear anything for a couple of days, but still kept on operating. I often donated my blood to the wounded. I had universal blood, of the 1st group [group 0], which could be used by anybody. There were times when during an operation I was giving blood to the wounded and kept on operating. There were times when we couldn't wait for somebody to give us the blood of the required group. During the war we became really experienced surgeons. We didn't have any specialization. All surgeons were able to do everything that was required. Only in peaceful times some surgeons are specialized in just abdominal operations, others in amputations. At war you never know what kind of patient you are going to get. Everybody was a multifunctional expert.

We were moving forward. In spring 1943 we set foot in our motherland again: liberated Dneprodzerzhinsk, Dnepropetrovsk, Kharkov. Our division took Zaporozhie, then Nikolayev. Our division was conferred an Order of the Red Star for the liberation of Nikolayev. After that we liberated Odessa. We rushed into Odessa unexpectedly and had taken the enemy aback. The Germans were running around outside in underwear. Then there was Nikopol. For the liberation of the latter our entire squad, including me, was issued a commendation. I was awarded the Order of the Great Patriotic War 33, 2nd Class, for the liberation of Odessa.

I came in the lines in 1941 holding the rank of military doctor of the 3rd grade. It was the grade given to those who had finished the courses of surgeons. In the army I became a captain, which corresponded to my rank of military doctor of the 3rd grade. In 1944 I was conferred another military rank. I became major of the medical corps. I finished the war in that rank.

I was promoted after my rank was changed. I was transferred to the surgical mobile front-rank hospital of the 1st line Number 5218. The hospital was moving from one place to another with the army. Hospital of the 1st line meant that when we came to a new location, apart from operating rooms there were also wards for the wounded so they could go through post-operation treatment. Experienced army surgeons came to help other front-line surgeons improve their qualification. They performed show-operations and taught us. The operations in that hospital were mostly to remove the fragment, process the wound, conduct appendectomy, remove a gall bladder, operate on the stomach ulcer etc.

We had stayed in Romania for some time, when our hospital was transferred to Poland. We stopped in some sort of a village, the name of which I don't remember. We stayed on premises where there was hardly any room to put the stretchers. There was only the most necessary medicine. When I was doing the round I noticed that one of the wounded had lockjaw - a trismus. I remembered from my school textbooks, that trismus was the first symptom of tetanus. It was necessary to immediately inject anti-tetanus serum, but we had run out of it. I was supposed to go to another village to the medicine storage facility, but we didn't have any means of transport. What was I to do? There was no way I could linger. I had to make a decision very swiftly. Though I was an atheist, I went to the Catholic cathedral and found a priest there. I introduced myself and explained the situation in Ukrainian. Polish and Ukrainian were very similar languages, so he understood what I was saying. I told him that we were in the same boat no matter that he was religious and I was an atheist, and we had one common enemy: fascism. I told him about our severely wounded soldier who required an injection of anti-tetanus serum. I also mentioned that I didn't have any transport to go to the storage facility to get the medicine and asked him, whether he could send somebody with a horse.

The priest listened to me very closely and said that he would help. He kept his word. Hardly had I come back to the hospital when I saw the cart with the horse, sent by the priest. I told the coachman the way to the storage facility and he brought me the anti-tetanus serum very quickly. I gave the wounded the intravenous injection for it to be working quicker and soon the tetanus symptoms were fading. We managed just in time. We evacuated that soldier to the rear hospital. After a while the cart came back and the coachman told me that the peasants sent him to bring food for the wounded. He brought fresh dairy products: milk, curds and butter. We fed the wounded and had a meal as well. The next day the same man came again and from then on he brought us food every day while we were staying in that village.

We moved to Hungary from Poland. Hungarian doctors helped us a lot both with advice and medicine supply. They treated us very well. In the evenings they invited us over to have a cup of tea, treated us to grapes. In general, the population of all countries we went through, gave us a warm welcome. Poles, Czechs, Romanians and Hungarians had really suffered under fascism. However, we were cautious of direct contact with the local population. The matter is that in every squad there were SMERSH 34 representatives. We were supposed to tell them in advance which populated places we were supposed to visit. I didn't pay a lot of visits, as I was afraid that I might be blamed of espionage. SMERSH didn't prohibit communicating with the locals openly, but I think that they were following us and had their stooges everywhere.

I became a party member during the war. I understood that it was necessary for me to do that. I was suspicious of those who refused to join the Party. The special department was also interested in those people.

Being a doctor I saw the Germans not only in battle, but also on the operating table and in the hospital. When our reconnaissance captured Germans to get information, some of the captives were wounded. If they were lightly wounded, they were sent to the headquarters for cross-examination. There were severely wounded captives, and it was important to save their lives. Sometimes we had to pay a high price for one captive: the lives of a couple of our reconnoiters. In spite of the fact that Germans murdered all my kin, it didn't even occur to me that I should not treat them. I was a doctor and I ought to do my job no matter who was on the operating table. The duty of a doctor is to help and to save life, not to judge. Not to mention that it was my obligation.

I didn't hate the Germans I was treating. I understood that there were few of them who wanted to fight. They were soldiers. Hitler gave an order and they were to carry it out. The Germans who were on the operating table used to reiterate that they were against war and fascism. Even if they believed Hitler, they still were responsible for their actions. We believed Stalin and were tacit accomplices of his crimes. Anyway in the post-war period Germans repented. They are still assisting those who suffered from the war. But our communists who had taken millions of peoples lives in the Gulag 35 are not penitent and are not going to contrite.

Political officers 36 were constantly inculcating others that those who surrendered to the enemy were betrayers and traitors. They were deserters. I always got perturbed about that. I knew that orderlies didn't always manage to take all wounded from the battlefield. Is a person guilty if he was wounded and captured by the Germans? And what if the person lost consciousness? What if the entire squad was besieged? There were different circumstances. I think those people are worth to sympathize with. I could speak my mind only with my bosom friends. I understood that I should be reserved in general. When we left the boundaries of the USSR, our division liberated camps, where both military and civilian captives were held. SMERSH took the military captives and sent them immediately to the Gulag. They didn't look into the circumstances of captivity. They merely thought if the soldier had been captured, it meant he was a traitor. Once I was the witness of a terrible scene - the execution of military captives. The execution was ostentatious, for everybody to see what would happen to those who came to Germans. The political officer ordered, 'Fire!', there was a shot and the captives fell dead. I saw very many deaths at war, but those deaths seemed to me uselessly ruthless.

It was hard for women at war. Apart from the natural burdens of the military life, front-line women were constantly harassed by young and strong men, as there were few women, but men wanted to have a 'normal' life. I was able to remain myself. I had a lot of admirers, but I didn't want to have short-term affairs, I wanted to preserve myself for the man I would fall in love with once and for all. When we were positioned on the bank of the Dnestr, dug-outs were made on the steep bank slopes. My orderlies made a nice dug-out for me, put a bench there, covered the floor with branches and brought flowers. Men called my dug-out a cell, as they knew nobody stayed there but me. Things happened. But when I turned down somebody's offer they still didn't try to hurt me, and we remained friends. Of course, it was easier for those ladies who didn't adhere to such strict rights as I did. They had additional ratios and awards. But I didn't want that. Much time had elapsed since the war when I bumped into the chief surgeon, one of those front-line men who tried to get into my graces. We had a talk, and he said that such a pure girl as I was a talisman for the hospital.

I didn't feel anti-Semitism in the lines. I think that in such extreme conditions all seems minor with the exception of human traits. I didn't experience anybody's biased attitude toward me, and I didn't hear from anybody that they didn't receive an award or were promoted in rank for the reason of being Jews. Nothing of the kind happened.

In March 1945 we were transferred to Breslau, Germany, which bordered on Poland. [Breslau is about 70 km from Berlin south-east of today's German- Polish border. In March 1945, however, it was not yet the border between the two countries.] We deployed a hospital and the wounded were brought to us. We understood that the war was about to end, but our work was still intense. There were a lot of wounded, and unfortunately some soldiers perished in the last spring days of the horrible war. Breslau was the place where on 9th May 1945 we heard the announcement that the war was over with the unconditional surrender of Germany. It is difficult to put in words the feeling of unalloyed happiness at that moment. We went on an excursion touring Germany and Austria on the occasion of Victory Day: we traveled by bus for ten days and stopped in different cities. I managed to see the world-renowned opera house in Vienna. I got the chance to see that wonderful city.

Then we were taken to Berlin. I saw a high wooden fence on one of the streets in Berlin, with the names and origins of the soldiers who captured Berlin inscribed. We were shown the palace where pre-war meetings of Hitler and Ribbentrop had taken place. The palace was demolished. There was a huge crystal chandelier among the heaps of bricks and chips of furniture. Each of us took a crystal pendant from that chandelier as a keepsake. In spite of being devastated Berlin seemed a beautiful city to me. Then we went to Potsdam. We were shown the building, where the conference of the winners took place. Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill discussed the division of the territories and post-war regime of Europe. [At the Potsdam Conference (July 16th to August 2nd 1945) the US was represented by President Truman.] I was delighted that in spite of war almost every plot of land was planted with flowers. It was May, the period of blossom. We communicated with Germans during our stay in Germany. They gave us bicycles so we could go sightseeing after work. Germans were starving and we often gave them canned meat and bread from our ration. We didn't feel animosity from their sides. They treated us benevolently, and there was no thirst for revenge.

Our hospital was transferred from Breslau to Hungary. We were supposed to treat repatriates and Soviet citizens who were released from concentration camps. There were people who were afflicted with contagious diseases such as typhus fever, diphtheria etc. There were no doctors specializing in infectious diseases among us. Hungarian doctors gave us the medical reference on treatment of infectious diseases in German and Latin. They also provided us with pills and antibiotics. We were told that we wouldn't be demobilized until all our patients had been cured. I didn't know what would happen to those people in our motherland, but we were supposed to cure them.

I corresponded with my brother and knew that he lived in the vicinity of Moscow, in Kuntsevo. The general-commander of the combat engineering troops, where my brother served, filed a request, asking to send military engineer Mikhail Ryzhevskiy to the Moscow military circuit for further military service, as he was experienced in military consultation and was involved in the construction of military aerodromes. My brother was given a room in a two-room communal apartment in Kuntsevo and enlisted for the Moscow military circuit. This happened before the war was over, in April 1945. Though, my brother's service began with building a dacha 37 for that general. Then my brother was demobilized and employed by a construction trust as an engineer. He married a Jewish girl, Anna. Their daughter Tatiana was born in 1949.

My brother told me what happened to my maternal relatives. Mother's brother Mikhail and his son Grigoriy were drafted into the lines. Both of them were front-line solders, were wounded, but came back home alive. Mother's brother Joseph died in evacuation in Siberia. Mother's sister Manya and her husband were shot by the Germans.

After the war

Mother's younger sister Esfir survived the war. She was a very beautiful and energetic woman. After getting married she lived in Krivoy Rog with her husband. Her husband worked in the mine and she was a medical assistant in the medical office of the mine. When the mobilization began, Esfir's husband was drafted into the army, and Esfir went in the lines as a volunteer to work as a medical assistant in the medical platoon. When the squad where Esfir was enrolled went through Krivoy Rog they were besieged by the Germans. Esfir was sheltered by her acquaintance, a Ukrainian guy, who had worked at the mine before the war. She stayed in his cellar during the period of the siege. That man brought her food and water. At night Esfir came out of the cellar for a little bit. Later on in Krivoy Rog there were more checks carried out by the Germans and the Polizei [The German word 'Polizei' (police) in this case refers to the local collaborators, armed by the Nazis]. Then the daughter of the man who sheltered Esfir gave her peasant clothes and a head kerchief, and took her to her relatives in a village, because it was safer there. Esfir, wearing a peasant kerchief, wasn't detained by the German patrol. When our troops liberated Krivoy Rog, Esfir came back in the lines and stayed there until the end of the war. When she was demobilized she returned to Krivoy Rog. Her husband also came back from the lines. They didn't have children and Esfir adopted the two children of her sister Manya, who was shot by Germans. She raised her niece and nephew, Natalia and Julius. Julius immigrated to France in the 1970s. Esfir died in Krivoy Rog last year.

After demobilization I was sent to the hospital of the veterans of war, located in the vicinity of Moscow. There were severely wounded soldiers who were supposed to take a long course of treatment there. I worked there for about a year as a surgeon. I lived in the hostel of the hospital. In 1947 we were unexpectedly told that the hospital would be closed down and we had to look for another job. In the post-war period there were very many surgeons, much more than during civilian times. That is why there was no demand for surgeons. There were no therapists in the lines, as people usually didn't get sick. In spite of the hard conditions, internal reserves of the organism were working well. I was looking for a job and understood that surgeons were not needed. I was suggested that I should get reeducated. I was given an assignment for courses of physiotherapists, held in the State Institute of Physiotherapy and Balneotherapy.

Before attending courses I decided to try to enter post-graduated studies. I knew that doctors who had been in the lines were admitted to post- graduate studies beyond competition. I wanted to go on with my studies and I went to the admission board. There was another lady who came with me, a Russian surgeon. The members of the board examined my documents and said that I was an efficient doctor and could work in any hospital and that I didn't need any post-graduate studies. They took the documents from the second applicant, though our cases were equal. Nationality was our only difference. Of course, nobody told me that there was no place for a Jew in the post-graduate department. But I understood the implication very clearly. It was the fist time when I felt biased attitude towards me.

I stayed with my brother. He lived with his family in a two-room communal apartment, located in a two-storied barrack without conveniences. Toilet and water pump were outside. The apartment was heated with a stove, which was in the corridor between the rooms. We were heating it in turns with another family, who lived in our apartment. We cooked food on a Primus stove. I didn't think I would stay there, but I ended up living in my brother's apartment for 18 years. I had a sofa in the corner of the room, which was partitioned with a folding screen. Now Kuntsevo is a district of Moscow, but back then it was a village of Moscow region.

When I finished my courses the municipal health care department sent me to town hospital #29 to work as a physiotherapist. I worked there for over 40 years. The only way to get to Moscow was by electric train. Later on, buses went to Moscow, too. It took me so long to get to work, that I had no time for anything else after work. I came home just before going to bed.

In 1948 the state of Israel was founded. It was a real joy for me. I was happy that the USSR was one of the initiators for the foundation of the state of Israel. Though, later on the relationship between the USSR and Israel was harmed. The USSR deemed Israel to become its satellite, one of the countries of the socialistic camp, ?nd Israel decided to follow its own way. The Soviet government could not forgive that. However, we followed the events in Israel and were concerned. I took such pride in Jewish people when they gained victory in the Six-Day-War 38 and Yom Kippur War 39. Jews knew how to build their country and how to protect it as well.

In 1950 my brother died tragically. He was on a business trip in Karaganda [Central Kazakhstan]. He was called there for consultation. Mikhail was supposed to return by train. But on that very day he turned 36. Mikhail refunded his train ticket and went home by plane to see his family in Moscow. There was a plane accident: the plane exploded in the air. Nobody survived; there was nothing left from the passengers. After my brother's death, I stayed with his widowed wife and daughter.

Physiotherapy was my main job. I liked neuropathology and took up a few neuropathology cases. I was on good terms with a very qualified neurologist, a Jew named Solomon Kantorovich. We worked in the same hospital. He taught me, and treated the patients independently. There were very many Jews in our hospital. The chief physician was also a Jew. Our department was even referred to as 'synagogue' in the municipal health care department. Of course, it was another demonstration that anti-Semitists didn't even conceal their attitude. In 1948 the campaign against cosmopolitans 40 started, and we were aware that anti-Semitism didn't only occur on a social level, it was enhanced to the state level. The Jewish theater in Moscow was closed down, and its manager, a wonderful actor and the head of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee 41, Solomon Mikhoels 42 was assassinated. His assassination was disguised as a car accident. But everybody understood what was going on, and feared that repressions might follow. Everybody understood that it was propaganda. There were rumors that Jews would be exiled to Siberia, and people believed that. There were times in Soviet history when certain people were forced to move [see Forced deportation to Siberia] 43: Crimean Tartars, Germans, Chechens, Ingush. Nevertheless, anti-Semitism wasn't felt in our hospital. On the contrary, during the campaign against cosmopolitans, the best doctors of the city were working in our hospital. I was lucky I worked with great experts and learnt from them.

It was the hardest for us when the Doctors' Plot 44 started. When the articles about 'Murderers in white robes' appeared in the newspapers, party meetings and team meetings were held to discuss the cases of the doctors poisoning people. At that time we understood that it was a libel. The most famous and the brightest doctors all of a sudden were turned into murderers! But I had to attend those meetings and raise my hand when we were voting for condemnation of the criminals. If I hadn't raised my hand, they would have fired me or put me in prison in the worst case. It was a dreadful time. Patients didn't change their attitude, neither to me nor to other Jewish doctors who worked in our hospital. Anyway, nobody openly showed mistrust and nobody refused to be treated by Jewish doctors. People were not that silly. They understood what was going on.

On 5th March 1953 Stalin died. Of course, we, doctors, anticipated his death. In radio round-ups we were informed that Stalin had Cheyne-Stokes respiration, and everybody understood that he was on the brink of death. When I found out about his death, I had a feeling that the world would plunge into the abyss. I couldn't fathom how we could possibly live without Stalin. It was sincere grief. When I was on the ward round, I dissolved in tears. Then I went to Stalin's funeral. I walked amid a huge crowd on semi- thawed snow.

Only after the Twentieth Party Congress 45, where Nikita Khrushchev 46 divulged Stalin's crimes, I understood that it was good to live without Stalin, without constant fear. After Khrushchev's speech it all dawned on me. In the lines people were facing death and were ready to die for Stalin. But if there had been no Stalin, there might have been no war. At any rate there wouldn't have been so many casualties. If there hadn't been repressions as of 1937, if Stalin hadn't decapitated the army, and killed the best military commanders, Hitler wouldn't have dared to attack us. Post- war repressions are also on Stalin's conscience.

I met my future husband at work. Leonid Krichevskiy was an engineer. He worked with medical X-ray and physiotherapy apparatus. Leonid graduated from college. He was a jack-of-all-trades. He was good at mechanics. Leonid previously worked in the military hospital and was responsible for equipment repair. In 1948 Leonid came to work in our hospital because of the mass dismissal of Jews. He was much older than me. Leonid was born in 1908 in Samara. After the revolution his family moved to Saratov [on the banks of the Volga, 700 km from Moscow, with a population of one million]. Leonid had stayed there before the war. He went in the lines as soon as the war began. After demobilization he was offered a job in the Moscow military hospital.

Leonid was married. His wife was twelve years older than him. They had a daughter. After the war Leonid divorced his wife, but they lived in the same apartment. Leonid wooed me for three years. First I didn't want to be with him, as I thought that he should live for his daughter. His child needed a father. Finally he broke down my resistance. His courtship was spectacular. There was a mail box with a slot on my door. Every morning when I went out, I saw a bouquet of flowers in my mailbox and the words on my fence, 'I was here,' and the date. I never saw him bringing the flowers or writing the words on my fence. Then we started seeing each other. We got married in 1952. We didn't have a wedding party. We just registered our marriage in the state registration office and had a festive dinner with our closest relatives afterwards. We didn't have a place to live, and my sister- in-law talked us into staying in her apartment. We made a partition and stayed in the room. In 1954 my daughter was born. She was named Olga after my perished sister. Now the five of us lived in one room.

They treated me very well at work. They loved me and appreciated my work. I really worked very hard and didn't refuse anybody. Apart from the main work people were supposed to be involved in social work. I spread propaganda. I had extracurricular activities every week. Every week I was supposed to follow the press, the news in the political sphere of the country and foreign countries as well. Every Thursday I was to hold a special political class with students telling them the main events in the political life. I was supposed to cover those events from the standpoint of the communist ideology. Those classes were extracurricular, so people were not willing to attend them, but it was mandatory for them to be present. In case somebody skipped such classes he was fraught with administrative punishment, including dismissal. I remember how dreadful it was for me to speak about the horrors of the Israeli 'aggressors' on Palestinian land... but I had no way out, I could only express the official point of view.

The birth of my daughter changed my life. My maternity leave was very short - only two months. I had to put Olga in a nursery so I could go back to work. The salary of engineers was very skimpy, it was hardly enough to get by. I couldn't afford to stay with the baby. Leonid wasn't able to provide for us. In 1960 I was assigned chief of the physiotherapy department of the hospital. Of course, it was a promotion, but I didn't get a pay rise. We didn't have enough money for a comfortable living. So I had to look for additional work. When my daughter turned one, I went to work half time for the military academy of chemical defense. I held lectures there three times a week for four hours. I worked there for thirteen years. My husband died in 1964, when my daughter turned ten. He was buried in the city cemetery. I remained by myself. I had to provide for my daughter and for myself. After my husband's death I took another job. A medical school was opened by our hospital. After work I taught neuropathology and physiotherapy. I coped with my work. When I was young I was very energetic.

Olga went to school. She was growing up. My husband and I were atheists. Olga was raised without knowing anything about Jewish traditions, history and religion. Like the rest of the children she was a pioneer and a Komsomol member. We celebrated Soviet holidays such as 1st May, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 47, Soviet Army Day 48, and Victory Day 49. When our daughter was little we had a family tradition: on 9th May we went to the Grave of the Unknown Soldier and laid down flowers at the monument. In the evening we had a modest dinner, and my husband and I told our daughter about the war, and the way our victory was gained. Olga was raised a patriot. Having finished school she entered the Moscow Electric and Technical Communications Institute, the department of telecommunications. I was worried about my daughter, but she succeeded in passing her entrance exams and was enrolled in the first year. Olga was a good student, and she was assigned a job in Moscow after her graduation. She got a mandatory job assignment to the Moscow urban telephone network to work as an engineer. When Olga began to work, there was no need for me to have part-time jobs. I quit working for the academy and kept on working at the hospital and medical school. In 1987 I retired.

Shortly before my husband's death, we received a one-room apartment in Moscow. We lived there for nine years. Being a veteran of the war, I was given a two-room apartment in a new Moscow district, Novogireyevo, on the occasion of the anniversary of our victory over Germany. As compared to the modern apartments mine is rather bad, poky with inconvenient layout. But I'm happy to have a roof over my head and my own lodging. I live with my daughter.

After her graduation Olga got married. Now her surname is Romanova. It was a short marriage; I don't even want to dwell on that. After getting divorced Olga came back to me. She doesn't have children. My daughter and I are very close.

Strange as it may be, Olga came to Jewry. Her personal life wasn't getting better, though she wanted to found a family. She had certain questions which remained unanswered. It seemed to Olga that her life had stopped at some stage and nothing would happen. Somebody advised her to read the Bible. For the first time, she was glued to the Bible and found the answers to all her questions. Olga was astounded and reproached me for concealing the book of veracity from her. Of course, she had not understood many things. Olga told me that she had a poor memory, didn't have a linguistic penchant, but some citations from Bible were embossed in her memory after reading them for the first time. Many things remained unclear to her, so she began to study the Bible and the Torah [Tanakh, the Jewish Bible contains three parts, Torah, Neviim (Prophets) and Ktuvim (Writings), therefore the Torah is a part of the Bible.] with the help of educators. She believes that those books are worth while studying for the whole life.

I brought up my daughter in the internationalist spirit, plying her with Russian culture. But my daughter identifies herself as a Jew since she has started studying the Bible and the Torah. She spends a lot of time in the oldest synagogue in Moscow. [The oldest synagogue and the only operating one during the Soviet regime in Moscow, located in the heart of the city, on Spasoglinichevskiy Lane, is now called 'Sinagoga na gorke' (Synagogue on the hill).] There she has a lot of friends. I don't share her interest in religion. If there is a God, and if Jews are the chosen people, how could he let the deaths of so many Jews during World War II happen? How could he let almost everyone of my kin die because of the fascists? I don't believe that it was the will of God.

In the 1970s mass immigration of Jews to Israel started. People who lived in the USSR for the first time had the opportunity to go abroad. Many of my acquaintances immigrated at that time. First I sympathized with them, and I was happy for them when I found out that they got settled well. I wasn't going to leave the country. There are some people who easily change things in their lives, but I'm one of those who have a hard time even moving from one apartment to another. That's why I was never looking forward to immigration. Now, it's too late even to think about that.

When in the middle of the 1980s Mikhail Gorbachev 50 declared the new course of the party, perestroika 51, I was delighted by that. I hoped that it would be for the better especially seeing certain changes happening in the country. Freedom of opinion and press appeared. There was no censorship in the mass media. The Iron Curtain 52 fell, after having separated the USSR from the rest of the world for decades. Now we had the opportunity to go abroad, invite foreign guests. During perestroika Jewish life began to revive .Then the pace of perestroika started to decline and life was getting gradually worse. Our skimpy wages were rapidly getting devaluated. The most necessary products were vanishing from stores. Maybe the opponents of perestroika, the former governmental leaders, were doing those things for the people to get perturbed. They succeeded in that. All those things were crowned by the breakup of the USSR. Like many people of my age I regret that. We got used to the fact that all Republics were united and now all of them turned into independent states. [The Soviet Union was made up of 15 Republics (Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Moldova, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan) up until its disintegration in 1991.]. Economic and spiritual relations were torn. And what did we get in turn? We are separated from each other, and not only by boundaries. Many things had to be changed in the USSR, but there were good things as well. I think I'm not the only one who has such a point of view. Young people are prone to think differently.

Jewish life appeared in independent Russia. I heard from other people that there are many Jewish societies that provide significant assistance to people. I usually stay in. It's hard for me to go anywhere. I don't get assistance from charitable organizations. I have a daughter who does everything for me. Fascism appeared in Russia along with the revival of the Jewish life. More and more young people are imbued with fascist ideology. I think it's on a social level, but my daughter is sure that the fascists would like to come to power in our country. Olga is a determined person, and she is not prone to phobias. She isn't afraid of changes. She does fear to be without money or a job though. She believes there is a way out from any situation. I think it's in her genes to be aware of fascism. She knows that her relatives were murdered by fascists, and she is afraid that the fascists could come to power in Russia. She is constantly trying to convince me to leave for Israel. Of course, I understand that my daughter will not leave me. I want to die in my motherland. I don't believe that fascism would be a driving force in our country, which had suffered so much from fascism. We will see, maybe I am too optimistic.

Glossary:

Életrajz

Kósa Alice nénit 2005 őszén ismertem meg. Férje 1988-ban halt meg, és ő attól kezdve egyedül élt sepsiszentgyörgyi kétszobás tömbházlakásában. Egyedüli látogatói Sepsiszentgyörgyön élő unokája és Reismann Julianna [A Centropa készített vele is interjút. – A szerk.], 86 éves barátnője voltak. Magas életkorának – 96 év – következménye a nagyothallás, sőt mindkét szemére hályog képződött, emiatt nagyon gyenge a látása is. Szinte csak árnyakban, körvonalakban lát, és mindez fokozta egyedüllétét, elszigeteltségét. Alice nénit nagyon érdekli minden, ami a világban történik, főleg Magyarország és Izrael politikai helyzete, ugyanakkor tudományok, művészetek, irodalom terén is szeret tájékozott lenni. Ezért naponta olvasott újságot, még ha órákba telt is egy-egy cikket átböngésznie. Leromlott fizikai állapota miatt 2006 nyarától a gyergyószentmiklósi Szent Erzsébet Öregotthonban él, immár a világtól teljesen elszigetelten.

Az édesapám apja Marmorstein Emánuel volt, nagymamámat nem tudom, hogy hívták. Nekik nagy pékségük volt Nagyborosnyón, olyan sok kenyeret sütöttek, hogy vitték falura is. [Nagy]Borosnyó nagy községnek számított akkor, ezerötszáz lakossal [Nagyborosnyó – nagyközség volt Háromszék vm.-ben, 1891-ben is, 1910-ben is 1500 magyar lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került, ma: Boroşneu Mare, Sepsiszentgyörgytől 18 km-re van, keletre. – A szerk.]. Számottevő falu volt még az 1940-es években is, hát nem tudom, hány üzlet volt [a faluban], csak fűszerüzlet volt öt vagy hat. De a falusiak elköltöztek a kommunizmus alatt városra, mert elvették a földet, úgyhogy leszegényedett a falu, lezüllött, sok cigány került a faluba, úgy mondják.

1916-ban, mikor a románok [a román hadsereg] jöttek be, a magyarok menekültek. Nagyon nagy gyűlölettel jöttek be, és nagyon durva, műveletlen katonák voltak a románok, félelmetes. Azt a pár férfit, aki itthon volt – mert a férfiak ugye katonák voltak, vagy fogságba estek, vagy elestek –, azokat nagyon verték a románok [katonák]. Az volt a neve [a verésnek] „huszonöt”, bunkósbottal vertek huszonötöt vagy ötvenet, attól függően, hogy ki hogy tetszett nekik. Nagytatáék is elmenekültek, és nagytata menekülés közben – 1916-ban – halt meg Nagybaconban [ma: Băţanii Mari, Nagyborosnyótól 54 km-re, észak-nyugatra] egy járványos betegségben, úgy gondolom, spanyolnáthában [Spanyolnátha – a 20. század első nagy járványának, az influenzaszerű tünetekkel járó spanyolnáthajárványnak 1918–1919-ben 20-21 millió áldozata volt. Magyarországon 1918 októberében például 44 ezren haltak meg a betegségben. – A szerk.]. Tudom, hogy egy ragályos betegséget kapott, és az átment tüdőgyulladásba is. Nagymama visszajött aztán Nagybaconból [Nagy]Borosnyóra, nem ültek olyan sokat, pár hetet csak, és visszajött mindenki, aki nem ment más országba.

Édesapámnak volt egy első unokatestvére Feldobolyban [Feldoboly – kisközség volt Háromszék vm.-ben, 1910-ben 500 magyar lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került, ma: Dobolii de Sus, 23 km-re van Sepsiszentgyörgytől, 5 km-re Nagyborosnyótól délkeletre. – A szerk.], apákról voltak unokatestvérek. Marmorstein Gizella volt az a nagynénim (a Marmorstein nagypapa fiútestvérének a lánya). Két leányuk volt: az egyiket Ellának hívták, a másikat Jolánkának. Volt egy pici üzletük, és abból éltek. Mindent árultak, Feldoboly egy kicsi falu, aminek, mondjuk, háromszáz lakója van, azok amit rendeltek, meghozatták. De nem maradtak sokáig Feldobolyban, mert aztán akadt Málnás faluban egy jó kiadó üzlet, korcsma és fűszerüzlet, azt kivették, és Málnás faluban lakták a további életüket [Málnás – kisközség volt Háromszék vm.-ben, 1891-ben 800, 1910-ben 900 magyar lakossal, gyógyfürdővel. Ma: Malnaş, Feldobolytól 41 km-re van, északkeletre. – A szerk.].

Az édesapám öccse Molnár Izsó volt. Ő Marmorstein volt eredetileg. Két fiú volt a családban, édesapám és az öccse, és a két fiú felvette a Molnár nevet. Legénykorukban, nőtlen korukban magyarosították [a nevüket], ahogy nagykorúak lettek [Vagyis az 1900-as években. Lásd: névmagyarosítás. – A szerk.]. Így volt inkább szokás. Azért van annyi szép nevű [zsidó] is. Szép neveket vettek fel. Nem tudom, miért, de nem szerették azt a nevet [ami volt]. Az német volt, és ha Magyarországon éltek, miért legyen német nevük, miért ne legyen magyar.

Izsó bácsi Pesten maradt mint fiatalember, és elvette az első unokatestvérét, Steiner Irmát. Nem nézték, hogy vérrokon [lásd: házasságra vonatkozó szabályok a Tórában], nem volt úgy felfedezve a vér összetétele, úgyhogy semmi kifogást nem találtak. A két anya, annak az édesanyja, akit elvett feleségül és az ő édesanyja testvérek voltak. Rákospalotán – az Pestnek egy külvárosa – a lámpagyárban volt Izsó bácsi tisztviselő. 1912-ben született két leánykája, Luci és Klári, ikrek, de nem egypetéjűek. Hazaköltöztek Nagyborosnyóra, a fiuk, Gábor, már ott született. [Nagy]Borosnyón szerény körülmények között éltek, ezért én felhívtam őket Brassóba. Ugyanis a fűszerüzlet mellett, amit mi béreltünk, volt egy kis kocsma, ahol levest is főztek, és az is kiadó lett. Én tudtam, hogyha az egy rendes, becsületes ember kezébe kerül, aki nem vizezi a sört, akkor nagyon jól fel tudna futni. Szóltam Izsó bácsiéknak, felköltöztek Brassóba, kivették a kocsmát, és tényleg nagyon jól is ment. Ők a háború alatt is ott voltak Brassóban, Izsó bácsi és a felesége ott is halt meg, a háború után, de nem tudnám megmondani pontosabban, hogy mikor. Klári is Brassóban halt meg, ő vagy kétszer is férjhez volt menve. Luci elég későre ment férjhez, a második világháború után, egy [nagy]váradi zsidó fiúhoz, de csak pár hétig tartott a házas életük. Épp jöttek az őszi ünnepek, azt mondta a férjének, hogy hazamegy az ünnepre, és aztán soha többet nem ment vissza. Kiment Izraelbe, most is ott él, Jeruzsálemben az öccsével, Gabival [Gáborral] egy városban. 

Édesapámnak az egyik húga Marmorstein Berta volt – ő Marmorstein maradt. Berta néni férjhez ment egy pesti fiúhoz, Budapesten éltek. Az ő lányuk Aliz, aki még él, hál’ istennek, 1913-ban született, 92 éves. Ő férjhez ment egy katolikus emberhez, Bogdán Istvánhoz, de nem tartotta [a vallást], mert nagy kommunista volt. A Weiss Manfréd [lásd: Csepel Művek] repülőgépgyárban volt tisztviselő, és ott nagy kommunisták voltak a gyári munkások amúgy is. Az ő lányuk, Bogdán Éva német és francia szakos tanárnő Budapesten, ott született, és ott él. Férjhez volt menve, két gyereke van, az egyik Péter, ő most olyan huszonhét-huszonnyolc éves, zenével foglalkozik, annyit tudok róla. Én nagy levelező voltam, szerettem levelezni rendes, értelmes emberekkel. Ritkán, de leveleztem ezzel az unokatestvéremmel is, az Éva anyjával, a druszámmal [Bogdánné Alizzal]. És akkor írta, hogy érettségi után Szegedre ment [Péter tovább tanulni], mert a zene érdekelte. Hogy mivé fejlődött, nem tudom. 

Ennek az 1913-ban született unokatestvéremnek, a druszámnak, volt egy nővére, Ibolya, aki egy lángész volt, egyetemi tanárnő. A férje – Tibor volt a keresztneve, a családneve nem jut eszembe –, habár zsidó volt, kétszeres Kossuth-díjas volt. Nem fogadta el egyszer se Tibike a Kossuth-díjat [a díjjal járó pénzt], mindig azt mondta, hogy azt a szegényeknek adja. Ezelőtt három hónappal is hallottam [a tévében], hogy dicsérték, hogy hogy adott át önzetlenül mindent, hogy az volt a tanár! Annyira bele volt merülve a munkába, mondta Berta néni, a druszám anyja, hogy főzött többször náluk, és vitt be levest Tibikének [a dolgozószobájába], ő csak intett, kalap volt a fején, oda volt írva, hogy „Nem kérek”. Odatett egy cédulát, hogy nehogy megszakítsa. Sovány is volt Tibike, nem volt teljesen egészséges, ő saját maga megfőzte a krumpliját sós vízben, és megette. Mindketten matematikával foglalkoztak, azért szerették meg egymást mint diákok. Úgy hívta Ibolyát Tibike, hogy „aranyvirágom”. Lett egy gyerekük, de nem volt életrevaló, úgy látszik, mert négy vagy öt hónapos korában meghalt. Elég fiatalon halt meg Tibike.

Az édesapám húga volt Gizella néni is, ő férjhez volt menve Friedenthál Nándorhoz. Ők Nagyborosnyón éltek, majd Brassóban vettek egy házat, és odaköltöztek. Édesapámnak még volt Nagyborosnyón két vénleány húga, Marmorstein Margit az egyik és Róza a másik, miután édesanyám meghalt, velük lakott édesapám [a szülői házban], míg Margit férjhez nem ment Nussbaum Nándorhoz [1929-ben].

Édesapámnak Molnár Albert volt a neve, de felvett neve volt a Molnár. De az eredeti neve apámnak az is egy történet. Mert neki nem Marmorstein volt a neve, hanem Steiner – ilyen bonyolult dolgok. Mesélte, hogy az édesanyja kiment szülni [a nővéréhez], mert magyarországi volt, ugye férjhez jött ide, Nagyborosnyóra messziről, Budapest mellől valahonnan. Ott volt a nővére, itt [Nagyborosnyón] senki rokona nem volt, és akkor otthon szültek [az asszonyok], és ő hazament szülésre, az édesapám édesanyja, hogy a testvérénél szüljön. Ott [Budapest mellett] született meg édesapám 1888-ban, és kicsi város, ugye mindenki mindenkit ismert, Steinerné volt a nővére az édesapám édesanyjának, és a bábaasszony Steiner néven jelentette be. És így az édesapám eredeti neve Steiner volt, és Budapesten volt bejelentve. Édesapám volt katona még fiatal korában, de „hál’ istennek”, hogy sérve volt, és akkor csak segédszolgálatra volt beosztva, valami segédmunkát végzett Budapesten.

Az anyai nagymamának a leánykori neve Féder Franciska, Fanni volt. Az első férje egy Sternbach nevezetű férfi volt, aki egy idős ember volt, apja lehetett volna. Így mondta nagymamám, hogy a Sternbachot nem szerette, pedig nagyon jó ember volt, de hogy olyan idős volt, és volt a szép Klein, aki látszerész volt, és őt szerette. De Sternbach módosabb ember volt, jó menetelű étterme volt, és a szülei hozzá akarták férjhez adni. És milyen volt a tizennégy-tizenöt éves leányka? Hozzá kellett menjen. Még az ágy alá is elbújt, mikor látta, hogy jön Sternbach, így mesélte. Ez Fogarason történt, de nem tudok pontosabbat; a mostani gyerekek jobban kikérdezik a szüleiket, mint ahogy mi kikérdeztük a múlt század elején. Sternbachtól lett a Viliám, Vilmos fia nagymamának, aki elment Franciaországba, és nagy férfiszabóüzlete volt Párizsban.

Az első férje nagymamának meghalt, és utána hozzáment Kleinhoz, de nagyon rossz házaséletet éltek. Nagymamám mesélte, hogy nagyon szép ember volt, de amilyen szép volt, olyan rossz volt, olyan goromba, úgyhogy rövid ideig tartott a házasságuk. Született egy kislányuk, de az pár hónapos korban meghalt. Tíz vagy tizenkét hónapos volt, amikor nagymama Brassóba kellett menjen valamiért – hogy miért, nem tudom, mint gyermek ezeket nem faggattam –, [és vitte magával a kislányt is]. Nagymama azt mondta, olyan gyönyörű volt, hogy Brassóban megálltak az utcán, és megcsodálták. De estére úgy belázasodott a leányka, hogy hamarosan meghalt. Az volt a nagyobbik Klein leányka. Azután lett egy Berta nevű, majd édesanyám.

A múlt század első felében divat volt, hogy az iparosok mentek le Bukarestbe. Hát a földön volt Románia, ott semmi nem volt, és innen [Erdélyből] az iparosok, aki valamit tudott, özönlött be Romániába. Híres fényképész volt Szatmári, az is akkortájt [a 20. század elején] ment el Bukarestbe, és ott nagyon gazdag ember lett. Ha látunk magyar névvel románokat, azoknak biztosan, hogy a dédszülei innen mentek mint magyarok, mert jól arattak anyagilag. Ők megteremtettek ezt, azt, amazt. Akkor cipőt nem az üzletben vettek, ott is vehettek, de legtöbb [ember] úgy akarta, hogy olyan cipője legyen, ami pont a lábára való. Volt divatlap, kiválaszthatta, hogy milyen fazont szeret, és azt csináltatta.

És így került be nagymamám is Bukarestbe. Már özvegyasszony [elvált asszony] volt – akihez másodszor férjhez ment, a szép Kleinhoz, attól elvált –, amikor elment, de nagyon jól tudott főzni, és volt egy kicsi, családias kóser étkezdéje Bukarestben, ami jól ment. Nem étterem volt, csak egy kicsi kifőzde. Aztán hogy miért [és mikor] jött [a nagymama] Sepsiszentgyörgyre, nem tudom.

A nagymamámnak volt három testvére itt [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön: Teréz, Gizella és Cecília, férjhez voltak menve, én idős néniknek ismertem őket. Teréz néni a férje után Hartmann Teréz volt. Teréz néninek volt egy lánya, mi Pepi néninek szólítottuk, nem tudom, hogy mi volt az eredeti neve. Pepi néni Uzonban lakott [Uzon  – nagyközség volt Háromszék vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1900, 1910-ben 1800 fő magyar lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került, ma: Ozun, Sepsiszentgyörgytől 11 km-re, délre. – A szerk.], Uzon ugye jó községnek számított, és a férje – egy Halmos nevezetű – ott volt jó szabó. Két leányuk volt és egy fiuk: Margit, Gizi, Béla. És neveltek egy fiút, a Pepi néni testvérének, Zseni néninek a fiát, Sanyikát. Ezek [ez a család] is kihaltak. Volt Teréz néninek egy fia, Hartmann Hermán, és volt még egy leánya, Zseni, az ő férje Baruch bácsi volt. Zseni néni három hét különbséggel halt meg, ahogy anyám, ő is fiatalon, huszonnégy vagy huszonöt éves volt, mikor meghalt [1912-ben]. És maradt egy fiúcska árván, Sanyika [? Sándor], őt aztán Pepi néni nevelte.

A Teréz néni leánya volt Regina is, de őt a nagymama egy másik testvére, Kende Cecília örökbe vette. Hartmann Regina Frank Sándorhoz ment férjhez, az egy szinérváraljai fiú volt. Szinérváralja körülbelül harminc kilométer Szatmárnémetitől [Szinérváralja – nagyközség Szatmár vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4000, 1910-ben 5100 magyar és román lakossal (járási szolgabírói hivatal, járásbíróság, ipartestület, iparostanonc-iskola, sírkőgyár). Trianon után Romániához került. Ma: Seini, Szatmárnémetitől 33 km-re keletre. – A szerk.]. Hogy hogy ismerkedett meg Hartmann Reginával, nem tudom, de megismerkedtek ilyen távolról. [Az ő idejükben] nem voltak ilyen szabadok a leányok [mint ma], mert vallásosak voltak, és nem volt alkalom, hogy idegen fiúkkal megismerkedjenek [még zsidó fiúkkal sem]. Se a fiúnak, hogy megismerkedjen [lányokkal]. És akkor szokás volt, hogy szereztek, bemutattak [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen]. Már az én koromban nem volt ez divat, de a nagymamám korában még bemutatták, szerezték [a feleséget]. Az én koromban már szabadabbak voltak [a fiatalok]. [Frank] Sándor bácsiéknak szép rőfösüzletük volt [Sepsiszentgyörgyön] – az üzlethelyiség most is megvan –, de mikor jött a fasizmus, akkor nem tudom, miért, átadták a leányuknak hozományként, és az ő nevén volt. Frank Reginának volt egy fia, Frank Ernő, aki 1910-ben született, gyógyszerész volt, ő [a második világháború alatt] be volt sorozva mint gyógyszerész. Ernőnek volt felesége – még fiatal házasok voltak –, és volt egy kisfiuk, őket eldeportálták. A fiúcska négy vagy öt éves volt, egy végtelenül aranyos, jaj, tudtam sírni még hónapok múlva is, mikor megtudtam, hogy [mi lett a sorsa a deportáltaknak], és azt az ártatlan gyermeket is… [elpusztították]. Volt még egy leánya Frank Reginának – 1912-ben született –, Frank Eugénia, de mindenki Áginak szólította. Nagyon csinos volt, és szépnek is lehetett mondani, nem olyan szép, hogy [Sepsi]Szentgyörgy szépe lett volna, de szép. Csinos lábakkal, és kedves is volt. Őt is a szüleivel együtt eldeportálták, ez a család kihalt. Akik hazakerültek élve [a deportálásokból], azok közül, ismerősök találkoztak Frank Ágival is és Frank Ernővel is a felszabadulás után. Fogadkoztak, nem egy, mert érdeklődtem én is – hát a nagymamámat is elvitték, azt tudtam, hogy meg fogják ölni, nyolcvankilenc éves volt –, és mindenki azt mondta, hogy látta Ágit és Ernőt, már mikor fel voltak a táborok szabadulva. De nem kerültek haza. Mégis eltűntek. Sokan lettek betegek, mert a sok éhezés után megtámadták az ottmaradt konzervekkel tele raktárakat, és nem lett volna szabad [egyenek] a kiéheztetett, ételtől elszokott emberek, és talán attól [haltak meg]. Mindenesetre a Frank családból senki nem került haza, meghalt mindenki, nem volt olyan sok tag: Frank Sándor, Regina, Ági, Ernő, a felesége és a kisfiuk. Ez a család így halt meg.

Gizella néni mindenképp színésznő akart lenni, de a szülei nem engedték, és férjhez ment egy kereskedő emberhez, aki a piacon is árult, hétfőkön kivitt az árujából. Giza néni nagyon regényes [fellegekben járó] volt, hát mondom, színésznő akart lenni. Minden darabot megnézett, fájt a szíve.

És volt a Cila néni, Kende Cecília, neki volt egy kicsi fűszerüzlete, saját, a házában – mert elég nagy háza volt az Olt utcában –, úgy, hogy abban a szobában, amelyik az utcára nézett, ajtót vágatott, csináltatott polcokat, és ott árult. De ő volt [az üzletvezető], mert nagy kártyás volt a férje – Kende József –, elment reggel, és este jött haza. De az a kávéházban kártyázott, nem családnál. Délelőtt jóformán csak a kártyázók voltak a kávéházban, rendeltek egy kávét vagy két kávét, mert ugye hosszan ültek [és kártyáztak]. Hát rettenetes volt, annyit lehetett hallani, hogy hány családnak a feje [nem csinált mást, csak kártyázott]. A Cila néni férjét, aki reggeltől estig kártyázott, őt is befogták 1916-ban [a román katonák], pedig az semmit az égvilágon nem csinált, és mikor hazakerült egy hét vagy két hét múlva, tiszta kék volt arca a szeme körül, és ő is azt mondta, hogy huszonötöt vágtak rá. Már nem emlékszem, hogy huszonötöt vagy két ízben huszonötöt. Cila néniéknek nem lett gyerekük, és elvették Hartmann Reginát örökbe.

Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben] volt nagymamának egy húga, Mari néni. Ő is járt négy polgárit [mint nagymama], de egy nagyon vallásos asszony volt [Valószínűtlen, hogy az 1855-ben született nagymama polgári iskolába járt volna: a polgári iskolát az 1868-as népiskolai törvénnyel hozták létre. – A szerk.]. Férjhez ment egy ortodox [zsidó] emberhez, és Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe] került, a Schönberger bácsi családja szatmári volt. Ez is egy közvetített házasság lehetett, de oda ment, Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe] férjhez. Többszörös milliomosok voltak, rőfös nagykereskedésük volt, szóval nem a népnek árultak, hanem csak kereskedőknek. Hat utazójuk volt [lásd: kereskedelmi utazó]. Akkor úgy volt, hogy utazók járták be az országot, és felvették a rendeléseket falukon, városokon, mindenütt. Mari néninek a férje volt Schönberger Dávid, ortodox zsidók voltak, mert Mari néninek parókája volt, és ortodox templomba járt, és ortodox szakácsnője volt. Csak a szobalány volt keresztény, de a szakácsnő, aki főzött nekik, az is ortodox volt, az kellett legyen. Mari néninek volt egy fia és két leánya. A fia Schönberger Hendrik volt, aki ugye a fővezér, a mofti [főmufti, az üzletvezető] volt az üzletben, ő volt a kiállító, minden, mert a szülei már idősebb emberek voltak. A [Mari néni] nagyobbik leányát Rózsikának hívták, Schönberger Rózsika, és jóval fiatalabb húga született, lehetett tíz év korkülönbség is [a két lánytestvér között], az Ilonka volt, Schönberger Ilonka. De a zsidó nevén szólították, és a zsidó neve Háneli volt.

Az anyai nagymamámnak [fiatalasszony korában] nem volt levágva a haja, nem volt annyira vallásos, hogy parókás legyen. De mind a két szemére hályog került, és akkor fogadalmat tett, hogy ha sikerül az operációja, és látni fog, akkor levágatja a haját. Erdélyben a leghíresebb szemorvos Segesváron egy szász volt, Depner doktor – valamelyik nap eszembe jutott, mert énnekem is hályog van a szememen, és nem látok majdnem semmit –, [ő operálta a nagymama szemét]. Jól sikerült az operációja, és így történt, hogy végül, nem tudom, hány éves korában, mert ugye én gyerek voltam, de tényleg levágatta a haját, és parókával járt azután. Nagymama hosszú, fekete szoknyát hordott, és fekete vagy sötétkék blúzot vett fel, de volt neki csipke zsabója csinálva, azt odatette. Vékony csipkéből csinálták a zsabót, és azt tették dísznek a blúzra, a nyak köré. Kendőt nem hordott nagymamám, mert a paróka már kendő is volt, úgy gondolom. De [természetes] hajból volt [a parókája], biztosan olyan volt a színe, mint amilyet levágatott, mert fiatalon vágatta le, elég fiatalon lett hályog a szemére.

Csak két parókás asszony volt az egész városban, nagymama és a húga. Sepsiszentgyörgyön az én nagymamámnak még volt három lánytestvére, közülük még egy [Kende Cecília] vágatta le a haját azért, mert rákos volt. Kérte a Jóistent, hogy segítse meg, és azt gondolta, hogyha levágatja a haját [akkor meggyógyul]. De meghalt, hiába vágatta le a haját. A haja le volt vágva, és ő meghalt. Csak ők ketten vágatták le a hajukat [Sepsiszentgyörgyön], a nagymamám is, ugye, fogadalomból, hogy jól sikerült az operációja, és a testvére azért, hogy rákos volt. A neológok se vágatják a hajukat, a neológoknál sincsen paróka, csak az hászidemeknél [lásd: haszidizmus] és az ortodoxnál.

Pénteken, amit szoktak: nagymama gyertyát gyújtott [lásd: gyertyagyújtás], a gyertya fölött imát mondott, megsütötte a szokásos bárheszt. Kenyeret nem sütött, azt vette, úgy emlékszem. A húst úgy készítette el, hogy egy órát vízben, aztán egy fél órát sóban tartotta. A zsidóknak a vér tilos, szóval nem szabad elfogyasztani semmit, ami véres, mert úgy tartja a zsidó vallás, hogy tisztátalan a vér [lásd: étkezési törvények; a hús kikóserolásának menete általában a következő volt: a jól leöblített húst fél órára langyos vízbe áztatták, hogy a só majd jól kiszívja belőle a vért. Utána az ismét leöblített, inaktól megszabadított, bevagdalt húst közepesen durva sóval alaposan besózták, és ferde felületre helyezték, hogy a vér kifolyjon belőle. A májat tűzön is ki kellett perzselni (miként a nem friss, három napnál korábbi vágásból származó húst is). Legkevesebb egy órán át kellett ilyen állapotban tartani a húst, majd ismét le kellett öblíteni, háromszor egymás után. – A szerk.].

Nagymamám vallásos volt, ő ment [járt zsinagógába]. Tudott olvasni héberül, az benne volt a vallásban, hogy imakönyvből és a Bibliából [Tórából] kell olvasni, az az ima. Azért kis korban már minden gyerek tudott olvasni [Egyébként a zsidó tanítás szerint az imákat nem szabad fejből mondani, nehogy hibát vétsenek benne. – A szerk.]. Imákat tudott kívülről is, hallottam [őt imádkozni].

A zsidóknál, még akik nem voltak vallásosak, azt hiszem, még azoknak is, a bejáró ajtón a Dávid-csillag ki volt függesztve. És a nagymamánál is láttam a bejáró ajtójánál két kicsi szeggel föl volt szegezve az a becsomagolt Dávid-csillag, egy kicsi [hüvelyknyi széles, 10-15 cm hosszú], azt hiszem, bőrbe volt becsomagolva [Mezuzaként szolgálhatott a becsomagolt Dávid-csillag, talán a szokásos pergamentekercset helyettesítendő. Feltételezhetően nehezen lehetett volna beszerezni írnok által készített valódi pergamentekercset. – A szerk.]. Nagymamám azt mondta, hogy az minden zsidónak az ajtaján van, azzal lép be [a házba], hogy megcsókolja a Dávid-csillagot. [Kívülről] semmi se látszott, csak egy pici csomag, amiben van valami. Csak nagymamámtól megkérdeztem, és mondta, hogy festve van egy Dávid-csillag valamire. És azt, ha zsidó ember jött, megcsókolta.

Régebben a zsidóknak volt cselédjük, nem is tudok olyan családot, hogy ne lett volna. Mindegyiknek volt, mert azt mondták, az étel nem számít. Ez volt a jelszó. Hogy az kikerül. Mert nem úgy főztek, mint most, adagolva. Mindig maradt [étel], hogy abból mindig tudott még egy [enni]. És olyan szegénység volt falun, hogy már tizenkét-tizenhárom-tizennégy éves korban kiadták családokhoz [a lányokat], hogy létezzenek. Koldusok voltak, azt nem lehet elképzelni, hát amíg lehetett, mezítláb járt az a falusi asszony, mert egy cipőt ha megvett, örvendett, ha vasárnap és ünnepnapkor van mit felhúzzon a lábára. Az is volt a neve Magyarországnak, „a hárommillió koldus országa”. Végig, amíg Kádár jött, addig [ez volt Magyarország neve], az az igazság, akkor lélegeztek fel. És most lassan, ahogy figyelem a dolgokat, kezd odasüllyedni, hogy megint az lesz a neve. Nagymamának is mindig volt cselédje, egy tizennégy-tizenöt éves, mert mindig ilyen fiatal leány cselédecskéje volt. Nem is engedte volna Mari néni, a gazdag testvére, hogy nyomorogjon. Küldött minden hónapban annyi pénzt, apanázst, hogy a kis cseléddel együtt jól éltek egy szoba-konyhás lakásban. Takarított, mosott, mindent csinált [a cselédlány], csak nem főzött – főzni a nagymama főzött. És mentek együtt a piacra, nagymama ugye megvette [amit kellett], és a leány a kosarában [hazavitte]. És örvendett [nagymama], mert ketten voltak, ugye. És nagymama jókat főzött, ott ketten jól eléldegéltek.

Szombaton nem dolgozott [nagymama], nem dolgozott még a cseléd se [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma], csak ettek, beszélgettek, szeretett kimenni a parkba, mikor olyan idő volt. Újságot járatott, a „Székely Nép”-et [Sepsiszentgyörgyi magyar nyelvű politikai hetilap, 1940. novemberétől független politikai napilap. – A szerk.], azt mindig elolvasta. És nagymamámat nagyon érdekelte idős korában is minden. Hát ilyesmi nem, hogy honnan jön az Isten, de a maga egyszerűségében minden [világi dolog] érdekelte, politika is, minden. És három hónapot ment nyaralni [nagymama] minden évben, Szatmárra [Szatmérnémetibe], a húgához. Szóval így élt szép csendesen. Olvasgatott, kijavította a holmijait, hogyha olyanok voltak, hogy még érdemes volt, ha ugye elszakadt… Szorgalmas asszony volt.

Hát nagymamám megvarrta a halotti ruháját. Mert nem utcai ruhában temetik a halottakat [hanem kitliben]. A legkevésbé vallásosak is a régi zsidó hit szerint temetkeztek [lásd: holttest előkészítése a temetésre; temetés]. Nekem úgy mondta a nagymamám, hogy mindent meg kell kézzel varrni a zsidó nőknek, mindent fehér vászonból, amit hordott, egy zsebkendőig vagy – egy nő ugye kötényt kötött a konyhában – egy kötényig. És neki meg is volt, ő megcsinálta.

Édesanyámnak volt egy idősebb féltestvére, Sternbach Vilmos, a nagymama első házasságából, aki kiment Párizsba, és ott férfiruhaüzletet nyitott. Volt még egy nővére, Klein Berta. A francia apácáknak volt zárdája és iskolája Bukarestben, és nagymama Bertát is, édesanyámat is a francia iskolába adta, hogy tanuljanak meg franciául. Azt akarta, hogy menjenek el a leánykák is Párizsba, mert ott majd csinál valamit a bátyjuk, hogy vagy keressenek [dolgozzanak], vagy… [menjenek férjhez]. Tehát föltétlen kellett a francia nyelv, és azért adta be nagymama őket – így mondta – a francia kisasszonyokhoz. Berta ment ki előbb Párizsba, [ő volt az idősebb], és ő ott férjhez is ment fiatalon, tizenhat éves korában egy német fiúhoz, Fritz Ernst Röhmhöz. Ő Párizsban egy nagyon előkelő étteremben volt főpincér, de tanult ember volt. És megismerkedtek, Berta is szép volt, összeházasodtak. De Frankfurt am Mainba mentek aztán Párizsból, úgyhogy Németországban éltek. Ezt a nagybátyámat sose láttam.

Édesanyámat Klein Reginának hívták, ő a nagymama második házasságából született [1889-ben]. Édesanyám is tízéves korától tizennégy éves koráig a francia kisasszonyokhoz járt iskolába, Bukarestben. Utána kiment ő is Párizsba a bátyjához, a nővére is ott volt már. Több ideig volt ő Párizsban, perfekt tudott franciául. Azért vagyok én Alice. Édesanyám híres szép nő volt a faluban, a primadonna szerepeket mindig ő játszotta. Két hegedűje maradt [miután meghalt], mert hegedülni tanult. Anyámra én nem emlékszem, de a falusiak mondták nekem, hogy milyen gyönyörű volt, és gyönyörűen hegedült. És énekelt, de nekem semmi hangom nincs, azt nem örököltem. És még versikéket is írt az én édesanyám, a nők lapjába beküldte [Nem tudjuk azonosítani, melyik lap lehetett. Kósa Alice édesanyja 1912-ben meghalt. – A szerk.].

Fakereskedő volt édesapám. Olyan fakereskedő volt, aki megvette az erdőn a fát, de más intézte [a továbbiakat], mert szeretett kártyázni. A szerződéseket megkötötte a fára – mert nem vette meg az erdőt, csak a termését, a fát –, aztán ment kártyázni. Édesapám ezt csinálta. Volt neki egy kertész ember alkalmazottja, úgy hívták, Hajdár, és az mindent elintézett. A fát az erdőben felfűrészelték, amilyenre kellett – akkor ölben számoltak –, hozták be az állomásra, és ott vagonírozták. Hát mindent ez a Hajdár intézett, más emberekkel mérlegelt, mindent. Apám meg futott, kártyapartija volt. Nem tudom, hogy pénzben játszottak-e, azt se tudom, milyen kártyajátékot játszottak, de azt hiszem, hogy a magyar kártyával játszottak. Én édesapámat meg se mertem volna kérdezni, hogy „Maga pénzben játszik-e?”. Nem lehetett.

Volt egy ilyen állandó parti Nagyborosnyón, két református pap volt benne, egyik a nagyborosnyói pap, másik a kisborosnyói pap, és egy Nagyborosnyón gazdag embernek számító mészáros. De ő se mészárolt, mert neki volt egy idősebb bátyja, édestestvére, agglegény, aki mert nem volt olyan szép, nem nősült meg, náluk lakott, és a mészáros ügyet ő intézte. És akkor ez egy ilyen örök parti volt. A kisborosnyói pap, akit Czeglédinek hívtak, annyira kártyás volt, hogy valósággal rögeszme volt [neki a kártya]. Pap létére. És egyszer volt egy ünnepély, ami istentisztelettel kezdődött – előbb lett volna az istentisztelet, és azután az ünnep. Hát be voltak gyűlve a hívők Kisborosnyón a templomba, és… Nincs pap. A közönség benn a templomban, nincs a pap sehol. A pap kártyázott Nagyborosnyón. Mire eszmélt, futott. Befutott a templomba, és onnan kikergették. „Ahogy befutott, tiszteletes úr, tessék innen kifutni örökre.” Ki is dobták azonnali hatállyal, hát képzelje el, hogy bent voltak a hívek, és nem volt pap! Ilyen nem sok történik. Azután, azt hiszem, a megye is kacagta. Az lett a vége, hogy Czeglédi [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyre jött, és a mozinál volt portás a papi rangjával. Máshol nem vették föl.
Sepsiszentgyörgyön, ahol ma van a színház, az az épület annak idején mozi volt. Csak hat hétig minden évben [játszottak ott színdarabokat], mikor jöttek színészek [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyre. Állandó színház Kolozsváron, Pesten, nagyvárosokban volt, de azok Sepsiszentgyörgyre, ilyen helyekre nem jöttek, még Kézdire [Kézdivásárhelyre] se mentek. De sok vándorszínész volt, azok járták az országot. És hathetes kurzusokat tartottak [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön is minden évben. Nagyon jól ment, oda lehetett bérletet kötni, vagy hogyha a közönségnek tetszett, amit fognak előadni, szerződést kötöttek nyolc hétre. Jó operetteket játszottak – Kálmán Imre operetteket, „Csárdáskirálynő”, „Víg özvegy”, ezeket játszották, nekem nagyon tetszettek, már fiatal leány koromban –, és vígjátékokat, mert azt szerették [a sepsiszentgyörgyiek], de volt mindig egy dráma is [Kálmán Imre (Siófok, 1882 – Párizs, 1953) – zeneszerző; Budapesten, a Fasori Evangélikus Gimnáziumban érettségizett, 15 évesen iratkozott be a Zeneakadémiára, majd jogot hallgatott a budapesti egyetemen. A „Pesti Napló” zenei rovatának vezetője volt 5 éven át. Első nagy sikere a „Tatárjárás volt” (1908), amelyet Bécsben – akkor: az operett fővárosa – is bemutattak. 25 évesen Bécsbe költözött, bécsi operettszerző lett. A 20. század első évtizedében a „Tatárjárás”-t már játszották New Yorkban, Moszkvában, Londonban, Rómában, s ez volt az első magyar operett, amely Franciaországban színre került. Leghíresebb operettje a „Csárdáskirálynő” (Bécs, 1915). Az Anschluss után Párizsba költözött, majd Amerikába. A háború után visszatért Európába, s 1953-ban zenei munkásságáért megkapta a francia becsületrend tiszti keresztjét. Párizsban hunyt el, kívánságának megfelelően Bécsben temették el; a „Víg özvegy“ Lehár Ferenc operettje. Lehár Ferenc (Komárom, 1870 – Bad Ischl /Ausztria/, 1948) – zeneszerző, karmester. Zeneszerzői munkásságát operakompozíciókkal kezdte. Bécsben mutatták be első operettjét 1902-ben („Bécsi asszonyok“), amely világsiker lett. Életének legnagyobb részét az osztrák fővárosban töltötte, 1926–1938 között Berlinben élt. A háború után Zürichbe költözött, és csak röviddel halála előtt tért vissza Ausztriába. A század eleji operett egyik legkiválóbb képviselője („Drótostót”, „Víg özvegy”, „Luxemburg grófja”, „Cigányszerelem”, „Éva”, „A mosoly országa” stb.) (Magyar Életrajzi Lexikon). – A szerk.].
Én 1909. május tizenhatodikán születtem. Édesanyám húsz éves volt, mikor én születtem, édesapám huszonegy. Három év alatt édesanyámnak még két gyereke született. Nem éltek olyan jó életet édesnyámék azért, mert a húga édesapámnak, Gizella néni, mint ahogy a gyerekek között van egy főnök, aki dirigál, ez a húga olyan volt. Habár apám idősebb volt két vagy három évvel. Olvastam egy levelét édesanyámnak, ami megmaradt nagymamámnál, amiben írta [édesanyám édesapámnak], hogy „A fekete lelkű testvéredre hallgatsz”. Az apai nagyszüleim építettek egy nagy házat, elöl üzlettel és a ház mellé egy nagy sütödét. És oda adogatta apám a pénzt, hogy építsenek a szülei, amit elgondoltak. Édesanyám neheztelt, hogy odaadja a keresetét, mikor van már két gyermek. És az a kövér Gizella néni, aki aztán elvette Annuskát örökbe, mégis heccelte édesapámat, legalábbis a levélben az volt írva, hogy azt mondta édesapámnak, hogy „Feleséget kapsz, amennyit akarsz, de a szüleid nincsenek [vagyis ők egyetlenek], és azokat kell segíteni”. Hát szép azért, hogy segíti a szüleit, de ne a gyermekek rovására.

Édesanyám meghalt huszonhárom évesen. Akkor egy szép család – azt lehet mondani, hogy – órák alatt szétesett. Falun laktunk, Nagyborosnyón, és édesanyám bejött [Sepsiszentgyörgyre az édesanyjához] a három gyerekkel és a háztartási alkalmazottal [lásd: cseléd] – alkalmazottunk volt, természetesen, három gyerek mellett. És két vagy három nap alatt meghalt. Vakbélgyulladása lehetett, mert felboncoltatták, és tiszta genny volt az egész belső része, gondolom, hogy akkor nem ismerték föl. Többet ismertem hosszú életem folyamán, akiknek a szülei így haltak meg. A vakbélgyulladást nem ismerték, ugye, és meleg borogatásokkal hashártyagyulladás lett belőle.

Három kicsi gyereket hagyott maga után. Halálakor én három éves voltam, az öcsém másfél éves és a húgom hat hónapos. De egyes dolgokra tisztán emlékszem hároméves koromból: egy karácsonyra, hogy az asztalon karácsonyfa volt, és egy ekkora nagy csokoládékifli, csokoládé lehetett, mert ezüsttel volt bevonva, és az tetszett. És arra emlékszem még, és most is tudnék sírni, és sírtam éveken át, habár csak három éves voltam, mikor anyám meghalt, mégis pontosan emlékszem, hogy a sírnál egy néni fogta a kezemet, valamit kérdezett hozzám hajolva, csak arra emlékszem, hogy én azt mondtam: „Este hazajön.” Gondolom, hogy azt mondhatta a néni, hogy „Elment anyukád”. Arra mondhattam én, hogy „Este hazajön”. Én igazán mondom, hogy éveken át ez a mondat kísértett, és ha eszembe jutott, sírtam, hogy hároméves koromban vártam estére, hogy… 

Én az anyai nagymamámhoz [Féder Fannihoz] kerültem, a másik nagymamához a fivérem, és a nagynéném, édesapámnak a húga [Iza néni], akinek nem volt gyereke, az elvette a húgomat. Ez a gyermekkorom. Nagymamám szerény körülmények között élt, de édesapám fizette a nagymamámnak a ruházkodást, szóval édesapám gondoskodott mind a három gyerekről anyagilag. Sose nősült újra.

Az anyai nagymamám itt lakott, Sepsiszentgyörgyön, a másik nagymama az Nagyborosnyón, akinél az öcsém volt, és szintén Nagyborosnyón a nagynénim is. De nagyon rövid ideig lakott a [nagyborosnyói] nagymamánál az öcsém, mert valakik bejöttek, és mondták, hogy „Fanni néni, tessék elhozni a gyereket! Hát az a gyerek hogy volt az anyja mellett? És ott van a két leány – az apai nagymamának a két leánya –, a két lusta dög leány, és az a gyermek piszkoson jár. Ne tessék hagyni”. És tényleg, szegény [anyai] nagymamám kiment [Nagy]Borosnyóra, és mesélte, hogy megszidta [a nagynénéimet], hogy azt a másfél éves gyereket olyan rendetlenül találta. És akkor őt [az öcsémet] is vállalta. Nagyon ügyes asszony volt. Úgy látszik, nagyanyámtól örököltem, hogy mindig azon gondolkoztam, hogy keressek valamit még a családnak. Na, a nagymamám is ilyen volt. Sok mindennel foglalkozott, már pontosan nem is emlékszem, tudom, hogy árult cukorkát, finom cukorkákat vett, és kitette egy asztalra egy üvegládába – teteje, oldala, minden üvegből volt, csak ami összefogta, volt fa – a kapu elé. De mondom, hogy apám azért adott [pénzt].

Az öcsém, Molnár András, Bandika 1911. február tizenkettedikén született. Sepsiszentgyörgyön járt négy gimnáziumot, és utána, hogy árva fiú volt, elment Szatmárra [Szatmárnémetibe], az anyai nagymama húgáékhoz, akiknek angró kereskedésük volt, hogy tanulja ki [a kereskedést]. Beiratkozott, és elvégezte a kereskedelmi iskolát, de estiben, és nappal segített a rőfösüzletben. Nem árultak csak nagykereskedőknek, kinek mi kellett, azt összerakták végekbe, szóval ezt csinálta. Ajánlott házassága volt. A feleségének, Schwartz Piroskának forgalmas üzlete volt Gyergyószentmiklósban [a házasság után Molnár András vezette]. Öt hónapra született egy fiuk, de meghalt szülés után. Élt szegényke, még szuszogott egy kis ideig, de elhunyt. [A második világháború idején] sárga karszalagos munkaszolgálatosnak volt besorolva [az öcsém], Gyergyó valamelyik falujában voltak. A felesége el volt deportálva, de hazakerült élve. Bandika [a háború után] elvégzett egy három hónapos kurzust Bukarestben, ami után főkönyvelő lett Csíkszeredában. Ceauşescu idejében zárolt városok voltak [A zárolt város azt jelentette, hogy egyáltalán nem vagy csak nagyon körülményesen lehetett beköltözni a nagyobb városokba, Brassóba, Marosvásárhelyre vagy Kolozsvárra. Lásd: a szabad helyváltoztatás korlátozása Romániában. – A szerk.]. Ez azt jelentette, hogy ő [az öcsém] Csíkszeredából Marosvásárhelyre vitte a mérleget. Nem szerette Csíkszeredát, mindenképp el akart onnan jönni. Átköltöztek Sepsiszentgyörgyre, vettek egy háromszobás blokklakást. A lányuk, Ágnes már Sepsiszentgyörgyön született 1947-ben. Ágnes Pozsonyba ment férjhez. Gergyószentmiklóson volt nyaralni az édesanyja nővérééknél, és ott volt egy lágerbeli ismerősük fia is, ez a cseh zsidó fiú. Megismerkedtek, és házasság lett az ismeretségből. Az öcsém itt [Sepsiszentgyörgyön] halt meg, 1986-ban, a zsidó temetőben van eltemetve. Halála után a felesége, Piroska elment Pozsonyba, a lányához, ő ott halt meg.

A húgom, Annus 1912-ben született. Az elemit [Nagy]Borosnyón végezte. De Borosnyón csak hat osztály volt [azaz elemi iskola volt], és utána négy polgárit járt itt, [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön, a Mikóban [Székely Mikó Kollégium], és nagymamámnál lakott [A „Mikó” gimnázium volt, nincs róla tudomásunk, hogy lett volna polgári iskola az intézményen belül. Vagyis vagy négy évet végzett a gimnáziumban, vagy nem a Mikóba járt. – A szerk.]. A húgom 1932-ben ment férjhez, a sógoromat Czitrom Ferinek, Ferencnek hívták. Brassóban éltek, majd [a második világháború után] kérték, hogy elmehessenek [kivándorolhassanak] Izraelbe. Mindenkit kiengedtek, aki akart menni. És a zsidók futottak Romániából [lásd: kivándorlási hullám Romániából a második világháború után]. Nagyon kevés maradt. Hát csak [Sepsi]Szentgyörgynek is több mint háromszáz zsidó lakosa volt. Mindenkinek adtak [útlevelet], zsidóknak, akik végleg akartak menni, hát minden nekik [a román államnak] maradt, mindeniknek volt háza, olyan zsidó nem volt, hogy ne lett volna. És még a tetejében az volt követelve, hogy teljesen rendbe kell hozni [a házat]. Az ajándékot csak úgy fogadta el a román állam, hogyha pontra van téve, minden lefestve, ajtó, ablak, padló, minden. A sógorom itthon kereskedő volt, de Izraelben – mivel nem beszélte a héber nyelvet – egy Romániából származó mészárosnak lett a segédje, ő szeletelte a húst. 1999 februárjában halt meg a húgom Izraelben.

Volt zsidó nevem – Szuri –, mert kellett. De senki az égvilágon nem szólított Szurinak, nem tudom, mit csináltam volna. A gyermek azt szereti, amit megszokik. Szólított a család Alicának, szólított Aliszkának, de Szurinak senki se szólított.

A [sepsiszentgyörgyi] hitközség a legegyszerűbb volt, status quo [lásd: status quo hitközségek]. Hallottam a tévében, hogy ez a vallás[i irányzat] megszűnt [a környéken], mert nincsenek hívői. Nincs már majdnem semminek hívője. Brassóban, mikor mi ott laktunk, voltak neológok, és voltak ortodoxok is. Itt, [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön nem voltak vallásosak a zsidók egyáltalán, az egész megyében. Édesapám nem is tudott zsidóul [héberül] olvasni. Egy testvére se tudott zsidóul. Imádkozni megtanultak, de azt hiszem, hogy nem tudták, hogy mit jelent. Én is jártam hájderbe [héderbe]. Úgy hívták az óvodát, kétéves korban már jártak a zsidó gyerekek óvodába. Én is jártam óvodába. Habár vallástalanok voltak, mégis a gyerekeket küldték óvodába. Falun ez [héder] se volt, pedig sokan laktak a falvakban is. Hát [Nagy]Borosnyón is öt vagy hat zsidó fűszerüzlet volt.

Nagyon kevesen tartották be vallásosan [az előírásokat]. Egypár öreg – a nagymamám és még vagy ketten – vágatta a majorságát a sakterrel, mert azt mondták, hogy az a vallásos. A többi [zsidó] disznót evett, semmit nem tartott. Aztán voltak olyan zsidó családok is, hogy levágatták a majorságot, a libát a sakterrel, de közben a disznót is megették. Ez egy olyan szertartás volt, a sakter [lásd: sehita]. Úgy csinálta, hogy levágta a sakter a majorságot, és volt ott homok, mindig hozattak homokot, és odadobta [a levágott állatot], hogy folyjon ki minden csepp vére. Mert tisztátalannak tartották a vért. Falun azt hiszem, olyan sem volt, aki a majorságot [sakterrel] vágatta. Falun nem volt sakter, és akkor ők vágták le. És az már nem kóser, azt ők [a nagyon vallásosak] már tréflinek tartották, ugye.

Szép zsinagóga volt [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön, a Csíki utcában. És azon a területen, ahol a templom volt, lakott a kántor, lakott a sakter, ott volt az imaház, és elöl, a templom előtti téren épült egy szép nagy kultúrház. [A második világháború után] [Nagy]Váradról intézték [irányították] azt a pár zsidót, akik hazakerültek, azok nagy része is egyenesen Izraelbe ment – nem Izrael volt akkor, hanem ugye Palesztina [lásd: Izrael állam megalakulása] –, és így alig voltak [zsidók] [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön. A zsinagógát az 1940-es években lebontották, azt hiszem, hogy államilag kérték, hogy bontsák le. És semmit nem építettek oda, megvan a terület. A [zsidó] kultúrház most is megvan, használja az állam, tudtommal. Egypár évig a sepsiszentgyörgyi városi könyvtár volt ott – oda jártam –, utána pedig odaadták a Jehova tanúinak, és nem tudom, most mi van benne.

Én Sepsiszentgyörgyön nem jártam templomba, csak nagyünnepkor, az őszi ünnepekkor mentem egy kicsit, egy-két órára. Akkor kellett menjek, mondta nagymamám. A kántornak volt két fia, még gyerekek voltak, tizenkét-tizenhárom évesek, de olyan gyönyörűen énekeltek, gyönyörű hangjuk volt, igazán operaénekesek is lehettek volna. És azért is elmentem, hogy hallgassam meg [őket].

[Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön volt rabbi, azt is elhurcolták. Fiatal, modern pap [rabbi] volt, aki öngyilkos lett a lágerben. Akik hazakerültek, mondták, hogy a villanydrótra tette a kezét, és villannyal végezte ki saját magát. Egy szép, ügyes fiatalember volt, huszonnyolc-harminc év körüli, nem is volt nős.

Mikve volt, de az én gyerekkoromban csak a nagymamával egykorúak jártak mikvébe, de aztán az is megszűnt. Nagyon kevés járhatott. Ilyenek, mint a nagymama, ha még fogadalmuk is volt, de fiatal nem. És az meg is szűnt aztán, nem tudom, pontosan mikor, mert én sose jártam.

Nagymamám minden évben három-négy hónapot Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben] töltött a húgánál. Mindig nyáron ment, iskola után, hát iskolaszezon alatt ott kellett legyen, mikor én ott nála nevelkedtem. És én addig kimentem [Nagy]Borosnyóra, a nyarakat ott töltöttem, a három hónapot. De volt, mikor engem is meghívtak [Szatmárnémetibe].

A szatmári rokonaim ortodoxok voltak, de az már óriási lépés volt modernségben a hászidemekhez [haszidokhoz] képest. Elvittek az ortodox templomba, hogy lássam. Az ortodoxoknak rendes, nagyon szép nagy templomuk volt, abban is jártam, olyan volt, mint a neológoké, csak nem volt orgona [A bölcsek négy alapvető tilalmat rendeltek el a szombattal kapcsolatban, ezek egyike a munka: szombaton mindenfajta munkától tartózkodni kell, márpedig az orgonabillentyűk nyomogatása is munka, tehát tilos. Ezért az ortodoxia szemében botrány az orgona a zsinagógában, a neológia szemében viszont a reformok jelképe. (Magyarországon egyébként a nagykanizsai nagyzsinagógában építettek először orgonát, 1845-ben.) – A szerk.]. Templom volt, amilyen kellett legyen, karzata volt, az első emeleten voltak a nők, és előttük volt egy széles lemez, olyan, mint a rosta, hogy a nők azokon a rostalukakon kileskődhettek a férfiakra, de a férfi hiába akart, mert ugye azon a kicsi sűrű lukacskán nem látott semmit. De a nők, ha kíváncsiak voltak, akkor azokon a kicsi lukakon is lehetett látni. És elvittek engem a hászidemekhez is. A hászidemeknek rendes templomuk se volt. A templomuk olyan volt, hogy csak két szoba, két terem volt egymásba [nyílóan], és közötte sűrű függöny. A nők árnyakban látták a függönyön keresztül, hogy ott mozognak valakik, élőlények, nem látták egymást [a nők és a férfiak], el voltak így választva függönnyel [Az ortodox zsinagógák között is volt olyan, ahol a női karzat függönnyel volt elválasztva. – A szerk.].

És Háneli – így nevezték Ilonkát [Schönberger Ilona, az anyai nagymama Szatmárnémetiben élő húgának egyik lánya] a zsidó nevén – azt mondta: „Elviszlek most egy hászid esküvőre.” És elmesélték a történetét is. Volt az esküvő, de még nem is látták egymást [a menyasszony és a vőlegény]. És elmesélték, hogy a férfiak, az apák egyezkedtek, hogy mit ad a leány hozományba, mit ad a fiú hozományba. Mintha tárgy lett volna, úgy egyezkedett a két apa. De nem látták egymást soha. Nagyon fiatalon házasodtak, szűzön ment a fiú is, a hászidemes fiú a nagy pájesszal. Aztán mikor volt az esküvő, nekik is megvolt a fejük felett a hipe [hüpe]. Azon az udvaron volt, ahol volt a templom, oda volt fölállítva a hipe. És ott voltak a meghívottak is. Nem emlékszem, a szertartás milyen nyelven folyt le, jiddisül vagy héberül, lehet mind a két nyelven, de lehet, hogy héberül. Két nő vitt egy sűrűn lefátyolozott [lásd: bedekkolás] valakit a hipe alá, és vitték a fiút, ő eltörte a poharat. Poharat törnek a lábukkal [a vőlegények], hogy annyi év boldogságot éljenek, ahány szilánk[ra törik]. Minél jobban igyekeztek a férfiak eltaposni, hogy minél több szilánk legyen [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás]. És akkor mondta Háneli, hogy most hazamennek, és a fiú le fogja venni a sűrű valamit a leány fejéről, és akkor látják meg egymást. Ez a házasság, hogy mivel végződött, nem tudjuk. De mesélt Háneli olyat, hogy magasföldszintről kiszökött a menyasszony, mikor meglátta a vőlegényt, úgy megirtózott tőle. Ilyen is volt. Mert ugye nagyon vallásosak voltak ezek a hászidemek, ezek megmaradtak az ötezer éves [szokásokkal]. Ugyanabban a prémes sapkában és kaftánban [jártak] télen-nyáron, ahogy jártak az őseink [A sajátos haszid viselet a 18. századi lengyel nemesi viseletből nőtt ki. Lásd: haszidizmus; haszid öltözék. – A szerk.]. És lógatták a pájeszukat. Az ortodoxok is meghagyták a pájeszukat, de az ortodoxok felcsavarták [a fülük mögé]. Az ortodoxok is vallásosak voltak azért, csak épp nem olyanok, mint [a haszidok].

[Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön jártunk [én és az öcsém] a zsidó óvodába, azt tudom. De jártam a magyar óvodába, ami kötelező volt. A magyar óvodában jobban szerettem, mert ott több játék volt, többet játszottunk, a rendes állami óvodában. És azért kevésbé emlékszem a zsidó óvodára, hogy hogy is volt, nem tudom. És jártunk aztán zsidó iskolába [héderbe] is, míg a négy elemit jártuk. Tudtam olvasni [héberül], de elfelejtettem.

Rossz két gyerek voltunk, mondta a nagymamám, hogy verekedtünk az öcsémmel, és ő, szegény, nem bírta. És akkor úgy csinálta nagymamám [hogy egyszerre menjünk iskolába]. Én hat éves voltam [1915.] májusban, és be voltam íratva az első osztályba, és az öcsém még öt éves se volt, de azt mondta: „Ha verekedtek, akkor fog menni ő is [iskolába].” És beíratta, hogy ne csak civakodjunk. És nem tudom, hogy hogy, de bevették. Úgyhogy nem egy osztályba, de párhuzamos osztályba jártunk, ő egy fiúosztályban, mert külön leány- és külön fiúosztály volt. De hát első osztályban húszig tanultunk számolni. Ágakból csináltunk – kellett, a tanító néni mondta – húsz darab lécecskét [azokkal számoltunk], és palatáblára írtunk palavesszővel. Csak ennyi volt a nagy tudomány, hogy húszig tanultunk számolni elsőben, és vagy egy nagybetűt, nyomtatott nagybetűt és egy-két szót, ló, ilyesmiket. Én úgy emlékszem. Nem emlékszem már jól, nagyon messzi dolog az, hogy pontosan emlékezzek, ugye.

De csak egy osztályt jártam ott elemibe [azaz a népiskolába], mert nagymamám engem visszaadott a zárdába az elsőbe [azaz: beadta a zárdába, ismét az első osztályba], hogy nem volt megelégedve, amit tanítottak itt. Nagymamám akarta, hogy tanuljak zongorázni is – olyan ámbíciós volt, mindent szeretett volna csinálni –, és azért átadott engem a nővérekhez, a katolikus iskolába. És ott az egyik nővér tanított zongorázni. De hiába tanított, ha nem volt zongorám. És akkor a zárdába jártam négy évet, az elemibe csak [Annak idején négy elemi iskolai osztály elvégzése után lehetett menni középfokú iskolába (polgári iskolába, gimnázium első osztályába stb.). Aki nem tanult tovább, annak el kellett végeznie az elemi iskola ötödik-hatodik osztályát. Lásd: elemi iskola / népiskola; gimnázium és egyéb középiskolák; kereskedelmi iskolák. – A szerk.]. A zárdában csak hat osztály volt, aki nem akart négyből gimnáziumba menni – ugye, jártak szegény gyerekek a zárdába –, az csak öt-hat osztályt végzett. Mert már azok mentek dolgozni, mert aki egy hatodikot elvégzett, tíz-tizenkét éves volt, ment libapásztornak, szóval a szülő a leánykákat és a fiúcskákat is dolgoztatta abban az időben. Így volt, nagy szegénység volt.

A Mikóban jártam négy gimnáziumot, 1924-ben végeztem a négy gimnáziumot [A „Mikó” 1859-ben kezdte meg működését Székely Tanoda néven, az első gimnáziumi osztály beindításával, német iskolaként. 1870-ben gróf Mikó Imre (akit 1876-ban Erdély Széchenyijének neveztek) saját költségén Zofahl Gusztáv építészmérnökkel elkészíttette az egyik szárny tervét (1877-re felépült). Majd Mikó Imre 60 ezer koronás alapítványával és némi állami segéllyel 1892-re Alpár Ignác tervei alapján felépült a másik szárny. Az iskola felvette a Székely Mikó Tanoda nevet, és 1892 szeptemberében mint nyolcosztályos főgimnázium megnyitotta kapuját, 1893 nyarán tartották az első érettségi vizsgát. A 20. század első negyedében már lányok is látogatták az iskolát, de a lányok és a fiúk még kerítéssel voltak elválasztva. – A szerk.]. És akkor Brassóban volt egy kétéves református kereskedelmi iskola, és én abba jártam, 1926-ban végeztem. Nem hiszem, hogy még van Brassóban volt osztálytársam. Nem hiszem, hogy ilyen sokat éltek volna. Én Kolozsvárra szerettem volna menni, a zsidó gimnáziumba, és onnan orvosnak. Mindenképp orvos szerettem volna lenni – pedig nem bírtam volna –, nem tudom, hogy mégis miért adott apám Brassóba, a kétéves kereskedelmibe [Kolozsvárott 1920-tól működött zsidó fiú- és leány-középiskola, előbb héber, majd román tanítási nyelvvel, de anyagi nehézségek miatt 1927-ben – noha tanulóinak létszáma 700 fő körül volt – megszűnt. – A szerk.].

Habár elvégeztem Brassóban ezt a kétéves kereskedelmit, nem mentem állásba, akkor nem volt olyan nagy divat [hogy nők dolgozzanak]. És nagyon nehezen lehetett elhelyezkedni nőknek a hivatalokban. Én se nagyon igyekeztem. Egy darabig még nagymamámnál laktam, egészen 1929-ig, aztán édesapám [Bagy]Borosnyón kivett egy szép nagy házat, azt akarta, hogy jöjjek ki. Mert két vénleány húga volt, és [1929-ig] együtt laktak. De az egyik vén[kisasszony] nagynénim férjhez ment, és akkor édesapám külön akart költözni. Hát én 1929-ben kimentem, de már nekem kezdett udvarolni a férjem, úgyhogy nem tudom pontosan, két évet ha voltunk együtt az édesapámmal, mert én 1930. december huszonötödikén férjhez mentem, és feljöttem [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyre, a férjem idevaló fiú volt. Édesapám korán meghalt, ötvenöt éves korában [1943-ban, Nagyborosnyón].

A férjem 1905. február tizenkettedikén született. Az édesapját ugyanúgy hívták, mint őt, Kósa Jenő. Az öreg [a férjem apja] nagyon módos volt, tímárműhelye volt. De jól ment, mert nagyon viselték a csinált[atott] csizmákat és a csinált[atott] bakancsokat a falusiak. Én nem értettem a bőrökhöz, de így mondták, hogy ők nagyon jó, finom bőröket csináltak. Az édesanyja [a férjemnek] magyarnak nevelkedett, de román ortodox családból származott. Az édesanyjuk valamelyik gyerekkel szülés után meghalt, és az én anyósom bekerült egy román nagynénijéhez, akinek a férje egy Zöldi Károly nevezetű gazdag, hát nem tudom, földesúr-e, de művelt ember volt, azok vették el [nevelték vagy örökbe fogadták] őt hároméves korában vagy még korábban. És hogy magyar ember volt az a Zöldi Károly, a román felesége is református lett, úgyhogy anyósom is rendesen a református vallást tartotta, és érzelmileg is… Tudta, hogy a származása román, de haragudott, ha valaki emlegette. Eredetileg úgy hívták, hogy Pulugor Virág. De azt mondta a férjem, hogy biztos, hogy Florica lehetett, csak aztán akik ugye elvették, felnevelték, Virágnak indították. De nem tudom, hogy miért, ő Pulugor Virág volt, de mégis mindenki Zsuzsika néninek szólította.

A férjemnek még volt három bátyja és két húga. Az egyik bátyja hősi halált halt az első világháborúban, azt én nem is ismertem. A második bátyja, [Kósa] Árpád az édesapjával tímárkodott. A harmadik bátyja pedig, [Kósa] László elvégezte a négy polgárit, és akkor beadták egy fűszerüzletbe inasnak – tizenöt éves korától inaskodott –, hogy megtanulja a kereskedő mesterséget [lásd: kereskedelmi iskolák; tanoncinas, tanonc]. Akkor úgy volt, hogy üzletben kellett inaskodni. És előre mindent kellett az inas csináljon: takarítani, vizet hordani, mindent, míg aztán kezdett ő is árulni, és aztán segéd lett. És akkor nagyon sok Hangyaszövetkezet volt [lásd: Hangya Romániában], Kökösben [Háromszék vm.] megkapta a Hangyaszövetkezet vezetését.

A férjemmel szinte szomszédok voltunk, és az én férjem mint fiú, járt egy rokon családhoz [a Frank családhoz]. Az odavaló fiú és leány nekem második unokatestvéreim voltak, de fiatalabbak voltak nála, és mégis járt oda szórakozni Jenő, a [későbbi] férjem. Én Brassóban jártam a kereskedelmibe, és a húgom, amíg itt járt [Sepsiszentgyörgyön] iskolába, a nagymamánál volt. És nagyon kacér leányka volt az én húgom, szegénykém. És mikor jöttem haza vakációba karácsonykor, hallom, hogy az én húgommal foglalkozik Jenő. Nagyon dühös voltam, hogy egy felnőtt férfi egy leánykával foglalkozik. Ugye, még fiatal volt [a húgom], tizenkét-tizenhárom éves – de fejlettebb volt, mint én –, és mondjuk, [Jenő] húsz éves volt. Szóval komolytalannak vettem, és ki nem állhattam a húgom végett, nem szerettem, és hogy úgy viselkedtem vele szemben, ő se szeretett engem. Észrevette, hogy én ki nem állhatom. Ez a Frank család nevelt egy árva leányt, akit jól kihasználtak. Egy este, úgy alkonyat fele, nem tudom, miért, elmentem ehhez a családhoz. Senki nem volt otthon, csak ez a fogadott idősebb lány. És én bementem, mert szerettem vele beszélgetni, sajnáltam is, hogy árva leány volt, és annyira kihasználták. És ahogy ott beszélgetünk, egyszer csak kopogtatnak, és ki állít be? Kósa úr. Nem tudom, milyen ötletem volt nekem, gondoltam, most kedves leszek, és lássuk, mi lesz. Csak hülyeségből, komolyan mondom. És nagyon kedvesen fogadtam. Mesélt, végül nem tudom, hogy hogy keveredtünk, de egy papírra én is írtam valamit, és ő írt vissza [leveleztünk]. Így dugosgattuk egymásnak. Hogy ebből, egy viccből ez fejlődött, hogy végül [összeházasodtunk]… hihetetlen. Ez volt 1929-ben, és 1930. december huszonötödikén összeházasodtunk.

Most kezdődik az én életem, a közös életünk. De vissza kell térjek a férjemre, mert hihetetlen, pedig igaz, hogy tökéletesen megismétlődött az ő életének egy része a fiammal. Ugyanaz. Csodának számít, de ugyanaz az élete volt egy darabig, tökéletesen, amit most elmondok.

A férjem, ez a Kósa Jenő mint diák, makrancos volt nagyon. Gyönyörű hangja volt, de nem ment pontosan az [ének]próbákra, és az osztályfőnöke megmondta, hogy ezentúl tessék pontosan menni. Jenő azt mondta: „Nem megyek.” „De fog menni.” „Nem, nem megyek.” Vagy megtörtént a tornatanárral, hogy le kellett volna térdeljen, olyan torna[gyakorlat] volt, de rajta egy új nadrág volt, és nem térdelt le. És még volt egy cirkusz – tizenegyedikes kellett legyen [azaz: a nyolcosztályos gimnázium hetedik osztályát végezte] –, de abból olyan cirkusz lett, hogy az osztályfőnöke ütötte a katedrán az asztalt, és Jenő a padot. És akkor felhívatták az apját az iskolába, és azt mondták: „Kósa bácsi, már év vége van, év végén már nem csapjuk ki, de jövő évtől tessék elvinni a városból is, itt nem érettségizhet.” Kézdivásárhelyen a katolikus gimnáziumba íratta be az apja következő alkalommal. De jó fejű volt, úgyhogy jó eredménnyel vizsgázott, és Magyarországon ösztöndíjat kapott az orvosira. Nemcsak ő, hanem ötön kaptak ösztöndíjat [abból az iskolából]. Na, örvendeztek a szülei, ugye, iparos ember volt az apja, de jómódú és jó nevű tímár. És örvendezett. Hát egyszer csak nyílik a kapu, már nem tudom, fél év múlva-e, hazajött. „Hát te miért jöttél haza? Vakáció van?” „Nem, én nem szeretem az orvosi pályát, én nem megyek vissza. Én ügyvéd akarok lenni.” Az öreg azt mondta: „Én nem nevelek gazembert. Mert az ügyvédek mind csalók, rablók, én becstelen embert nem nevelek.” Ilyen volt az apja, pedig neki is volt négy polgárija. „Na, azt mondta az öreg, hát hogyha én nem fizetek azért, hogy te ügyvéd legyél, akkor jössz, és csinálod a tímárságot.” És kellett csebrezzen. Mert nagyon sok víz kell a tímársághoz, ahogy mondta, és ketten vitték a vállukon a vizet egy nagy cseberben. Úgyhogy végül a jobb válla egy kicsit ki is állt az én férjemnek [a vízhordástól]. Na, de kezdett nekem udvarolni. Azt kérdezte apám: „De mire akar nősülni? Arra, hogy hordja az apjának a vizet? Szó se lehet róla.” A férjemnek a bátyja [Kósa László] Kökösben [11 km-re Sepsiszentgyörgytől, délre. – A szerk.] a Hangyaszövetkezetnek volt a vezetője, ő tanult kereskedő volt, a férjemnek csak az érettségije volt, nem volt tanult kereskedő. Azt mondta az öreg [Kósa], hogy betábláztat [megterheli jelzáloggal az ingatlanát], fölvesz a bankban pénzt, és nyissanak egy üzletet, „Kósa testvérek”, egy fűszerüzletet. És nyitottak egy fűszerüzletet.

Volt eljegyzés a házasság előtt egy évvel, egy kicsivel nagyobb [mint az esküvőnk], de nem sokkal. Hosszú menyasszony voltam, hát Jenőnek meg kellett teremteni valami állást, hát apám nem [egyezett másképp bele]. Az eljegyzés a mi lakásunkban volt, szép lakást béreltünk édesapámmal 1929-ben, mikor hazamentem. Az eljegyzésen ott volt a férjemnek a szoros családja is: a szülei, a testvérei – a két bátyja és azok felesége és Rózsika meg a férje. De már az első unokatestvérek nem voltak meghíva. És nekem ezek [a rokonaim], akik [Nagy]Borosnyón voltak [az apja testvérei, a húga].

Egyházi esküvőnk nem volt. Én azt mondtam Jenőnek, hogy én nem hagyom el a vallásomat, ha nem is tartom, de nem hagyom el [lásd: vegyes házasság.]. Azt sem hiszem jobban, akkor miért? Jenővel ketten felsétáltunk a nagyborosnyói községházához, és azt mondtam, hogy aki ott van, az legyen a tanú. Hát egy mérnök lett a tanú, aki Brassóban, a cukorgyárban volt mérnök, és éppen odahaza volt, és egy gazda. Az van a házassági levelemen. Ott voltak a községháza előtt, diskurált ez a gazda a mérnök úrral, és őket kértük meg, hogy legyenek a tanúk. A két nagynénim csinált egy jó, finom ebédet, süteményt, mindenfélét, de csak közvetlen a családnak. A férjemnek a szülei nem voltak ott [az ebéden].

Esküvő után [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön laktunk, hogy ott volt a fűszerüzlet, amit a testvérével nyitottak. És ő nem akarta, hogy menjek dolgozni. A Csíki utcában volt az üzlet, ahol most a könyvesüzlet van, a sarok mellett: „Kósa testvérek”. De hát a testvére [Kósa László] öt évvel nagyobb is volt, és az volt a kereskedő. Na most, mi történt? Az történt, hogy az én férjem nem tanulta ezt a mesterséget, ő méregetett. De a pénzt is a testvére szedte – csak felírták, ki mit vitt haza [és később fizették ki] –, ő vásárolt be az üzlet részére, ő kezelte a pénzt. Nem ment, nem ment [számunkra az üzlet]. Nem ment ez nekem be [a fejembe], mondtam Jenőnek: én ezt nem bírom, hogy Laci szedi a pénzt, és te kiszolgálsz. És ha nekem egy harisnya kell, én pénzt Lacitól kérjek?” Mondom, én ezt nem bírom, valamit kell csináljunk. Nagyon nem szerettem.

Brassóban nyitottak a kereskedők egy nagy angró fűszerraktárat, hogy legyen magyar. Mert ugye a szászoknak volt mindnek nagy üzlete, és a magyar [fűszer]kereskedők Brassóból és Háromszékről elhatározták, hogy Brassóban ők is csinálnak egy nagy raktárat. Na, meghallottam, hogy keresik a raktárfőnököt. De én nem tudtam, hogy a férjem mennyire alkalmas, pedig már négyéves házasok voltunk. Nem tudtam, én ezen a téren nem ismertem. Nekem sejtelmem se volt róla, hogy ő nem tudja megtanulni. Hazajött, beszélgettünk, mondom: „Azonnal beadsz kérvényt, meg fogod pályázni.” Meg is pályázta. Sohase fogom elfelejteni, hogy mikor megpályázta, jó idő volt, kimentünk este sétálni. És sírt. Hogy mi lesz. Ő magában biztosan érezte, de én nem tudtam, hogy mire képes. Nem ismertem. Négy év alatt nem tudtam megismerni. Azt mondja: „Most itt hagyjuk az üzletet, a biztosat, és ha nem válik be az?” Mondom: „Nem baj, ha nem válik be, fiatalok vagyunk, talpra esünk.” Úgy is volt, talpra estünk. Úgy talpra estünk, hogy másfél év alatt felmondtak neki. Én nem voltam elkeseredve. Soha nem jutott eszembe, hogy én milyen bátor voltam, de most, utólag, hogy egyedül vagyok, elgondolom, hogy én vajon most meg merném-e tenni azokat, amiket akkor.

Brassóban nagyon-nagyon magas házbérek voltak, hát abból éltek [a bérbe adók]. Vettünk ki egy kétszobás-fürdőszobás lakást, de nem első osztályút. Nagyon szép volt, de az előszobából csak a konyhába lehetett menni, és [onnan] a két szobába egyfolytában [azaz egymásba nyíltak a helyiségek]. És udvari volt [nem utcára nyíló]. És mégis kétezer-kétszáz lejt fizettünk. Na, ott van a nyakunkon egy nagy adósság [a lakbér]. Én kerestem a lakást [egy másik bérletet]. Véletlenül összetalálkoztam egy málnási ismerősömmel, és ő: „Hogy vagytok?” Mondom, hogy jelenleg úgy vagyunk, hogy nincsen állásunk. Azt mondja: „Te, hát ott van Bikszádon egy nagyon jó üzlet, vegyétek ki” [Sepsibükszád, románul: Bixad, Sepsiszentgyörgytől 31 km-re. – A szerk.]. Na, mondom, én megnézem. Bikszádon az állomás környékén több ház van, akkor is [volt]. Az egyik volt egy félemeletes, alul üzlet és korcsma. És el akarták adni az üzletet, mert az üzletvezetőnő férjhez ment Kolozsvárra. Megnéztem magamnak, egyedül, hát a férjem azt csinálta, amit én akartam. Mert az én férjem szavak nélkül is elismerte, hogy ő nem érti az üzletet. Azért került ki [az állásából]. Nem tudta, hogy mit csináljon mint raktárfőnök. [Kivették az üzletet, és kiköltöztek Bikszádra.]

Hogy az állomáson laktunk mi, nagyon jó üzlet volt. Mert én abból az üzletből egy jól menő üzletet csináltam. Olyan kereskedés volt a miénk, hogy az egyik fele pálinka [kocsma], de a másik felében minden volt. Mindenfélét bevezettem, mert ügyes kereskedő voltam. Pedig nem tanultam. Én mindent árultam, nem csak azt, amit átvettem a volt üzletvezetőtől. Háromszáznál több favágó munkásom volt Barót környékéről, vágták a fát az erdőben, azok jöttek szombaton szalonna, túró, ilyesmikért. Ezek a favágó munkások az erdőbe egy hétre megvették az élelmet. Én a munkásokat nagyon kedveltem, és ők is engemet, mert mindent beszereztem, amit mondtak. „Naccsága, ezt tessék hozni. Nekem azt. Kell fűrész még.” És mondom: „Mit kell megnézni [a fűrészen], hogy jó legyen?” És mutatták, hogy hogy pengessem, hogy hogy kell hallgatni. Én mentem vásárolni, hát a férjem nem is tudott volna menni, nem is ismerte az árut. Én se, de én megtanultam, ő nem, mert nem érdekelte. Voltak régen a nagykereskedőknek utazóik, akik ajánlták az árukat. A nagykereskedő, mondjuk, fűszereket termelt [forgalmazott], akkor az utazója fölkereste falun és mindenhol a kereskedőket, ajánlta az üzleteseknek, hogy mijük van, mire van szükségük. És az üzletes mondta, hogy küldjön száz kiló cukrot, küldjön ezt, küldjön azt. Hozzánk például Brassóból, a vasüzletből is járt egy utazó. Én mindent hozattam, mindent árultam, amit tudtam, hogy el lehet munkásoknak adni: munkásingeket, sötétebb ingeket, csengőórát kétfélét, bocskort, bakancsot, fűrészt, viharlámpát kicsit, nagyot. Nagyon jó üzlet volt. Abból meg lehetett volna gazdagodni. Csak bérletet fizettem, a tulajdonos Málnáson lakott. De a lakás nagy volt, mert kiadó szobám is volt benne kettő, amit kiadtam.

Igen ám, de jött az iskola a gyermeknek. És Bikszádon egy erdőféleségen kell a faluba felmenni az állomásról – ugye, mi az állomáson laktunk. És én, buta – elfogult anyai szeretet –, azt mondtam, én nem adom őt ide iskolába. Elsősorban nem adom falusi iskolába, másodsorban pedig nem adom, hogy azon az erdőn keresztül menjen, mert még reggeliben nincs is úgy kivirradva. Mondom, Brassóba fogom adni. Bementem Brassóba, de nem vették fel a szász iskolába, mert volt egy törvény, hogy vagy a saját nemzetiségi iskolájába kell járni, vagy az államiba [lásd: zsidó iskolaügy Romániában a két világháború között]. Na, hát nem vették föl, beírattam a református [protestáns] elemi iskolába. Egy ismerősöm ajánlotta nekem az evangélikus papot, hogy az befogadja a gyereket. Jól, gavallérosan meg kellett fizetni. Tényleg, fölmentem, kedvesen fogadtak, nekik volt még egy vele egykorú és két nagyobb fiúcskájuk. De alig telt egy hónap, megyek be, lássam, hogy szokott-e a gyermek. Hát az ágyban találom. És azt mondja a tiszteletesasszony, hogy lázas volt a gyermek, és hívott orvost is. „Na, mondom, összecsomagolok, és hazaviszem.” Ott úgy sajnáltam, mert feküdt egyedül, nem őrizték. Kétezer lejt fizettem havonta. De csak, mondom, egy hónapig járt, egy hónapot fizettem. Hazavittem, akkor másnap még lázasabb lett. És akkor – igazán hihetetlen, pedig esküszöm a leányom emlékére, hogy igazat mondok – azt mondtam a férjemnek, hogy „Csomgolok, és bemegyek Brassóba lakni. Kész”. Bevittem előre a gyermeket akkor éjjel, hogy megint lázas lett. Bevittem Brassóba, a szanatóriumba, szász apácafélék voltak ott. Mind a ketten ott voltunk, én is, a gyermek is.

És azt mondtam, most költözöm. Likvidáltam három hét alatt. Nekem rucáim, tyúkjaim voltak, mert ott olyan jó sík [volt a terület]. Olyan rucáim voltak, hogy volt a ház előtt egy patak, és abban lubickoltak, de mikor enni akartak, olyan édesek [voltak], eljöttek az üzlet ajtajáig – mert ott hozta ki Jenőke egy nagy lapáttal a kukoricát –, odamentek az üzlet ajtajáig, és „vák-vák-vák-vák”. Úgy kacagták a vevőim, hogy milyen édesek. Volt vagy hat lépcső, mert egy hegyoldalba épült ez a ház, és mikor elindult a férjem a lépcsőn, a rucák jöttek fel. Én eladtam egy románnak, likvidáltam, és bementem Brassóba. Kivettem ezt a lakást, ami nagyon jó állapotban volt, csak udvari lakás volt, Közép utcában a tízes szám, emeletes. A Hosszú utca elejéből nyílik ez a Közép utca, de mindjárt elöl van a tízes, a negyedik vagy az ötödik ház. De nagyon szerettem azért, merthogy olyan lépcsőzetesen [volt építve]. Alul szoba volt, földszint, továbbmentél, akkor a lépcsőn mentél fel, de mégis földszinten volt.

Amit mi kivettünk [fűszerüzletet], jó üzlet volt, de a Forrás utcában, elég jó messze a lakásunktól. Lett volna jobb – azután győződtem meg, hogy amit én nem akartam kivenni, az jobb, forgalmasabb lett volna –, de azért, hogy az üzletbe le kellett menni négy lépcsőt, nem vettem ki. Nem tetszett nekem, hogy miért kell lemenni. Amit kivettem, ott hat lépcső volt felfelé. Fűszerüzlet volt, ott nem volt ing vagy ilyesmi, az fűszerüzlet volt. Én a gyermekkel [voltam elfoglalva], és ugye elég messze voltam az üzlettől, a férjem volt az üzletben. Na, de az én férjem olyan [kereskedő] volt, jaj, azt se tudtam, míg meg nem győződtem. Valamikor behívták egy hónapra katonai gyakorlatra a férjemet, és én akkor tudtam meg, hogy ő milyen kereskedő. Hát olyan kereskedő volt, hogy megrendelte a lisztet, kiöntötte [a tárolóhelyre], és mikor elfogyott, akkor adott telefont, hogy hozzanak [újat]. Mikor mentem, átvettem az üzletet, nézem, hát ez sincs, az sincs, amaz sincs. Akkor tudtam meg, hogy ő azt hiszi, hogy azt úgy kell, hogyha elfogy, akkor rendel. Mikor hazajött, mondtam neki: „Miféle dolog ez, édes fiam? Te árulsz, és mindig ott kell legyen még két porció. Ha lisztről van szó, akkor két zsák még mellette [a megbontott mellett]. Nem volt jó kereskedő, nem.

A férjem egyben lett volna nagy: gyönyörű, csodálatos szép hangja volt, biztos, abszolút füle [hallása]. Ez az egy tehetsége volt, abból kiváló lett volna, neves és híres. Ha énekesnek mehetett volna, ha Magyarországon vagyunk, mindegyiket [énekest] lekörözte volna. Össze se lehet hasonlítani Koós Jánossal [(Gyergyószárhegy, 1937) – énekes, színész, humorista, több televíziós műsor vezetője. 1960 óta táncdalénekes. – A szerk.]. Sepsiszentgyörgyön szólóénekes volt a férjem a szövőgyári dalárdában – vegyeskar volt –, a dalárdának a karmestere lejött hozzánk, mikor új dalt akart betanítani, hogy „Jenő, légy szíves, énekeld nekem el”.

Mindenféle fűszereket árultunk [a fűszerüzletben], amit most is, és a finomabbnál finomabb cukorkákat. Olyan halvát azóta se ettem. Mert akkor jöttek be a törökök is, a bulgárok is, és ők hozták a valódi halvát. Ezzel, amit most lehet kapni, nem is lehet összehasonlítani. Nem azokból az olajmagokból van készítve. Szezámmagokból préselték a halvát. Az nem morzsálódott, mint a mostani, hanem lapokra föl lehetett szelni. Olyan finom volt! Jöttek be a törökök, hozták a törökmézet, finomabbnál finomabb édességeket. Mint gyerekek a törökmézet szerettük, és még valami finom török édességet, annak a nevét elfelejtettem. A törökméz olyan volt, hogy kicsi bárddal vágták le, és ó, de finom volt. Hát ugye az az ő specialitásuk volt, nagyon sok édességet esznek a törökök, mert tiltja a bort a vallásuk. Nemcsak a bort, szeszes italt sem szabad nekik inni. Az nagy bűn, nagyon nagy bűn, mai napig is. És azért finomabbnál finomabb édességeket találtak ki, és csináltak.

Mindenfélét lehetett a fűszerüzletben kapni, mint ma. A neszkávé, az talán új. De helyette agyra-főre csináltuk a török kávét. Azt a kávét fel kellett főzni, úgy is hívták, török kávé. És direkt volt törökkávé-főző is, hosszú [magas], keskeny [edény]. Azt a láng felé tartottuk, és mikor habos lett, akkor levettük, hagytuk egy kicsit, hogy megszálljon. És ez volt a divat. Nem a nesz-, hanem a török kávé. Azt szerette a nép. Én is azt ittam, annak is a habját. Dzsemeket csak cukrász csinált, akkor csak cukrászdákban lehetett kapni, nem úgy, mint most, hogy a fűszerüzletekben is ott van. De mindenki [főzött otthon lekvárt], nem volt jó gazdasszony, akiről tudták, hogy a boltból veszi a dzsemet. Egy egyedülálló esetleg. Én megkezdtem az egressel, és mindenből tettem el. Hát szégyelltem volna. A kamrája mindenkinek tele volt. Uborka, minden. Nem az üzletből vettük a téli dolgokat. Azért kellett kamra, és az szégyen lett volna üresen. Még a lisztet is megvettük télire ősszel, egyszerre. Az szégyen volt, hogy januárban menjek az üzletbe lisztért. Az meg volt véve, a kamrából vettem ki a lisztet, a cukrot, a fuszulykát, a borsót, a lencsét, mindent. Ha tudtuk, hogy szegény [és azért nincs valakinek], akkor sajnáltuk. De ha tudtuk, hogy ő is meg kellett volna töltse a kamráját, az szégyen volt. Az felületes, az nem gondos gazdasszony.

Ez az én történetem egyáltalán nem tartozik a vallásos zsidó történetekhez. Én mikor férjhez mentem, azt mondtam a férjemnek, hogy a vallásomat nem [hagyom el]. Ha nem is tartom, de nem hagyom el. Azt se hiszem jobban, akkor miért? Én már tizenhat évesen Hegelt olvastam. Én már kerestem, hogy miért. És akkor minek csereberéljek vallást, ha én kételkedtem. De különben is, én ragaszkodni akartam [a vallásomhoz], ebbe születtem, [ebben] élt a nagymamám, nem bántom meg ilyesmivel. Azt mondtam a férjemnek: „Én nem térek át a te hitedre, de ha lesz gyerekünk, akkor azok reformátusok lesznek.” Én megtartottam annyiban az én vallásomat, hogy megtartottam például az őszi ünnepeket és a karácsonyt [Hanuka].

Az őszi ünnepeket úgy tartottam meg, hogy az édesapám húgai Nagyborosnyón laktak. Feldobolyban is lakott édesapámnak egy női első unokatestvére a családjával. Feldoboly egy kicsi falu, azt hiszem, hogy három kilométerre van [Nagy]Borosnyótól. Azok őszi ünnepeken bejöttek [Nagyborosnyóra] a nagynénémhez. A[z ottani] szeszgyárosnak nagy lakása volt, zsidó ember volt, és ott egy szobát mindig rendelkezésére bocsátott az őszi ünnepeknek, a hosszúnapnak és az úgynevezett karácsony [Hanuka] két napjának [A Hanuka nyolcnapos ünnep de nem tartozik az ún. nagyünnepek közé. Félünnep, nem vonatkozik rá a munkavégzés tilalma. – A szerk.]. Más faluból is jöttek [Nagy]Borosnyóra zsidók, Rétyről [Háromszék vm.-i kisközség volt. – A szerk.] is, mert csak itt volt egy szoba berendezve templomszerűen [imaháznak], csak ezen a kétnapos ünnepen [Hanukakor] és még amelyiken böjtölnek, a hosszúnapon – Jam Kipernek [Jom Kipurnak] hívják –, ezen a három napon volt lefoglalva ez [az imaterem]. Betettek padokat, székeket, ahova leültek [az emberek]. A fele részben csak nők, és a másik részben férfiak. Nem tudom, hogy volt-e függönnyel is elválasztva, nem emlékszem. És a szeszgyáros vallásos volt, valahol Zilah környékéről származott, nagyon jól tudott imádkozni, és nagyon jól ismerte a vallást. És az tartotta az istentiszteletet, és akkor a nagynénim, Gizella néni, aki elvette a húgomat örökbe, azt mondta [nekem], hogy szívesen lát, hogyha meg akarom tartani az ünnepet, ha akarok, jöjjek ki [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyről. Ugye, én nem tértem át, megmaradtam a vallásom mellett, és én Alpárral – két éves volt a fiam – kimentem, ezt a két napot [Hanukakor] megtartottam. Azt, hogy koplaljak, azért nem kellett kimenjek [Nagy]Borosnyóra, hogy megtartsam, tudtam koplalni itthon is, értem alatta a hosszúnapot. És akkor mindig kimentem két napra, a karácsonyi ünnepre, ezt a két napot mindig ott töltöttem. Annyi volt, hogy szebben, ünnepi ruhában voltunk felöltözve, ott imádkoztak, azt tudom, hogy héber nyelven volt felolvasva az ima, és tartottak egy beszédet, és jót kívántak az emberek egymásnak [Az interjúalany minden bizonnyal Ros Hásánára gondol, nem a Hanukára. – A szerk.]. És finomakat ettünk a nagynénéméknél, mert szerettek finomakat főzni a zsidók.

Húsvétkor megvettem a pászkát, azt szívesen elrágcsálgatta a férjem is vagy Alpár is, a fiam. De nem azt jelentette [nekem a Pészah], amit jelentett nagymamámnak, akinek külön [pészahi] edénye volt, azt csak az alatt a nyolc nap alatt használta, soha többet egész évben. Hát nem így, de a pászkát megvettem. Sőt, megcsináltam a knédlit [maceszgombócot], amit a húslevesbe tesznek. Miért ne csináljam meg? Az jó. Az jól esett a férjemnek is. De nem tartottam vallásilag [a Pészahot], nem. Megvettem ugye a pászkát, megcsináltam a knédlit, de nem azért, hogy ünnep. Másnap megehettem egy másik levest is, egy lebbencslevest. Ez a húsvéti ünnep, ennyit tartottam meg [a tradícióból], de ez nem tartás.

A véletlen úgy hozta, hogy jöttek a vasgárdisták. 1938-ban Bikszádon volt nagyon jól menő üzletünk. 1938-ban már nagyon lehetett érezni a vasgárdistákat Romániában. Mindenütt voltak, betették mindenhova a lábukat. Nagyon kezdett uralkodni a Vasgárda, és jól lehetett hallani, hogy Hitler miket csinál. Régebben Ausztria, Magyarország egyben volt. De 1919-ben szétváltak, önálló lett Ausztria. És ő önálló akart maradni, de Hitler magához [Németországhoz] akarta csatolni. Ezt úgy hívták, hogy Anschluss. Mindenütt Hitlert hallottuk, ide vonult be, oda vonult be, minden nap valamit hallott az ember. És minket kedveltek, nagyon becsületesek voltunk, nem [úgy,] mint a legtöbb kereskedő. És a jegyző is kedvelt, pedig román ember volt. És eljött egyszer az üzletbe, és azt mondta: „Doamna [asszonyom (román)], a gárdisták fognak hatalomra kerülni, és tessék áttérni, tessék elhagyni [a zsidó vallást], mert rossz sorsuk lesz a zsidóknak. Hát tetszik látni, mi megy végbe.” Már nem tudom, hogy el volt-e már menekülve a király [lásd: II. Károly román király] – mert ő is ugye zsidó nővel menekült [Lupescu Elena, szül. Wolf Magdára (1895–1977) utal itt Kósa Alice, aki Nicolas Grünberg zsidó gyógyszerész lánya és a román király hivatalos szeretője volt. 1940-ben, a király lemondatásakor együtt menekülnek Portugáliába, 1947-ben feleségül vette Rio de Janeiróban, Brazíliában. – A szerk.] –, nem esküszöm meg, de úgy jön, hogy már el volt menekülve ő is a Vasgárda elől. Azt hiszem, hogy Németországban már megkezdődött az üldözés. „Tessék áttérni.” Mondom: „Jó, ön tudja.” Azt mondja: „Ne csináljon semmit, ne is tessék jönni, én kiállítom, aláíratom…” [a papírt], hogy én ott hivatalosan kértem a vallásom elhagyását és a református vallás felvételét. Meg is csinálta, el is hozta nekem, és azt mondta, hogy „Tessék elmenni a málnási paphoz, és neki is bejelenteni”. Tőkés Lászlónak, a püspöknek a nagyapja volt Málnáson a pap. De már több volt, egy ranggal magasabb volt, mint egy pap. Én el is mentem Málnásra, és mondtam, hogy hogy volt, azt mondta, jó, elismerte [az igazolványt], csak kellene, hogy én járjak [hittanórára], hogy tanuljam meg a[z egyházi] törvényeket, hogy tanuljam meg a kátét [A Heidelbergi Káté kérdés-felelet formájában megfogalmazott református hitvallás. – A szerk.]. Hát én nem mentem, hogy én utazgassak. Mondtam, jó. Elismerte, nekem hivatalosan megvolt, hogy én át vagyok térve, és kész. Nem törődtem [a hittanórákkal], nem mentem. De nem is tudtam, hogy milyen is lesz egy fasizmus, ha Romániába felülkerülnek a vasgárdisták.

Csak két évet voltunk [Brassóban], és 1940-ben visszajöttünk Sepsiszentgyörgyre. A férjem, hogy kereskedésük volt egy kicsi ideig a bátyjával, ismerte a kereskedőket. A románok alatt a magyar uraknak kereskedésük volt. A román világban nem volt úgy állásuk, mert ugye dzsentrinek tartották magukat, és nem akartak a románoknál kicsi hivatalnokok lenni, inkább nyitottak üzleteket. Aztán amikor 1940-ben magyar világ lett [lásd: „magyar idők” (1940–1944); második bécsi döntés], mind[ből] szolgabíró, főispán, alispán lett [lásd: főispán – alispán; Szolgabíró – ő állt a vármegye területi alegysége, a 16–18. század között kialakult járás élén. Minden járásban egy főszolgabírót és több alszolgabírót választottak (1870. évi XLII. tc.), egy-egy alszolgabíró a járást kisebb részekre osztó kerületben látta el a szolgabírói feladatokat (a főszolgabírónak is volt saját kerülete). Ők közvetítették a vármegye rendeleteit a községekbe, és felügyelték a végrehajtást. Szerepük volt a területi igazságszolgáltatásban és közigazgatásban (adókivetés, mozgósítás, rendészet stb.; jelentéktelenebb polgári perekben és kihágások esetén önálló fórumként döntöttek). A tisztség 1950-ben szűnt meg, a tanácsrendszer létrehozásával. – A szerk.]. Barabás és Sipos volt például az egyik fűszerkereskedés, Síposból lett szolgabíró, és Barabásból alispán 1940-ben. És akkor azoknak a révén kapott állást a férjem. Az alispáni hivatalban, a szolgabírósági hivatalban tisztviselő volt. Persze nem egy nagy állásba tették, hanem egy kicsi állásba. Azt tudom, hogy százötven pengő fizetése volt. Hoztunk ugye egy pár lejt [magunkkal Brassóból, ami Románia maradt] – aminek aztán fele elment, mert ellopták –, és elhoztunk a fűszerüzletből mindent, az összes fűszert, ami volt.

Én mindig a magyarokkal éreztem, magyarok társaságában voltam, és mai napig is a magyaroknak drukkolok mindenben. Magyarországnak annyi jót csináltak a zsidók. Mert nem volt iparuk [a magyaroknak], semmi. Pesten német újság volt, német színház, hogy ne csak a zsidókról beszéljek. Mert bejöttek a svábok [lásd: magyaországi német kisebbség], és Budának egy része, és Pestnek egy része kimondottan sváb [volt]. Azért van annyi német nevű magyar. És Kolozsvár volt a magyarabb, sokkal magyarabb [mint Budapest]. Ott volt a [magyar] színház, ott voltak [magyar] újságok, és lett aztán Budapest[en is]. Aztán nagyon sokan vissza is vedlettek a magyar világban hirtelen [németté], 1940-től. Nem tudtak már németül, mert másod- vagy harmadrendű leszármazottak voltak, de hogy Németország olyan diadalmas volt, hogy napok alatt döntött országokat porba, nagyon sokan a svábok közül, különösen a fiatalok, „Heil Hitler” annyit megtanultak rögtön.

Sepsiszentgyörgyön a Közfürdő utcában laktunk, most is megvan [a ház], mert a románok elmentek, és kibéreltünk egy szép egyemeletes lakást – szép volt legalábbis –, körülvéve kerttel, elöl jó nagy területtel. Az egy három szoba-konyha-fürdőszobás lakás volt. Egy román családnak a tulajdona volt, a románnak magyar volt a felesége, de románabbnak érezte magát, mint a férje. És ugye azok [1940-ben] elmentek. A románok elmentek [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyről, egy-kettő, ha mert maradni. Mert csúfak voltak a székelyek, beverték az ablakát mindeniknek, nem mertek kimenni [a házból a románok]. A román megbízott valakit – egy magyar embert –, azon keresztül fizettük a lakbért. És ott laktunk.

A fivérem elment [látogatóba] Pestre a feleségével – Budapesten nekem van ma is élő első unokatestvérem –, és hozott nekem egy [harisnya] szemfelszedő tűt. Megvan most is. De nem olyan egyszerű, hogy csak a horga van, hanem úgy van megcsinálva, hogy egy picit rugós. Na, akkor én nekiültem, és megtanultam harisnyafelszedni [A selyem- és nylonharisnyán leszaladt szemeket „felszedni”. – A szerk.]. Olyan gyorsan tudtam majdnem, mint a gép [Nemcsak tűvel, hanem egy mechanikus ún. szemfelszedő géppel is lehetett harisnyát javítani. – A szerk.]. Úgy megszokta már a kezem. Én azzal többet kerestem, mint a férjem, mert probléma volt a harisnya, nem volt olyan egyszerű, hogy bemegyek a boltba [és veszek]. Hol volt, hol nem. Nagyon sok munkám volt, mindig éjjel fél kettőkor feküdtem le. Mert nappal főzni is kellett, takarítani is kellett. És három szobám volt, egyet kiadtam, szedtem a szemeket, semmi[ben] hiány[t nem láttunk].

Ezt a [kikeresztelkedési] papírt elfogadták, mert az volt a törvény, hogy akik vegyes házasságot kötöttek, és a zsidó származású hitves át van térve, azokra nem vonatkoznak [a zsidótörvények, lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon; a zsidótörvényeket 1941 márciusában terjesztették ki a második bécsi döntéssel 1940 augusztusában visszacsatolt Észak-Erdélyre. Mind az első, mind a második zsidótörvény értelmében vallási alapon az a személy kapott mentességet, aki 1919. augusztus 1. előtt /július 31-ig/ előtt tért át valamely más bevett felekezetbe, és azóta annak tagja volt. Ő azonban nyilván nem az 1938-ban kiadott „papír” miatt kapott mentességet: a zsidókra vonatkozó rendeletek alól mentesítettek körét a Sztójay-kormány 1730/1944. M.E. számú rendelete határozta meg. A gettósítást – és ebből következően a deportálást – előíró rendelet (6163/1944. B.M.) nem vonatkozott – többek között – a vegyes házasságban élő zsidókra és leszármazottaikra (Randolph L. Braham: A népirtás politikája, A Holocaust Magyarországon, Budapest, Belvárosi Kiadó, 1997, 551. oldal.) – A szerk.]. Horthyig elfogadták [lásd: Horthy-korszak], de Horthy után jött Szálasi [lásd: Szálasi Ferenc].

Szálasi aztán nem fogadott volna el semmit, mert tizenöt-tizenhat-tizennyolc éves kölyköket is összetoborzott, és azok a Dunába lőtték a zsidókat [lásd: zsidók Dunába lövése]. Hát a híres világbajnok kardvívót is elkísérték a Dunáig, és oda belelőtték, mert zsidó volt [Minden bizonnyal Petschauer Attilára gondol. Petschauer Attila (1904–1943) – kardvívó, újságíró. 1928-ban Amszterdamban és 1932-ben Los Angelesben tagja az olimpiai bajnok kardcsapatnak, 1928-ban második, 1932-ben ötödik helyre került az egyéni kardversenyben, az Európa-bajnokságok során egyéni versenyben többször első-második-harmadik helyezett, a Nemzeti Vívó Club tagjaként 1928–31 között 17 alkalommal volt válogatott. Visszavonulása után „Az Est” munkatársa volt. 1942-ben munkaszolgálatra hívták be, Davidovkánál pusztult el (Kárpáti Károly visszaemlékezése szerint metsző télközepi hidegben megparancsolta a keret, hogy vetkőzzön le, másszon a fára, és kukorékoljon, mint egy kakas. Közben vízzel locsolták. Ráfagyott a víz, és röviddel azután meghalt). – A szerk.]. Szerencsére Szálasi még nem ért el ide, [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyre, erre a részre, folyt a háború, ugye. Itt 1944-ben, hamarabb valamivel – egy hónappal vagy kettővel vagy hárommal –, hogy lemondott Horthy, már benn voltak a románok és az oroszok. Már bejöttek. Itt voltak Őrkőn [A Cenken, Brassó délkeleti oldalán emelkedik a 957 m magas Cenk-hegy. – A szerk.].

Az anyai nagymamám, szegény, egyedül volt, miután én [1929-ben] eljöttem. Ahogy volt, ki kellett jöjjön a lakásból 1944-ben, amikor elvitték, deportálták, és az ajtót lepecsételték. És ami ott [a házban] volt, a kicsi holmija, levelek és minden, az ott maradt lepecsételve. Azért nincs róla fényképem sem. [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön kellett viselni a sárga csillagot [lásd: sárga csillag Magyarországon], de az már 1944-ben volt, nemsokára elvitték teljesen őket. Énnekem nem kellett viselni a sárga csillagot, mert én kivételezett voltam. Másik szabályzat volt például, hogy a zsidó családok – mindegyiknek cselédje volt – nem volt szabad fiatal keresztény alkalmazottat tartsanak, csak időset [A magyarországi zsidótörvények értelmében zsidók háztartásában nem alkalmazhattak keresztényt – se fiatalt, se időset. – A szerk.].

Szörnyű idők voltak. Szörnyű. Hogy megváltoznak az emberek! Én is már hároméves koromtól itt éltem, [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön! És volt iskolatársaim között voltak, aki úgy csináltak, mintha nem látnának, nehogy szóljak az utcán, kompromittáljam őket azzal, hogy szólok [hozzájuk]. Volt olyan. Volt, hogy még kérdezett is ezt-azt az iskolában tőlem, és akkor jött ez a világ, és láttam, hogy úgy csinál, mintha nem látna. És akkor én is direkt kerültem, nem közeledtem senkihez, hát tudtam, hogy én megbélyegzem. Nem szóltam volna az utcán egyikhez sem, mert rossz néven vette volna. Ilyen volt a világ. Olyan hamar hajlanak a rosszra az emberek, sokkal hamarabb, mint jóra. Jóra nem lehet olyan hamar megtanítani őket, hogy légy jó, adjál egy ruhát a ruhádból, nem. De a rosszat, igen.

A zsidó férfiakat egy napon vitték dolgozni a mezőre. És hangosan kiáltották: „Előre a cigányok, és csak azután a zsidók!” És voltak ott ugye kereskedő emberek [a zsidó férfiak között], és ha iparos is volt, jobb iparos, elég jómódú volt a [sepsi]szentgyörgyi zsidóság. Mellettem állt Jenőnek az első unokatestvére, és egy nagyon jól ismert gazda volt mellettünk. A Jenő leány unokatestvérének a férje nagyon jó kárpitos volt, jómódúak voltak, református emberek voltak, de volt elég zsidó kuncsaftjuk is. Jól ismerte ezeket a zsidó embereket, akiket vittek, és látta, ahogy az élelmüket is cipelik, és megsajnálta őket, és ott hátul azt mondta, hogy „Szegény zsidók!”. Na, ezt kellett, hogy meghallja az a száznyolcvan centis férfi: „Mit mond maga? Vigyázzon, ne halljam még egyszer, mert maga is odakerülhet!” Ilyen világ volt. Úgy megváltoztak egy pillanat alatt, azelőtt, míg ez a fasiszta világ nem volt, eszükbe se jutott, hogy antiszemita legyen. Mindenki megváltozott, cakompakk! Nagyon kevés kivétel volt. Volt, de kevés. Nagy műveltség kellett hozza. De nagy műveltséggel is meg tudták győzni az embereket. De mivel győzték meg őket, hogy így ki akarták mind egy szálig irtani a zsidókat!?

És sok mindent direkt csináltak, azért, hogy megbüntessék, hogy kigúnyolják, hogy kicsúfolják [a zsidókat]. Például, mikor lezuhant Horthy Miklósnak a fia, Horthy István [1942. augusztus 20-án búcsúbevetésének szánt repülésekor elvesztette uralmát Héja típusú gépe felett, és lezuhant. Halálát máig is találgatások övezik, de a szakemberek többsége a nehezen vezethető gépben és Horthy István gyakorlatlanságában látja a baleset okát ( http://www.bibl.u-szeged.hu/bibl/mil/ww2/who/horthy_istvan.html). – A szerk.], akkor egy addig jó ismerős – nem tudom, hogy mi volt ez a férfi, de tudom, hogy tanult ember volt – odament a Frank Sándor [Hartmann Reginának (Hartmannné, szül. Féder Teréz lányának) a férje] lakására, és becsengetett, hogy gyászszalagot akar tenni a kabátjára, és legyen szíves, adjon neki. „Hát – azt mondja [Frank bácsi] –, az üzlet be van zárva.”. „Nem baj, ha be is van zárva, de tessék adni, mert ki kell tenni azt a fekete szalagot, meghalt a kormányzóhelyettes” – mert az volt István, Horthynak a fia, Horthy megválasztatta, hogy ő legyen majd az utódja. Akkor Frank bácsi kiment, levágott egy akkora darabot egy fekete szalagból, és odaadta. „És mennyibe kerül?” Hát nem tudom, ötven bani vagy egy lej, a rendes kicsi ára. Na, másnap a „Székely Nép”-ben megjelent a cikk: „Frank Sándor, kihasználva a kormányzóhelyettesünk tragikus halálát, kiállt az üzlet elé, és gyászszalagokat árult a járókelőknek.”

A „Székely Nép” volt a [sepsi]szentgyörgyi újság, napilap volt, nem hetilap. Jó szerkesztősége volt. Egyszer ki is jött egy gúnyos cikk a „Székely Nép”-ben, úgy örvendtünk, kacagtunk. Egy cikk földicsérte a székely népet, de abban beletéve, minthogyha a fasisztákat dicsérné, egy olyan cikk volt. Hogy ilyen, hogy olyan, hogy olyan ügyesek, és nem tudom mi, szóval nagyon dicsérő cikket írt a székely népről valaki ismeretlen, mert az volt aláírva – annyiszor elmondtam utána is, hogy még ma is tudom –, úgy írta alá, hogy Kotári Sipkos Ákos. A lap ugye kitette a cikket, és még jött egy cikk, amelyikben dicsérték Kotári Sipkos Ákost, hogy ismeretlen küldte be a cikket, és milyen jól ismeri a székely népet. És akkor egy hét múlva megszólal a Kotári Sipkos Ákos, hogy olvassák visszafelé el [a nevét], és megtudják, hogy ki. Hát visszafele az volt, hogy: „Soká sok pisi rátok.” Ez volt a Kotári Sipkos Ákos. Kigúnyolta valaki. De előre úgy dicsérték Sipkos Ákost, és utána így leleplezte saját magát.

Amikor a városban összeszedték a zsidókat, a szegény nagymamám nyolcvankilenc éves volt akkor, és ő el kellett menjen [a gettóba]. Ahol Ceauşescu idejében a tüdőrészlege volt a kórháznak – most nem tudom, hogy mi –, oda gyűjtötték össze a zsidókat. Akartam vinni egy kicsi élelmet egyszer nagymamámnak, míg itt volt Sepsiszentgyörgyön. Összebeszéltünk egy keresztény ismerősömmel, Bogdán Ilonkával, akinek a férje volt zsidó, hogy próbáljunk beadni csomagot. Ilonkának a férje munkaszolgálatos volt valahol ebben az időben, mikor itt összeszedték a zsidókat, ő az anyósának akart [élelmet vinni], már idős nő volt. Már nem tudom, mit sütöttem, valami mézest, hogy jó tápláló legyen, azt csomagoltam, és vittem. Egy hadnagy volt az udvaron, mert olyan öt-hat-hét éves gyermekek voltak kint az udvaron, és játszódtak. Mondom, próbáljuk megkérni [a hadnagyot], hogy beadhassuk. Elvette a csomagokat a hadnagy, és azt mondta, hogy a gyerekeknek adja. És tényleg ott kibontotta a csomagokat, és a gyerekeknek elosztotta. Hát örvendtünk annak is, de mégis mind a ketten azt szerettük volna, ugye, hogy az kapja meg [akinek vittük]. Én pláne, hát a nyolcvankilenc éves nagymamám is éhen haljon? [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön nagyon keveset voltak, nem tudnám pontosan megmondani, egy hetet vagy két hetet, aztán elvitték őket, úgy hallottuk, hogy [Szász]Régenbe, utána aztán Németországba [először Auschwitzba], és én többé nem láttam a nagymamámat.

És ez egy másik történet. Hivatalba került ugye a férjem, és jóképű férfi volt, meg kell adni. Százhetvenhét centi, nem olyan magas, de azért elég. És ott belegabalyodott egy leányba, aki tizenöt évvel fiatalabb volt nála. Délután is bement, hogy neki túlórázni kell, mindig ment erre, arra, amarra. Szólóénekes volt a férjem a [sepsiszentgyörgyi] dalárdában, és a dalárda meg volt híva ide-oda, a Szent Anna-tóhoz is mentek kirándulni, ő mindig ment, de egyedül [nélkülem]. És ez így ment. A korzó az divat volt minden városban annak idején. Akartam menni sétálni a korzóra, neki dolga van, hát mi ketten, a gyermekkel jártunk. Úgy is ismertek már. Még fiatal voltam 1943-ban, bár volt egypár ősz haj[szál]am, de úgy mondták nekem, hogy „az a szép”. Egy alkalommal, valami hivatalos ünnep volt, ami istentisztelettel kezdődött, és a templomba mentek istentiszteletre. Én hallottam ezeket a dolgokat, nekem megmondták a kolléganői, hogy Kósa [úr mit művel], és gondoltam, hogy na, most megnézem, hogy mit csinál. Meg is álltam a református templom kapujában, és [gondoltam,] meglesem. És látom, hogy kijön az egyik, és utána kijön a másik. És ahogy odaérnek [mellém], a férjem meg se állott, továbbment, és én Ilonkát megfogtam, és mondom: „Most megyünk, és megkérdezzük Kósa urat, hogy melyikünket akarja. Mert én elmegyek, de tudjam meg.” Na, úgy is volt. Mert ő továbbment, de nem ment teljesen el. Bementünk a parkba, és akkor megkérdeztem: „Szereted Ilonkát?” Azt mondja: „Szeretem.” „Akkor engem nem.” „De, azt mondja, téged is.” Mondom: „Ez nem megy, kettőt. Se Ilonkának nem jó, se nekem.” „Na, jó akkor, majd meglátjuk.” Azt mondja: „Mindjárt jövök vissza.” Elmegy. Nem tudom, mennyi idő telik bele, egy óra, jön vissza, azt mondja: „Elintéztem.” És jelentkezett önként katonának. 1943-ban jelentkezett először. És én reszkethettem, hogy ebben a fasiszta világban itt maradtam a gyermekkel, és ő elment a frontra. Csak szerencsére, hogy tudtam harisnyaszemet felszedni. Becsületes volt, mondjuk, ezen a téren, nem tehetett róla, hogy szerelmes lett, de mégse akart elhagyni. Én így fogtam fel az első elmenetelét. Mert ha el akart volna menni, huszonnégy óra alatt mint zsidó származású [feleségtől], elválasztottak volna egy magyar embert, örömmel.

Nem tudom, meg van-e még a levele, amit írt nekem onnan, hogy én voltam csak az egyedüli, akiben mindig bízhatott. És én azt a levelet megtartottam. Megint magamat dicsérem, de én olyan szilárd voltam, az életben mindent én kormányoztam, csak az elsőt adta az apja, hogy csináljanak üzletet, tovább mindent, mindent… az én két vállamon nyugodott a családi élet, tessék elhinni. Ő azt érezte, hogy ő nem tudna teremteni megélhetést, hogyha elment inkább csebrezni. Az apja nem akarta ügyvédnek, ő nem akart az orvosira járni, mert irtózott, utálta az orvosit, és inkább ment, hogy a cseber vizeket hordja a tímárműhelyben. Nem tudott teremteni semmit magának, de este elmentek inni. Nagy ivók voltak, mert fogadalmuk volt, a férjemnek és barátainak, hogy vizet nem isznak.

Másodszor is elment, 1944. szeptemberben, ugyancsak a magyar hadseregbe jelentkezett. Nagyon szeretett felöltözni hadnagyi ruhába, mert jól állt neki. De akkor én küldtem. Mert féltem, hogy ráfogják a románok, hogy „fasiszta”, mivel önként jelentkezett [1943-ban a magyar hadseregbe]. Mindenki elmenekült eleinte, alig maradt valaki, pár asszony, azután szivárogtak vissza. De mikor bejöttek az oroszok, és bejöttek a románok, elmentek, féltek. Mert fogták össze a [magyar] férfiakat, és vitték Brassó mellé, ott volt egy hely, ahova betömörítettek nőket, férfiakat, és vitték ki Oroszországba. De legnagyobb része meghalt, különösen a férfiak. [„A szovjet fogságba esett civil magyarok és magyarországi németek száma 200–250 ezer főre tehető. A katonákkal és a Kárpátaljáról, valamint Észak-Erdélyből és a Felvidékről elhurcolt civilekkel együtt a szovjet fogságba esett magyarok teljes száma meghaladja a 600 ezret; közülük legalább 200 ezren sohasem tértek vissza a szovjet táborvilágból” (http://or-zse.hu/resp/ronatamas-holocaust2006.htm). – A szerk.] Másodjára én küldtem el a férjemet. Azt mondtam neki: „El kell menj. Mert hallgass ide, itt egy eset van. Önként jelentkeztél a fasisztákhoz, nem kutatják, hogy te lelkileg [lelki okokból] mentél el, hogy nem akartál tőlem [elválni]. Az lesz az első, hogy lefognak – mondom –, nem érek vele semmit. Sokkal rosszabb. Így remélhetem, hogy még találkozunk, de ha elvisznek, biztos, hogy nem fogsz élve hazakerülni. Tehát nincs értelme, hogy itthon maradj. Menj el, mert így reménykedhetek!” Jaj, édes jó istenem, milyen jól tettem! Mindig azt mondtam, hogy jó előérzetem van a rosszra.

Magam előtt le kell hajtsam a fejemet, hogy én vállaltam azt, hogy egy gyerekkel és eggyel a jövőben, mert négy hónapos terhes voltam, elküldtem őt a frontra, az ismeretlenbe – levél nincs. És én semmi nélkül, az égvilágon semmi nélkül itt maradtam másfél gyermekkel. Nem nagyon ellenkezett, pedig tudta, hogy most kenyér nélkül [maradunk].

Itt sebesült meg a Cenken [Brassó mellett], 1944 szeptemberében. Repeszsebeket kapott, úgyhogy a háta, válla tele volt szilánkokkal. És volt a fején is. Felültették itt a vonatra sebesülten, én többet, míg haza nem jött másfél év múlva, nem tudtam róla. Itt megsebesült, sebesülve vitték a kórházvonattal, valahol kórházban volt, és onnan, mikor felépült, kerülhetett Csempeszkopácsra [Vas vm.-ben lévő kisközség volt, Szombathelytől 20 km-re. – A szerk.]. Csempeszkopácson volt a férjem egy darabig a hadsereggel, míg kivitték Németországba, biztosan a frontra, mert elfogták az amerikaiak. Németországban volt fogságban. Ott annyiban nagy szerencséje volt, hogy az amerikaiak adtak cigarettát. És őt én [előzőleg] leszoktattam a cigarettázásról, mert még éjjel is felébredt, meg volt szokva, hogy éjjel is egy cigarettát elszívott. És mennyire hálálkodott, hogy leszoktattam, és mennyi mindent tudott még pluszban venni [a cigaretta árából]. De én nem tudtam erről semmit se. Csak egy kicsivel azelőtt, hogy hazajött, hallottam róla, egy férfi írt egy levelet [Székely]Udvarhelyről, hogy „Tessék nyugodt lenni, mert Jenő jól van, együtt voltunk fogságban, és nagyon hamar [haza fog jönni]”. 1946. februárban kaptam ezt a levelet [Székely]Udvarhelyről, és márciusban hazajött a férjem. Hazahozott egy fényképet, olyan mosolygós rajta, azt érdemes megnézni. Azt hordozta is magával, olyan hiú volt, hogy mutogatta azután is sokat a képet. Egyet hozott haza, de hát egy fényképészhez nem megy be az ember, hogy egy képet csináltasson, a fényképész úgyis hármat csinál. A szomszéd férfi is ott volt, és ő mondta, hogy egy fiatalasszonynál volt [elszállásolva]. Hát, ha fiatal, akkor biztos, hogy legalább egy képet ott hagyott.

A férjem nem vette volna jó néven, nem akarta engedni, hogy dolgozzak. Jó, nem volt kedve, hogy menjek dolgozni, de én kitaláltam [mindenfélét], mert nem tudta volna ő a fizetéséből a családot fenntartani. Közben négyen lettünk a családban, és az ő ezernégyszáz lejes fizetésével nem tudtunk volna [megélni]. Mindenfélét kitaláltam. Főztem a csokit, töltöttem lapokat finom dobostortakrémmel, és házicsokit, tésztát árultam, szerény kamattal, hogy úgy mondjam. Egy lejért adtam egy darab csokit is és a tésztát [süteményt] is. És közben éjfélig szedtem a [harisnya]szemeket, én többet kerestem, mint a férjem. Mert én nem bírtam, nekem kellett… [a pénz]. És ott volt a két gyermek. Aztán németet tanítottam [otthon], volt, hogy kilenc tanítványom volt [egy tanév alatt].

Én későn mentem dolgozni, csak hat évet és nyolc hónapot dolgoztam. Annak is van története – ilyen kicsi semmi történetekből áll az élet. Mert nem voltam éppen csúnya, a férjem nem akarta engedni semmiképpen, hogy én menjek állásba. Ő megcsalt engem, de azt nem bírta elviselni, hogy én megcsaljam. De nekem ilyesmi eszemben sem volt. Óvodista volt Juditka [Kósa Alice lánya]. Ebben az utcában, kéznyújtásra tőlünk lakott egy jóképű elvált asszony – ő is Aliz volt – egy ötéves leánykával, Ildikóval, aki járt Juditkához játszani. És itt volt a leányka Juditkánál játszani. Juditka szerette a kicsi babákat, egy csomót vettem neki, és rongyocskába – öt éves volt, de – lyukat vágott, felhúzta [a babára szoknyának]. És három óra körül nyílik a kapu, jön a férjem. És a leányka azt mondja: „Jön Kósa bácsi.” Leesett az állam. Mondom: „Édes kicsi szívem, te ilyen jól ismered Kósa bácsit? Hát te honnan ismered?” „Szokott hozzánk járni.” Á, úgy vagyunk, hogy itt a szomszédban, és Kósa bácsi szokott oda járni. Hát akkor gondoskodjunk, mert nem lehet tudni. Én öregszem. Jól kerestem, mert szemet szedtem, házi csokit árultam, küldött a húgom mindent Brassóból nekem, kávét, amit el tudtam adni. Úgyhogy semmiben nem éreztem hiányt, de az nem egy biztos talaj. Nekem kellett egy biztos talaj. Nahát, ha ő oda jár, akkor én megyek irodába. És elmentem dolgozni, az ő akarata ellenére, mert akkor gondoltam magamban, hogy mi lesz, hogyha telik az idő, és itt hagy? Akkor én valamit kell csináljak.

És jelentkeztem a[z állás]közvetítő irodába, és úgy kerültem állásba 1952. augusztus elsejétől. A megyénél voltam az Agricolának a főkönyvelője. Volt tíz pontom, tíz faluban volt agrármérnök, az is hozzám tartozott. Én nagyon szerettem könyvelni, és azt tanultam, igaz, hogy már mindent [elfelejtettem]. De nagyon hamar megtanultam újra, és egyszerűbb könyvelése volt az Agricolának, mint ha gyárban lettem volna főkönyvelő. A gyárban talán el sem vállaltam volna, de ez egy kicsi [vállalat volt], tíz pontom [falum] volt, jól meg tudtam csinálni.

1958-ban beteg lettem, három hónapig volt állandó lázam, felmenő lázam, sokáig nem tudták az orvosok se, hogy mi bajom van. Aztán rájöttek: szívbillentyű-szűkület. Másodfokú rokkant lettem a szívemmel, már akkor megállapították, hogy balra két és fél hüvely, jobbra három és fél hüvely a szívem, kétszázon felüli a vérnyomás. És én tessék, 2005-ben élek. És az én drága gyermekem nincs. Most is nagy a szívem. Tavalyelőtt voltam az unokámmal egy nagyon kedves román fiatal orvosnőnél, azt mondtam neki, hogy azért élek még, ennyi év után is, mert én nem szedtem a gyógyszereket [amiket felírtak].

1959. április elsején tettek nyugdíjba, mögöttem volt hat év nyolc hónap, annyit dolgoztam. Nekem csak egy kicsi nyugdíjam volt, én hétszáztizennégy lej nyugdíjjal mentem. A férjem 1988-ban meghalt, tizenhét éve egyedül élek.

A fiam 1931-ben született. Én tizenhat éves koromban olvastam Herczeg Ferenctől a „Pogányok”-at [Herczeg Ferenc (1863–1954) – író, újságíró. 1891-től Rákosi Jenő „Budapesti Hírlap”-jának belső munkatársa, 1894-ben indította és 1944-ig szerkesztette az „Új Idők” c. szépirodalmi hetilapot, 1903-ban egyik alapítója s megalapításától főmunkatársa „Az Újság” c. lapnak. 1896-tól két cikluson át országgyűlési képviselő, Tisza István politikájának híve. Együtt indították 1911-ben a „Magyar Figyelő” c. politikai lapot. 1927-től a felsőház tagja. 1919 után tevékenyen részt vett az irredenta revíziós mozgalmakban, 1929-től a Revíziós Liga elnöke. Regényeiben leginkább a korabeli dzsentritársadalmat eszményítette. Népszerűek voltak történeti regényei (Magyar Életrajzi Lexikon). – A szerk.]. És a „Pogányok”-ban a besenyő királyfi Alpár volt, nekem a könyvön keresztül megtetszett a szép besenyő királyfi, és azt mondtam, ha fiam lesz, a neve Alpár lesz. Így is volt. Fiam lett, és én Alpár nevet adtam. De a megyében senki nem hallotta az Alpár nevet. Azt mondja a pap: „Édesem, hát maga Alpár nevet ad, hát az nem név, az pusztaság. Alpár az egy pusztának a neve, ahol csak háborúzás volt.” Mondom: „Nem baj, én ezt a nevet adom, mert ez egy besenyő királyfinak volt a neve. Tessék beírni.” [A fiam] Jó futballkapusnak indult. Volt egy darabig kapus Sepsiszentgyörgyön, a B osztálynak [védett]. Marosvásárhelyen A osztályos csapat volt, és onnan valaki meglátta Alpárt védeni, és felcsalta Marosra [Marosvásárhelyre]. Így került ő [Maros]Vásárhelyre, hogy felvitték oda kapusnak. Az első feleségét Puiu Magdának hívták, tőle lett egy fia, Alpár, aki Németországban van. Alpárka nálam több nyarat töltött, és én őt is tanítottam az eszperantóra. Mondom: „Nem állhatom, hogy reggeltől estig csak játszol. Valamit tanulj.” Szívesen tanult[a az eszperantót]. A fiam második házasságából született [1977 körül] a leánygyermeke, Iringó és a másik fia, Zsombor. Ők is kint élnek Németországban. A fiam 1989. december tizenkilencedikén kiment Németországba, a felesége, Emese pár hónappal később. Nem sokáig laktak ott, visszajöttek Marosvásárhelyre, utána a fiam futballbíráskodott, főleg C csapatoknál, falvakon. A második feleségétől is elvált.

Juditkám 1945-ben született. Juditka is nagyon szerette a nyelveket, én azt gondoltam, hogy inkább nyelvszakra megy. De aztán nagyon megszerette a matematikát, és akkor már csak mérnök… És nem is tudhatott volna csak olyan pályára, olyan egyetemre menni, amelyik közel van. Nem volt anyagi [lehetőség] – igaz, volt ösztöndíja is. És azért olyat kellett válasszon, ami Brassóban volt, a faipari mérnökit végezte. 1968-ban végzett, és akkor azt mondtam neki: „Hogyha van hely Marosvásárhelyen – mert kitették a táblát, hogy hol vannak a helyek –, én azt tanácsolom, hogy válaszd Marosvásárhelyt, hogy legyél egy helyen Alpárral, a testvéreddel. Mert nézd meg, apád negyven évvel idősebb, én szívbeteg – hát én örökké temetkeztem, azt hittem, hogy már rövid idő van hátra, hát örökké dagadt, vízzel teli láb, kar, sokszor kitelt az arcom vízzel –, az én életem bizonytalan, és ne maradj egyedül.” Úgy is volt. Volt három hely Marosvásárhelyen, és az egyiket ő kapta, a bútorgyárban. A gyárban három évig kellett gyakorlatot csinálni, az muszáj volt. De a három évet megcsinálta úgy, hogy a marosvásárhelyi faipari szakközépiskolában az esti tanfolyamra kerestek tanárt. És felkeresték Juditkát is a gyárban, hogy nem vállalja-e el az estiseket – akik járnak az esti előadásokra. Hát hogyne, olyan kicsi fizetése volt akkor, ezerkétszáz vagy ezerháromszáz lej fizetése volt [a bútorgyárban], elvállalta. És nagyon megszerették Juditkát ott az iskolában, és megkérdezték, hogy nem jönne-e át tanárnak, mikor a három év eltelt. Jaj, nagyon szívesen, boldogan. Örvendett. Neki nagyobb kedve volt [a tanárkodáshoz], nyilván. Nem kellett olyan korán felkeljen, nem tudom, hogy hat órakor jártak-e vagy hétkor, és a gyárban bent kellett lenni háromig vagy kettőig. És három év múlva elvállalta a rendes [tanári] állást. Közben beiratkozott a pedagógiára, mert ő mérnök volt, de kellett a tanári [diploma] is azért ahhoz, hogy taníthasson. Beiratkozott, és járt vizsgákra. Mindig megvolt, hogy mikor kellett bemenni, Bukarestben volt többször, Brassóban is talán, hogy tette a vizsgákat. Úgyhogy a végzettsége mérnök-tanár. Két diplomája volt. A Juditka férjét Dézsi Józsefnek hívják. Két fiuk született.

A nagyobbik unokámat Dézsi József Ivánnak hívják. Ezért az Ivánért úgy haragszik, hogy hal meg. Ő 1972-ben született. Meg van nősülve Józsika, ők [Sepszi]Szentgyörgyön laknak. Az unokám nekem mindent bevezetett [a lakásba]: vízóra, gázóra, fűtés. Azonkívül én felírom minden pénteken, hogy mi szükségem van egy hétre. Ő megveszi nekem, és abból főzök. És még mindig kedveskedik valamivel. Vagy csokival vagy halvával, vagy… Az unokám felesége a szüleivel az első emeleten laktak, és én a másodikon [így ismerkedtek meg]. Józsika Bukarestbe járt az amerikai egyetemre, közgazdaságira, éspedig a szálloda–turisztika–étterem szakra. Most már biztosan vannak nyolcéves házasok.

Van egy kicsi fia, három és fél éves [volt 2005 szeptemberében], ő is József. Az élettársa Milánt akart, mert olvasta Füst Milánt, és úgy megtetszett a menyemnek, hogy azt mondta, a fia Milán lesz. De Józsika nem akarta, hogy első név legyen, és ő bediktálta a Józsefet, már a harmadik József a kicsi fiú. De a második neve Milán. Haragudott [a menyem], mondom, nincs miért haragudjál, mert a gyermeket úgy fogják hívni, ahogy szólítjátok.

[A kisebbik unoka] Szabolcs harminc éves [1975-ben született]. Ő most végezte a faipari mérnökit Brassóban, előtte egy technikumot végzett el. Marosvásárhelyen állásba is került egy bútorüzembe.

Születésnapra adta a sors nekem, hogy elvette a gyermekemet. Én május tizenhatodikán születtem, és május tizenhetedikén meghalt Juditka, 1999-ben. Kilencvenévesen ezt kaptam a sorstól. 1999-ben május tizenhatodika vasárnapra esett. Ő minden vasárnap tizenkét órakor engem felhívott telefonon, és beszélgettünk. Ezen a tizenhatodikán nem szólt a telefon. De megtiltotta a leányom, hogy szóljanak nekem, hogy ő beteg. Én nem tudtam semmit, én vártam a telefont itt egyedül, megdöbbenve. Biztosan van valami. De nem gondoltam azt, hogy haldoklik. És jött temetés után a vejem, Józsika, az unokám és Alpár, a fiam. És kinyitom az ajtót, és azt hittem, megviccelnek. Kerestem, hogy hol van Juditka.

Én nagyon szerettem a nyelveket. Hét nyelvvel foglakoztam az anyanyelvemmel együtt: magyar, román, latin, német, francia, aztán jártam angol tanfolyamra és eszperantóra, de magánúton én többet tanultam, mint a tanfolyamon. Egy tanítványomnak az édesapja jött, és azt mondja: „Tessék mondani, hány nyelvet tetszik tudni?” Mondom: „Megmondom, hogy hánnyal foglalkoztam. Az anyanyelvemmel együtt foglalkoztam hét nyelvvel. Iskolában, tanfolyamon. Hányat tudok? Egyet se.” Egyet se tudok. Most tényleg elmondhatom, hogy keresem a szavakat. Azért is beszélek lassan. De nem csoda, tizenhét éve meghalt a férjem, és én azóta egyedül élek. Hát nincs kivel beszéljek, csak saját magammal beszélhetek. És sokszor olyan egyszerű, hétköznapi szavak nem jutnak eszembe. De aztán órák múlva vagy másnap, anélkül, hogy rágondolnék, már elfelejtettem, hogy a tegnap nem jutott eszembe, valamit csinálok, és egyszer csak: Elvis Presley – ez se jutott egy nap eszembe. Csodálatos az ész, nagyon-nagyon csodálatos.

Németül én csak az iskolában tanultam. De a német nyelv nagyon hasonlít a jiddis nyelvhez. Kitekert, de hasonlít. És az volt az érdekes, hogy nagymamám a testvéreivel – négyen voltak [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön –, hogy én az öcsémmel ne értsük, jiddisül beszéltek. Nekik, azt hiszem, hogy az anyanyelvük is jiddis lehetett, mert mindig odafordították [a szót]. De olyan érdekes, milyen is a nyelv? Hogyha benne élsz, hogyha hallod minden nap, anélkül, hogy tanítanának, valahogy automatikusan megérted. Anélkül, hogy tanítottak volna minket, mi nem beszéltük a jiddist, de mindent értettünk, amit ők beszéltek. Naponta hallottuk vagy az egyiktől, vagy a másiktól, és mi mindent értettünk. Én a német nyelvet az iskolában tanultam, de ha már értettem a jiddist, könnyen tanultam a németet.

[Nyugdíjas koromban] Jártam az eszperantóra, jártam két tanfolyamot angolon. De jártam szabásztanfolyamra is. Nem nagyon tanultunk szabni, hanem papíron rajzoltunk. Egy férfi tanár volt, az a méreteket felvette, és ő a táblára, mi pedig ceruzával füzetbe rajzoltuk [a szabásmintát], egy kocka egy centi, a szerint. Megvan most is a füzetem.