Travel

Russia
St. Petersburg
Interviewer Olga Egudina
October 2007

Naum Efimovich is 94 years old.

He can independently take care of himself, 

goes out sometimes, does physical exercises in the morning.
He has poor sight and hearing.
 

A nice person to talk to, polite, 
ready to recount his life without interruption. 
He feels lonely without his wife and friends.

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

• My family background

I can remember my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather, Naum Tseitlin, lived in Belarus, and the main residence of the entire Tseitlin family was the provincial town of Mstislavl. During the war I happened to pass through this town, and when we came across a Jewish cemetery, quite by chance, my comrade, a soldier like me, said: ‘Look, Tseitlin,’ pointing at a marble monument. I went up and saw that it really was Tseitlin. I looked at the next – Tseitlin, too. A whole row of Tseitlins. That is, an entire burial place for the Tseitlin family. And I noticed the years. The graves were not only recent, but dated as far back as the 1700s, that is to say that Tseitlins were already living in Mstislavl in the 18th century. I then recalled that in the days of Catherine the Great our ancestors moved to Russia, coming through Germany, the Baltic states, and finally settled in this very place, in Belarus.

I noticed that those were only men's tombstones, and remembered what Father used to tell me. According to Jewish custom, men are buried in one row, and women in another, so that a husband’s and wife’s graves will be found in different places. Only men's tombstones. And a lot of names that I knew so well. My father also told me, that names recurred in our family. My name is Naum, my father’s Efim, his father was Yakov, Yakov’s father was Naum.

Since Jews were not allowed to own land and it was prohibited to sell land sites to Jews, they were mostly dealers, merchants, craftsmen. My grandfather Yakov in particular was a craftsman specializing in many things. His basic trade was pitch-making, so he called himself a pitch-maker. This place in Belarus abounds in woods, so they were very much taken up with extracting pitch, turpentine and rosin. Grandfather was certainly the source of well being for his family. He was really a jack-of-all-trades, and Father, too, inherited all his skills.

It is enough to tell you that I remember as a small boy, how Grandfather fixed a broken samovar. One of our neighbors put on a samovar once [in those days live coals were put in samovars to boil water]. But someone had poured out all of the boiled water, and the coals continued to burn, and the samovar cracked at the seams. This made people upset. Grandfather comes out and says, ‘I’ll fix it.’ ‘How in God’s name are you going to fix it?’ ‘It’s very simple.’

I was a witness to that, a small boy while a big crowd gathered from all over and watched how he was going to repair a completely broken samovar. The pipe had split off the pot, it was all melted down. And Grandfather used the same live coals to fire up the solderer, because electricity was unheard of in the vicinity, soldered whatever required soldering and assembled the samovar in front of the entire crowd. Everybody gasped with surprise. It impressed me, too.

But Grandfather wasn't finished yet. He said, ‘OK, I have put together the parts, but the thing has to be soldered from inside, that’s why I’m going to cover it with tin from within.’ And he showed us how to do it. He melted the tin right there in the fire, and prepared a broom in the meantime. I remember it all very well. I was about five years old then, it was shortly before Grandfather died. And he lined the insides of the samovar with tin. He sprinkled the melted tin on the broom and twirled it fast inside the samovar. Then he called to a man and said, ‘Look to see if I have missed any place?’ No, everything was just fine, lined all over. So, Father and Grandfather were mending, people were paying.

My grandmother on father’s side was called Genessa. I remember trying to find out, as a small boy, what the Russian equivalent would have been. She was always very strict, I cannot remember if she ever laughed. And she brought up her kids along tough lines. She had several children. Of the two boys, my father, Efim Yakovlevich, was the elder. Her other son’s name was Michael Yakovlevich. He received a good education, was a dental technician, and such a good one, that he eventually became a professor at the Moscow Medical Institute’s dental surgery faculty. After the war he worked, being already prominent in his trade, in the dental surgery clinic of the Main Moscow Department of the GPU 1. I have no information about the sisters.

My grandmother, grandfather and parents were religious people. My grandmother did not change her habits during all her life; she baked challah on Fridays, in order to celebrate Sabbath, though she wore secular clothes every day. Both my grandparents and parents spoke mainly in Yiddish amongst themselves, and with us – only in Russian. All of them knew Russian.

My mother was born in Belarus, in the small settlement of Smolyany, not far from Orsha, in 1875. She was known, in the Jewish manner, as Tseita. People tried to call her Tsetsilia in the Russian way, but all to no avail; sometimes neighbors called her Teresa, but she remained Tseita Alexandrovna.

Her father’s name was Grigory. My maternal grandfather, as many Jews, had two names – Grigory and Sender [Alexander]. I actually also had a second name, Matvey, and I was called Motya as a child. His surname was Hoffmann; he was born in Belarus too. He died, when she was a very young girl. His wife got married a second time to Schwarz. And a girl was born out of this marriage, my aunt Fanya, who later lived with us. They were quite rich, could educate their children in Warsaw, and as a young girl she completed a corset-making school in Warsaw.

My mother’s maternal relatives took her into their family. She grew up rather far away from Orsha, or from Smolyany, where she was born, on the bank of the Dnieper River, brought up by her uncle and aunt. I passed through this settlement during the war as well; it is now a district center, where my mother spent her youth. The front line passed right through it. My mother had not received any education. Her childhood was such that she had to start working very early. She met her husband-to-be, Efim, in Orsha, when she was seventeen years old and she worked as a saleswoman in a big store in Orsha, in Belarus. Soon they got married.

My father Efim was born in 1876 in Smolensk [a town not far from the border between present-day Russia and Belarus] beyond the Jewish Pale of Settlement 2. As a matter of fact, his mother and my grandmother Genessa helped her husband and my grandfather Yakov with his commercial business, which was often connected with various trips. Being pregnant, she went on one such trip, thinking to be back home on time. However, when in Smolensk, premature delivery started, and Father was born in that town. He spent his childhood and youth in the town of Mstislavl.

My father moved almost simultaneously with Grandfather, they broke away from the Pale of Settlement. Although it cost great efforts, as my father used to say, they managed to settle in Russia. It was before the revolution 3, at the end of the 19th century, when my father was newly married and decided to take advantage of the opportunity, which presented itself then – of course, they had to bribe some officials to be able to leave. Since Jews were authorized to settle only in some cities, he chose the town of Saratov on the Volga River. Grandfather followed right after him.

Father had to take examinations for a trade, because without a profession Jews were not allowed to move. He had passed an examination for drugstore assistant. It meant being able to prepare distilled water, make mixtures, obtain goods for a drugstore, in short being a worker in a drugstore. In order to do so it was necessary to pass an obligatory examination in Russian, and Father had not studied in school, he studied at home. Father did not learn Russian at school, since he did not attend it; he studied it at home with a teacher. They were rather well off, able to hire a melamed for him. The teacher taught him various subjects, and besides, he taught him all prayers properly. He was capable of learning, grasping things fast. He learned Russian and wrote correctly. I keep an album of my sister’s from when she was but a schoolgirl. Father wrote verses for her and put them down in her album himself.

As soon as my father moved to Saratov, he began to look for work at once. They found a place in a house next to a synagogue. There were two synagogues in town. One synagogue was big, with a dome and a magen david, all properly built. On the same site of land, leased from a bankrupt nobleman [Jews were not allowed to buy land], another two-storied house was built, and after internal restructuring the second floor accommodated another synagogue. There was one reformist synagogue for well-off people and an Orthodox one for others.

There was a small, two-storied wooden house near this synagogue, and it had a basement. So Father and Grandfather asked, ‘Can we have a store here?’ ‘Yes, you can.’ They wrote the ‘Grocery store’ sign-board themselves. Mother was both the manager and the salesperson. They started to trade little by little, before they could collect some capital. Gradually, with the increase of the turn-over, the store extended to two inter-connected apartments. In one apartment was the salesroom, and the warehouse was in the other. They sold mostly household commodities.

My parents moved to Saratov in 1898, before they had children. Both my sister and I were born in Saratov. I had two younger brothers, who died very young. There was a children’s scarlet fever epidemic, and they died at the age of five and one-and-a-half, respectively. My sister Sofia and I survived. She was born in 1905, was older than me, I was born in 1908.

When the store was ready, one apartment was turned into the sales premises, another into the warehouse, and we all lived in the third apartment, a basement. Then my aunt arrived, my mother’s half-sister from their mother’s second marriage. When she arrived in Saratov, she opened a workshop, with a sign-board, in the same house, on the ground floor. We actually lived in this apartment by then, not in the basement any more, but on the ground floor. But everything that indicated a living room was taken away during the day, when rich and even elite customers came.

My aunt took an active part in bringing up my sister and me. She lived with us for many years. Then she got married, left for Astrakhan, then returned to Saratov. She had another surname then, she became Schwarz.

There were eight apartments in our yard. The neighbors were Russian orthodox people. One of the apartments was occupied by the leader of the Union of Russian People, that is, the Black Hundred 4, he lived in our yard. And, when there was a pogrom in 1905 5, before my birth, two weeks after my sister Sonya was born, he said to his men in the yard, ‘Don’t touch these Judes [Jews],’ and left to plunder the town. This leader Vaska, as father called him, was a kind of protection for us. My grandfather came running to us, Grandmother remained at home, and he came to us because they mainly hunted for men. We tried to think of where to hide him, there were two sheds by the entry to our apartment, with cellars. He climbed down into the cellar, followed by my father and his brother, my uncle Michael.

Mother had a two-week-old daughter, Sonya. She did not know what to do, to go down to the cellar with the baby would have been difficult. She was thinking and thinking, and right then shouting was heard in the synagogue, which was in the next building. Many Jews wanted to hide in the synagogue, which had big cellars. Mother grabbed the two-week-old girl, some of her clothes and a bottle of baby food and decided to run towards the center.

The center was three short blocks away. We lived near the center, but the place was already considered a suburb. She ran and ran, and didn’t meet any policeman in the suburbs, where only poor Jewish people lived. Police mainly patrolled the central streets, guarding rich Jews, who calmly stayed there, although some of them were robbed as well. But the police were concentrated there. Mother ran, and there was not a single policeman, just deserted streets. She reached the central street, it was called German Street. She passed two more houses, until she came to a smaller street crossing – Groshovaya. She turned into that dark street, and soon came across an old woman. ‘Where are you running to?’‘Well, you know, we are in trouble down there.’ ‘Oh, you are Jewish, let’s go.’ And that Russian woman took her to her home. And the baby cried, needed swaddling. The woman even helped to change the diapers. And then the daughter of this old lady appears. ‘Mother, what have you done, brought a Jude home?! Kick her out immediately!’

Before World War I, there was the Russian-Japanese war. Father was of call-up age then. And he had to go to the recruitment office. The rules then were that Jews, and not only Jews, but Jews in particular, were to be called up, and in times of war they had to be drafted in the location where they had been registered as subject to the draft for the first time.

My father was born in Smolensk, completely by accident, because the family lived in Belarus all the time. When his mother was pregnant, she had to go to Smolensk, in Russia, from Belarus, to arrange a delivery of a grain consignment to Belarus. They traded in grain and other goods. Her husband could not go. So my grandmother went to Smolensk, found workers there, invited them to the warehouse, they loaded the grain, she paid them off, went to the post-office to send a telegram saying that the grain was being sent by railway, and suddenly felt, that it was time to give birth. There were private midwives in Smolensk. She went to one, and a day or two later gave birth to my father. She came home, and although he was born in Smolensk, his birth was registered in Mstislavl, to avoid any investigation as to why a Jewish woman had left to go somewhere.

And when my father was called up to the Russian-Japanese war and was summoned to the enlistment office, he said, ‘Why should I be drafted, I have just recently got married and brought my family here, what should I do?’ And they answered, ‘Find a substitute from among your relatives.’ The family council gathered, and his younger uncle Noi said, ‘I’ll go.’ He had not yet been called up for some reason. And the Russian-Japanese war began, and Noi was sent to the East and was besieged in some town. This town was blockaded for a long time and he died there like a hero and was awarded posthumously for his courage.

Back then medals and orders were sent to relatives. And because my father or grandfather had been registered as his closest relative, I cannot remember which precisely, the medal was brought to us. But, unfortunately, I showed it to one of my pals, our neighbor, a German boy. We were kids and were fighting street against street then, and he was older and promised me something for it, maybe a higher rank. For we also divided ourselves up into commanders and private soldiers. I was a private soldier. I was six years old, it was in 1914. He never gave that medal back to me.

The moment World War I started I was in the synagogue yard, we were playing. And suddenly the son of the synagogue servant, the shammash Kostya Levin, runs in with a newspaper in his hands and shouts: ‘War has broken out, war has broken out!’ Being a six-year-old boy, I could not understand, what war meant, who was fighting against who, etc. I ran with him to his apartment and to his father. The latter put on his glasses, started to read, Kostya helping him. ‘The Tsar’s manifesto. War has broken out.’

There was a big waste ground opposite our house, over the street. In a few days the recruits started to march there, because there was not enough space in the streets of the settlement. I took advantage of the situation and quickly learned all the intricacies of this square-bashing. Turn right, turn left, attention! – all this front-line service I mastered perfectly when I was seven. None of our relatives had been called up then. Jews were somehow not drafted then at all.

All Jews were divided into two groups in the town. One consisted of mainly prosperous Jews with their feet firmly on the ground – the Mistnagdim 6. It was the bigger Jewish group. The second, fewer in number, was called the Hasidim 7 in Yiddish and Khoseds in Russian. My father used to say with pride, that we were in this group – he called it ‘sect’ in Russian, Jews do not like the term. The rich men, as they were called, had everything well organized. They had chazzanim, singers, who sang during the service, and often acted as civil singers. And we, Hasidim, Father said, were a philosophical sect, and he was proud that in the 18th century and later many philosophers were born to this smaller section of the Jews.

Father frequently took me to the synagogue, or I just ran up to the second floor, where it was. Public worship is frequently interrupted by blessings. Everyone who bears the surname Kogan [Kogan is the Russian version of Cohen], steps forward, to where the Torah is, in a special big cabinet, the tabernacle. They turn to all of us, who are not Kogans, and bless us, even the Kogans, who had just reached the age of 13, that is, had just had their bar mitzvah. All the others stand, with their eyes closed or looking downwards, and the Kogans fold their arms like this: hold their arms above our heads, including the thirteen-year-old boys, they look at us, and we have no right to look at them. So they are holding their arms like this and reading the prayer of blessing. And even the 90-95-year-old men are standing with their heads bowed.

My father was a gabbai – a representative. The word gabbaim means the administration of a synagogue. My father and grandfather were elected to it. We occupied honorary seats in the synagogue, in the first row. All seats were bought out. Father had chosen a seat next to a window for himself, it was permanently his. The chair had a seat that could be lifted up, and it was possible to keep the tallit there. It could be locked, too.

There was one funny incident. Once I am sitting on Father’s chair, he’s standing nearby, and an old man – our neighbor Levit, a god-fearing old man, of whom I was very afraid because he was so strict – slapped me on the knee and said, ‘So, do you know, how they bless us?’ – it was right after the Kogans had blessed us. I said, ‘How? – Like this.’ – and I bent my head and closed my eyes. ‘But did you know, that if you look at them first, you will go blind? And if you look up a second time, you will die.’ I was really scared to death, and blinked at him. And he waited a little bit and said, ‘Shame on you, little boy, you didn’t even hear or understand what I said.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ He answered, ‘How can you possibly look a second time if you go blind after the first? My grandson guessed it, but you are not so bright.’ I took great offence at him.

Father read prayers in the morning. He used to wrap a belt around his arm [Mr. Tseitlin refers to the tefillin], so tight, that he could hardly bend it and I read a prayer, too. We observed Sabbath, lit candles. Mother lit the furnace every Friday, made dinner for Saturday, because on Saturday one was not allowed to work. On Friday she baked challot in the Russian stove, and as my grandmother was already old, she baked challot for us and for her, too. Each time the challot were laid out in a certain order, a prayer was said, this was on Friday night, and on Saturday, too, and only after that were you allowed to eat this plaited white bread.

When I grew up a little bit, I used to go to Grandfather and Grandmother’s place, they lived nearby when they came to Saratov. I always took two or three challot to Grandfather and Grandmother. Even after the revolution, during the lean years, when famine  struck the Volga region and people were dying in the streets – I remember, it was in 1919-1921 – I still took two challot in a clean, ironed napkin to Grandmother, so that she, too, could read a prayer. [Editor’s note: The famine of 1920-1921 was mostly in Povolzhye and connected with disastrous lack of crop. This famine had nothing to do with the famine in Ukraine of 1931-1933, inspired deliberately by Stalin.]

I learned to read all by myself. I like to tell people how I learned to read. There was a big market place two blocks from our house. It was called the lower market, a big square with huge stock facilities, and a lot of trading from camp-beds. There were many shops, and all shops had signboards. Signboards were not typed then, but painted with oil paint on tin, with big letters. I used to ask, ‘What is this letter? And what is that letter? What is written here?’ ‘Krestovnikov Brothers, Kazan,’ ‘Soap and Candles.’ That’s how I got to know all letters. Another sign said: ‘Bread,’ and the name of the shopkeeper, the merchant. A drugstore, a bakery, and so on. I learned all letters and started to read little by little. I learned to read from signboards very fluently, understood how words were made. Then I went to the next street, Moskovskaya, also a central street, there were some stores there, too, with inscriptions in large letters.

I liked working very much, and my favorite toy was a hammer. I hammered in nails, small nails into the floor, or, after Grandfather brought me a log, I hammered nails into that. After I would drive in a nail, I would always say, ‘Nailed.’ All my family began to call me ‘Nailed.’ ‘Nailed, come here, mother is calling, stop knocking.’ That was my nickname.

Once I was sitting with Father in our store. There were no customers in. Father was reading a newspaper, I was playing with my hammer. I looked up and saw the name of the newspaper, ‘Mail,’ written in big letters, this newspaper was published in our town. Another newspaper was called ‘Kopeck,’ the cheapest one. And the third one was called ‘The Saratov News.’ I read all the titles aloud. Father put his newspaper aside, took off his glasses and said, ‘What did you say?’ I repeated: ‘It says: “Mail,” the one you just held, the other one is “Kopeck”.’ ‘How do you know? You what, learned to read?’ My father had no idea that I could read. ‘Did you learn to read?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ And I read another headline in the newspaper. And I had not yet turned six years old.

• Growing up

I was admitted to school. There was a Jewish school in the main street. It was founded by Jews. They rented a building, because Jews were not allowed to buy real estate. They made an agreement with the owner that the building would be completely refurbished inside. Thus, they had a school building in the main street. The Mitnagdim, the rich, wanted the school to be close to their houses, all of them lived in the main street. It was prestigious to live in the main street and to have your family signboard in it. I remember, when I walked there, I read: Mitsvakher, or some other Jewish surname. All of them were concentrated in one quarter.

Inside the rented building they made two classrooms out of one apartment, two out of another and there were one or two classrooms on the ground floor. So the Jewish school was organized. Teaching was in Russian, but sometimes in Yiddish, too. I went to that school, in the first grade. The teacher was surprised: ‘The smallest boy, and he can already read?’ I went to that school in 1917. I studied for two weeks and fell ill, I was very weak. I was admitted, but they were still studying letters, and I could read already, it did not interest me at all.

The following year the school was closed, it was after the February Revolution  and I went on to an ordinary Russian grammar school. [Editor’s note: The February Revolution was a democratic revolution in Russia in February of 1917, which led to the overthrow of autocracy: Tsar Nicholas II abdicated the crown. This specific revolution, not the October one, as many think, lifted the Jewish Pale of Settlement.] It was a private grammar school named after a teacher, Dobrovolsky.

Close to it was another school, the First Saratov grammar school, from which N. G. Chernyshevsky 8 had graduated in his time. I was going to enter that grammar school, the senior preparatory class. But I was ill for a very long time with various diseases. And I was too late for the entrance examinations because of my illness. Father agreed that I should be examined with those pupils who were lagging behind and failed to complete the previous grade. There were about 8-12 of them.

I went with my father, and it was a huge building with wide corridors, a rarity for those times. We went up to the teacher. ‘We received permission from the director of this grammar school for him to take the examinations.’ He said, ‘The first examination is mathematics, is he ready?’ Father said, ‘Yes, he is ready.’ ‘He will take it with a group of pupils who had bad marks in the subject.’ They showed me into a classroom. Father waited in the corridor. There were three teachers there, dressed in uniform with shining copper buttons, and dirks – that was the kind of uniform teachers wore then. And high-school students also had special uniforms. My parents bought me some inexpensive uniform – a cap, an overcoat, everything as it should be.

A teacher had stood up and written the conditions of a mathematical problem on the blackboard. In great detail. Then he ordered us to start solving it. I solved the problem straight off without any problems. While I was solving it, I heard a noise and looked back. It was our neighbor Volod’ka, a son of a christened Jew, who was baptized in order to finish the medical faculty of our Saratov Institute. Volod’ka had frequently beaten me, he was stout, three years older than me, and I was small. He usually bullied all Jewish boys, and frequently thrashed them hard. And suddenly this Volodka waves his arms at me, asking for a crib. And I had no idea what a crib was. I turned to him once or twice, but he was only moving his lips, trying to say something.

One of the teachers noticed and came up to me: ‘Why are you fidgeting?’ ‘It’s nothing.’ ‘You have to stand up when a teacher addresses you.’ I stood up, and the school desks had such folding tops, on hinges, and the folding part had fallen, when I stood up, with a big noise. He instructs me again: ‘You should hold the folder, you don’t have to make such a noise.’ At last I am standing up, and he says, ‘When an older person talks to you, it is necessary to turn to him.’ I turned to the man, already grown red from embarrassment, not knowing what he wanted from me. ‘So why did you fidget?’ I say, ‘I do not know.’ ‘And who will know?’ I thought: ‘Now he will expel me.’ At that moment he looked into my notebook: ‘What, are you finished?’ I answered, ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘All solved? Well, give it to me.’ And, without saying another word, he approached the other two teachers and showed them my paper. They were greatly surprised.

Nobody had completed the task yet, and here comes the green boy, small and shabby, and solves everything almost instantly. It turned out, as I learned later, that they admired the fact that I, having read the question, had decided at once what I needed in the end. The teacher noticed this. I still remember the maths problem today. The teacher came up to me, smiling for some reason. He approached me and took me by the shoulder: ‘Let’s go.’ I was frightened. How is this, all the guys sitting, and I must go somewhere. We went out of the classroom and behind the door were my father and a priest, who had come to wait for his son. Father rushed towards me at once, ‘What’s the matter? Were you confused?’ And the teacher slapped him on the shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, everything is all right, take your son home.’ And he shut the door.

Father continued to worry, because it was only me alone who had been let out. We decided to wait. One and a half hours, two hours – it seemed like ages to me. The priest took me by the hand and asked, ‘Listen, boy, was the problem the same for everyone?’ – ‘Yes.’ – ‘Was everyone solving it?’ – ‘Everyone.’ – ‘And, you were the first to accomplish it?’ – ‘Yes, I was the first, and the others are still working on it.’ ‘Can you tell me the problem?’ I told him. ‘And how did you solve it?’ I began to show him the solution to the problem right there on the window-sill. Father was standing nearby, he saw that I had solved it correctly, and clapped me on the shoulder: ‘Good fellow.’

We were standing and waiting for what seemed ages, but still the other guys had not finished. One of the teachers came out and Father asked him, ‘Shall we wait longer?’ – ‘No, everything is all right, you can go, and, by the way, he does not have to take the Russian exam.’ Father said, ‘How come, the day after tomorrow they are supposed to take a Russian examination?’ – ‘He’s fine; he has put down all commas and semicolons perfectly, exactly where necessary, don’t bring him.’ This was the way I entered grammar school.

The Dobrovolsky Russian private grammar school was a three-storied building. We were all the time competing with the First grammar school. Mainly Russian children studied there. Many Germans lived in Saratov. The Volga Republic was across the river. Two bridges were built over to the town of Engels, now it is a part of Saratov, but earlier it was Pokrovskaya village. [Before 1931 the town was named Pokrovsk and after that up to now it is called Engels]. Germans studied in our grammar school, too. We had a Singer, a Miller, etc.

During the famine in the Volga region it was hard to survive. It is enough to say that not only was bread short, but salt was, too, and it was miserable managing without salt. Salt was brought from Astrakhan, in sacks, it was dirty, and one had to dissolve it in water and pour the dirty water off, to purify it. АRА 9, the American mission to help the starving people in the Volga region, arrived in our grammar school. They brought aluminum bowls and spoons, which were an innovation to us. They had just become fashionable then, but were very costly, one kilo of aluminum cost 50 rubles in the beginning. At home we ate with metal spoons, some were of pure iron, some covered with nickel, and chromium plating superseded nickel plating.

The Americans provided us with very good food. Lenin had a meeting with the famous Jew Armand Hammer 10, who bought valuables and pictures. He bought artworks, sold by the Soviet government from the museums almost for nothing, and Lenin asked him to help. He asked, ‘What can I do?’ – ‘Can you organize a pencil plant?” – ‘Yes, I can.’ And a pencil plant was launched by Hammer.

I was very weak. I started off well in the first year, but then I fell ill. When I came to enter the second grade, I was interviewed, and I knew everything. I studied Sonya’s textbook at home while I was ill. Sometimes Sonya helped me, otherwise I did everything myself. Sonya went to the private girls’ grammar school owned by Mrs. Kufeld, who was a German, and very severe. Sonya completed this grammar school.

From the very beginning, I can say, I was the best pupil in the grammar school. In the class I enjoyed some authority, although I was very small. And I even earned my first kiss from a teacher. Teachers kissed me twice in my life. In the fourth grade we had a teacher called Lydia Vasilievna Maltseva. Her father was the head of the municipal council. He had planted the second Lipki, as we used to say. Lipki was a big garden in the city center, surrounded by a metal fence, near the theaters and the new cathedral. A huge and very beautiful garden, overlooking the Volga River. The father of our teacher had planted a second Lipki near our house: a whole street of chestnut trees. And she bragged about it.

She had been under pressure at times, she had no teacher training. She was hired through contacts, people said. She could teach all right in the first grade, in the second, too … but at the beginning of the fourth grade the problems began. She was not too good at geography, poor at natural sciences. There were subjects that she could hardly teach. She was an expert in German and French, but with other subjects she had problems. And I used to help her.

Once she came into the classroom, turned red in the face, because the director had summoned her and warned her that representatives from the town party committee were going to come and make a survey of our school. She was literally shaking. It was already in Soviet times. Suddenly three men came in, and you could tell at once that they were not very competent at science. ‘Can we attend your lesson?’ What could she do, who to call to the blackboard? Tseitlin, of course. She asked me, first in geography, what continents I knew, what islands, and what an island was, what peninsulas I knew, which peninsulas were in Asia, America, Africa. I promptly answered, I loved geography very much. She was sure I would answer all questions. The teachers kissed me as a sign of appreciation, as I rescued them with the help of my knowledge in front of the inspectors.

By the end of school I had developed a certain inclination for linguistics. I planned to enter the literature department of the teacher training faculty of Saratov University. I completed the school – it was not called grammar school any more. Grammar schools were done away with in 1918. It became an ordinary Soviet school. I ended the ninth grade in 1926, that was the last grade then. I wrote my composition perfectly well. There was no ‘excellent’ mark then, only ‘good,’ ‘satisfactory’ and ‘not satisfactory.’ This was introduced by the Bolsheviks 11, they thought it was quite enough.

I started to take examinations to enter Saratov University, when one of my friends told me, ‘You will be a poor teacher, getting only 75 rubles a month. And I will graduate from technical school – 125 rubles right away, as a junior technician, and as a senior – up to 200-225. You see the difference?’ Eventually, I entered and started to successfully study at the Construction Engineering College. I happened to listen to A. V. Lunacharsky's lectures and communicate with him. [A. V. Lunacharsky (1875-1933): - a political and public figure, a writer and the first Soviet people’s commissar of education.] But even during that period I attended literary circles.

After the revolution we didn’t live well, although we had enough food, otherwise it was not a grand-style life. And the family, especially Father, had been used to living well. In fact, he grew up in a wealthy family. Because people were starving and food was distributed by ration cards, literate people, who could count well, were in demand. Cards were marked for a quarter pound, half a pound, one pound and so on. So Father was appointed a superintendent in the bureau for distribution of food and other products. Cards were typed on whatever paper was at hand, because of the lack of good paper. For example, big sheets of labels had been prepared, say, for sweets, and the sweets came to an end, but the paper remained. And cards were typed on the reverse side of these labels.

Father was the superintendent of this bureau for two or three years. Later, in the days of the NEP 12, he became the manager of a cooperative shop, organized by Jews. It is interesting that the name of this cooperative society was Jewish, but in Russian letters. It was called ‘Mitsva,’ which means ‘a gift.’ Father was the manager of this shop for several years. First they got permission to open some old shop deserted a long time ago, did it up and traded there. And the members of that cooperative society, all of them Jewish, received a discount any time they purchased anything; the total sum was counted and then 2 percent was deducted, just a little bit cheaper. He ordered all necessary products and goods, and sold them himself. For a period there were two more salesmen, also Jews.

Once Father had been sent to the Tambov region, to act as a storekeeper during the construction of a grain elevator. At that time the well-known Antonov gang was active in the Tambov region. [A. S. Antonov (1888-1922), member of the Socialist-Revolutionary Party, leader of the peasant’s rebellion against Bolshevik power in Tambov and Voronezh region in 1922.]

Later Father was a cashier at the Saratov boiler factory. It was in the 1930s. He paid out wages to workers, brought money from the bank, issued bonds. He died in 1939 in Saratov. His funeral was attended by the entire factory. We lived in the same street as the boiler factory. And the funeral procession went past the factory and on to the cemetery, the cemetery was just right ahead. And when people were passing the factory, someone there decided to blow the factory hooter, and all the workers were asked to come out and bid farewell to Efim Yakovlevich. He was buried with honors.

I went to Saratov in 1979 to bury his daughter, my sister Sonya. I did not find his tomb. During the war Saratov was bombed by the Germans and two or three bombs fell on the Jewish cemetery. I searched there for the graves of my mother and father, but to no avail. I found two or three holes, and some destroyed tombstones down there.

Father was not a communist in Soviet times and Mother did not enter the Communist Party either. Mother survived the war, and she was very active both during and after it. In spite of lack of education, she could read Russian texts perfectly and quickly, and throughout the war she was a propagandist, every evening she read the newspapers aloud to neighbors who came out on the porch. She used to put on her glasses and read the Soviet Information Bureau reports to a dozen people sitting in a circle under a big shed that protected them in rainy weather.

My sister Sonya’s fate wasn’t a very happy one. She did not get married, although there were suitors. She lived with our mother, unwilling to leave her. She worked as a teacher at school, teaching Russian. Then she was a teacher of Russian language and literature in the Library College. She liked her job very much, sitting late in the evenings checking the homework of her students. She never went out anywhere.

Teaching in the Library College, she made friends with a librarian who also worked there. They were such close friends that when the woman became fatally ill, she made Mother promise that Sonya would marry her husband when she dies. And Mother was as good as her word. They officially registered, but in fact did not live together, he lived in one room and she in another. He told everybody that she was his wife, but actually this was not true. Sonya died in 1979. She was buried in Saratov.

I completed the Construction Engineering College in 1931. There were two departments: civil construction and highway engineering. Later a hydraulic engineering department was organized, which I entered. All of us graduated as construction engineers, in other words we became foremen in charge of construction.

When I entered the college, it was a three-year school, admitting people with secondary education, after completing nine or seven years of secondary school. I was the only one to have come after the ninth grade, so I lost two years, but it was easy for me to study general subjects in the technical school. I did almost nothing, I knew everything pretty well. And I was not bad at special construction disciplines, either.

It is enough to say that we published the lectures of one of our professors and my abstract of lectures was used as the basis for this brochure, lectures on hydraulics. It was the most difficult subject for my comrades. The professor’s surname was on the cover, with mine below it, saying that the publication was based upon abstracts by Tseitlin, a student of the technical school. I copied and printed all the materials. The circulation was very small, only 50 or 75 copies, just for the students and for the library of the technical school. It was the first of its sort in school.

When I was a first-year student, I negotiated work in the Ryazan Regional Land Administration. I was also offered trips to the Far East and Far North, with very good grants. But I was advised against going there, due to my poor health and I went to the Ryazan region and worked there for a few years. I had to build a water pipeline from the farmyards to the water tower and from the farmyards to a pond in a manor that had once belonged to the builder of the Moscow-Ryazan railway, von Mekk. There was a peasant saying [This was not a rumor or a saying – they really said so]: ‘There was a water pipeline here, made of wood; and the master who drilled these pipes out of logs is still alive, and the pipeline worked all right, only it delivered mash to a vodka distillery rather than water.’

I became interested, found this old timer Stepan, who drilled wood pipes [metal pipes were difficult to get then]. With the agreement of the state farm I went to Moscow to see Professor Gineev, the author of a textbook on water supplies. He says, ‘Please, find out how they did it and what drills they used.’ It appeared the drills were all hand-made by the smith. When this Stepan came to me, he said, ‘Grandfather and I did it in 1908-1909. See this stone barn, measure out two sazhens [Sazhen is a Russian measure of length, equal to 7 feet, i.e., 2,13 m] from it and dig, you will find a pipe.’ We dug and we eventually found that pipe. We wanted to see how it had survived so many years. We struck it with an axe, and the axe rebounded off it as if from metal – this was how alcoholized it had become from transporting mash to the vodka factory. It didn’t decay in the least.

I wrote about it to Professor Nikolay Nikolaevich Gineev, and I was hired right away as a scientific employee at their institute. I went there several times for consultations and they came to me as well to look and to take photographs. Finally I built that water pipeline, not completely though, because I was summoned to Moscow by Professor Gineev, who appointed me as a scientific researcher and even issued a license to order foreign literature worth 10 gold rubles every year. I received some books from Germany for that money.

So I worked a few years in Ryazan as a trainee, in the second, third and fourth years of technical school, and then after graduation. Inspectors from the Moscow Land Administration came to survey my work, and finally I was employed by the design organization of a construction trust, Mosmeliostroi – a state company dealing with meliorative hydraulic engineering. I began to work in Moscow and was promoted very fast. I was soon elected a member of the Employees Board, and then its vice-president.

I got married in 1936. My wife, Fanny Mikhailovna Epstein, was a member of the Employees Board too. I became acquainted with her on March 3, 1933. She came to my office and said, ‘I was advised to approach you. You are a member of the Employees Board, so will you please sign here to confirm that you do not object to hiring this new employee.’ She worked at ‘The Sickle and Hammer’ factory as a secretary to the head of the trade-union organization. She worked at the ‘The Sickle and Hammer’ factory before she came to work in our organization.

My wife came to Moscow from Simferopol where she lived and studied and completed grammar school. Then she finished a music school and moved to Moscow hoping to enter the conservatory, she played piano. They had a piano at home, so she had a lot of practice. Her parents were religious people and observed all traditions at home. However, after her arrival in Moscow she lost all her religious upbringing. As a matter of fact, it was almost impossible for a young person at that time, especially in a big city, working or studying in a public institution – and there were no other – to remain religious. This concerned not only Jews, but people of other religions as well. It was simply not safe. A religious wedding was absolutely out of the question. In 1938 our daughter Stella was born.

In the late 1930s, my life took a sharp turn in a new direction in which, as it happened, I have been moving ever since. I came across a newspaper article saying that the first Municipal House of Pioneers had opened in Moscow, and it also said what circles were organized and what specialists were invited to work with children. It looked interesting to me and I organized an architectural studio there, and a construction laboratory, which subsequently trained a lot of well-known specialists. Simultaneously, I was a correspondence student at the Timiryazyev Academy, the famous Agricultural Academy in Moscow, named after K. A. Timiryazyev [(1843-1920), an important Russian scientist naturalist]. I passed my last examination on June 20, 1941. I only had to defend my diploma. And suddenly the war broke out 13.

• During the war

When the war with Germany began, I worked as the head of the science and technology department of the Moscow Municipal House of Pioneers. I learned about the outbreak of the war from a radio broadcast of the speech by V. М. Molotov 14. ‘Hitlerite Germany has unilaterally broken the agreement with the Soviet Union, and without a declaration of war has started military aggression on a broad front line from the southern to the northern part of our boundary line.’

I hurried to work and when the entire collective had gathered we had a meeting. I warned the director that I was prepared to apply as a volunteer to the army. After the meeting we dismissed all the kids, and on the next working day, which was Tuesday, I came to work with a filled in enlistment form and handed it over to the secretary of the party organization. She said, ‘I did not expect that you would be the first.’ I was not subject to the draft. I still hold a passport from that period, which states, ‘Not subject to the draft, has not undergone any military training,’ right under my surname. It was because I was born with a very serious disease, I had heart problems.

I learned that all 27 men, who worked in our department, had filled out similar forms, and we were enlisted in a squad of the National Guard. On July 2 I received a message saying that I should go to school no. 313 15, close to our House of Pioneers. I came with an ordinary sack, because I did not have any military kit-bag. Just a sack, with things packed by my wife. We were lodged in that school, desks were removed and beds installed, and some guys were sleeping on the floor.

Our military training began. We were endlessly marching in the schoolyard, engaged in square-bashing. We spent the nights there, too, using our sacks as pillows. On July 9 we were raised by an alarm, when we were already asleep, given our military uniforms and ordered to fall in. We went out, we were counted, because some people had earlier received a compensatory holiday to visit relatives. Almost all 27 men were there. A truck drove into the yard, we got in, not knowing where we were going. On the outskirts of Moscow we got off and went to a bathhouse, washed ourselves, changed our clothes into military uniforms, returned to school and put all our civilian clothes and shoes into kit-bags.

The next day our column was bombed. We went by truck to Bryansk. On the way we passed through Kulikovo Field. I remember that the Germans had just bombed the road ahead of us. Then we rode another 150-180 kilometers by bus. We stopped close to the front and walked in a column further on. On the road we were given rifles and 5 cartridges each and were told that it was ‘for the time being.’ This ‘for the time being’ lasted for quite a long while. We had already reached the front line, and we still had only 5 cartridges per person. And there was a strict routine: a daily check-up of the state of the ammunition. And every morning everyone had to show his 5 cartridges and the rifle, and the first sergeant went around and inspected.

I remember well that it was the village of Mitino, 7 kilometers from the town of Gzhatsk [subsequently named after the first cosmonaut Gagarin], where we first met the Germans. We entered Mitino late at night. When we approached, the Germans opened fire. I did not see or hear if anyone was wounded or cried out. The day before, we were sent a commander for the platoon, a young boy, in a clean and completely new uniform; he didn’t even have a revolver, not even those 5 cartridges or a rifle. So he broke a branch from a tree as a weapon. This first skirmish I remember very well. We spent two hours there. I remember a haystack burning. Afterwards we retreated for several days. We retreated trying to hold out. The Germans approached, firing in a disorderly manner.

We fell back to the Moscow region. We entered Volokolamsk, a big regional center in the west of this region, under bombardment. At that moment a bread truck came into town. We approached it: ‘Give us some bread.’ ‘No.’ One of our soldiers jumped into the truck without asking, grabbed a loaf of bread, and was hit by a bottle. He literally howled and threw away the loaf. They had bread, but they wouldn’t give us any, they were to deliver it to their own unit.

So we drew off to Moscow, until the well-known order was issued: ‘Not a single step back. Moscow is behind us.’

I found two of my friends at the station of Golitsyno, a railroad station to the west of Moscow. The forces were retreating to the east to Moscow. One of them was Farid Yarullin, the Tatar composer, known throughout the Soviet Union as the author of the ballet ‘Shurale.’ [Editor’s note: Born in 1914, Yarullin was killed in action in 1943.]

During one of the numerous shelling, which we suffered, I was hit by several bullets, luckily my jacket was unbuttoned, and the bullets went through it, not hitting my three hand grenades. The thing is that while we were retreating, if I found rifle cartridges or grenades, I picked them up. I had 24 cartridges in my pockets. I thought that there was no point in surrendering, that if I was captured by the Germans, they would immediately recognize a Jew, and would inevitably shoot me, so I would rather fight back. And I filled two pockets with ammunition.

One bullet entered my leg. I was thinking to myself, ‘What shall I do, I am bleeding, there are a lot of blood vessels here.’ As I had puttees on my feet, they bothered me a lot. And Yarullin was nearby, and I told him, ‘Take this just in case.’ I gave him one grenade. I went on, walking was difficult, I clamped the wound and felt blood. But I could still walk. I went in the opposite direction and turned to that section of the woods, which we had recently left. I went out to the edge of the forest, and, without meeting anybody, reached our unit and got into the medical and sanitary battalion.

The wound healed, but I developed boils on both legs, first on the lower legs, but then higher and higher until my entire legs were covered with abscesses all over. Probably, the reason was that I had to sleep on bare ground for many nights; in fact we only had light jackets, and there weren’t even overcoats. The doctor came, and I asked, ‘What shall I do?’ ‘And what can one do? In such cases it is necessary to eat garlic, and to apply special ointment, and I have no ointments with me.’ So the female doctor replied, which she accompanied with helpless shrugs. When I came to the hospital for bandaging, they asked, ‘What happened to you?’ and I said, ‘It is what you earn at the front nowadays.’ It would have helped if they had anointed the skin with something, but there were no liniments available in the hospital. That is why I was kept in the hospital for a long time.

This was at the beginning of 1942. When I was sent to the group of recovering patients, I was appointed commander of a unit of hospital attendants. And we, though it was hard, carried the wounded, took them from the trains that came from the front, helped them to get into buses and streetcars. Streetcars worked round the clock. It was in Moscow; I was assigned there. We went at nights, mainly to the Kazan passenger depot, sometimes to the Leningrad terminal. We were shelled several times.

By that time I was already a sergeant. We were put on trains and we went to the front. It was the spring of 1942, the snow had already started to melt. My legs had almost healed, but the scabs remained. So I found myself in the 22nd shooting division, then the 82nd Red Banner Division. It fought in the central front, and I spent most of the war in this area, the Smolensk region. We liberated the Smolensk region. In September we liberated Smolensk. I remember very clearly how we passed through Smolensk at night. Explosions everywhere. The Germans mined many buildings in Smolensk and while we were going through Smolensk, we heard endless explosions.

We moved farther and farther to the west. We reached Belarus. Our division was concentrated in the so-called Red Pine Forest. Its southern part was our last outpost to advance to Belarus. It was already the end of September. Our regiment advanced even earlier, approaching the spot where Yarullin was later wounded. The relief was as follows: a narrow strip of land extended 17-20 kilometers, the Dnieper River flowing west from the left, and some huge marshes on the right.

Once a commander called me, and ordered me to take documents to the opposite side of the Dnieper River, and I went at night on a ferry, accompanied by our signalman. This ferry consisted of 4-5 logs up against each other. You sat on top squatting, or with your legs down in the water so that the Germans, whose planes flew around and regularly bombed, could not see us. We crossed the river, I received a folder with papers for the chief of staff and we needed to go back. The signalman, who was with me, remained on the other side. And I had to get back alone. He had canvas mittens, and I had none.

I should have asked the commander to send somebody else with me, but I didn’t. I went there and had to ferry over by myself. In the middle of the river I had a lot of trouble throwing the braid through the connected ropes. And the ropes were not only tied together, but for strength they were wrapped round in several places with a telephone cable, and the loose ends stuck out everywhere. I could not do the job at all, my legs almost froze in the water. I vaguely remember how I reached the bank.

When I was on the bank, I could hardly make out what the guards were asking me about. I had no right to give the documents to anyone except for the chief of staff. I asked, ‘Where is Major this and that?’ ‘He is here in the blindage [ dugout] you can see him.’ They showed me to the blindage, and suddenly everyone shouted, ‘Air, air!’ I was on my way to this blindage where the chief of reconnaissance and the chief of staff were sitting. Everyone hails me, ‘Down! Down!’ It was an open spot. I came back.

Near the crossing someone had started to dig a trench, but then there was nobody there, only a spade. I started to dig a hole, when a raid began. I am standing near this pit and see an airplane making a circle and starting to dive. While it’s diving, I am looking at it, and it turns directly to where I am. And suddenly I see a black pinpoint falling from it, and I realize it is a bomb, and it flies at me. I jumped in the pit.

This was my second wound, and there were more contusions later. We failed to break through the German defense then, they held onto that spot for a few more months. We burst through in another direction only the following year, the Germans had been compelled to retreat, threatened by encirclement.

Our division was awarded the order of Kutuzov, it is normally an order given to military leaders, military units are rarely granted this award. We tore off of the enemy defenses and went to the rear for reinforcements, and fresh forces entered in our stead. Then we broke through in another location. We liberated the Belovezhskaya Puscha [also known as Bialowieza Forest, a national park in Belarus and Poland, a UNESCO World Heritage Site]. I walked through it two times, a very good place, and I saw live bisons. There is a museum in Belovezhskaya Puscha, which I visited. The Germans did not touch it.

I went to Nicholas II’s small hunting lodge, I was even in his apartments, I passed through all the rooms of this two-storied building. On the second floor were the apartments of the tsar and his court, and the servants lived downstairs. When I was on the second floor, one of the attendants told me, ‘These are Nicholas’s private rooms, and this is his lavatory.’ Upon which I said, ‘I will take advantage of this lavatory.’ And I used that imperial lavatory.

Let me also tell you about my correspondence with the writer Ilya Ehrenburg 16. For some time at the front I was in charge of informing soldiers of political issues. Many of my brothers-in-arms liked bright journalistic articles, including those by Erenburg. They frequently asked me to re-read them, so once I decided to write to the well-known author. Imagine my surprise when on June 7, 1943 the field post-office brought me an answer from the writer and his book ‘Exasperation’ with a dedicative inscription. Needless to say, the letter and the book became very popular among our scouts.

We fought both at the Baltic front, and at the First Belarus front. We were endlessly transferred from place to place, without a chance for a rest. After a week or two for reinforcements, we were again ordered to tear at the enemy defense. At the end of the war we entered Berlin. We finished the war on the Elba, where we met American troops. I finished the war as a sergeant. In 1944, at the front, I joined the Communist Party. I was demobilized in November 1945.

• After the war

Having returned home, I, without a day for rest, went to the place where I had worked before the war. I was received with open arms, and I immediately resumed my favorite job. Gradually I became not simply a teacher in circles, but also a propagandist of manual labor at secondary schools. At that time I supervised the department of science and technology in the Moscow Municipal House of Pioneers, directed the club of young craftsmen, I was the initiator of the first ‘Skilful hands’ hobby groups in this country, for which I created the program and the first methodical recommendations.

At the end of the 1940s, the campaign against the ‘rootless cosmopolitans’ 17 – i.e. Jews working mainly in science, art and culture – was launched in the country, and finally in January 1953 the Doctors’ Plot 18 was fabricated. Though, thank God, our family was not affected by the repressions – neither those of the 1930s [the interviewee is referring to the so-called Great Terror] 19, nor the post-war ones.

I was nevertheless summoned to the authorities and suggested to remove my last name from the list of the compilers of the professional collections. Thus, in books or articles, beside my last name – and sometimes instead of it – much more favorable last names would appear. Apart from the moral harm, this caused a material one as well: I did not get the author’s fee. Of course we were ‘short-sighted’ then and did not link all the negative things going on in the country with the name of Stalin. Stalin’s death in 1953 was a national tragedy, and all my family members were questioning themselves in terror: ‘What will happen now to all the country and to us, Jews?’

From 1954 I worked as a scientific employee in the research institute of general and polytechnic education at the Academy of Teaching Sciences, and from 1962 until retirement I worked in the Moscow State Teaching Institute as senior lecturer.

With co-authors I have published more than 100 works devoted to methodological issues, including more than 20 monographs. I wrote many articles. Some books had more than ten publications, have been translated into the languages of the peoples of the USSR, and were even issued in some countries of the then National Democracy [countries of Eastern Europe: Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Romania, Eastern Germany, which together with the USSR formed the Warsaw Treaty countries] under the patronage of UNESCO. Copyrights didn’t exist in the USSR then, and I got nothing for the translated books. Only for my first monograph, published in Russian in 1948, I was paid quite a good fee, and we could buy furniture for our apartment and clothes after the war, because, in fact, I returned from the war without a thing.

Apart from my main work, I had been involved in a lot of public activities: I was a member of the Scientific and Methodical Council of the Ministry of Public Education of the USSR, an associate editor of the journal ‘Elementary School,’ a member of the Academic Council of the Institute of Polytechnical Labor Education, the vice-president of Council of Veterans of the 82nd Yartsevo division. I keep a file of names and addresses of the surviving veterans at home.

I was always very enthusiastic about my job and social activities, and I was never in opposition to the system. When at the beginning of the 1970s the process of emigration to Israel started, we never censured those people leaving, but for our family it was out of the question.

I retired only after the second heart attack, a little more than 20 years ago. But I only abstain from paid jobs, and go on with my public activities. I continued working with the veterans until I left Moscow. In 1998, after my wife died, I moved from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, where I live now with the family of my daughter Stella. She is a doctor of sciences, professor, the head of a department at the Teaching University, so teaching continues in our family.

• Glossary:

Fanya Israilevna is a short woman with young lively eyes. She is very old.
Remaining faithful to her profession, Fanya Israilevna still works
as a volunteer librarian at Hesed Avraam 1.

When she tells her story, events get confused in her reminiscences,
because all this happened a very long time ago.

Fanya Israilevna has many relatives and she makes a
lot of effort to tell me more about their lives as well as about her own fate.
It was a real pleasure for us to work on this particular interview.

Family backround

School and work

During the war

Marriage and later life

Glossary 

Family background

I was born in Kiev [today Ukraine] in 1917. My mother, Maria Maryanchik, nee Slutskaya, came from the village of Anatovka, Kiev province. She was born there in 1892. My father, Srul Avrumovich Maryanchik was born in Brusilov [today Ukraine] in 1889. I don’t know how they found themselves in Kiev. They met each other in 1916. Mother told me that they had a wedding with a chuppah, according to Jewish traditions.

All the relatives of my father – the Maryanchiks – came from Brusilov, Kiev province. I don’t remember my grandfather, Avrum Maryanchik, as he died when I was a small girl, in the 1910s in Kiev. According to my mom, when I was three years old, I saw my grandmother, but I don’t remember her either. My grandmother was my grandfather’s second wife. His first wife died giving birth to a baby. She had six children. His second wife also gave birth to six children; my father was one of them. The family was very big – 14 people. Grandfather was the only one who worked. Father told me that Grandpa worked as an agronomist for a landowner in Brusilov and was engaged in agriculture.

Grandpa and Grandma had big families. Everyone lived in Kiev. It’s difficult for me to describe everyone. They all observed the Jewish way of life and paid visits to each other. I remember that when I was a little girl, before the war started in 1941 2, Mother’s cousins celebrated their weddings. At first one of my mom’s sisters got married, then another, then her third sister celebrated her wedding, and so on and so forth. We were present almost at all the weddings of our relatives in Kiev. 100-150 guests were invited and klezmer musicians played. Mother’s brother Moisha had such a big wedding in January 1927. There was a chuppah installed in the five-room apartment. Aunt Rosa was the bride; she was from the Slutsky family – just a namesake. Cooks prepared food and waiters served the tables.

My maternal grandfather, Berl or Boris Slutsky, came from Anatovka. I came across this name only in literature, because everyone called the place Ignatovka. I don’t know why people gave Anatovka the name of Ignatovka. Ignat is a Slavic name, Russian or Ukrainian. This is probably the reason for giving such a name to this place. As Sholem Aleichem’s 3 character Tevye, my grandfather was a milkman. Sholem Aleichem’s family lived not far from Anatovka. Grandma even told me that she saw Sholem Aleichem and his wife, Olga Mikhailovna.

Milkmen, as is well known, kept cows, produced sour cream and cottage cheese and sold their products at the market place. Grandpa was not as sociable and talkative as Tevye. Once in 1919 Grandpa and his son Mikhul, my mother’s brother, loaded their cart with goods and went to Kiev. As soon as they left Ignatovka, they were attacked by either local or Petliura bandits 4. There were two of them. They killed Grandpa and wounded Mikhul in the head. One of the bandits said, ‘They are still alive.’ Mikhul lay there silently. The other one said,  ‘Leave it, they’ll die.’ The bandits took the horse and the goods and left. Mikhul remained on the road with Grandpa’s dead body next to him. When it got dark, he went to Anatovka and told everyone about what had happened.

After the robbery Mikhul had to undergo medical treatment for a long time, but remained disabled for the rest of his life and worked in commerce from then on. His wife, Yeva Stolyarova, came from the village of Taraschi, Kiev province. They got married in 1931 and had a wedding with a chuppah. Their elder son was born in 1932 and their younger son was born in 1938. They were in evacuation with both their children during the war. Uncle died in 1964. Aunt Yeva died in the 1980s. Their elder son Boris is still alive and lives in Israel now. He called me recently.

My maternal grandmother’s name was Rivka, nee Kholemskaya, she became Slutskaya after marriage. She was born in 1863, also lived in Anatovka and got married there. Grandmother and Grandfather were religious people. They had two sons and five daughters; my mother was one of them. Grandma Rivka had three sisters but I don’t remember their names.

Grandpa died and the Slutsky family moved to Kiev. Grandma stayed with her daughters and sons at 4 Basseynaya Street. It was a single-floor building, where they occupied a three-room apartment without any facilities and with a Russian stove 5. Grandma was illiterate and looked after the house. Her favorite work was to sort out pepper and make pillows.

My grandmother did not attend the synagogue, never wore a wig, however, she observed all ceremonies. Grandma kept everything kosher in her household; there was even a butcher, a shochet in the yard, who cut chicken on Fridays. She made challah every Friday. She baked it in the Russian stove in a special form and it was not twisted. At 5 o’clock Grandma lit the candles, prayed, but there was no family gathering – no Sabbath. The whole family usually gathered only for Jewish holidays, which Grandma always celebrated. I spoke to her in Yiddish. When in 1933 we were not able to buy matzah because it was very expensive, I made it for Grandma myself. Mother’s brothers and sisters’ weddings were celebrated according to the tradition – with a chuppah.

The siblings and cousins lived in peace and friendship. Everyone had a big family. All families observed the Jewish way of life. There were no [Communist] Party members in the family. We were closely in touch and met for holidays, weddings as well as when visiting friends. We were great friends with my father’s cousin Shloima Maryanchik and rented a summer house 6 together in Svyatoshen. Such gatherings were very cheerful. I remember huge tables covered with plentiful viands, especially during summer time. The children helped the adults to set the table and serve the dishes. The children were fed first, so when the grownups had their meal, the children already played in the yard.

My father was born in 1889. He had no education and my mother also only had home-education. Dad served in the tsarist army starting from 1911. In 1916 he was sent to the war [World War I]. But he did not stay long at the front: he began to lose his sight because of gassing, which the Germans started to use during World War I. He was brought to a hospital and soon, in spring 1917, he was sent home. He suffered from optic atrophy. In 1924 he was still able to see, read and write, but little by little he lost his sight completely.

Father had twelve brothers and sisters. Rukhl, the younger stepsister, my grandfather’s first wife’s daughter, left for America before the revolution 7. The next stepsister, Inda, was ill and died in Kiev in 1920. I don’t know why. She had no children. After that her husband married another woman. Later they both perished. Father’s brother Falek Maryanchik, was born in 1893. He was a furniture upholsterer and perished at the front in 1942. The next brother Kiva, born in 1895, was in evacuation with his family in Chkalovskaya region during World War II, retired after the war and died in Kiev in 1953. Grigory Maryanchik, my father’s next brother, emigrated to the USA in 1966. My father’s stepsister Etl Maryanchik was run over by a tram in 1934. I don’t know any details of her life.

In the 1920s and 1930s both Mother and Father were handicraftsmen. Mother worked from home and Father joined the Cooperative Association of Blind People. He knocked up wooden cases and assembled switches. We lived in the center of the city, in Bessarabka  [Bessarabskaya Square – a district in Kiev, where mostly Jewish families lived], across the covered market. The famous actor Mikhail Svetin also comes from this district. When I met him, I asked him, ‘Are you from Bessarabka?’ – ‘How did you know?’ I said, ‘I read about it in a book.’

Mother had a workshop with knitting machines used for knitting stockings, socks, and theater tights and a small store. A lot of interesting people came to the store. For instance in 1928 the famous actor Solomon Mikhoels 8 and his wife visited us after their trip to America. He made orders for his theater. Since I went to a Jewish school, I could speak Yiddish to him and answer questions, which Solomon Mikhailovich asked me. I remember that encounter to this very day.

First we lived in premises attached to the workshop with no facilities. In 1930 the building’s upper floor, which was a hotel, was reconstructed into communal apartments 9 and we occupied one of the rooms. Our neighbors in Kiev were very different people, both Russians and Jews. We all got along very well. Father was respected most of all. He was a very witty and sociable person and always took part in public work – he was a member of the mutual aid fund, when he worked in the Blind People Cooperative. In summer my parents rented summer houses in Boyarka and Svyatoshen. We had a housemaid up to 1930, Aunt Vera, who was a Jewess. Later on she left for Simferopol for her relatives’ place and perished there in 1941.

Mother and Father were very busy working, but they never forgot about their children’s upbringing. Their mother tongue was Yiddish, but they spoke Russian. Mother received a home education. We had a lot of books at home – children’s books and religious books, including prayer books. I cannot remember the names of the books. It is difficult for me to say, how religious my parents were. They never were members of any party, or any Jewish community. I don’t recall my father praying, we never celebrated Sabbath and we did not even know the word. But we celebrated Jewish holidays and attended the Lisatsedikh synagogue on these days.

There were a lot of synagogues in Kiev in those times. There were three synagogues on Malaya Vasilkovskaya alone, where we lived: Lisatsedikh, Brodskogo synagogue, constructed with the use of Brodsky’s money and Kupecheskaya synagogue, constructed by the merchants. [Brodsky – famous sugar manufacturer in Kiev. There was a choral synagogue located on 13 Malaya Vasilkovskaya, built on his donations. Later on the Kievsky Puppet Theater was arranged there.] At the end of the 1930s the synagogues were abolished 10. A sports club was organized in the first synagogue, a children’s theater in the Brodskogo synagogue – now a synagogue is being organized there again – and a club in the Kupecheskaya synagogue. 

School and work

I went to a private Russian kindergarten. In those times, at the beginning of the 1920s, such kindergartens still existed. They taught French there and, moreover, there was a ballet troupe with choreographer Chistyakov as a teacher. Two sisters, who studied together with me, became ballet dancers. Later I was accepted to a ballet school. I acted in 1924 in a ‘Fairy Doll’ ballet performance to the music of Joseph Bayer. I remember my mother bringing me to the theater before the performance and leaving me there. I was walking around there crying. Somebody found my mother in the box, I calmed down and went to put on makeup and get dressed as a doll. All our relatives came to watch the performance. I also remember a circus performance – a Chinese pantomime. I practiced ballroom dances since I was seven and I still dance.

In 1925 I was eight and time came for me to go to school. Mother wanted to send me to a prestigious Russian school, but she failed. There were Jewish schools in Kiev in those times, and the RONO [District Department of Education] directed me to such a school located on Malaya Vasilkovskaya, now it is Rustaveli Street. It was school #85, later #59 11. This school was closed after 1932.

Only Jewish children attended the school. I was accepted to the second grade. First we had to pay three rubles per month. Later we did not pay anything. All subjects were taught in Yiddish: Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Geography and others. I did not like exact science at school, I liked languages better. We were taught Ukrainian, Russian and German. We knew nothing about Hebrew, it was prohibited. There was a Jewish theater at school and a gymnastics group. I loved to dance and do sports. We were not told anything about Jewish traditions and we had classes on Saturdays. There were approximately 30 children in our class. Now I cannot remember exactly what kind of special subjects we had in this school.

My favorite teacher was Zalman Skudinsky, I even read about him in the newspaper. He taught Yiddish. In 1931 he left our school for the Literature Department at the Academy of Sciences. Dora Moiseyevna Epstein was our headmistress. She perished during the war in Babi Yar 12. Her husband worked together with me at the Manuscript Department at the Academy of Sciences Library in Ukraine before the war. I also attended a Jewish Musical College. The headmaster, Moisey Beregovsky, was a famous specialist in Jewish folklore. Owing to him I came to love the Jewish folklore.

I did not feel the political climate at that time. I did not feel any anti-Semitic manifestations. We were brought up as atheists. It was prohibited for us to attend the synagogue; however, we did go there for the Simchat Torah holiday. We went to the theaters, including Jewish ones. There was a Jewish children’s theater in Kiev. We had a pioneer organization 13 at school. I was an activist and member of the Red Cross Society when I was in the 6th grade. Beginning from the 1930s we spent summer in a pioneer camp in Boyarka. The camp belonged to the Society of Disabled and my father was a member of it.

All my school friends were Jews. Fima Burakovsky was also a Jewish boy. We often visited each other, did our homework together, but didn’t play any games. In 1927 he left for America.

My parents wanted to send me to a musical college also, but, alas, I did not really have an ear for music. We had no piano at home and I did not possess any musical talent. My brother Boris, who was three years younger than me, learned to play the violin at the Jewish Musical College. Kholoneiser was his teacher. The college was not far from our house and he went there by tram or walked. I also went to Jewish music concerts with Boris. Boris studied in a Russian school. Mother didn’t want to send him to a Jewish school. He did not know a word of Yiddish. Everyone, including Mom and Dad, were sure that he should study in a Russian Soviet school. He finished Russian school #131 located on Malaya Vasilkovskaya Street. I attended foreign languages courses in that school.

When the Great Patriotic War started Boris wanted to join the army, but he was not accepted because of his illness. He left the city on foot and joined the army as a volunteer. He studied at the Polytechnic Institute and was transferred to the Leningrad Optical and Mechanical Institute during the war. He graduated in 1947 and worked as an engineer. Boris married a Jewish woman, whose name is Rosa Samuilovna. They have a daughter, Maria Borisovna Ivanova. Boris died in St. Petersburg in 2000.

In 1932 I finished the seventh grade of the Jewish school and entered a Librarian College. I studied there for two years. I found out from my friends that the Library of the Academy of Sciences was looking for employees to work at the Exchange Fund Department for the Dnepropetrovsk University. I was accepted to the Library. At the same time the Kharkovsky Institute of Culture with an affiliate in Kiev announced enrollment to the Librarian faculty. Women with a certificate of a gymnasium and even high school education applied for this faculty in order to obtain a librarian education degree certificate. Girls, who already graduated from a librarian college, also took the exams. They invited me to try and enter the Institute with them.

I went to the District Department of Education with a request to be released from the college because I was still a college student by that time. They told me: ‘If you pass the exam we will accept you as if you have secondary education, without a college certificate.’ I passed the exam and thus was accepted to the part-time study faculty at the Librarian Institute, Kharkov affiliate. I studied and worked at the same time. It was in 1934. I was transferred from the Exchange Fund at the Library to the Acquisition Department. I received all literature and distributed it to various departments in the Library. There were around 300 employees at our library. When everybody understood that I was a hard-working employee I was accepted to the library to work on a permanent basis.

I worked at the Academy of Sciences Library and often visited the Jewish Culture Institute at the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine. My schoolteachers worked there: Yiddish teacher Skudinsky and Maidansky, the teacher of Ukrainian. My friends were Ulya Wolfmann, Nastya Adamenko, Barya Pavlova and Vera Turyan. We studied together at the institute and everybody called us ‘academicians.’ We studied in the morning and I had to work in the evening.

The working day was six hours. It remained like that until 1940: there existed a law about the six-hour working day. I was busy with acquisition; later on I was ‘shifted’ to work with the alphabetical catalogue and sorted out catalogue cards the whole day. Later on I worked at the book distribution department, which was more convenient for me: I stayed at the Institute until 1pm and had enough time to have lunch at home, as my department worked between 4.30pm and 11pm. I came back home late at night. I was 17 years old at that time and I actually helped to support the family. Our work at the library was counted as practice. We graduated from the Institute within three years, in 1937.

I became a member of the Young Communist League 14 at the Academy of Sciences. In 1969 the Academy YCL organization celebrated an anniversary and I received an invitation. However, my son was sick and I was not able to go. I sent a long telegram, which was read out during the celebration.

When I graduated from the Institute in 1937, I worked as a Senior Librarian Assistant, later as a Librarian and finally as Senior Librarian. When I started to work as Chief Librarian, I was transferred to the Department of Arts. Its assets were stored at the Vladimirsky Cathedral and I had a key to it. The artist Nesterov arrived unexpectedly and I was told to go see him. He was very surprised and said, ‘Women were never allowed to the altar and suddenly a girl opens the door for me!’ I invited students from the Institute of Arts to meet the famous artist. We usually worked in the Cathedral in summer. During the war the Germans destroyed all assets that were kept there. 

During the war

At 6 o’clock early in the morning in June 1941, when the war started, Mother came from the market place and said to me, ‘Take the gas-mask and run!’  I was a member of the PVO group [antiaircraft defense troops]. On 17th September 1939, the Germans entered Poland and state of siege was announced in Kiev 15. We were on duty at the library, as we were afraid of attacks. We were well prepared for cases of military warning. I remember that the siege lasted for five days. And when in 1941 the Germans crossed our border I told everyone at home that we all had to leave. But Dad said, ‘I will not go anywhere.’ He told us that nothing awful would happen. However, we had already heard about ghettos from those who came from Poland. I wrote in the evacuation reference note for the library that my father, my mother and me were leaving together. However, my parents changed their mind and decided to stay.

We packed precious books urgently at the library to take them out to Ufa. We also took part in digging trenches in June 1941, 30 kilometers from the city. We cut wood there and lived in tents. We were soon told to leave that place. Almost all employees from the library participated in these defense works. We were 100 people and on 11th July, on our way back several people, including me, became detached from the rest. I reached a peasant house and suddenly bombing began and everything was set on fire. I was not sure if we would survive. Everyone managed to come back home before 11pm, except for me. We spent the night in the village and then another bombing started. We were not allowed to go to the city and had to stay with the military in the forest. Later on, when everyone came back to Kiev and went to the library, my mom was there crying: everybody came back, except for me. 

On 26th July I went to Ufa by train together with other library employees, where we delivered the most precious books. Before the evacuation my mother gave me 700 rubles and I was able to rent a room in Ufa. I had to find a job and started working as a timekeeper at a construction site. Later I met some relatives on the Maryanchik side. They were planning to leave for Fergana [Central Asia]. Our uncle lived there. He worked as a superior at the KGB 17 and ‘turned into’ Kuzma Timofeyevich Makarenkov from Abram Maryanchik. [A lot of Jews were forced to change their first, patronymic and last names, since it was easier to find a job and to enter an institute that way] 18. Together with my relatives I went to Fergana where again I had to look for a job; my uncle could not help me. It was the end of 1941.

There was an Oriental Institute in Fergana. I thought I would be able to enter the institute, get a room at the dormitory and some scholarship. But I was not accepted since I had no secondary education certificate. My higher education did not count. So I took a job as a pioneer leader at a children’s home. I never had any conflicts related to my Jewish identity. However I could not stand the Central Asian climate with its sand and heat. It was very difficult to live there because we had no ration cards. Aunt Sima’s husband died and she invited me to come to Sverdlovsk.

Two Mikhalchuk boys worked at that children’s home. Both their mother and their stepmother were Jewish. These Mikhalchuks asked me to hand over a letter to their father who worked in Sverdlovsk in UNIKHIM [Ural Scientific Research Chemical Institute]. I went to Sverdlovsk in 1942 and visited UNIKHIM looking for Boris Vasilyevich Mikhalchuk. He asked me how his children were – they were his children from his first marriage. He also asked me why I had come there. I told him that I had come to visit my aunt and that I was looking for a job. The librarian at their institute was on maternity leave, so I started to work at the UNIKHIM library. I arrived in Sverdlovsk on 25th July and started to work on 1st August. Soon people evacuated from the Leningrad blockade 19 started to arrive and among them was my husband-to-be. He also started to work at the UNIKHIM. He liked me at first sight.

In Sverdlovsk I was very often summoned by the District Committee for various works. Later, in October 1943, I was mobilized by the YCL to work for the KGB. I was asked if I spoke Yiddish. I spoke the language and they offered me a job as a censor for them. I was given letters, which I had to unseal and read. The letters were written in Yiddish. My responsibility was to check if anything bad had been written about the Party or about Stalin. I was a special public official. The result of my check-up, in case I detected nothing discordant with the Soviet Government ideology, was a stamp that said ‘Passed by the censor’ and the check-up date. Letters of anti-Soviet nature were put aside to be checked further by the KGB. That was none of my business. Two Jewish women worked there and all chiefs were Jewish.

However, my previous place of employment did not want to let me go and sued me. I brought a note from the KGB to the court and, certainly, was let go immediately. Later on they tried to evict me from my apartment, but failed: I was working at the KGB and we were placed on a secret list. We worked there for 14-16 hours. I left the apartment at 8am and came back home at 10pm. We had very good ration there 20 as well as good salaries. 

Marriage and later life

I rented a room in a private apartment in Sverdlovsk. My husband-to-be lived in the men’s dormitory in a room for five people. They all left for various places later on. The last one to leave was Abram Aisikovich Chizhik, a colleague of my husband-to-be. By the way, he kept proposing us to each other. Once I was planning to go to the cinema with my friend, but she refused. So I offered the ticket to Abram Aisikovich. He sent Alexander Gavrilovich instead, who started to court me. Everyone at the institute, where I worked at the library, noticed that Alexander Gavrilovich was not indifferent to me. I came home from work at 9-10pm and he already waited for me. In the evening we went for a walk and everybody saw it.

My Russian husband, Alexander Gavrilovich Karandin, was born in Leningrad in 1898 and raised there. His parents also came from Leningrad and in 1912 they built a house in the suburbs of St. Petersburg, in Sablino. Alexander Gavrilovich got university education and worked as an engineer at GIPKH [State Institute of Applied Chemistry]. My husband’s father was a worker. He died in 1917 and his mother, a housewife, died in 1937. He had three sisters and one brother, who was subjected to repression 21. My husband’s sisters got on very well with me. My husband was Russian and I decided to stay a Jew, thus I did not change my last name. My aunts, who came to visit me, were very much pleased with my husband.

However, a fatal tragedy befell our family. I concealed from my husband the fact that our son had a sarcoma. I did not tell him about this disease in order not to upset him, since his mother had died of a sarcoma. His nephew also died of this disease. My son finished school, entered the LEEI, Leningrad Electrical and Engineering Institute. He served in the army between 1964 and 1967. When he returned from the army he worked at the LEEI and studied at the same time. However, at the age of 25 he fell sick very severely and died in 1970. It was a total tragedy for me and we could not do anything to save him.

My husband spent the beginning of the war and the first blockade winter in Leningrad. He was evacuated from Leningrad along the Road of Life 22 in a very grave condition in 1942. He was older than 40 at that time but he looked younger than his age. We got married in 1944 and lived together for 35 years.

We did not really have any wedding. When our baby was born we went to the ZAGS [State institution, which registers acts of civil status – birth, marriage, death] and registered our marriage. We did not celebrate the event and had no feast. Our son Kolya, or Nikolai, was born in 1945 and weighed only 1.6 kilograms. My pregnancy was very painful and I had to stay at the hospital all the time. The labor was very difficult and nobody thought that I would give birth to a baby. There were no gifts because everyone thought I would die. I had nothing to swaddle the baby into. Later on my husband’s sisters sent us some clothes. I quit my job in Sverdlovsk after my son was born. In 1947-1948 I worked as a librarian at the Sverdlovsk Musical College.

My son, Nikolai Alexandrovich Karandin, was not raised as a Jew. He understood his identity as a Jew on his mother’s side, but he was more attracted by the Russian Orthodoxy. He lived in Leningrad, finished the Electrical and Engineering Institute and worked there for some months as a laboratory assistant. But as I mentioned before, he died in Leningrad in 1970 of a sarcoma.

After Kiev was liberated I made an inquiry at the District Soviet [local state authority] about my relatives who stayed in Kiev during the war. I knew that all the Jews, who stayed in Kiev at the beginning of the war, perished at Babi Yar. My mother, father, grandmother Rivka, two of her sisters and her grandson perished there in 1941. I do not know exactly how my parents died. However, I know that it happened at Babi Yar, because our former neighbors, Russians, told me about it. My relatives’ names are not written down anywhere. Though someone told me that he saw their names in some museum, but I couldn’t find them in the books. On my visit to Israel I made an inquiry at Yad Vashem 23, where all Jews, who died during the Holocaust, are being registered. I never received a reply from them.

After the war my uncle Mikhul, my mom’s brother, found out from various witnesses about Uncle Moisha and his wife, Aunt Rosa. They also lived in Kiev and had no children. My uncle came from a butchers’ family. When in 1941 the Germans entered the city the local population gave over my uncle and aunt Rosa’s brothers. When the men were taken away, Aunt Rosa hanged herself in her apartment.

At the end of 1949 I moved to Leningrad with my husband. The Ministry transferred him to GIPKH. He worked as an engineer at the Design Administration. In 1950 we obtained accommodation on Kirovsky Prospekt, which is now called Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt.

In 1953 I wanted to find a job. Those who saw my labor book, which said that I worked as a Chief Librarian in Kiev, were very much surprised and said to me, ‘You’ve reached the position of a library General!’ But when I asked why they did not give me a job, they simply had nothing to reply. The reason was clear: I was a Jewess 24. In 1953 I had been working for two months at the Library of the Botany Institute of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. Later on, in 1954 I managed to get a temporary job at the Library named after Pushkin 25 in Petrogradsky district. At first I borrowed books there and later on I offered my services. I was asked to prepare a catalogue, which I fulfilled. I worked in this library for 20 years. Later on I organized an affiliate of this library at the Leningrad telephone station, where I stayed to work. From 1982 I was managing the technical library there, which I also organized. After 1994 all pensioners were fired.

I live alone now. My husband died in 1979. I lived for 48 years in a communal apartment. When we came to Leningrad after the war and got a room, it was luxurious for those times, we even had hot water! In 1988 I exchanged my room for a small, separate, bedraggled single-room apartment on Leninsky Prospekt.

I had a lot of relatives on the Maryanchik side as well as on the Slutsky side. Almost all of them have died by now. Many perished in Babi Yar. I am the only one from my generation who is still alive. I keep in touch with my cousins’ grandchildren. Two of my nieces on the Maryanchik side, as well as one cousin on the Slutsky side live in Israel now. In 1994 I visited my niece in Israel. I meet some of my relatives and keep corresponding with my half-cousin. Some of my relatives on the Slutsky side live in America. I liked Israel, though its climate is too hot for me. Besides, I love Leningrad too much and I got used to living here.

I’ve devoted all my life to library science. When I came to Hesed to the Yiddish club and saw the books, I started to work as a volunteer at the library in Hesed. This is how Judaism reveals itself in my life. I never attended the synagogue and I do not attend it now. The life of the Jewish community is very tangible in our city: Jewish music concerts, major holiday concerts. A lot is done for the revival of Jewish traditions. And I think it is good. 

Glossary:

Anna Lanota
City: Szymanowek, Warsaw
Country: Poland
Interviewer: Aleksandra Bankowska
Date of interview: September - October 2004

Mrs. Lanota is a charming, distinguished elderly lady.

Benevolent and kind, she often assists with translations from Hebrew and Yiddish – recently she was a consultant for the translations of memoirs written in Yiddish for the book by Anna Bikont entitled ‘My z Jedwabnego’ [We of Jedwabne].

She helps Centropa to find new interviewees – thanks to her we made an interview with her cousin Zuzanna Rosset.

Our conversations took place in her home outside Warsaw, where she lives with her daughter and son-in-law. She talks calmly, patiently and thoughtfully, choosing her words with care.

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

My family history

My mama’s family comes from Zdunska Wola [about 45km south-west of Lodz, central Poland]. My grandfather, Szmuel Pilicer, was born there in the 1850s. It was a very poor family. He married when he was 15. His wife Ryfka [Pilicer] was two years younger than him. Her wedding was a shock to her.

She told me that during her wedding she went out onto the threshold of the house and played with her doll, and when her father saw it, he hit her and said, ‘You’re a married woman!’ But she didn’t even understand what getting married was all about; the doll meant more to her.

After the wedding Grandfather bought a weaving loom, and what he wove on it, he sold. He was able to look after money. When the expansion of Lodz [in connection with the Industrialization] came in the 1880s, Grandfather and his brother set up a textiles factory on Sienkiewicza Street, became rich, and bought three or four townhouses. When I was small Grandfather no longer worked; he had handed his factory over to his children and lived, very well at that, from renting out apartments.

Grandfather Szmuel was very learned in religious matters, and so became an arbiter in conflicts. That wasn’t an office connected with the Jewish community organization; he simply had authority among the Jews of Lodz as a wise, honest man, and people would come to him to have their quarrels about unpaid bills of exchange, sureties, or marital affairs like divorces resolved.

They were ordinary commonplace matters that the Jews didn’t want to go to court with, because that took a long time and was costly. He didn’t take money for it. My grandparents lived in Lodz on Dzielna Street.

Grandfather had two rooms separated off from the rest of the apartment; in one was a waiting room and in the other he received callers all day long. Whenever I went there, there was always someone sitting in the waiting room and someone in Grandfather’s room.

Grandma Ryfka kept a very welcoming house. She had a large family from Zdunska Wola, and her brothers and their families would come to visit her at all the holidays, because she was the only one of all the siblings who was wealthy. We always spent the holiday of Purim with her.

Moreover, almost every afternoon Grandma’s daughters would go there with their children.Grandma and Grandfather Pilicer had eight daughters – Sara, Cesia, Pola, Bronia [Bronislawa], Hanka [Hanna], Mania [Maria], Hela [Helena] and Jehudit, my mama – and three sons: Mendel, Simcha and Josel. 

When I was still small Mama would often take me to my grandparents’. Grandma would give me aniseed cookies or candies. Sometimes we would go out shopping, and then she would buy me makagigi at the Turk’s shop [grocer’s store owned by a Turk]. Makagigi looked a little like khalva, it was very sweet and oozed a thick, rich, sticky substance. I liked it a lot.

Grandfather Szmuel was miserly and couldn’t bear to look at Grandma’s hospitality. He didn’t reproach her for it, and gave her money for it, but he couldn’t stand the sight of it. We grandchildren were terribly scared of Grandfather. He was a very stern man, a dictator in the house; I never saw him express feelings, even towards his own mother. He never ate at the table with us; only on Fridays was he at the Sabbath supper, and on Saturdays at lunch, but even then he ate very little. On normal days he kept a strict diet; he ate only semolina three times a day. Sometimes he liked to drink a glass of spirit with his food. He was never ill, he simply lived very ascetically.

There were two maids working at their house, Jewish girls from a small town. Grandma didn’t want to have Polish or German girls in the house because it had to be kosher. I never in my life saw a non-Jew at Grandfather’s.

Grandma bought at Jewish shops; only sometimes did she buy candy for the children at the Turk’s shop. At my grandparents’ home the language was Yiddish, not Hebrew. They didn’t approve of the Zionist movement, because they believed that only when the Messiah came would Palestine be for the Jews. Grandfather and Grandma were very religious.

My father’s family owned the estate of Skryhiczyn near the little town of Dubienka in the Lublin province. There was a short time in Tsarist Russia when Jews were allowed to buy land [the decree of Alexander II of 5 June 1862], and then my grandfather’s mother, Ita Rottenberg, bought Skryhiczyn from a German.

Jews rarely owned land. Skryhiczyn was later the property of my grandfather, Szmuel Rottenberg, and his brother Chaim. Grandfather had one manor and his brother another. My grandfather’s manor was burned down during World War I. Grandfather died in 1915 in Odessa [today Ukraine], so I never knew him.

My grandparents had ten children: Zlata, Hena, Fajga, Chaja, Masza, Natan, Henoch, Josel, Mordechaj, and Szlomo, my father. After Grandfather’s death the estate was divided up into farms for each of the children, each one with 60 hectares of land plus so many hectares of woodland and meadow.

Each of the children built themselves a separate house. The manor was rebuilt, too, and my father’s sister, Aunt Hena, lived there, and my grandmother Ryfka Rottenberg. It was a fairly large, sprawling single-story manor, with a porch and with a very nice orchard and a vegetable and flower garden. Most of all I liked the iron gate at the entrance and the fence that encircled the garden.

During World War II there were Germans in the manor, after the war a co-operative, and after that both the fence and the house were taken down, what was wooden was taken and burned, and what was brick was dismantled and taken for bricks.

Now all there is there is grass, nobody builds anything there. The land belongs to farmers who were given it after the agricultural reform. [As a result of the agricultural reform of 1944 large landed estates were divided up into small farms and given to farmers.]

My second grandmother, my father’s mother, Ryfka Rottenberg, I remember only vaguely; I was six when she died. She was born in the 1850s, in Warsaw, I think. Her maiden name was Kral. She lived almost all her life in Skryhiczyn.

I remember that when she stood at the well pulling up the pail of water she seemed very tall to me. But she was a tiny woman. She looked like a peasant woman; she wore a white headscarf tied under her chin. She was short-sighted.

My father was her youngest child, and she loved him very much. Even when he was already married, she would call him Szlojmele, which used to drive him crazy, because that is what only small children are called. He protested, but it was of no avail; Grandmother would forget and soon afterwards would say the same thing.

In my father’s home Yiddish was spoken, but the children grew up in the country among Ukrainians and Poles, and spoke Ukrainian and Polish to them. My father spoke Polish with a Ukrainian accent. The Ukrainian peasants were Father’s friends; they swam together, dived, watered their horses, raced on horseback; they were quite close.

In both Skryhiczyn and Dubienka there were few Poles but lots of Ukrainians. Skryhiczyn was basically a Ukrainian-Jewish village. The only Poles were the priest, the priest’s housekeeper and her two children, the pharmacist and his family, and the teachers at the elementary school. I don’t remember any Polish peasant families. Both my uncles had separate apartments for their farm-hand and his family, in the same house. They were Ukrainians.

Not all, but the majority of the Ukrainians had a hostile attitude towards Poland. They had their own organization, ‘Ridnaya Ukraina.’ [Editor’s note: There wasn’t an organization called Ridnaya Ukraina but one called ‘Ridna Skola,’ which means educational organization in Ukrainian.]

I think there was a communist organization there too, but a conspiratorial one. I remember one Ukrainian, called Radiuk, who lived on my father’s plot. He had the same approach to both Poles and Jews – he lived on our land because that was where he lived, he had to work somewhere, didn’t have his own land, but he was against us.

At the beginning of World War II, when I was roaming the Ukrainian villages with my distant relations Ita and Olek Kowalski, far beyond Vladimir Volhynski, the Ukrainians didn’t want to give us, as Poles, even a glass of water.

Olek got mad once and said to them, ‘I spent four years in prison as a communist, and now I can’t even get a glass of tea off you.’ When they heard that he’d been in prison under Polish rule, everything came out for us at once, even ham.

My mama came to Skryhiczyn from Lodz for the first time as my father’s fiancée in 1905. My parents’ marriage was definitely organized by a matchmaker. Mama might not have liked Father, and then she wouldn’t have married him, but she did like him.

They were both 17. After her first visit to Skryhiczyn Mama promised herself that she would never live there in her life. She was horrified. She had been brought up in a wealthy family, in the city. And in Skryhiczyn there was no electricity, just candles and kerosene lamps, there were curtains instead of blinds, there was no sink or bathroom – the water had to be brought to the bath in pails.

Relations with the servants and farm-hands were familiar, too, which annoyed my mother.

And relations within the family were entirely different, too, less traditional. In my Mama’s family the man was the master of the house, and children and young people had to show him respect. But here it was a little different. My Mama saw all this and said that it was out of the question that she should live there. Father gave in; he was the only one of his siblings not to live in Skryhiczyn.

My mama was a woman of great faith. She didn’t go to the mikveh and she didn’t wear a wig, but she kept a kosher kitchen and observed all the holidays according to the commandments, even those that were the hardest to keep.

For instance, she always fasted on Yom Kippur, even though she had a heart complaint and she found it difficult. On the other hand, Mama had graduated from the 7th grade of gymnasium, which was a lot at that time, she spoke Polish like a Pole and was very widely read. She always used to say to me that women should work.

That was her true creed. She encouraged me to become a dressmaker or a dentist, because then the woman can work at home and can bring up the children. She also had clear-cut political views. She always spoke of the Russian progressive intelligentsia with great sympathy, but considered the Bolsheviks 1 to be animals through and through.

During World War I my parents lived in Odessa with Father’s sister, Masza. When the revolution broke out [Russian Revolution of 1917] 2, Mama saw such terrible things that whatever one said afterwards she was very negative. Father agreed with her.

My father was religious too. He dressed in traditional costume: long dark coat and always a hat. Every Saturday and at the holidays he went to the shtibl, a place of prayer in a private apartment. He considered the synagogue to be for Jews who were less rigorous in observing all the bans and impositions, so he didn’t go there.

He worked as a gang foreman in my uncle’s factory, the spinning factory on Sienkiewicza Street in Lodz. On the whole the workers there were Polish. Father had a close colleague there who was a Pole, and he came to our house almost every day. I think he was called Podgorski. He held the same position.

I was born in Lodz in 1915. I was the eldest child and the only daughter. I had three younger brothers. The eldest was called Cwi Rottenberg, but we called him Rysiu. He was born in 1917. I remember him starting to walk. We were living in Skryhiczyn then, and he saw a goat racing along the street and wanted to catch it.

Rysiu finished elementary school in Lodz and went on to a technical high school for the textile industry. He did his school-leaving exams there and started work as a dessinateur [French for draughtsman, designer]. A dessinateur draws the designs according to which the cloth is to be woven. My brother worked in that capacity until the outbreak of the war.

At the beginning of the war Rysiu married Tusia, I can’t remember her surname, and he and his wife wanted to cross to the east [to eastern Poland, which had been occupied by the Russian forces]. The Germans caught them; his wife got free somehow, but he was arrested.

They held him for a whole year in Pawiak 3, and there he worked in his own trade and taught others. My parents were in the Warsaw ghetto 4, so when he came out of prison he went, with his wife, to the ghetto. He started work in a co-operative that made brushes.

I saw him for the last time in that co-operative in August 1942 during the first deportation from the Warsaw ghetto. I got out of the ghetto then, you see, and it was only afterwards that I found out that when they rounded Tusia up for deportation, he went with her into the wagon.

My second brother was called Mietek, but his Jewish name was Mordechaj. He was born in 1920. He graduated from elementary school and vocational school, but he didn’t work before the war, didn’t get the chance. He was the only one of my brothers who was very religious.

He didn’t wear the traditional robes, but he was a very devout Jew. He had similar friends, too. He didn’t advocate the Zionist ideology or any other. He was very sensitive to music. I know nothing else about him, because I left home young to go to Warsaw to university, and I didn’t live with my parents and my brothers after I was 16. I met him during the war; he was in Warsaw and worked with my elder brother for the brush-makers. He perished in the first deportation, too.

I also had a third brother, called Zalman; he was born in 1924. We used to call him Baby, because he was the youngest of us. He was very intelligent. He was born sick; he needed something sewn into his spine, and the doctor, who knew how to do it and usually did it well, damaged a nerve when he was operating on him.

After that my brother’s legs were paralyzed; he did walk, but in special ‘machines’ [devices stiffening the legs]. But the worst thing was that he had a weak heart. The doctor told my parents that he would live to be nine. He lived 14 years, caught influenza, and died in 1939, before the war.

Growing up

Our family lived on Pusta Street in Lodz, opposite the Ettigon’s factory. We were the only Jewish family in the building. There were just Germans living there. We played with the Germans in the courtyard, on the rug-beating stand.

The German women didn’t have anything against our playing with their children. But my mama never invited those children to our apartment, and those children never invited me in. We talked to them in Polish. The Germans had a German gymnasium just like we had a Hebrew one.

As the gymnasium had state entitlements to issue the school-leaving certificate, it also had a state curriculum, and all subjects had to be in Polish. That’s how they knew Polish. Except as well as that, they had German language, German literature and German history. It was similar at the Hebrew school.

Some time afterwards we moved, because my parents couldn’t keep up the high rent payments any longer. We moved into a house that was owned by my grandfather. We didn’t have to pay him. That house is still standing on Sienkiewicza Street. The apartment had four rooms and a kitchen.

On the left there was the fairly big kitchen and bathroom. We had a coal-burning stove, but there was also gas. You entered the rooms from the corridor. The furthest along was my parents’ bedroom. We also had a dining room. That was where my youngest brother slept.

Next to the kitchen there was a small room where my middle brother lived. As I was rarely at home, because I left home early [to study in Warsaw], my bed stood in my eldest brother’s room. We had a maid when I was small, but later someone just came round to clean. Mama cooked herself.

We spoke Polish in our house. I know Yiddish from my grandmother, but not only, because we read both the Polish and the Yiddish press at home. There were two big Yiddish newspapers in Poland then: [Der] Moment 5 was one, and Haynt 6 was the other.

There was also Nasz Przeglad [Our Review] 7, a Jewish newspaper in Polish. And the Polish newspaper was Glos Poranny [The Morning Voice] 8. But books we read mostly in Polish. We had an awful lot of them, because my mother read a lot. When I was a schoolgirl Mama enrolled me at the library. They were private lending rooms at that time, where you had to pay. We used Mrs. Birencwajg’s library, which was on Piotrkowska Street [the main thoroughfare in Lodz].

I remember the first edition of Sienkiewicz’s Trilogy [popular, 3-part historical adventure novel by Henryk Sienkiewicz (1846-1916)], which was published as a supplement to one of the illustrated weeklies.

They were little green hardback volumes, fabric bound, I think. I couldn’t put it down. I remember that we also had a German encyclopedia, Brockhaus, at home [one of the first big general encyclopedias, published 1796-1805 in Amsterdam and Leipzig].

Mama often took me and my brother to the Philharmonic. When the ‘Habima’ Hebrew theater from Vilnius 9 came to Lodz, I went to their performances. It was very high standard. To this day I remember the extraordinary performance of An-ski’s 10 The Dybbuk 11, as if I had those scenes before my eyes. But in our family we didn’t tend to go to the theater much.

That was a big outlay. My family’s financial standing was average to low. We were never short of food, but it was very hard to buy clothes. Later on, they couldn’t keep me in Warsaw, and I had to pay my own way when I was studying.

We celebrated the holidays and Saturdays very ceremoniously. Every Friday evening Mama lit two candles and said the blessing. After that there would be the Sabbath supper. My parents, brothers and I sat at the table together.

We would eat fish Jewish style [gefilte fish, minced fish] with challah, then clear chicken soup with pasta or beans, broiled chicken, compote, and cake. I didn’t go to school on Saturdays because Saturdays were free at my Jewish school.

In the morning my father and brothers would go to the prayer house. I was incredibly privileged, because I got breakfast in bed from Mama. My father used to gripe at me about that: ‘What’s wrong, can’t you get up?’

They would come back from the prayer house at 12 and then there was the Sabbath lunch. My father smoked cigarettes, and because it wasn’t permitted to smoke from Friday until Saturday evening, he didn’t smoke, but it used to make him terribly mad.

After dinner we always sat by the window all together and waited for the first star, so that Dad could light up. That was very nice; we felt that we were a family, that we were together, that that was something very good.

The most solemn festival for the Jews was Yom Kippur. It was believed that on that day the Lord God allotted people for life or death for the next year. So devout Jews asked for mercy.

On the eve of Yom Kippur, Father sat me and my brothers down on little stools, took a live hen, swung it above our heads, and spoke a formula in Hebrew that means: ‘This is my sacrifice.’ It was meant so that the hen took all the sins on itself. That’s an old custom.

On Yom Kippur we didn’t eat anything the whole day for 24 hours from one evening until the next evening. That was always very difficult for us, because my mother had a weak heart, and she desperately wanted to fast. And then in the evening she would go to the prayer house for the service as well.

The atmosphere there was so heavy that Mama when she came home was exhausted. She went straight to bed; she was very weak. But she always fasted. One time I went to the shtibl with Mama at Yom Kippur. There was a separate room for women and a separate one for men. The cantor sang the song Kol Nidre very beautifully.

I also remember Pesach. Dad made a search in advance, so that there was not a single breadcrumb, or humetz [chametz], in the house. Once it was all cleaned very carefully, Father took a cockerel feather and checked in every nook and cranny on the floor.

In the evening there was the extremely pleasant Pesach supper. We would put a large cup on the table for the angel [prophet] Elijah. Dad sat in his death shirt. Jews were buried in such shirts. They are sewn from white fabric, they have a collar like on Russian shirts, and they have gold embroidery at the neck.

Father would hide a piece of matzah from us [the so-called afikoman], under the cushion he was resting on. We knew where the matzah was, but we pretended we didn’t know. When one of us found it, Father would give each one of us a piece, before we started eating.

Then the youngest child asked four questions [the mah nishtanah], why we celebrate Pesach. Father answered the questions reading from the Haggadah, the story of the exodus from Egypt. At the end of the Haggadah was a song about the kid, which we liked the best.

Only after reading the Haggadah did we start to eat. There had to be a few important dishes, for instance charoset. Charoset is this thick, dark-colored substance, not very nice; it tastes like earth. Then we would eat sliced apple with honey [Editor’s note: this was a dish usually served at Rosh Hashanah, New Year].

Then we had gefilte fish, clear chicken soup, broiled or fried chicken, and compote. For seven days we ate matzah instead of bread. All that time we didn’t go to school.

Most of all I liked the holiday of Purim. Then we would send Grandma Pilicer and all the aunts living in Lodz gateaux [layer cakes] and bottles of wine. They would send them to us too, so we had a lot of sweet things.

In the evening Grandma Ryfka Pilicer would hold a festive supper for the whole family. She served a lot of good things to eat, things that we never had: grapes, pineapples, special triangular nuts, and a lot of different kinds of sweets. At Purim humentashe [hamantashen] are made, triangular cookies with poppy seeds and raisins.

The children played with a greger [or grager, Yiddish for ‘rattle’]. On that day Grandfather would give all the children 2 zloty each. He would do it grudgingly, but very solemnly. Each one would go into his room alone, and Grandfather would ask, ‘Whose are you?’, because he remembered his own children, but not his grandchildren very well, because he had an awful lot. When you answered he would kiss you, give you 2 zloty, and wish you good health.

Another very solemn holiday in our house was Chanukkah, because my mother’s birthday was at that time. At Chanukkah, candles were lit in a special, beautiful candleholder for seven days. [Editor’s note: this holiday lasts 8 days in the Diaspora, and 7 in Israel.] And at Sukkot my father and my brothers ate their meals in a shelter [sukkah] that they built on the balcony. The German children in the house were very bemused that we did something like that.

We would go to Skryhiczyn on vacation, sometimes the whole family and sometimes just me. The trip was difficult because [railroad] tickets were expensive, but most of all it was hard to transport my youngest brother, who walked so poorly, so Mama would often stay in Lodz with him and we would go to the country alone.

I was very attached to the family of Aunt Masza, my father’s sister, and I spent every vacation with her, sometimes even a few months. In the country I always helped with the harvest, tying the stooks and threshing. Father would come quite often.

When we were small there weren’t any nursery schools, just what they called ‘sets.’ A few families would get together and hire a ‘bonne’ [nurse], who looked after the children, played with them, showed them their letters, and took them out for a walk for an hour or an hour and a half.

Our set was made up solely of children from my mother’s family. My cousins, I and my brother Rysiu went. We were five to six years old. We spent a few hours a day there, from 10 in the morning until dinner.

I was seven when I went to the elementary school at the Hebrew gymnasium on Piramowicza Street. It was a girls’ school, but there was a Hebrew boys’ gymnasium just the same. You started gymnasium at the age of twelve and it went on for four years.

All the subjects at my school were taught in Polish, apart from Hebrew language, the history of the Jews, and religious studies, which were in Hebrew. In religious studies we read the Torah and the Prophets.

The teachers and the pupils were all Jews. On the whole the teachers came from Cracow, probably because in Lodz pure Polish was not spoken in all families, but in Cracow the Jews spoke beautiful Polish.

There were no teachers at our school without a university education. The headmaster, Brandstaetter, was a German teacher. I also remember our class teacher, Mr. Ellenberg, and our math teacher, Mr. Szarybroder.

I hated school. The drill annoyed me, the fact that you had to go, this had to be done, that had to be written down. I did it all, but it was unbearable. I was a good student. Most of all I liked learning Polish literature, German, and German literature.

Languages were taught over a very long period then, six years, so to this day I know German and Hebrew well. I liked nature too, because we were taught that on excursions outside the city. I liked Latin as well, perhaps because the teacher was nice.

There were a lot of lessons. They started at 8 and I would go home at 4. Mama would give me mid-morning snacks to take to school, and there was a buffet at school, too, where you could buy something to drink and to eat.

At home I had to eat dinner alone because everybody had eaten earlier. After that I read books, went to friends’ houses, or they came round to me. After supper I quickly did my homework. On Saturdays I would arrange to meet my friends and we would go to the park.

My maternal grandfather, Meir Pilicer, had a very big, very pretty garden next to his house. In the spring we would play there on the swings, and play cricket and serso [a game involving throwing rings and catching them on sticks].

Gymnasiums such as the German or Jewish ones had restricted state approval, which meant that they could award the school-leaving certificate but the examination had to be invigilated by someone from the education office.

The questions for the school-leaving exam were the same as in Polish schools. You took Polish, mathematics, Latin and I think physics, a written and an oral exam in every subject. I took my school-leaving exam in 1932.

They sent us an invigilator from the education office who was a German and a Nazi. I think they must have sent him to the Jewish gymnasium on purpose. He flunked 14 out of 30 girls, often for silly things, for instance for turning their heads and looking behind them.

Several of them he refused to admit to the oral exam. The girls who didn’t get their school-leaving certificate that time got together and straight afterwards went to Palestine together. The same man from the education office had been at the school-leaving exams in the boys’ Jewish gymnasium, and the lads had warned us what kind of a person he was.

My father believed that a woman didn’t even need to graduate from gymnasium, because in any case she would soon be getting married and having children. But for my mother it was obvious that I had to have a profession and my own income.

As usual she convinced my father. I was interested in psychology, because at that time it was something entirely new. My mama didn’t like that choice; she said, ‘What will happen – well, you can’t make a living from that.’ And my grandfather didn’t understand what psychology is at all.

Once he met me and asked, ‘What are you studying?’ I said, ‘Psychology.’ ‘And what are you going to do?’ I told him that I was going to be a teacher, and he said, ‘A teacher? The worst profession in the world! You have to work so hard and study at the university to go on and teach other people’s children afterwards?’ He thought it incredibly stupid.

I left home to go to university in Warsaw when I was 16. My mother’s sister, Pola Wegmajster, lived in Warsaw. At the very beginning I lived with her in a house on Walicow Street. Within two weeks I had rented a room with an unrelated family, together with a girl I had met at university.

I couldn’t rent a separate room because that cost 30-40 zloty and was too dear. [These days a craftsman earned around 60 zlotys monthly. Mrs. Lanota couldn’t earn much more as a student.] I earned money teaching private lessons.

Professor Baley from child psychology found me very good lessons at 2 zloty a lesson, teaching mentally handicapped children. Sometimes I would get lunch in return for a lesson, for instance from my aunt, for teaching my cousin math. I had to earn my meals, my rent and my fees. Sometimes my mama would send me a food parcel.

For a long time while I was at university I had internships at the Centos 12 house in Otwock. My immediate superior was my cousin Ida Merzan [her father’s sister’s daughter]. I worked with mentally disabled children, young ones, five to seven-year-olds.

Most of them had Down’s Syndrome or schizophrenia. There were other mental illnesses too, but there weren’t any seriously handicapped children there. Healthy children lived there too, from high-risk families.

We had outstanding professors: Witwicki, Kotarbinski, Baley, Krauze, Tomaszewski, Nawroczynski. [Eminent Polish theoretical psychologists; Tadeusz Kotarbinski (1886-1981): philosopher, professor at Warsaw University and rector of Lodz University] Kotarbinski was one of my examiners for my Master’s exam.

I wrote my Master’s thesis on memory in children. I was studying at a time when the Endek 13 and ONR 14 hit squads were harassing Jewish students and enforcing the so-called ‘bench ghetto’ 15 at the university.

But in our department, in Prof. Baley’s seminar class, when a classmate stood up once and said that Jews should sit separately because they were a worse race, Baley said this, ‘Sir, please leave the room, and I am warning you that you will not pass my class, please enroll somewhere else, because you are not doing your Master’s with me.’ And indeed, in spite of interventions, he was not accepted after that into the seminar class. That was the only such incident in our department.

I personally didn’t come into contact with any anti-Jewish harassment such as there was in medicine or law, or at the entrance to the university on Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street [Jewish students entering the university’s gate were beaten by students from ONR or Endek groups].

I knew of it, of course. It didn’t go on in our department simply because there were no positions to be had after psychology, no great openings, so people didn’t flock to do it in such great numbers. The numerus clausus [see Anti-Jewish Legislation in Poland] 16 was not in force in psychology.

I had an awful lot of friends at university. They were mostly young left-wingers. Leftism was a world view; I define it very broadly [i.e. not only in terms of party membership]. For instance there was a girl among us who came from a very Catholic home, but not an Endek one.

In any case they weren’t such crass young people as in medicine or law. We were involved with the Communist youth organization Zycie, which operated at the university. [Editor’s note: Zycie, literally ‘Life,’ was an Independent Socialist Youth Union, a students’ organization, existing in the years 1923-1938 in several Polish universities, and connected to the Polish Communist Party.]

We knew there was great poverty in Poland. We believed the Soviet Union to be just, that they governed well there, that Marx and Lenin were right. We read Marxist books, such as Lenin’s ‘What Is To Be Done?’ [A book by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, written in 1902, in which he formulated his concept of the revolutionary socialist party.], but also ones by the anarchist Kropotkin. [Kropotkin, Pyotr (1842-1921): Russian political activist, theoretician and organizer of the anarchist movement.] We carried out enlightening work. I used to meet workers from the communist group that met on Wisniowa Street.

Once I lived with two friends on Marszalkowska Street with a Mrs. Front. One of those girls worked with MOPR 17, the International Workers’ Aid Organization, which was run by Ms. Stefania Sempolowska [(1870-1944), social activist, writer and benefactor of political prisoners]. That was an aid organization for political prisoners. Stefania Sempolowska used to send us people who had been let out of prison, mostly Ukrainians.

The idea was for them to spend the night with us, receive money and clothes, because they used to come in terrible rags, and only then would they go on to their families. My friend also used to send parcels of food and cigarettes to the prisoners. We all used to help her.

Once we organized a Christmas party for the children of political prisoners. We were given a large room in the Zelazna and Panska Street area by some trade union for the occasion. We cooked everything at home. I made a huge pot of cocoa milk. There was a Christmas tree, and the children got sweets and small practical presents, not just toys. The children were happy.

I lived with various friends, usually ones that I met at university. Most of the students in the psychology department were women. Once I lived on Marszalkowska Street with a painter, Natalia, and students from the Academy of Fine Arts used to come to see her.

At that time the boys and girls that studied there were the most sociable, fun, intelligent that you can imagine. Once or twice a large group of us went to Kazimierz [a little town and famous health resort near Lublin, about 180km from Warsaw] on the Vistula with Prof. Pruszkowski. [Pruszkowski, Tadeusz (1888-1942): portrait painter, professor at the Academy of Fine Arts, pedagogue.] We used to organize get-togethers, talks, sometimes we would dance, but they weren’t noisy parties, definitely without any alcoholic drinks.

We used to go to the theater, to the opera and to the philharmonic a lot – the very cheap tickets; we had to stand. In Lodz there wasn’t an opera house, and it was in Warsaw that I went to the opera for the first time in my life. I went with friends to see ‘Faust.’

It amused me greatly that Mephisto lay there and sang: ‘I die, I die.’ I started laughing, and the usher came up to me and said, ‘Please do not laugh, it’s too loud.’ I couldn’t stop, and he took me out. I also went to the philharmonic frequently, because I simply can’t live without music.

The tickets to ‘Qui pro quo’ [well-known Warsaw cabaret, 1919-1931] were very expensive, but even so we got in often. That was a first-class cabaret. Jarosy [Jarosy, Fryderyk (1890-1960): director and master of ceremony in cabarets in inter-war Warsaw] was the master of ceremony, very witty; Ordonka sang [Ordonowna, Hanka (1904-1950): popular singer of the inter-war period]; sketches were put on.

They were often by Tuwim 18. I remember his ‘Queen of Madagascar.’ We also used to go to avant-garde plays that Jaracz put on at the Ateneum. [Stefan Jaracz, Stefan (1883-1945): actor and theater director, founder of the Ateneum Theater in Warsaw.]

Perzanowska acted in them [Perzanowska, Stanislawa (1898-1982): actress and director]. We went to every new play; it was a social duty. I used to go to the cinema, but to my taste today the films then were terrible, like Harlequins [cheap romantic novels, similar to Mills & Boon]. I don’t remember any films that I was especially taken with.

I finished university in 1936. I carried on working at Centos in Otwock. Just before the war my friends from university Erna Justman and Jurek Bauritter and I had plans to open a home for retarded children in Srodborow. Erna’s parents had given her a bit of money; my family lent me some, too.

We took a house, paid the rent, but we didn’t have either a table or any beds. We even had bookings; one child even arrived, but the war broke out and its parents took it away. Fortunately there weren’t any more. [The interviewee is referring to the fact that it would have been a problem to send away more children or to stay with a large group of children during the war.] In short, working in such a place was our idea of earning a living.

The Jewish community in Poland knew about the persecution of the Jews in Germany. When Hitler came to power [on 30th January 1933, Adolf Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany], the Germans began to resettle all the Jews that had Polish citizenship.

The Poles made a camp for them in Zbaszyn 19 and later those Jews were helped by the Jewish community organizations. The Poles didn’t take Hitler seriously. I read ‘Mein Kampf’ [the book by Adolf Hitler, in which he laid out the principles of Nazism]; I couldn’t comprehend it. We thought he was a bit crazy, abnormal. We didn’t know that he had such an army of Germans behind him.

Neither then nor later did I want to immigrate to Palestine. I wanted a Jewish state; I believed it was necessary. But that didn’t move me like the misery that I saw with my own eyes. But a lot of my family from Skryhiczyn went there even before there was terrible anti-Semitism and Hitler.

My cousins didn’t really have any other alternative, in fact, because they didn’t have any money to go to school or university. But they knew all about farming and could work hard. They were attracted to Palestine.

Several kibbutzim, among them Kineret, were established by members of my family: the Rottenbergs, the Szydlowskis, the Pryweses. My mama, later, during the greatest persecutions, in the war, said that when the war was over she was going straight to Palestine, that she wasn’t going to stay in Poland.

We young people didn’t really believe that there would be a war. Only one friend was adamant that war was certain to break out, and offered us, his friends, the chance to go to Canada. He didn’t have a grosz [one zloty, the Polish currency is divided up to 100 groszy.] – neither did we – but he thought up a way to organize a trip to Canada for those who wanted to go and come back, and they would pay our fare, too.

And he managed to organize it; he stayed in Canada and saw the war out very peacefully. But none of our gang went; we thought it was simply madness, because we thought there wouldn’t be a war.

During the war

When the war broke out [see Invasion of Poland] 20, I was in Otwock. On 5th or 6th September, with my cousin Ida Merzan and her husband, I set off for Skryhiczyn. We went on foot. The road was full of evacuees, the fires could be seen from far off, every five minutes there were bombardments, the Germans were shooting at people from airplanes, people were trying to escape... We lost each other right away. That was a problem, because we had given Ida all our money.

I went on alone. I had left in high-heeled shoes, very uncomfortable ones, so I threw them away and went barefoot; my feet bled. Some soldiers took me a little way in a truck. I reached Chelm. I walked along the road; I must have looked terrible, because a Jewish woman came out and invited me in.

She asked me about everything, and it turned out that she knew the name of my relatives, the Rottenbergs. She bandaged my feet and even though it was Saturday and she was a very devout person, she ordered her son to harness a horse to the cart and take me to my aunt’s. It took me ten days to make the journey to Skryhiczyn from Otwock.

Shortly after me, Ida reached Skryhiczyn, slightly wounded. I didn’t stay with my aunt for long. The Germans were advancing very fast. A few people decided to go further east, as far as possible from the Germans. I set off with my distant cousin Ita, her husband Olek Kowalski, and two other guys.

We knew the area well, we knew where there were fords on the Bug [river, after September 1939 forming the eastern border of Poland], so we crossed the river without coming up against any Germans, Russians or our border guards. We went straight to Vladimir Volhynski, through Vladimir, and we passed Kovel.

A little way beyond Kovel we were sitting at the side of a dirt track, we had lit a fire and were roasting a goose that we had bought from a peasant farmer. Suddenly a cart went past, driven by a woman, who shouted: ‘Bolsheviks, Bolsheviks!’

An hour later leaflets bearing Molotov’s 21 speech were dropped. We didn’t believe it. We were disoriented [see Annexation of Eastern Poland] 22. We returned to Kovel. On the way we joined up with a detachment of the Polish army; the men wanted to fight.

In Kovel the detachment set up their guns as if they wanted to defend the town. They didn’t want the assistance of me and my cousin Ita at all; and anyway, Ita was pregnant, so the guys stayed with them and we went into the town. In the morning the Polish army had vanished, the guns that they had set up were gone. The guys came back to us.

That day or the next a Soviet tank rolled into Kovel. It was driven by a young boy. People surrounded him and asked him how things were in their country. He answered that they had everything, that things were very good, and altogether excellent.

This old Jew asked him about trading, and he answered that everything was state-controlled, so trade was too, and that they had everything in great quantities. And the Jew asked, ‘Listen, but who trades in parsley?’ The boy answered, ‘What do you mean, who? The state, everything is state-controlled.’ The Jew turned away and said in Yiddish, ‘What kind of a state is it that trades in parsley!’ People fell about laughing.

It’s true that in September the Jews welcomed the Red Army. [The Soviet occupation was a total catastrophe for the Poles, because Poland had lost its independence. For Jews it was better than German occupation and, for a few people, something even better than Polish rule before war.] I saw it myself.

Jewish towns in eastern Poland were terribly poor. And because there was poverty and the young people knew that there was no way out, it was very easy to believe in the Soviet Union. It was said, which wasn’t true, but I believed it, that there were no differences between nations or between religions. There was no truthful news. As for welcoming the Soviet Army when they were chasing the Germans out, I would have gone myself; after all, the Germans were the ones who wanted to kill me.

We stayed in Kovel. On the way my skirt had got ripped and I wanted to buy some material to sew myself a new one. I went into a Jewish shop and asked for 70 centimeters, and the shop assistant said, ‘Why 70? Take as much as you can.

You’ll see what’s about to happen here, I strongly advise you to take as much as possible.’ I thought to myself that he had gone mad; I bought the 70 centimeters and left. The next day the Soviet forces came and raided the shops like locusts, buying whole bales of materials, stockings, everything. Once Ida asked one of them, ‘Why are you buying so many stockings?’ He answered, ‘What do you mean, why? As presents.’

We had to live off something, so I reported to the education office for work. The officer, his name was Bohonko, told me to fill out a form and write on it my background. First name and surname, and education. In the ‘background’ rubric I didn’t know what to write.

My father was a worker, but my family, both the family from Lodz and the family from the country, were rich folk, so I had a most unfortunate background. But I wrote the truth, that one of my grandfathers was a ‘pamieshchik,’ that means someone who has a lot of land, and my other grandfather was a factory owner.

Bohonko read it and said, ‘Did I ask you to write about your grandfathers? I am going to rip this up and you are to write only about your father.’ He did so, I obeyed him, and only afterwards did I understand that he had saved me from exile. [In 1940-41 the Soviet occupying authorities organized 4 large-scale deportation campaigns of Polish citizens into the heart of the USSR, including those who had inappropriate social background, e.g. landowners].

I was sent as a carer to an orphanage. As soon as they came, the Soviets had merged the Jewish orphanage with a Polish one that had been run by nuns. The nuns were fired, but the other employees of both homes stayed.

Someone sent from Ukraine was made director, and the previous director of the Jewish home became a carer. I had small children aged five to seven in my care. The Polish orphans were pleased, because under the nuns as well as going to school they had had to work in the garden.

They had been fed worse than the nuns too, but we lived and ate together, children and carers. There was very little food, in fact really only millet for every meal. We couldn’t bear it, but the children were hungry.

Once we ran out of spoons for the small children. I didn’t suspect that buying spoons would be such a difficult thing. The boss sat down at the telephone and called first Kharkov, then Kiev; in the end somewhere they said that they had spoons.

They sent a large box, and I, delighted, opened it, but there were those painted wooden Russian spoons, huge ones – they wouldn’t even have fitted into the children’s small mouths. The boss said that the bigger children could eat with those spoons.

He knew that that was impossible, he was angry, but that was what he said. But I went round houses where Jews lived and asked them to donate me spoons for 20 small children. They gave very willingly.

I took them back to the home. I thought the boss would throw me out of my job, he shouted at me so much, he was so angry that I had begged for a state orphanage from private homes. But he didn’t throw the spoons away – that was all I had feared.

I spent less than a year in Kovel. My relations, the Kowalskis, who I had traveled with in September, had settled in Lwow. I went to them. It’s not far from Kovel to Lwow, it takes three to four hours by train. But then it was really difficult.

You had to have a ‘komandirovka,’ a permit to get on the train, a ticket, and in addition to that there was a woman standing by every carriage guarding it, and if she didn’t like the look of someone she didn’t let them on at all. I couldn’t speak Ukrainian, so I couldn’t communicate with her, but I mingled with the crowd and somehow got on the train.

I spent the first few days in Lwow with the Kowalskis. Olek worked in a factory and had got a room there. I was assigned to work in a home for handicapped children on Sykstuska Street. I moved in with a friend from university, Danka Barzach, with a Mr. and Mrs. Adler on Bonifratrow Street, a side street off Lyczakowska Street. (I remained friendly with Danka until the end of her life. She died a few weeks ago.)

We slept together in one bed. Our hosts were extremely nice and helped us enormously. Mr. Adler, as a surveyor, would go into the country to survey land and would always bring back some victuals, and Mrs. Adler would sew clothes for us, and give us thick soup after which we could go for a long time without food.

After that, while I was working on Sykstuska Street, I got a meal once a day. The children in that home were very severely mentally and physically handicapped. You couldn’t communicate with them; most of them couldn’t speak; some couldn’t walk, couldn’t eat.

There were about 20 of them in my group, and I the only carer. And in addition to that, the older, teenage children were sexually aroused; we had to watch them, because what would have happened if a girl like that had got pregnant? We had to be careful altogether, that they didn’t fall, didn’t get out, didn’t get lost.

When the war broke out in June 1941 [the so-called Great Patriotic War] 23, the parents of those children took them home. All of a sudden that job came to an end. Right after that the Germans came. I very much wanted to go east.

Olek Kowalski called me that they were going, and were waiting for me at the station. But when I arrived at the station the train had already left. So I went back again and was there when the Nazi army entered Lwow [30th June 1941]. The Ukrainians were shooting at Poles from the windows.

German tanks were rolling down Lyczakowska Street. They were covered in flowers. Ukrainians came with bouquets of flowers, women dressed in very pretty Ukrainian skirts and blouses threw themselves at the Germans. They received them like liberators.

Detachments of the Wehrmacht holed up throughout the town and soldiers rounded people up to work. They caught me twice, but not as a Jew, as a Pole. The first time it was uniformed German women who caught me, and wanted me to wash the floor in their room.

Although I spoke German and they could communicate with me, they treated me like a subhuman. They let me go home as soon as I had washed the floor. The second time I was caught and taken to a Wehrmacht camp. An officer wanted me to wash his gloves. The gloves were smart, light colored, from pigskin. I knew I couldn’t wash them in water, only in gasoline.

He wanted to give me gasoline from the automobile, but that is contaminated, so I told him that the right gasoline could only be bought from the pharmacy. He gave me a few groszy to go to the pharmacy, buy the gasoline and come back. I took the money and went home – I wouldn’t have gone back to him of my own free will.

Some time later a friend of mine, Cynka Fiszman, told me that there was a job as a governess at the home of Mrs. Schorr, the wife of the doctor Mojzesz Schorr 24. Mrs. Schorr was very nice. Her daughter Fela, whose husband had died, lived with her, with two children, as well as the son of her other daughter, who had gone to New York before the war for the World Exhibition and couldn’t get back.

She had left her child with her sister. That boy was the eldest, red-haired, pleasant, the nicest of all of them. Mr. Schorr had been arrested before that; by then I think he was dead, but they didn’t know it. And the writer Adolf Rudnicki lived there too [Rudnicki, Adolf (1912-1990), born Aron Hirschhorn, popular Jewish-Polish writer]. I used to go there for a few hours a day, take the children for a walk and teach them. I had a very pleasant life there.

In Lwow I met Edward Lanota, my future husband. He was born in 1905 in Stryj in Eastern Galicia 25. He came from a family of Jews who converted to Catholicism a long time ago. He himself was a non-believer.

He had graduated in agricultural studies in Cracow, but had always worked as a chemist. When he finished his studies, he moved to Lwow. After the outbreak of war in 1941 he went to Warsaw.

Right from the outset the Germans issued a decree that all Jews had to wear white armbands 26 with the blue Star of David. I didn’t wear the armband, because it annoyed me, and in any case I had always believed, right from the Polish times, that the authorities are not to be obeyed – authority is all very well, but I had my own common sense. I would take the boys’ armbands off whenever I went out for a walk with them in the park.

It was not only the Germans, you see, but the Lwow hooligans also tormented the Jews, even children. When Mrs. Schorr found out that I took their armbands off, she was terrified that something awfully bad might happen because of it, and said that she couldn’t agree to it. We came to the conclusion that I would simply leave.

So then Rudnicki said that you could get to Warsaw via Przemysl and Cracow. Before that, all that time I had been sending letters and parcels with flour, sugar and butter to my family. I don’t know when and why, but all my Lodz family had moved to Warsaw.

Now they were all in the ghetto in Warsaw. I had no intention of going into the ghetto, of course, but I did want to see my parents. Mrs. Schorr gave me a little money, and as well as that Rudnicki gave me a typhus vaccine [The typhus vaccine developed by Rudolf Weigl (1883-1957), a professor at Jan Kazimierz University in Lwow].

He told me that I would be able to sell it in the ghetto and then I would have money to live on for the first few days. Some Romanian in a Wehrmacht greatcoat took me to Przemysl by car for 20 rubles or marks. I went to Warsaw on the night train, incredibly crowded, sitting on the floor.

In Warsaw I went to see my friend Szczesny Zamienski, on Szopena Street. Later on he was a journalist, with the pseudonym Dobrowolski. We had met in Lwow, and when he was leaving he said to me, ‘In case you need it, here’s my address, you can come and stay with me.’

A boy on a rickshaw took me there; that was the first time I’d seen a rickshaw. The Zamienskis weren’t very happy, because Szczesny’s wife was Jewish, and half her family was living with them, and they had terrible trouble, because they wanted to rescue them. And I wanted to see my mother, father and brothers.

In the evening Szczesny went with me up to the fence surrounding the ghetto. It was a high, wooden fence guarded by a Polish policeman. Szczesny went up to him and said, ‘Please let this lady in, because her mother’s in there.’ The policeman didn’t want any money – he slipped a plank aside and I went into the ghetto.

I remember that terrible impression; that was how you might have imagined hell, pitch black on the streets, you couldn’t see anything, the streets full of people, some of them were sitting on the sidewalks and stretching out their hands. I had my parents’ address; Leszno [Street] was very close by, but I completely lost my sense of direction.

All the time I was in the ghetto I was dazed – I think it was necessary to defend myself from it. In the end I made it to my parents. They lived with several other families in one apartment.

Mama opened the door to me. I didn’t recognize her. She had had typhus and become a tiny, very thin old woman; she had never looked like that. It was only when she said ‘Hania’ and I heard her voice that I realized it was Mama. My parents and my middle brother Mietek were there; the elder Rysiek lived with his wife separately.

My parents had a tiny room; in the corner there was a stove that they cooked on. There was nothing to eat in the house. I took out my money and the Weigl vaccine to sell. Mietek went down and bought some food.

My family was living off the parcels that they got every week from Mama’s sister Pola, who had been very rich and had managed to salvage the remnants of her fortune. That was all they had. Rysiek had sold lilac on the street in the spring. After that he worked at the brushmakers’.

The very next day somebody got me a job in the ghetto. A rich man with a kind heart had set up a small orphanage in an apartment on Leszno Street, close to Bankowy Square, and took children off the streets there.

He had equipped it with beds and bed-linen, and had food, clothes and simple drugs such as aspirin and ointments brought in. I don’t remember his name. He took me and another woman on [as carers]; we lived there, and got food.

We didn’t earn anything. There were no more than 20 children. The man collected children that he found on the streets and brought them to us. Many of them died at once; it was already too late to save them.

That was the worst for me, when they died. They thought they were in heaven – washed, bathed, in bed, in the warm – but it lasted a day or a few hours. There were a few orphans that weren’t so emaciated yet, and they stayed with us.

Towards the end of 1941 Cousin Motl from Skryhiczyn came to see my parents. He told us that the Germans had taken all the Jews away to some place, where they had had Poles come with wagons too.

A ‘dushegubka’ was standing there, that is a kind of vehicle where they poisoned people on the spot. [Editor’s note: ‘dushegubka’ Russian for ‘mobile gas chamber.’ Motl came from Lublin region, which was an area where many Ukrainians lived, so the inhabitants used many Ukrainian and Russian words.]

Beforehand they undressed the people and gave the clothes to the people who had come in their wagons. Among them was a peasant from Skryhiczyn who knew Motl, pulled him out of the line to the ‘dushegubka’ and hid him under the clothes on his wagon. Motl came to us and told us everything. People didn’t believe him, because they thought it was impossible, but my Mama and all of us believed him because someone had come who was an eye witness.

So when on 22nd July 1942 the Germans and Latvians surrounded the ghetto and the deportations began [see Great Action] 27, I knew for certain that it was to death. The next evening, when things had calmed down a little, I ran to my parents.

They had already gone; but some soup, still warm, was standing on the stove, and photographs lay scattered on the floor. I wanted to get my parents out, and I flew off to the ‘Umschlagplatz’ [literally ‘transshipment square’ in German. It was located near Stawki Street where Jews were gathered by force before deportation].

I had no money, but I thought that somehow I might succeed. As I was running towards the ‘Umschlagplatz’ I came to a small square on Gesia Street, and there Germans were rounding people up into a truck. There were taking them straight to Treblinka 28 in it.

When I saw that, I ran up to the fifth story of a house that stood to one side, but a Jewish policeman [see Jewish police] 29 ran in after me, forced me to go down, and put me in the line to the truck. I saw that some people were giving the Germans pieces of paper, and then they ordered them to leave the cordoned off area.

They were evidently some kind of passes. I had nothing of the sort. But I showed the German a folded piece of blank paper. He didn’t take it, but let me go at once, but not on the side towards the ‘Umschlagplatz,’ but the opposite side. I didn’t get to my parents.

I went back to the orphanage. There came a day when they took children from orphanages. Our house was almost butted up against the [ghetto] wall, so we told the children to escape. All the children that could walk, even the five-year-olds, left the apartment.

I don’t know what happened to them later, whether they made it to the Aryan side or perished in the ghetto. The ones that were lying in bed dying stayed. The Germans came; I don’t remember whether they shot the children lying there – I was totally in shock.

I remember that one German came up to me, took the pendant that I was wearing round my neck in his hand, and said, ‘You have only six weeks to live with that pendant,’ and went. I don’t know whether he wanted to frighten me or warn me. They only took the children. They left me and the other carer.

Then I went to my friend from university, Hania Rabinowicz. Her mother was very ill and could no longer walk. Hania had packed a rucksack and said that she was going to the ‘Umschlagplatz’ on her own, because they were giving out bread there, her mother couldn’t go, so her mother would stay and she would go, because it was resettlement, so what was all the fuss about.

I told her what I knew, that it was not resettlement at all. She didn’t believe me: ‘What are you talking about, going round spreading doom!’ She kissed her mother and went. Of course they [the Germans] shot her mother after that, and Hania went to Treblinka.

I thought they had taken my brother Mietek with my parents, but it turned out that they hadn’t. I found out by chance that both my brothers were at the brushmakers’. I went to them. The co-operative was a room on the first floor, on Leszno Street, there were tables there and lots of people working, making brushes. Aunt Sara, my mother’s sister, and her daughter, found us there. Both of them were killed almost straight afterwards.

Once I saw through the window that a large group of Jews with rucksacks was collecting in the courtyard. I realized that they wanted to go just like that friend of mine. I told my brother I would go down and tell them what was going on. But my brother said, ‘Don’t do that, because they’ll just rip you to shreds.’ But I went down and told them all I knew.

They answered that I was saying that on purpose to create a revolt; the Germans had said they were going to be resettled, they were giving everyone a loaf of bread, so they were going, and people like me would cause a massacre. They got so angry and shouted at me, so I didn’t hear them out, I went back upstairs.

I spent two or three days at the brushmakers’. A friend from university, Rozenfeld, came to me and said, ‘Here you are, 200 zloty, tomorrow morning at 5am a commando of Jews is leaving the ghetto to go to work, tag along with them and give the German who lets them past this 200 zloty; either he’ll let you go or he’ll shoot you.’ [Rozenfeld, Michal (1916-1943): communist, member of the Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) 30 and Jewish Fighting Organization (ZOB) 31, in the Warsaw ghetto, fought in the rising in April 1943, killed in the partisan army in the Wyszkow forest in the summer of 1943.]

Before that, Poles and Jews in hiding outside the ghetto had called me and said, ‘Get out, Hania, get out, tell everyone it’s to the death.’ They had been told by railroad workers that the trains from the ghetto went to Mlawa, and not somewhere way east, that they were overcrowded and came back entirely empty.

They knew how it really was. I took the 200 zloty and said that I would go. My brothers said to me, ‘When you get out, if you survive and have the chance, remember to get us out too.’ I got out then; it was perhaps 14th August, at 5 in the morning with the group, who were all men, in fact.

I gave the German the money and walked very slowly, because I thought that if he wanted to shoot me, let him shoot. But he didn’t even look round. I got in a rickshaw and went to the Zamienskis’. They had called me in the ghetto beforehand, and knew that I was coming out.

There were lots of Jews at the Zamienskis’, the family of Szczesny’s wife. He had got me a place to stay with a Mrs. Niwinska, but I was only with her for a very short time. I don’t remember how I got my false papers – I had them, of course, in the name of Krawczyk, I think, and the profession written in them was seamstress.

Before the end of 1942 I married Edward Lanota. The way we did it was that somebody in the Warsaw office who forged documents wrote us out a certificate that we were married. My husband’s data were true. We simply registered as a married couple. We lived on Kopinska Street at first. But after that we had to keep on the move, split up, because he was wanted by the police after escaping from jail.

When my husband had come to Warsaw from Lwow he had joined the PPR [the Polish Workers’ Party]. Together with this Janka Bir he had made bombs, taken part in campaigns to blow up trains going to the front. They made the bombs in an apartment on Mazowiecka Street [in Warsaw].

They arranged that if there was a flowerpot standing in the window it meant that they could go in, and if there wasn’t, they couldn’t. My husband was on his way to the apartment and the flowerpot wasn’t there, but he had gone up too close and turned back suddenly, and then they arrested him.

He was in Pawiak, they tortured him terribly. He asked for cyanide to be sent in for him. They sent him some, he swallowed the poison, and came to in the mortuary. He asked the guard to let him out, but he was afraid they would count the bodies, so he reported him to the Germans.

They sent my husband to Majdanek 32. He managed to hide a sledgehammer, and when the train moved off, he opened the door of the wagon and jumped out. He got to some farmer, and he put him in touch with a friend from Warsaw, Zbyszek Paszkowski, to come and get him with some clothes, because Edward only had his prison stripes.

Paszkowski came, and that was how my husband got free. After that the Germans put up wanted letters with his name on them in the streets. He always carried a gun after that; he said that he wouldn’t be taken, that he would shoot at them and at the end at himself.

I don’t remember how I met Krysia Stalinska. She was a very important person to me, and helped me a lot throughout the occupation. She wasn’t Jewish. She was blonde, very tall, plump. We liked each other tremendously. I often lived with her. Once we lived in the German quarter [a representative part of Warsaw where apartments were assigned mainly to Germans], with a Mrs. Hammer.

She was a German from a well-known Warsaw family of slaughterers. She didn’t want to accept the ‘Volksliste’ and her family disowned her. [Editor’s note: a Volksdeutscher 33 was a person, who accepted the Volksliste.

From this time he was treated by German authorities like a German citizen, and had various privileges. Volksdeutsche were considered by Poles as traitors.] She lived on Belwederska Street; she rented out two rooms there. There, together with Krysia, we printed the clandestine newspaper Glos Warszawy [the Voice of Warsaw, a political and social paper published in Warsaw in 1942-1944].

Glos Warszawy was published by the PPR. I became a member of the Party then. Bienkowski and Sawicka contributed to that paper. [Bienkowski, Wladyslaw (1906-1991): communist activist, journalist and politician; Sawicka, Hanka, real name Anna Szapiro (1919-1943): activist in the communist youth movement, organizer of the Fighting Youth Union during the occupation.]

They would bring us their articles. Then our friend, a typesetter, would come round; he would come in through the window so that the janitor didn’t see him, and he set every letter by hand, laying out the text in the type cases.

When he left, Krysia and I would print; we put the paper in the cases, rolled the roller across, and so on many times. We printed everything by hand. It took us all day. And because we made a lot of noise doing it, we told Mrs. Hammer that we were ironing stockings and that that was how we made our living. Once the whole edition was ready, Janek Tarlowski would come round, take it and distribute it.

We didn’t live from ironing stockings at all, but from selling cheesecakes. I baked the cheesecakes, terrible ones; most of the filling was potato, not cheese. Early in the morning Krysia would go round the shops and sell them. You had to eat them the same day that they were baked, or the potatoes went black. If she didn’t manage to sell them we ate them ourselves, together with Mrs. Hammer.

Once we did an awfully stupid thing. On 1st May a whole group of boys and girls gathered in Skaryszewski Park to celebrate the holiday. Each of us pinned a red flower on. Suddenly Polish policemen surrounded us and said, ‘These are Jews.’ But out of all of us I was the only Jew – all the others were Polish.

Halina Kaczmarska, a dark-haired girl, was there, so was Janek Tarlowski, and a few others. I was standing next to Krysia, and the policemen said to us, ‘You ladies may go, but we are taking them in to the lock-up.’ And they took them. Luckily they let them out straight away.

The PPR had contacts with the ghetto, but I personally had none. While the uprising in the ghetto [see Warsaw Ghetto Uprising] 34 was in progress I had to be very careful; I was afraid to leave the house.

I saw the ghetto burning, I saw the merry-go-round outside the ghetto, and people behaved appallingly. I’m sure there were some who found it horrendous, but the Warsaw street, the great unwashed, joked about it.

They thought that Jews were escaping from that hell, so if someone looked slightly different, or they thought so, they would either demand a ransom or denounce them to the police. It didn’t happen to me once.

Only once, when I was standing on the street waiting for a tramcar, Rolf, a German, a friend of mine from the neighborhood in Lodz, walked past. He was in a black German police uniform. He recognized me, I recognized him at once too. He looked at me, then turned his gaze upward and pretended he hadn’t seen me. He would have had to take me in to the Gestapo.

Some time later the PPR’s main printing press was denounced and Mankiewicz, who ran it, was arrested. Mankiewicz knew our address and that of Janek Tarlowski. We were told to move out. We rented a room with this woman.

Once I broke a glass and said to her, ‘Madam, I’ve smashed a glass.’ The woman answered, ‘You’ve smashed a glass? O my lady, you ladies aren’t going to be living with me any more, because you are Jews.’ I asked, ‘How did that come into your head?’, ‘Only Jewesses say “I smashed” a glass; Polish girls say “I broke.”’ Perhaps that’s true, I don’t know. We had to move out.

At that time, after the ghetto uprising, there were mass arrests in Warsaw, so we were sent to the AL [Armia Ludowa, People’s Army] 35 partisans near Wyszkow. We spent several months there in the summer of 1943. The detachment was 15-16 strong, of which three were girls.

The leader was Janek Bialy [‘White Janek’ Szwarcfus (1914-1943): communist, member of the PPR, fought in the Warsaw ghetto uprising, killed in the partisan army in the Wyszkow forest in the summer of 1943].

I met that guy Rozenfeld there, the one who had given me the money to get out of the ghetto a few months earlier. Within the detachment I was responsible for intelligence, which means I had to find out when and where trains with Germans going to the front would be traveling, and also when they would be requisitioning food from the farmers – butter and pigs. The boys would then take the things back off the Germans and give them back to the farmers.

They would also attack gendarmerie stations. I also used to go to the village for bread. We took food off the Germans. Once we got a huge amount of eggs. There was nothing else, so we ate scrambled eggs, and hard-boiled eggs in place of bread.

The farmers were not well-disposed towards us, because they were very frightened of the Germans, but although they knew that there were partisans in the woods, nobody ever denounced us.

During a break once Janek was cleaning his gun, I was sitting next to him, and his gun went off. He didn’t know that there was a bullet in it, he was careless, and he shot me in the foot. It was a big wound. They bound it up for me in a towel, because we didn’t have any dressings.

They decided to send me back to Warsaw. Krysia Stalinska went with me. In the night they stopped a train and ordered the driver to take me into the cab, because the Germans didn’t go in there. The driver let me in at once and off we went.

We got off in Warsaw in the middle of the night. There was a curfew. Krysia went for a pass. I couldn’t walk, my foot hurt terribly. A German came up to me and asked what I was doing there. I pretended I didn’t understand. Just then Krysia came up with the pass and told him that I was from the country, I had been chopping wood and had cut myself. He didn’t ask anything else. We got in a carriage and went to our friend Kalinowski’s house. He lived in Ochota [a district of Warsaw], and was a cobbler.

I couldn’t stay there because it was one room, he had customers coming in, there was too much traffic. Opposite lived his friend Wawrzyniak, albeit with his wife and children, but in two rooms. I moved in there. Krysia went back to the woods. They sent a doctor, Ludka Tarlowska, to me.

When she saw my wound she said, ‘I don’t know what will happen, you’ve got a break and a wound, you may get gangrene, because it’s so dirty.’ I answered, ‘There won’t be any gangrene, because there can’t be, it’s out of the question.’

She cleaned me the wound, put my leg in wooden splints and bound it up. And nothing happened; it just took a very long time to heal. After that she sent me high lace-up boots to keep my leg stiff once I started walking. I limped a bit, but later not even that.

Some time later Krysia came from the woods with a whole bag of guns to be repaired. While she had been in Warsaw our whole detachment had been killed. A forester had let them stay the night in the attic of his hut, and then went and told the Germans that he had a partisan detachment in his hut.

The Germans surrounded the hut, a shootout ensued; they defended themselves but were all killed, none of them survived. I can’t remember how we found out about that. But we decided to have the guns repaired anyway. We put them in bags. We got to Narutowicza Square.

Somebody pointed to us, perhaps because I was limping and she’d come from the woods and you could see it. They flew at us, out of the house where the SS lived, to the right of St. James’s Church. They went up to Krysia, she ran to a tram and asked the driver to move off, but he didn’t make it in time, the SS were already there.

She pulled a gun out and shot. They took her away. I never heard of her again. An SS man ran to me too and wanted to see what was in my bag, but when he heard the shot he turned round, and then I escaped. After the shot people started to run away, and I mingled with the crowd.

I ran to some friends’ house, who lived on Narutowicza Square. I spent a few hours there. My husband sent our friend Jadzia Koszutska to take me to Kolo [a district of Warsaw], where he was living at the time. We had to go after dark, because I was still wearing lace-up boots, and it was summer and nobody was dressed like that. In Kolo there were blocks of one-room apartments with kitchen annexes. We lived there until the uprising.

Just before the Warsaw Uprising [1944] 36 my husband went to see Zbyszek Paszkowski, who lived in the Old Town. I was alone when I heard shooting. Jadzia Koszutska came to see me and told me that the uprising had broken out and that we were going to the Old Town to meet them.

We went on foot, and all the way we didn’t meet a single German or a single insurrectionist. Only when we burst onto the Market Square did we see a procession of people with red and white flags. They were singing ‘Rota’ [a very popular patriotic and anti-German song written by Polish poet Maria Konopnicka in 1896] or some other patriotic song.

We stood bewitched. Suddenly freedom had come to the whole of the Old Town, it was incredible – rarely in one’s life does one have a feeling of such happiness. I experienced it then. We joined the demonstration. My husband dashed out of a café, because they had gathered there, and from then on we were together all the time.

Right at the start of the uprising my husband said to me, ‘There won’t be victory here, only defeat,’ but it didn’t occur to us not to fight. To fight the Germans was happiness; it was suddenly freedom after so many years. We knew we would lose, but what did that have to do with our will to fight? Nothing.

Though I don’t know why ‘Bor’ [General Tadeusz Komorowski, pseudonym ‘Bor’ (1895-1966), a commandant of the Home Army (Armia Krajowa, AK) from July 1943 to October 1944] had to stage the uprising then – 200,000 people died – Polish intelligentsia and youth. It is portrayed as heroism. I think that the heroes were the people who fought, but it was the heroism of people betrayed by their leaders.

In the Old Town I divided up the food among the boys on the barricades. Later I printed our newssheet. It came out every day, it was four pages long. The printing shop was on Freta Street. I certainly built barricades, and had a gun, but I don’t remember standing on the barricades.

Later on we went round making holes in cellar walls to be able to move from house to house without going up onto the street. People were angry with us. The Old Town was simply massacred, they bombarded it terribly; houses collapsed, people were killed under them, there was no escape. The Germans sat on the roofs and shot at passers-by, and there was nothing to eat. So the people blamed us, the insurrectionists.

On 26th August [1944] my husband was killed. We were in the same house; he was standing nearer the street and I was standing nearer the courtyard. I was printing the newspaper, and suddenly a bomb with a time delay fell on the house.

The last thing I heard was my husband calling: ‘Hania!’ I said, ‘I’m here,’ and some guy standing next to me threw me out onto the street through a hole in the wall. The bomb exploded, that guy was killed instantly, and I lost consciousness.

I was wounded in the head and the leg. I was taken to a hospital in a cellar. I regained consciousness there and they bandaged me up. I found it hard to walk on that leg, and I think I had a slight concussion, because I was constantly dazed.

Only later did they tell me that my husband had died. He was buried in a mass grave for the insurrectionists on Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street, next to the statue of Mickiewicz.

Then Gustaw Rozlubirski [Lt. Edwin Rozlubirski, pseudonym ‘Gustaw,’ one of the AL Commanders in the Old Town] decided that our entire group was going to Zoliborz [a district of Warsaw]. Zoliborz was holding out and hadn’t yet been badly hit.

Our path through the sewers had been mapped out by Inka Solska a long time before. We went down into the manhole. I strapped myself to Jadzia Koszutska so as not to get lost, and we set off. Walking through the sewers was terrible, you got hallucinations, you thought you were about to get out.

In some places the sewer was high and you could walk upright, and in some you had to crouch down low. There were stormwater sewers, sewers where there was a lot of water, which you couldn’t turn into because the water would drown you.

Huge rats flew past us. We didn’t get lost because Inka had marked the route well. The Germans knew that we were down there so they stood at the manholes and threw grenades in. But the grenades exploded in the water and didn’t do much damage.

The actor Wesolowski, a friend of Jadzia’s, was walking in front of us; he got hit by a grenade but walked on. [In May 1943 the Warsaw ghetto insurrectionists had used the sewers as an escape route.]

A few hours later we emerged onto Inwalidow Square [in Zoliborz, which was the district of Warsaw that the insurrectionists held the longest]. We went to friends’, washed – we were terribly dirty – and had to throw away the clothes we had worn in the sewers, and we got new ones.

There was a fairly large AL organization there, under Zenon Kliszko [(1908-1989): politician, PPR activist, one of the founders of the AL, after the war a deputy to the Sejm, secretary of the PZPR’s Central Committee]. Some time later, when the defense of Zoliborz was coming to an end, a 20-man detachment was formed and ordered to go to Kampinos [a forest near Warsaw]. Jadzia and I were the only women in it.

We had to be very careful because the Germans had strung wires between Zoliborz and Bielany [a district of Warsaw]. We walked by night, and in the morning we reached Wawrzyszewo; at the time it was a little village on the edge of Warsaw. A woman gave me a basket of tomatoes.

The whole of the boundary of Warsaw was manned by Kalmyks 37, the Germans’ auxiliary army. Jadzia and I went up to one of them and I said in Russian, ‘My children are beyond there, I’m taking them tomatoes, you have to let me through.’ And I had this pretty watch, which had always been broken; I had been given it by my employer in the ghetto.

The Kalmyk wanted me to give him the watch, so I gave it to him and he showed us how to pass so that the Germans didn’t see us. It turned out that we needn’t have asked him at all because the path was through a large field of rye. We showed the boys to follow us. And that’s how we got out.

We reached Laski [a village just outside Warsaw], arrived at a home for the blind run by nuns. The nuns made us extraordinarily welcome, gave us food and drink, and put us in touch with a ferryman, because we wanted to cross the Vistula.

On the way to him, going through the wood, we met a detachment of the ONR. [The ONR didn’t have detachments during the war; the armed organization ideologically close to the ONR was the National Armed Forces (NSZ) 38.]

They were all on horseback, and during the day they stood on the road and weren’t afraid of the Germans at all – I don’t know if they had an agreement with them, but there was something fishy about it.

An older man was walking with us, who had fought in the uprising, a worker, unshaven, neglected and tired. They pulled him out and said that he was a Jew, and if he was a Jew they would smash him up. But he wasn’t a Jew and they let him go. They didn’t take any notice of anybody else.

The ferryman told us that the Germans patrolled the river every minute and that we would have to cross between the patrols. He gave us a very big boat, we all fitted in it, more than ten of us. His son took us across, a boy of perhaps 15.

As we were approaching the other bank, the boy noticed that there was somebody on the beach. From the boat we saw a machine gun planted in the sand and a uniform on the machine gun. It was beautiful weather, and a German had undressed and was sunbathing totally naked.

There was nothing for it; we had to land. Jadzia and I got out first, and the German closed his eyes in shame and started trying to cover himself with sand. We disappeared quickly into the undergrowth.

We hid in a barn. Some Germans came and took all the men off to work. They left Jadzia and me. We went to Legionowo. The Germans had evacuated all the residents from the area because the front was about to be there.

Legionowo was completely deserted, the houses were open, there was furniture and bed-linen in them, so we could sleep in clean beds, but there was nothing at all to eat. We were terribly hungry; sometimes we were eating raw beets from the fields.

We were indifferent about what we ate, and I was pregnant and constantly hungry. We went into a hut and opened up the cellars looking for potatoes, and we found a large demijohn of cherries in spirit. We started to gobble up the cherries.

Suddenly a Kalmyk came in and demanded our papers. He said that we were bound to be Bolsheviks, because there wasn’t anyone here; the Bolsheviks had sent us, and he was going to take us to the Gestapo.

He didn’t take us to the Gestapo, but to the borough authorities. There was a German sitting there, the Kalmyk led us in and started reporting to him in broken German. I couldn’t bear to hear him speaking German, and at one point I said to the German,

‘You can hear how he speaks – he’s an idiot, I’ll tell you how it was: we were staying with our aunt and we took some cherries, I live here; they left me because I’m wounded, and this is my cousin, who’s helping me. And he’s talking rubbish about Bolsheviks.’

I think I was so brave because I was drunk from the cherries in spirit. The German told the Kalmyk to leave, and asked us if we knew what the Bolsheviks did to women. We said we didn’t know. So he said, ‘Women under the Bolsheviks work hard laying railroad tracks.’

We could hardly keep from laughing, because I thought he would say that they rape them, but no, oh no, they lay rails, such heavy work for women. The German gave us a pass for the train to go west to Kalisz, because this was the front and no-one was allowed to be there.

We told each other that if we succeeded we wouldn’t get on the train, but if not, tough. The Kalmyk, when he saw us going to the station, sitting down on the bench and waiting for the train, stopped following us. Then we stood up and went back to Legionowo.

We went into a hut. It was evening, the shooting was awful, but we were used to it since the uprising, so we lay down under feather eiderdowns and fell asleep. But suddenly it went quiet. Jadzia went to the window, lifted the curtain and said, ‘There are gendarmes coming towards us.’

We decided that we’d had enough; if they ordered us to go we would go to Kalisz. But I wanted to see the gendarmes too, and I lifted the curtain a little too far, the man we thought was a gendarme saw me and said, ‘Zdrastvuytie.’ [Russian greeting] They were Russians, and just after that the Polish army arrived.

Because Jadzia’s sister Wanda lived in Wawer [a place near Warsaw], which was also already occupied by the Russians, we went to her. We knocked, her neighbor came out and said that Wanda had gone to Lublin.

At that we both started crying terribly, as if the greatest misfortune had befallen us, because Wanda wasn’t there. Everyone in Wawer wanted to feed us because we had come from the uprising. We overate terribly at that time. Soon we decided that we would go to Wanda in Lublin.

In Lublin I lived on Szopena Street, in a house left by some Germans. I worked in the daily newspaper Glos Ludu [The People’s Voice, the PPR daily newspaper, founded in Lublin in 1944, then moved to Warsaw, in existence until 1948]. In May [1945] I had my baby, Malgosia.

Three months later I went to Lodz. My cousin Ida Merzan was living there then with her husband and daughter. They had just come back from Russia. I went to see them. I reported for work at the publishing house ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza.’ Zbyszek Paszkowski was mayor of Lodz at the time, and he allocated me an apartment on Gdanska Street, two rooms and a kitchen.

It was an apartment that a Gestapo officer had been living in, but before that it must have been Jewish because the furniture all had labels in Yiddish underneath. I received my apartment furnished and fully fitted. I have to admit that before the war I’d never seen a refrigerator.

In that apartment there was a large steel cupboard with a cable to plug it in to the electricity. I thought it an oddity, something abnormal, and my cousin and I threw it out into the courtyard.

That cousin was called Estera Rottenberg, and she was a nurse. She had survived the war in Vladimir Volhynski. My cousin Ewa Prywes had also survived the war in Warsaw; she was totally unlike a Jew, so she didn’t go into hiding.

We often met up during the occupation. Hanka Szydlowska survived; she and her brother Szmulek [the children of Mrs. Lanota’s father’s nephew Mordechaj Szydlowski] had been in hiding in the partisan army deep in Russia. She was a child at the time.

The ones who survived in Russia were Ida Merzan, Zuzanna Mensz [Zlata Horowicz’s granddaughter], Ita and Olek Kowalski and their child and Ita’s mother, Mietek and [his mother] Hanka Perec and their family, and apparently the son of my cousin Mincberg. No-one else, I don’t think.

After the war

All those who had been in Russia came back to Poland after the war. Before the end of 1945 my cousin Chadasz from Israel [Palestine at the time], from the Kineret kibbutz, came to visit me. He had been fighting in the British army, and I think he was returning from Germany then.

He had come to take us back with him to Israel. One had to cross two borders illegally, so I told him at once that that would be impossible, because I had a small baby. But Estera and Hanka went with him. I didn’t think about emigrating there, not even when the state of Israel was established.

I had started working, and I found my job extremely interesting. Besides, I had never been a Zionist. I think that if Israel had come into being earlier, maybe the Holocaust wouldn’t have happened, or at least not on such a scale. There should be a Jewish state.

Later on I remained in touch with my family in Israel by letter all the time. I went there to visit several times; I had to go via Paris, get a visa from the embassy there, and go on to Israel from there. But I never wanted to stay there permanently.

I can understand why Jews who had never had any contact with Poles before the war left Poland afterwards. It was an unbearable ordeal, because they didn’t know anyone during the war to help them, or who wouldn’t denounce them; they lost their whole family. It was awful to be a hunted animal.

I can understand that it was hard to stay here afterwards. I didn’t feel like that, because I was able to do something with my head, that as if when I sensed that there was grave danger leading to madness or suicide, I didn’t see everything in all the horror.

It’s as if my brain divided, and you experience life a little like unreality, because you can’t accept it. But it was people who helped me most of all during the war, especially Krysia Stalinska.

The Kielce pogrom 39 was a terrible shock. I always knew that I lived in a society that on the whole believes in all kind of anti-Jewish rubbish, but to do something like what was done in Kielce... I found it terrible. And all those lies that surrounded it...

Poles don’t understand the Holocaust. People who witnessed it can’t understand their attitude. Poles are brought up in traditions of national uprisings [Uprisings in 1830-31 and 1863-64, armed Polish insurrections against the Russian authorities in the battle for independence], resistance, but half of what people are brainwashed into believing is a lie.

The fact that masses of people collaborated with the Gestapo is concealed. [The scale of collaboration with the German authorities in Polish society is to this day the subject of research and conflict among historians.]

The nation is made out to be a nation of heroes. And suddenly all the Jews from everywhere are transported here and murdered. In the Polish subconscious there is the feeling that they should have saved the Jews.

They can’t come to terms with the fact that they were ordinary, that they weren’t heroes, that it was beyond their mental and physical capabilities and they couldn’t help. They have to explain to themselves why they behaved as they did and not differently, so some people invent theories that Jews are like that, that Jews are different, Jews dominate us, Jews calumniate us.

After the war there were Jews in the authorities: Berman, Minc, Zambrowski [see Jews in the PZPR] 40. But in the Party itself there were an awful lot of anti-Semites. My friend, a Jew, told me that just after the war, in 1945, he was at a reception in the Soviet embassy in Warsaw, and some big guy had come from Ukraine.

At the reception he proposed the toast, ‘I hope that in a year’s time you will have no Jews left in Poland.’ That was a communist, a member of the very top level of authority in Ukraine. My friend told me about that in complete shock; he couldn’t explain it, and I can’t either.

I had a positive attitude to the communist authorities in Poland. I was in the PZPR [the Polish United Workers’ Party] 41. You had to go to party meetings, on courses in Marxism and Leninism. I didn’t, because I didn’t have time, I was editing a weekly publication and I had a small child, but I didn’t object to it.

Although all the time I had the impression that something was wrong, that Bierut 42 and Gomulka 43 were the wrong people. I never blamed the idea itself, only always the people. I had a group of friends who thought the same, from the beginning, from 1945. But I was distant from AK circles [see Home Army] 44, where people were being arrested en masse.

A lot of communists were arrested, too, Mankiewicz, for instance, who I had worked with during the war. He was sentenced to four years in prison, or even more. The same thing happened to several of my acquaintances.

When ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza’ moved to Warsaw, I went with my baby. That was in 1946, I think. Warsaw was totally razed, it was absolutely unrecognizable. My baby and I lived in the room where I worked. Malgosia lay on the desk I worked at, and at night we slept on a mattress. I don’t know how my friend Marecki managed to get me an apartment in Bielany, on Zjednoczenia Avenue. I earned very little at ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza.’

In 1948 the magazine ‘Przyjaciolka’ was launched [a women’s weekly, still on the press market] and I was given the position of editor-in-chief. Then I earned good money. As the editorial office was a long way from my apartment, on Wiejska Street, I approached the publisher and asked them to exchange my apartment in Bielany for one closer to the office.

I was given one, a little smaller, and in fact I still have it today. In 1949 ‘Przyjaciolka’ had a circulation of 2 million, and I got a medal for that then. My photograph was printed in some newspaper among others with the caption ‘The foremost women in our country.’

Three or four years after the war I took in an orphan, Ela Dzikon, the daughter of my friend from Skryhiczyn, Stasia. Stasia died of cancer just after the war, when her daughter was four. The little girl was taken in by her aunt, Stasia’s sister, who worked in Muszyna as the director of a holiday center.

I went there and saw that the girl was being treated very badly. She was dirty, lice-ridden and altogether in a terrible state. On the spur of the moment I said I would take her to live with me. Her aunt at first thought that I wanted to take her because of the cow that Stasia had left her daughter.

When I told her that I didn’t need a cow in Warsaw and that she could take it, she was pleased. Ela was pleased to be coming with me too. She and Malgosia grew up together.

In 1959 I was thrown out of ‘Przyjaciolka.’ They sent a woman from the Central Committee [of the PZPR] to carry out an inspection, and I threw her out. I was summoned to the Committee and they told me that it was unheard of for their people to be thrown out.

Starewicz, the Committee’s main man for the press, said that it was him or me, because he couldn’t tolerate his employees being treated like that. My superiors were a little worried that circulation would drop, and that was money, so they didn’t all vote against me. But they threw me out.

After ‘Przyjaciolka’ I was out of work for a whole year. I was offered the paper of the ZBOWiD [Union of Fighters for Freedom and Democracy, an organization of veterans that existed in the period 1949-1990], but I didn’t want to work there.

I went to Professor Zebrowska and she gave me a job at Warsaw University. I taught a child psychology class and helped her to gather materials for her work, and conducted research in kindergartens.

At the same time I worked in a psychology clinic. After a year’s break I once again started work for a magazine, this time for ‘Wiedza i Zycie’ [Knowledge and Life, a popular science monthly] as the assistant editor-in-chief. The chief was a good friend of mine from back before the war. I worked there until I retired, i.e. until 1975. I carried on working in the clinic even longer, until I was 80.

In 1968 an awful lot of my Jewish friends emigrated [as a result of the Gomulka Campaign] 45. I was working at ‘Wiedza i Zycie’ then and didn’t have any problems, because it was a backwater. I once went to a meeting of journalists from several Warsaw newspapers, where a Moczar man gave a paper [supporter of Mieczyslaw Moczar, Minister of the Interior, initiator of the anti-Semitic campaign of 1967-68]. But the journalists resisted him.

After 1968 I stopped going to party meetings altogether. I formally surrendered my ID a year or two later.

My daughter was arrested for participation in riots at [Warsaw] University, but they let her out quickly. After that she worked at KOR 46, and she was in ‘Solidarity’ 47, she was very involved in that. A lot of my friends worked for ‘Solidarity,’ but I didn’t. Work for the Party was not at all important for me either. I’m not cut out for social work, and even less so for party work. I had nothing against the changes in Poland, but I didn’t get involved in it.

Polish anti-Semitism today is a comedy – why, there aren’t any Jews in Poland. But there are so many anti-Semitic publications that you’d think there were mad armies of Jews here. Not long ago my friend told a funny story.

Her daughter, a quarter Jewish, lives in Wilanow. She was having a house built. This workman came and started sounding off about Jews, saying, ‘I hate Jews.’ She asked him, ‘But have you ever seen a Jew?’ ‘No, I’ve never seen one.’ ‘So why do you hate them?’ ‘Because my father told me to.’

A simple man, never known a Jew and never will now, but hates them. I know Jews who are afraid to tell their neighbors in Warsaw that they are Jewish because they know that they are anti-Semitic. I don’t know what they’re scared of, because they don’t have any social relations with them anyway.

I didn’t bring my daughter up religiously, because I am a non-believer, but I brought her up to be aware that she is Jewish, and that that is something good, something to be proud of. My grandsons, Piotr and Jan, whose father is a Pole, consider themselves Jews.

We always celebrate Pesach, and Christmas in the winter, not as religious festivals, but because we like them. The happiest festival is Pesach. My grandsons and their friends come round. We sit down and read the Haggadah, in Polish, because no-one understands it in any other language any more; we put the cup on the table and open the door for the prophet to come in.

When the boys were small they believed that the prophet had come, because the wine in the cup went down. I used to hide matzah from them and they used to pretend that they didn’t know where.

After reading the Haggadah we eat supper. There is matzah instead of bread, and a host of festive dishes: fish, chicken soup, charoset. We have a special cookbook and cook using it. It’s a very happy day, like it was at my parents’.

Glossary

Leon Lifsches
Sopot
Poland
Interviewer: Anna Szyba
Date of interview: March 2006

I meet Mr. Lifsches in his spacious apartment in Sopot where he lives surrounded by books and flowers. Mr. Lifsches is not eager to speak about his family and I get the impression he is actually embarrassed by the fact that his parents were orthodox Jews. Modernity and progress contrast in his story with backwardness, the symbol of which is his “fanatic” father. Mr. Lifsches gets agitated when he starts speaking about his career as a communist, he is proud of having fought in the Battle of Lenino, and of his role in the founding of the Jewish War Veterans Association 1.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

I was born on 29th December, 1915, in Chrzanow [town 50 km west of Cracow]. I come from a bourgeois family. My mother’s name was Aurelia Lifsches, nee Rosenbaum, and she was born in 1876 in Chrzanow. I knew her mother, her surname was Rosenbaum, but I don’t remember her first name. She lived in Chrzanow, on Krakowska Street. She used to have a husband, but he died. I know nothing about him; I don’t even know his name.

My grandmother was religious, because everyone was religious then, but she was also progressive. She wasn’t a fanatic. She lit the candles but I don’t think she kept kosher. We often visited her. I spoke with her in Polish and Yiddish, she spoke Polish fluently. She was a housewife. That’s all I remember about my grandmother.

My father’s parents’ name was Lifsches. I don’t remember the first names of my paternal grandmother or grandfather, because I didn’t know them. They lived and died in Volhynia [region in the east of prewar Poland, today western Ukraine], but I don’t know when.

My father, Pinkus, was born in 1877 in Radzillow in Volhynia [small town ca. 100km north-east of Lwow, today Ukraine] and he lived there until his marriage. My parents’ marriage wasn’t unarranged. All Jewish marriages were arranged then. They got married around 1900, I think, because my eldest brother was born in 1905.

My father was a salesman, a merchant. He sold tea and flour products. There was a store in the basement, he sold there; we helped him on an irregular basis. My mother ran the house; she was, as it was called, ‘with her husband.’

I had four brothers and a sister. Michal was born in 1905, Heniek [affectionate for Henryk] in 1906, my sister Hanka [affectionate for Hanna] in 1911, I was born in 1915, Iziek [affectionate for Izajasz] in 1917, and between them there was one more brother who died.

We lived in Chrzanow at 12 Aleja Henryka. It was a four-story building, the landlord’s name was Szmajdler; we had a four-person apartment on the third floor. There were four rooms, a kitchen and a balcony . I think I shared a room with my brothers, but I don’t really remember. Our whole family of seven lived there.

In the neighborhood there lived relatives named Szott who had six daughters. All those daughters survived [the Holocaust] and [until recently] they lived in Israel. One went with the Maccabi 2 to Palestine before the war and stayed there. She was the eldest one, and I met her when I visited Israel ten years ago. Her name is Jozefa Wajnsztok.

Chrzanow was a Jewish town, an artisan town. Seventy percent of the inhabitants were Jews – tailors, shoemakers, etc. There was one famous factory in Chrzanow, Poland’s first railway engine manufacturing plant. It was the only factory in Chrzanow, the only such factory in Poland, and the only plant [in Chrzanow] where Jews worked next to Christians.

There was a wooded area in Chrzanow. We often went there. There was a fence [around] the house that we lived in, and beyond the fence was a park. We played there. Our backyard adjoined the park. My friends were mostly Jews.

There was the sports association, Maccabi, which I joined at the age of ten or eleven. We met several times a week to practice, exercise. Besides that, there was also the Sokol sports association 3, they did rifleman training, gymnastics, kind of government-affiliated [founded in 1867 in Lwow]. We also went there from time to time, but then they stopped it.

My father was religious but come Saturday, he would invariably fall ill to avoid going to the synagogue. He didn’t work on Saturday, he was a fanatic [derisive for ‘religious’]. There was a synagogue in Chrzanow 4, and there were prayer houses. My father went to both. On the high holidays you went to the synagogue, and on the other occasions you went to the prayer house close to home.

My mother wore a wig but she didn’t keep kosher. She had progressive views. Before the war, it was like that: in the matchmaker’s presence, every woman wore a wig. It was a kind of rule. Whether she was religious or not. And what that woman really thought [about religious laws] was a separate matter. My mother generally didn’t go to the synagogue, but she lit the candles [on Friday], made the chulent.

We celebrated Sabbath. We ate dinner together at the table, and that was it, after dinner everyone went where they wanted. My father’s method of preventing us from going anywhere on Saturday was to hide one shoe from each of us. But since we knew the trick, we had an extra pair stashed away at the neighbors’ and we ran away to the woods.

We didn’t go to cheder but we had a melamed, a Jewish teacher. I remember he was a very dull man, so I didn’t learn much from him. He didn’t teach the Torah, he taught the Yiddish language, not Hebrew but Yiddish. He was such a man that his teaching was really very primitive so we didn’t have much respect for him. He came to us when I was nine or ten, I was the only one to be taught [during that time], my brothers were all progressive [that is, dissociated themselves from the Jewish tradition].

I remember the following episode: when I was 13, I was rehearsing for my bar mitzvah, my father kept provoking me unnecessarily, I simply couldn’t properly read the text, and he gave me a slap on the face. I got angry and I calmly took off the tefillin, placed them on the table, and it was then, at the age of 13, that I became ungodly. It was a memorable episode that I remember very well.

My sister went to a normal [public] gymnasium, I also attended a normal elementary school. I have only one memory from there: of a teacher named Szeligowski whose teaching method was to smack you on the hands and on the backside, he was really cruel. I think he taught Polish. It was a normal, large elementary school. There were Polish boys, Jewish boys, everyone played together. No antagonisms whatsoever. It was a Jewish town, it couldn’t have been otherwise.

With our mother we spoke virtually only Polish at home, and with our father it was basically the same. My father could read Yiddish, he bought the Haint 5 and the Morgenshtern 6. He completed a normal elementary school back in Volhynia. My mother finished elementary school in Chrzanow.

We usually all spoke Polish. I cannot read Yiddish, cannot write it, I’m only familiar somewhat with the spoken language. I never learned Hebrew. I don’t know what language it was you recited the Torah fragments in. You learned all those poems, the [Torah] excerpts, memorized them. I don’t remember how the holidays were observed at home.

When we were 13 or 14, there were May Day demonstrations on the 1st of May [worker holiday established by the 2nd International, celebrated since 1890 in the form of street demonstrations, marches, and rallies]. 

Growing up

Our house stood near the prison. We heard screams and it turned out it was the guards giving the inmates a beating. By that time, I had already joined the Red Scouts [leftwing scouting organization, 1926-1939]. So we went to demonstrate in front of the prison, the whole group of Jewish and Polish youth. The Red Scouts were affiliated with the KZMP 7 [Editor’s note: the Red Scouts did not have any direct political affiliations]. It wasn’t strictly a Jewish organization. I don’t know why I went there. My father had no political views.

We lived in Chrzanow until 1932, and in 1932 our whole family moved to Bielsko [large town, today city, 50 km south of Chrzanow]. Henryk’s brother worked in Bielsko, he was a commercial representative for the fruit product company Parol. We lived at 24 Rynek. The landlord was a German. We had a four-room apartment on the second floor, there was a bathroom, a kitchen, everything. I no longer went to school, I was already on my own. I had completed a textile college there.

In Bielsko, I was a member of the Communist Youth Union and, on its orders, an activist for the MOPR 8, which was a KPP 9 affiliate. Before that, I was a member of the Jewish Worker Cultural and Educational Association [a.k.a. Sila (Strength), founded 1908]. That was purely Jewish, and then, in Bielsko, I began my political activity in the communist party. Later I linked up with the left-wing movement. Being active on the communist party meant taking part in manifestations, in strikes, the whole political life.

We were divided into three-person cells that met secretly, and the police knew about them only if they had informers inside. There was a division into districts, neighborhoods, and then into cells. The party activity took place on three levels: the cell, the neighborhood, the factory. The cells usually met at the factories. At the time, I worked as a dyer at a textile plant, and that’s where I conducted my activity as a communist.

My mother knew I was a communist but my father did not. She was very progressive. She only kept telling us, ‘Alright, everything’s fine, but just don’t get yourself arrested.’ We were all very involved, my sister, too.

My brother Michal emigrated to Palestine in 1932. He wasn’t a Zionist. He went alone, as a chalutz, and there, in Palestine, he joined the communist party and was active in it. He eventually got arrested and deported and he returned to Chrzanow, I don’t remember when, and he remained an active communist.

Heniek got married before the war. His wife’s name was Gienia, nee Kizler. A Jewess from Bielsko. She gave birth to a baby girl, in 1939, I guess, but that was already in Lwow. They named her Wiera.

We weren’t the upper-income kind of petty bourgeois merchants, not at all. Medium-income, I’d say. We didn’t go away for the summer holidays. I don’t really remember what we did; in Chrzanow, we had a newsstand, selling newspapers, buns, that sort of thing. Besides that, we frolicked. Wandered around the parks, the squares, got into mischief, as boys do. I never went to Volhynia.

There was also my mother’s sister who lived in Chrzanow. Her last name was Klajn, I don’t remember her first name. Her husband was a money lender; they had a son. His name was Berek Klajn and during the occupation he was in Auschwitz, after which he found himself in Israel where he had two children and where he died.

His wife, Maryska Klajn, was born in Przemysl and is alive, she lives in Ramat Gan. We keep in touch. She was virtually the only relative we had in Chrzanow. My mother had no other siblings, I think, and I don’t know whether my father had any brothers or sisters at all.

In 1937, there was a pogrom in Bielsko 10, organized by the Stronnictwo Narodowe 11, the endeks, whose local leader was a man named Zajaczek. And we, as the communist party, together with the class-conscious trade unions, dispelled that pogrom. We took several thousand workers out to the street, they started setting houses, businesses on fire, and at the head of that communist party committee stood a woman, Szyfra Goldszlak, a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, who spent ten years in prison for her activity. She was arrested in Bielsko. Nobody died in that pogrom.

Financially, we all depended on Henryk who had a business. We weren’t strapped for money; I was independent, had a job. We initially lived together, and then Henryk got married and moved out, but he still lived in Bielsko, it was called Aleja, a Jewish neighborhood, new houses. My sister also had a job; she was a bookkeeper in a very big clothing store. Iziek was a textile worker in a factory, and Michal ran a store for Henryk throughout all that time.

In March 1938 I was arrested and sentenced to 18 months. I still have the original indictment. I did my time together with other communists in a prison in Cieszyn [town 50 km west of Cracow]. During that time, my father died of tuberculosis. I wanted to attend his funeral, but the police said that had to be under escort, and I didn’t agree to that. So I didn’t attend his funeral, but my father is buried at the Jewish cemetery [in Bielsko].

I was released in June, a few months before the war, and was banned from the town for ten years as an ‘undesirable element.’ I went to Lodz. There I moved in with my second brother, Iziek, who had also served time in prison and has been banned. Michal was banned too, he moved to the Tarnopol province, lived in Trembowla [ca. 130km east of Lwow, today Ukraine]. He got married there, his wife’s name was Buchholz, I don’t know her first name. 

During the war

We were in Lodz from June to October 1939. From September, we were under German occupation 12. We left the city with my brother [Iziek] sometime at the turn of October and November. It was still possible to flee, the Germans allowed families to reunite and issued travel permits. It was in Zgierz [suburb of Lodz], and we took advantage of the opportunity. We were leaving at the last moment, acquaintances had already let us know that the Polish police had made communist activists’ files available to the Gestapo.

We went to Warsaw, and from there to Bialystok, and from there to Lwow. The years 1940-1941 we spent in Lwow. Henryk was there, Iziek, me, and Hanka. We all worked with tricot in a textile factory. I worked as a foreman in the dye room, my brother worked as a weaver, and Hanka was a tricot worker. Each of us lived on their own. I lived in Lyczakow [Lwow neighborhood], in a rented apartment.

My mother didn’t want to go with us to Lwow, she went to her sister in Chrzanow instead. And there she died, and Hanka also went to Chrzanow during the Lwow period, to be with our mother, and they both died in Kety, near Chrzanow, in a kind of ghetto sub-camp [Editor’s note: the town of Kety is located 40 km south-west of Chrzanow, 20 km south of Oswiecim (Auschwitz) 20 km north-east of Bielsko. No information has been found on the existence of any camp or sub-camp in Kety. The likeliest possibility is that it was a permanent outpost for Jewish workers working outside the ghetto].

I lost touch with my mother and sister when I was still in Lwow. At the end of 1941 I learned that they were both dead, acquaintances wrote us from there, non-Jews with whom we indirectly kept in touch.

Before the outbreak of the [German-Soviet] war 13, I was enlisted in the Red Army, and Iziek was called up for the so called reserve drill. And there war met us and we didn’t return home, becoming, as you call it, front-liners instead. I served on the Ukrainian front and there we were demobilized and sent away – we were to join the Anders’ army 14. All those who came from Western Ukraine were demobilized with us, as ‘unreliable element.’ That was early 1942.

We were enlisted in the work battalions, the so called ‘stroybats’ [Russian stroityelniy battalion – construction battalion]. They told us we would join the Anders’ army and instead we found ourselves in Novosibirsk as stroybat members, building a metallurgical plant at minus 40 degrees Celsius. And there, a group of 200 soldiers, we mutinied and organized a strike.

Among us was Lucjan Szenwald [1909-1944, poet, communist, fought in the Battle of Lenino], I remember, he was a famous writer. We refused to go to work. A district military prosecutor came and, surprisingly, asked us what we wanted, so we said we were professionals and had nothing against working in the stroybats – but in our professions. To our surprise, 24 hours later the military prosecutor personally arrived with some buses and those buses took us to boarding houses where we were given jobs [consistent with our professions]. And that was an episode that could have well ended tragically.

Iziek was still on the front, somewhere near Moscow. And from there, he was also sent to the trudarmia 15, to Tashkent. We met many of our friends in Novosibirsk. One was a guy named Sternlicht, from Bielsko, his wife worked in the canteen, gave us some extra food, and it was there I learned that my three brothers, Michal, Henryk, and Iziek, were in Tashkent.

It was 1942. And so, illegally, me and a whole group of people, we hopped on a train carrying Polish soldiers released from camps, and we rode towards the Anders’ army, towards Tashkent. Eventually I found myself in a place near Bukhara where they told us to pull our pants down and said, ‘about turn!’ End of story, they checked whether we were circumcised. By that time, Jews were no longer admitted into the Anders’ army 16.

Some people went to Fergana, me and some other people went to Tashkent, but my brother Henryk was no longer there, having left with the Anders’ army. Michal lived in the Kyrgyz Republic, worked in a kolkhoz 17. I got a job in Tashkent as a dyer in a cooperative, Iziek worked in a state textile factory, also in Tashkent. We lived in an Uzbek quarter, called Barkhan, with a Russian lady who had also been evacuated, in very primitive conditions.

We received support from the MOPR Central Committee. There was a large group of Jews in Tashkent at the time, several hundred people. Tashkent had a sizeable Jewish minority in itself, plus there were many of us, the émigrés. We were a large, strong communist group, kind of affiliated with the MOPR Central Committee. The party itself had been banned.

We were in Tashkent until 12th May 1943, after which date we left the city to join the 1st Division 18. Me and Iziek fought in the Battle of Lenino, and my brother was killed virtually a couple of steps away from me.

I was the second in command of the regiment’s medical company. I personally took part in taking wounded soldiers away from the front line under enemy fire. During one such excursion to the front line I was heavily wounded. I went through several hospitals between October and May, and eventually found myself in a Polish hospital in Moscow, where I underwent the final surgery.

After being released from the hospital, I was sent back to the front, to the headquarters, in Lutsk, Ukraine, and from there I went with the army as an officer, already wounded in battle, with the back units. I took part in the liberation of Lublin [23rd July 1944, the city was Poland’s temporary capital for the next 164 days], and then in the liberation of Warsaw [17th January 1945].

Following the liberation of Warsaw, in 1945, I was sent back to Lublin, and directly from there, already released from service, to Silesia, to Katowice, and from Katowice to Bielsko, because the rule was that all officers and professionals were sent to areas they knew to join the reconstruction effort there. I took part in the reconstruction of industry. 

After the war

I was a member of the Polish Workers’ Party [PPR] 19, a party official; I served for some time as secretary for economic matters on the provincial committee in Bielsko. All the time in the textile industry, in the Textile Industry Federation, and in 1952 I was transferred to Warsaw.

I met my wife in 1945. She had also come from Lublin, delegated by the PPR Central Committee. Her name was Zofia Kubik, born in 1919. She wasn’t Jewish, but she fought in a partisan unit in the Rzeszow area. She was a dressmaker by profession.

I have two sons. Andrzej was born on 3rd November 1946, and Marek on 12th May 1950. Andrzej has a degree in sociology, lives in Canada, works as a librarian, and the younger one is a kind of electronics engineer. Andrzej’s wife is called Malgorzata, nee Kowalska, a Pole. They have two daughters, but kill me if I remember their names.

My other son had many wives and has a son with his second one. He lived in Denmark for a long time, left Poland in the 1970s, fed up with the anti-Semitism. He spent the last five years in Poland and is now going back to Denmark.

My children knew about their roots. Our home was completely non-religious, but they have never disavowed [their Jewishness]. In fact, everyone knew that my son would punch any kid who’d derisively call him a Jew. I’ve never changed my last name. My younger son opposes anti-Semitism vehemently if he finds himself among people of such views. As far as Jewish matters go, they haven’t forgotten their roots.

In Warsaw I worked at the Ministry of Crafts, as the head of the military department, and then in the State Reserves Office, I don’t remember since when. I was fired as part of the March story 20. People were harassed, fired from their jobs, my son was expelled from Warsaw University. The famous philosopher, Kotarbinski intervened on his behalf. My son was friend with his grandson and after some time he was readmitted to the university. [Tadeusz Marian Kotarbinski (1886-1981): philosopher, logician, ethic, member of the Lwow-Warsaw school of philosophy]

I got a job at a cooperative called Optima. I worked for some two years there as deputy chief executive for sales, but eventually left because the company was utterly corrupt and they wanted me to participate in their swindles, so I called it quits and took early retirement, at the age of 55 – that is in 1970.

In Warsaw I joined the Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews 21 and was a co-founder and board member of the Association of Jewish War Veterans. That was in 1987. As a group of social activists, we undertook efforts aimed at setting up an organization of Jewish war veterans. I was initially the head of the veteran department for the Warsaw region, and then, for three terms, a total of 12 years, the chairman of the welfare committee.

As for my brothers, Henryk left Russia with the Anders’ army and went with it to Palestine, where he stayed with his wife and daughter. They had one more daughter, but I can’t remember her name. My brother died in 1978. I didn’t attend his funeral, it wasn’t allowed to go to Israel [the Soviet Bloc countries didn’t have diplomatic relations with Israel from 1967 to 1989].

Michal returned to Bielsko after the war and emigrated to Israel sometime in the late 1950s. There he had two sons with his second wife. He had no children with his first wife, the Buchholz girl he married back in Lwow, and they got a divorce. She moved to Szczecin after the war, and he married again in Bielsko. With the new wife he went to Israel and he has two sons there.

One has a PhD in economics, his name is Jacob. He lectures at the university. The other one, Janek, works for a branch of the Polish bank PKO, speaks good Polish. I keep in touch with them. The other one speaks Polish less well. Michal died two years ago in Israel. Cousin Berek’s wife, Marysia Klajn, who survived in a nunnery, is still alive.

I was in Israel once, as an individual tourist. That was in 1989, I visited my relatives. I never went abroad during the communist period, in 1992 I went to Denmark to see my son.

My first wife had a heart condition and we partly moved out to Sopot [town ca. 15km north of Gdansk], we helped organize the Jewish community there, and there we met [my present] wife who worked as a conservator. She was a family friend and she helped us organize the Jewish community, the Jewish war veterans association in Sopot.

My second wife, Hanna Domanska, is a Pole, born in 1932 in Poznan, who has lived in Sopot since 1946. When my wife died, fifteen years ago, she became my second wife. During the occupation Hania lived in Warsaw and was strongly moved by the Jewish ghetto 22 and Ghetto Uprising 23 experiences. So it’s no accident that she’s involved in these matters.

At a time when no one dreamed yet about reviving the Jewish community, Hania was already deeply into it as historical monument conservator, being in charge of care over the Jewish cemeteries. And we started writing together [books about the Gdansk-Sopot-Gdynia Jews]. We have organized a Jewish festival since 1990. And eventually, bit by bit, gradually, I moved out to Sopot.

Due to various misunderstandings we haven’t been involved with Jewish matters for two years now. I was tired with all that, in fact, I’ve had several surgeries so I want to slow down now. 

Glossary

Ludwik Hoffman
Walbrzych
Poland
Interviewer: Jakub Rajchman
Date of interview: February 2005

Despite his 82 years, Ludwik Hoffman is in great shape, both physically and mentally. He is an active member of Jewish organizations in Walbrzych, where he lives, and Wroclaw, where he is the vice-president of the local Jewish community. During our meetings in his apartment near the Walbrzych market square, full of pre-war photos of his family, Mr. Hoffman told me the story of his life, stressing on many occasions that, unlike most Jewish settlers in Lower Silesia, his family had no working-class roots, but came from the middle class, the burghers of pre-war Poland’s eastern territories. Mr. Hoffman prefers not to speak of his wartime and Holocaust experiences.

My name is Ludwik Hoffman. I was born on 15th April 1923 in Drohobycz [80 km south-west of Lwow, today Ukraine], into a merchant family. My father, Natan Hoffman, was a textile merchant, and, as I think of it today, he belonged to the wealthy class. My mother, Sabina, nee Sztegman, I don’t remember. She died when I was three, upon delivering my younger and only sister, Stella. A clot had accumulated, she got up too early, fell down, and died. I only know her from other people’s stories.

The accounts of those family members who survived and who during the war lived abroad suggest that our great-great-grandparents probably came from Hungary. A photo has been preserved of our great- or perhaps even great-great-grandparents with an annotation from there. I’m not sure, but it could have been Budapest. And because during the partitions period [see Partitions of Poland] 1, Drohobycz was part of Austria-Hungary, it’s possible that it is there my father’s family came from. Besides, my great-grandfather, or perhaps even my great-great-grandfather had a tannery in Drohobycz. Around the tannery building stood residential buildings, where my father’s various relatives lived. It was a rather big family.

I don’t remember my grandparents. The eldest members of my family, the family that I remember and which was quite numerous, were the sister of my paternal grandmother, and my father’s siblings and his family, i.e. his aunts and cousins. I remember some of them, because by the time the Germans started dissolving the ghetto, some of them were still alive. My grandmother’s sister was called Deborah Friedman. We simply called her Granny. She lived with my father’s eldest sister in Truskawiec [well-known health resort ca. 100 km south of Lwow and 10 km from Drohobycz, today Ukraine], helping her run her business, a boarding house for vacationers. Truskawiec was a popular health resort and, since my early childhood, I often went there with my parents for vacations. I saw Granny there. She spoke Polish with us.

My father had one more sister and an elder brother, Aaron [Hoffman], who lived in one of those houses near the tannery. He was a merchant, too, and worked in the so-called covered market. He had four children. His daughter was called Syma Leja, the eldest son was Josel, the younger one Calyl, and the youngest one Matys. And they all worked in the textile trade. I mean, one son worked with his father, the other one helped him, too, and the third even had his own business until some point. And after he went bankrupt in 1929, he worked with my father for some time.

Uncle Aaron wasn’t as well-off as my father. I didn’t understand that as a child, because we had no contact with the poor Jewry at all. Only once, I remember – I may have been seven or eight years old then, I’m not sure, it was after 1930, I had already gone to school, I may have been in the 1st or 2nd grade – my cousin, the daughter of my father’s eldest brother, came to visit us with Uncle, it was winter time. Uncle Aaron was sitting in the living room by the fireplace, warming himself up. Uncle loved us very much, me and my sister. When my father came back home, I told him Uncle Aaron was already there. He came in, and I asked him, ‘Father, can you tell me why do you have so many clothes in your wardrobe, and Uncle walks around in such old things? Why don’t you give him some clothes?’ When my cousin Syma Leja visited us some timer later, for my bar mitzvah, or some other occasion perhaps, she told me she’d never forget that I said that, as long as she lived.

I had two maternal aunts, my mother’s sisters, Bronislawa [Jozesberg, nee Sztegman] and Jetka [Kitaj, nee Sztegman]. The former was married to a lawyer, and the latter was the wife of a kind of building technician, who was also a former member of Pilsudski’s 2 Legions and an officer in the Polish Army [see Jews in the prewar Polish Army] 3. I don’t know what rank he had during World War I, but by the time the World War II broke out, he had already been promoted to the rank of the lieutenant or even major. He was murdered in Katyn 4. We called him Luis. The other uncle, the lawyer, his name was Jakub, was a progressive Jew, meaning I’m not sure whether he went to the synagogue. They all lived in Drohobycz. Except probably one of my mother’s brothers, who lived in America. I learned about him only after the war, but never got in touch in him, never tried to find him. His name was probably Chaim Sztegman, but I’m not sure of that either.

During the partitions period, Poland was divided into three parts. Drohobycz belonged to Austria-Hungary, and the so-called German emancipation [Haskalah] was there. Besides, people who were financially successful started adopting European customs, started going to Austria, Vienna, but also to Prague and Berlin, to study. That grandmother of mine who was still alive had relatives in Berlin. I don’t know what kind of relation it was, whether it was her nephew or what, but he had completed his studies and was working as a doctor in Berlin. Similarly, one of my father’s cousins, that is the son of my grandfather’s sister, was a renowned and very wealthy doctor in New York. All those were people who had made big money and they were, I’d say, Europeanized and progressive.

My father was such a man, too. His name was Natan Hoffman. He was born probably in 1878, though it may have been 1882. I don’t know whether he finished elementary school, but I know he had a merchant’s title. According to his own accounts, he started working for a textile company when he was just 14. He could read and write in German and Yiddish, a bit less fluently in Polish, but still he could do all that.

He never wore the Chasidic dress. Nor did he wear the beard or the cap. Never, even as a young man. My grandfather may have worn the cap, and certainly one of my uncles did, my father’s elder brother. He wore a small beard, a black cap, and a black hat. I don’t, however, remember anyone wearing payes.

When World War I broke out [1914], my father served in the Austrian [KuK] army 5, was taken prisoner by the Russians, and spent a couple of years in captivity. He returned rather late [to Drohobycz] and, from what his sisters told me, immediately went into business. It was probably then that he bought the house and the textile business from his principal. It was a textile shop, no ready-made clothes, only fabrics. In any case, when I was born, my father was over 45 years old, and was running that textile store or rather wholesale business, together with his partner. Whether the store was in the same place before my father bought it, I don’t know. In any case, for Drohobycz’s standards, it was a large enterprise. In 1928, 1929, they were doing really well. They had five or six employees at the time.

Also during that time many of my father’s friends, merchants like him, decided to move to Lwow. And so my father’s company too decided to set up a branch there. My father moved to Lwow then, and we stayed with our stepmother in Drohobycz. Until 1935, our life looked so that Father would come home every Friday night, and then leave again late on Saturday night or early Sunday morning for Lwow. And after the Drohobycz business had been wound up, we all moved to Lwow. That was, if I remember correctly, after I had completed elementary school and was to go to gymnasium. It was May or June 1935. We returned after more than two years, in September 1937, because business hadn’t been as good as expected and the company eventually collapsed. My father decided to return to Drohobycz because that was where people had known him for years and he could restart the old business there. After all, he had worked there for some 40 years. After our return, the company had two salesmen, and the bookkeeping was done by Fajga, my father’s wife, together with a bookkeeper who came twice a week. It went like that until the war.

I remember my father very well, I remember him from my early childhood. Probably because my mother died when I was three, and everyone knows what it means to be a child without a mother. As I was quite a fretful child, to find me something to do, something to play with, my father would bring me textile samples from work. Those were pieces of various materials bound together with a kind of ferrule. I used to play with it as a child and since then, all my life, I was involved with textiles. At home I played alone. In fact, I was brought up in specific conditions, not like the other children. As my mother was dead, I didn’t have much to do with other children, and I developed my first friendships only in gymnasium, when I was a bit older. In elementary school, I played only with my sister and my cousin, sometimes with the other merchants’ kids that you visited, for instance, on the occasion of their birthdays. But it wasn’t the kind of growing up where you run around the yard and play football all day, even though our house had a yard and a garden. I sat alone at home, playing with those samples, living a life of my own.

I know little about my mother. According to some accounts, after the regaining of independence in 1918 [see Poland’s independence, 1918] 6, she worked in the Drohobycz town hall as the mayor’s secretary. I guess that was a distinction. After my mother’s death, that ‘Granny’, my grandmother’s sister, Deborah Friedman lived with us for some time, but then Father decided to marry again.

My father’s second wife, and my stepmother, was called Fana Hoffman, Fajga in Hebrew [Editor’s note: Fajga is a Jewish name]. She was a person about my father’s age, who, until she got married, had worked as a clerk at an oil company. As for the exact position, I’d say she was the bookkeeper, or the chief accountant’s deputy. My stepmother was a modest woman who didn’t socialize too much. She was a very thrifty person, perhaps even a stingy one. She tried to keep the house the traditional way and the kitchen – the kosher way. She was a Jew in the full sense of the word. She lit the candles on Friday, and observed the other rules as well – the fasts, the holidays, and so on. But she wasn’t conservative. She didn’t wear a wig, dressed fashionably, wasn’t afraid to turn on the lights on Saturday.

As for her family, I only knew her sisters. One of those, Gienia Halsowa, was married to an oil industrialist whose name I don’t remember. A progressive man, similar to my father, though perhaps a bit more religious. On Sunday afternoon, for instance, he’d hold the Havdalah – something we didn’t do. And as they had a boy only a year older than me, Ignac, I sometimes visited them. I believe they derived their income from some oil stocks as well as from several tenement houses. My stepmother’s second sister was divorced. Her name was Basia, Bajla in Yiddish. She had a daughter, much older than me and my sister, I don’t remember what her name was. She graduated from Lwow University 7, with a degree in Polish literature, I think. Unfortunately, it was 1936 or 1937 and she couldn’t get a job [due to Anti-Semitism in Poland in the 1930s] 8. I remember, when I was in gymnasium, she was giving me private lessons, chiefly helping me do the homework. She lived with her mother in the tenement of that uncle of hers, the husband of Gienia, my stepmother’s other sister.

From when I was five and until I turned 18, we had one and the same maid, a Ukrainian woman of Catholic faith. Her name was Maria Sarachman, and I know she was still alive only recently, working as a housekeeper for some priest. But I’ve never met her after the war. Besides her, during our early childhood, we also had a nurse, or rather a housemistress. She came from Germany and was probably a nun, as I remember she wore the habit. She didn’t speak Polish, so we only spoke German with her. This doesn’t mean I didn’t speak Polish as a child. Our whole family spoke Yiddish, but to us, the children, they spoke Polish. So I spoke Polish with the maid, with my stepmother, my father, as well as with the relatives. All those people, no matter what trade they plied, spoke Polish because they lived among Polish people. Some of them also spoke Ukrainian because they had contacts with Ukrainians. After we had grown up a little bit, the housemistress was dismissed, and a governess hired for my sister. First one, then another, both were Jewish. All those were girls from poor, but trusted, homes. They watched over the children, took them out, gave them lessons. Following our departure for Lwow in 1935, my parents stopped hiring governesses. The last one we had was called Bella or something like that. We later recommended her to a family in Lwow, so she sometimes visited us there.

The house in which we lived was a two-story house with a large garden on Shevchenky Street [today’s name of the street; before the war it was called Mickiewicza], built, according to the documentation, in 1904. It was a modern-style, brick townhouse that stands in Drohobycz to this day. Those houses were built by people who had hit it big on oil, which means we didn’t build it, only bought it. They were built according to European standards, in the fashion of the Vienna buildings, that’s how it looked. In the basement there lived one Szmer Zanthaus, my father’s business partner, with his family; he already had three or four children. We lived on the first floor, and the apartment was divided in such a way that we occupied one part of it, and in the other there lived some lawyer. Probably the previous owner had intended it for rent, and that’s why the four or five-room apartment had been divided into two.

We occupied two rooms and a kitchen, and the other tenant had two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The man had already been there when my father was buying the house. His name was Wilner, I think, and he was a lawyer. Probably my father’s partner had let him the apartment, and because of tenant-protection laws, he couldn’t be evicted. He lived there until 1935 when he finally moved to Lwow. We took over the whole apartment then. The toilets were in the hall. The apartment was furnished in a modern way, we had a gas stove, the coal-fuelled kind. I don’t remember whether we had a telephone. We’re not listed in the 1938 phonebook, so I guess we didn’t. In the store, though, they had one absolutely. A rare novelty of the time was the radio. My aunt had one as early as 1932, whereas we bought our first radio in something like 1935 or 1936.

The same applies to our home in Lwow. It was a luxurious four-room apartment with many corridors and hallways. There was the so-called study room, a dining room, the children’s room, a bedroom, and a room for the servants. There was also a kitchen and a dressing room, various kinds of rooms. It was a large apartment, two hundred something square meters. The entrance wasn’t from the front but from the backyard. The windows faced two backyards. It was in downtown, though I don’t remember the name of the street. Upon leaving Drohobycz, we rented the apartment there, so we couldn’t return to it. We had to take up residence in another one, a rented apartment in a newly-built house.

There was also a period when we had our own car, a Ford, if I remember correctly. It had been bought jointly by my father’s company and that wealthy industrialist, my stepmother’s brother-in-law. It was parked in a garage next to that Uncle’s house, close to our shop. On one or two occasions we took that car and went for a ride. The weather was unpleasant that day and people were saying there’d be an earthquake or something like that. So we took the car and went out of town to an area where things were supposed to be quieter. For the rest of the time, the car stood idle, I don’t know why. Me and my cousin Ignac often played in that garage and we’d get into that car and tinker with it. What happened to it after we left Drohobycz, I don’t know.

I went to elementary school in Drohobycz. It was a Polish school, a public one. It was located on Mickiewicza Street, so it wasn’t far from my home. Young people of three denominations studied there: Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, and Jews. There were hardly any problems between them, though some professors were obviously disposed rather unfavorably towards the Jews. I remember one professor who, when you didn’t know something, would say something like, ‘You stupid little Jew!’ But those were isolated cases. The obligatory religious class was organized so that the students were divided into three groups: A, B, and C, depending on their religion. All the Roman Catholics in a given class were allotted to, say, A, the Greek Catholics to B, and the Jews to C. And a teacher or priest would come and teach his religion. I certainly wasn’t among the most talented ones, in fact, I never applied myself to study. I was interested in history, in a sense also Jewish history.

After we moved to Lwow, I went to gymnasium. I went to a private, Jewish gymnasium where the main language of instruction was Polish. It was a coed Jewish school, where there were perhaps two Christian students, and the rest were students from Jewish families. Among the obligatory courses were Hebrew, and Jewish history. It was a humanities-oriented gymnasium. Saturday was a day free of school, whereas we went to school on Sunday. During that time, or, more precisely, in 1936, I was preparing for my bar mitzvah and had to study intensely the whole ritual in Hebrew. To that end, my father had hired a private tutor, who, between let’s say, December 1935 and March 1936 was preparing me for the ritual.

My bar mitzvah took place the traditional way, only there weren’t too many guests. A special service was held at the synagogue, the one where we prayed in Lwow. It was called Yad Harutzim, the Hand of Justice, I don’t remember what street it was on. After the service, Kiddush was served, and after that a dinner was held at our home for the family and a few selected guests.

After returning to Drohobycz [1937], I spent the last years before the war studying at a coed gymnasium that adhered to the, say, humanistic tradition. At that one, Saturday was a school day, and Sunday was off. One of my teachers at elementary school, and then also in gymnasium, was Bruno Schulz 9. He taught me drawing. I even had at home drawings corrected by him or actually drawn by him, but at the time no one was paying any attention to that because Mr. Schulz wasn’t a professor you talked much about. He kept to himself, and the only thing he’d ever say was, ‘Good morning, good morning.’ And the fact that he had written two books, ‘Cinnamon Shops,’ and ‘Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass,’ became popular knowledge only after the war. Perhaps there were some literary circles before the war, but we, as young people, didn’t care about things like that. Whether the lessons taught by Schulz were special in any way is hard for me to say today.

From what I know, he was somehow related to us through his sister whose name I don’t remember and who got married to a Hoffman. Her son was named Ludwik, too. How her husband was related to us, I don’t know, but my close cousin, Henryk Hoffman, writes in his book ‘From Drohobycz to the Holy Land’ that his father, who was a doctor, was a frequent guest of Mr. Schulz’s. My sister, in turn, claims that when she sometimes went with Father out for a walk on Saturday, they’d drop by at the Schulzes to visit his [Schulz’s] mother. That’s possible, because the Schulzes’ house stood between our business and our house. The last time any of us had any contact with him was during the Soviet period, in gymnasium. I had left it in 1939, but my sister still went there. And on a photo of the class of 1940, you can see Bruno Schulz as one of the professors [the Blatt gymnasium, where Schulz taught, was in operation until the outbreak of the German-Soviet war in 1941].

At that time, we were already grown up enough to be flirting with the girls, and, as the school was coed, everyone had his girlfriend and life was starting to look different. We went with those girls to dancing parties, and on the holidays, for example Purim or Chanukkah, there was a dancing party for students at school, and unless there was a party on the same day at the Jewish orphanage, we’d go there. Because at the orphanage they also organized dancing parties on holidays. If someone of the friends had their birthday, they’d also organize a party. I remember I had a girlfriend at the time, her name was Halinka, the daughter of a lawyer who was the leader of the Zionist organizations in our town, I don’t remember his name. I once took her to a dancing party at the Jewish hospital. I don’t remember the occasion, whether it was Purim or Chanukkah. In any case, we went there, and then I was walking her home. It was then, on our way, that I kissed a girl for the first time in my life.

Then I remember a situation whereby a major of the Polish army who lived in our house had a maid, a young and healthy girl. I remember she often visited our Marysia. And one day she started provoking me and encouraging me that she’d teach me about love, I only needed to say yes. Naturally, I rejected her, because one of my friends had earlier had intercourse with a maid, and then she said she was pregnant and demanded money from him. He had to pay and that served as a warning for me.

We were a small group of people of similar income status. The sons of merchants, lawyers, and other affluent Jews who met with the daughters of engineers or industrialists. That’s how things were. All my classmates were from middle-class, or even upper middle-class families. I was friends with a doctor’s son, an oil dealer’s son, and a paper wholesaler’s son, so that was four of us, and also with the son of the chief accountant of a major oil refinery. Those were Julek Hilzenrat, Izio Hercig, Artur Werdinger, and one more boy named Leszek, whose last name I don’t remember. When I browse through the 1938 phonebook, I can actually remember some of the names. The girls were usually the daughters of engineers employed at the refinery, let’s say, people who made in excess of 1000 zlotys a month, which before the war was a fortune. With the poor Jewry we didn’t, I didn’t, have any contact. And similarly we had very little contact with either the Polish intelligentsia or the Polish youth.

This pack of ours met virtually every day. We’d be doing our homework at home until something like four, and at five we’d meet at one of the boys’. We’d play cards, any of the various popular card games of the time, like Red King, i.e. Hearts, or Thousand. That took us until half past six, after which we’d go out for a stroll down the promenade. It was the main street – today Mickiewicza, then Shevchenky [Editor’s note: inversely]. Boys and girls strolled separately, though sometimes we paired up and strolled in pairs. That lasted until eight, at which time we all had to go back home. It wasn’t allowed for young people to be on the street after eight in the evening.

We also strolled on Sunday morning. That was when the Jewish and Polish intelligentsia strolled, though the latter in smaller numbers because most Poles were at church. And the Jews were strolling or visiting the cafes, especially to show themselves off, for others to see how they were dressed. That was due to the fact that Drohobycz was a town dominated by German culture; people were more open-minded and rather secularized. More and more people were also, for instance, practicing sports, and not only football, but there were also many Jewish young people who played tennis, cycled, or practiced skiing. I was also given my pair of skis. That was in 1939, and I even started skiing a little, we had a lot of good slopes there. But then the war broke out and that was it.

Sometimes we went for longer vacations. When I was a little boy, when my mother was still alive, we went to Iwonicz Zdroj [ca. 300 km west of Drohobycz]. It was a health resort, and as I was a rather sickly child, my mother took me there once or twice, and then I also went to Iwonicz with my stepmother. Later we went each year to mountain resorts, like Rebenow or Skole [ca. 30 km south of Drohobycz, today in Ukraine].

During the time when we lived in Lwow, we usually went for vacation to Aunt Laura, to Truskawiec. We went there twice, in 1936 and 1937. Her business was going better or worse, depending on the house she was renting at the given time: whether it was a large, twenty-room one, or a smaller, fifteen-room one. She rented various houses, of various standards, certainly not all had bathrooms. Naturally, the kitchen was kosher. Though not so strictly kosher that on Friday night they had to put chulent into the oven and on Saturday they wouldn’t set fire under the stove. Some of the employees at those boarding houses were Christians, and it was them who did things like setting fire under the stove or reheating dinner on Saturday. When we went there the last time, Aunt was living in a detached house that had four or five rooms with a kitchen, but no bathroom. The toilet was outside. During the season, Aunt rented out two or three of the rooms, and as her husband, my uncle, whose last name was Roth – I don’t remember his first name – kept a fuel depot, they had an extra source of income besides the boarding house.

Then, in 1938 and 1939, me and my sister went to a Jewish summer camp. Those were the so-called Jewish guesthouses for gymnasium students. My sister went to a guesthouse for girls in Skole, whereas I was in a guesthouse for adults in the same town. As the owners of those places owed my father some money, to recover the liabilities he was sending us there without paying.

As children, me and my sister lived in our own world. We lacked nothing, had everything we needed. We were only supposed to study and play. Nothing else was supposed to occupy our minds. Parents would go to work early in the morning. Father to the shop, Mother too, for she was the bookkeeper there. They’d return around 7pm. I mean, Father would either come home or go to the merchants’ club where he’d play cards, and the like. And then he’d return very late.

My stepmother spent the evenings reading. We had quite a large German library at home. For us, the children, there was another library, with adventure novels and so on. We also read Polish books, but to get the required reading you had to go to the public library. We had no Yiddish books at all. Besides that, my father bought the Polish-language Jewish newspaper Chwila [1919-1939; Jewish political/cultural daily of Zionist sympathies, published in Polish, aimed at middle-class readers. The last editor-in-chief was H. Hescheles.], which had a morning issue and an evening one. Chwila was edited by Jews, but in Polish. I sometimes also bought the Czerwony Kurier, a richly illustrated Warsaw daily. What kind of a newspaper it was, I don’t really know, as I wasn’t interested in its contents. What I was interested in were the illustrations from the everyday events, the political ones, or those from the life of the upper classes. There was also the Swiatowid, but that was too expensive for me to buy. I only know it was a Cracow-based illustrated weekly. I liked to browse through those magazines but I never had enough money to buy them.

Sabbath was always observed the traditional way. It was like you see on old photos or in the movies today. My father would close the shop early, and, I suppose, go to the synagogue. My stepmother would light the candles, and when Father returned, we’d sit down to dinner. The atmosphere was very solemn, Mother would serve the traditional fish dish, for example gefilte fish, and some other appetizer, I don’t remember what. Me and my sister didn’t eat much, because we always waited for the cake. There were various kinds of cakes – every week a different one: a sponge cake for breakfast, gingerbread or honey cake after dinner.

After dinner, Father would rarely stay at home. Sometimes he’d listen to the radio but because the radio was a novelty, he didn’t have much fondness for that. Instead, he’d rather go to the merchant’s club to play cards, Hearts. On Saturday morning, after prayer, we’d sit down to a breakfast combined with supper. Once in a while father would have a bit to eat at the synagogue, a piece of herring or something, then he’d go to some meeting and come home for a solemn supper at one or two. During the time when I didn’t go to school on Saturday, as was the case in Lwow, Father would take me to the synagogue for prayer. I started attending the prayers in the year that I had my bar mitzvah, and in which, as tradition demanded, I started wearing the tefillin. After dinner, father would take a nap and then go to a café or to the club again, and that’s how it went. You can say that if one of those merchants didn’t show up at the synagogue on Saturday morning, it would mean he was either sick or out of town. There weren’t other things to do, like watching the TV today, so you always went to the synagogue. Some went to some sports events, but all the people from the class to which my parents belonged would observe Sabbath the traditional way.

The same was true for other holidays, such as seder [Pesach] or Purim. For Pesach, we’d eat matzot, which, at the beginning, were made at hardly accessible bakeries. During that time, the rabbis made matzah as well. They’d send us their black, whole wheat matzot, the so-called ‘shmirematzot,’ and use the proceeds for the holidays. In the later period, 1936, 1937, matzot were made by mechanized bakeries in Lwow, or brought over from other places. Those were like the ones you can buy today. But in the beginning, I remember, they’d be ordered at the baker and brought, I don’t know, ten kilograms or more, in a dish for the whole holidays. Both the dishes and the cutlery were koshered. We never had any bread at home during the festival. Any chametz was given away, but whether it was genuine or fictional sale, I wasn’t interested in finding out at the time.

Those days, any Jew’s dream was to educate his children in some direction. I didn’t have any talent for the technical things, like drawing and other things like this. I’d surely have gone, like my father planned, to a business college. When I think of my life today, it’s clear to me I never had the kind of aspirations that many young people had at the time, for example to become a doctor, an engineer, or a scientist. I was always devoted to commerce. As a child, I played with the textile samples that my father brought me from work, and I never thought of any career other than in commerce.

I devoted my whole life to commerce, and my guiding principle in business was never to maximize profits but rather to offer the best and most elegant products. I was always interested in the most expensive and sophisticated fabrics and the most stylist fashions. As early as in my school days I was less interested in study and more in commerce, the store, some brilliant shop window display or men’s fashion. In fact, I was always a strange kid because from very early childhood I liked to dress. I had many clothes, because when you operate a textile business, there’ll always be some scraps. So they made me one dress, and when I grew out of it they made me another, and another, and there was always a new one to try. We were always well-dressed, and my parents’ wardrobes were always full of clothes. Father, if he went to Vienna, would always bring us some stylish clothes. We didn’t always want to wear them, for instance there was this woolen jacket with leather applications on the sleeves. Why am I supposed to wear a patched up jacket, I wondered.

As those days you usually went to study abroad, the plan was, as I’ve mentioned above, for me to enroll at a business college in Vienna. But 1938 thwarted those plans. After the Anschluss 10, I could no longer go there. We hadn’t realized that anti-Semitism in Austria had reached such an advanced stage. There was no mention of that in our circles.

As for the town itself, Drohobycz had a population of thirty-something thousand, fifteen thousand of which were Jews. They didn’t live in any specific parts of the town but were scattered across it. The neighborhood where we lived was close to downtown and was a wealthy one. On our street, Shevchenky, there stood 14 houses, of which five or six were inhabited by Catholic families and the rest by Jewish ones. On the main streets in downtown Drohobycz, the proportion between the Catholics and the Jews was, you can say, fifty-fifty. The poorer part of the Jewish population lived in a neighborhood called Lam, where the main synagogue was also located, one of the largest synagogues in the whole Galicia region.

That synagogue was something of a German-style ‘templum.’ I went there only for the state ceremonies, such as 11th November [anniversary of Poland’s regaining of independence in 1918], Pilsudski’s birthday or the 3rd May 11 holiday. Schoolchildren of Jewish religion took part in such ceremonies obligatorily. We’d march in divided into classes, and then the rabbi would deliver a speech in Polish in the presence of the government officials, this is the district governor, the town mayor, and the military district commander. After the ceremony we’d join an official street parade. The synagogue building was a very imposing structure whose ruins have survived to this day. There’s no one, however, to reconstruct it, the people living in Drohobycz are poor, and I don’t think the Jews scattered across the world would be willing to do it. Besides the main synagogue, there were about 20 smaller synagogues and prayer houses in the town.

We prayed at a synagogue located near our house, at the back of the market place, on Garncarska Street. Besides us, it was frequented by several very wealthy merchants and industrialists, as well as by some poorer people. We sat at the main wall, this is the eastern one, near where the ark was located. My father occupied one of the most eminent seats in the synagogue. The synagogue was rather of the reformed style. It was managed by a gentleman who was also the chief accountant of a major oil company, and who also operated the registration office where the births and deaths were registered. He wore a derby hat and had a clean-shaven face. His name was Mr. Szpander. The chief rabbi was a captain in the Polish army and a doctor of theology, but whether he had his own synagogue or prayed at the main one, I don’t know. Nor do I remember his name.

There were also many shochetim in the town. The poultry we bought, whether in Drohobycz or in Lwow, was always slaughtered by a shochet. Sometimes the shochet would come to our house and slaughter the chicken there.

My father was never politically involved. He certainly belonged to some pro-Zionist party, but I think chiefly because it was trendy to do so. Usually, however, he went to the merchant club to play cards. Myself, in turn, as early as in gymnasium – it was 1938 – I started attending the meetings of some Jewish organization. I don’t remember what organization it was, but we all went there, both the working-class boys and the gymnasium students. The meetings were led by a reserve officer whose son was our age and went to a public gymnasium. The meetings would combine lectures with something in the vein of military drill exercises. The whole thing was more like scouting than like a paramilitary organization. It certainly was neither Betar 12 nor Brit Trumpeldor.

The house which we moved in upon returning to Drohobycz in 1937 had been built a year or two earlier and was very modern. It was owned by a Jewish merchant. It had three or even four floors. The first floor was occupied by two Jewish families, and the remaining ones by Christians. By 1938, Christians had become a majority in that neighborhood, the military barracks were nearby, so that’s, for instance, where the garrison commander, the town’s public notary, or the director of the savings-and-loan fund lived.

Anti-Semitism was something I encountered as early as in Lwow. Sometimes the tertian, this is the gymnasium janitor, would come to the class and warn us not to go near the university because anti-Semitic riots had broken out there. Later, in Drohobycz, I remember an action in which the brother-in-law of the above-mentioned garrison commander, a major who lived in our house, took part. That brother-in-law was a student, member of a Polish student fraternity [corporation] 13 that in the Christmas period organized an anti-Semitic action consisting in selling the so called ‘academic fish’ to Christians. Most of the fish traders at the time were Jews, and, to prevent Christians from buying from them, the students would sell the commodity themselves.

The major had a son, a little boy three or four years old, who would often stand on the stairs when I was going back home from school and cry, ‘Dirty Jew! Dirty Jew!’ One time I just couldn’t control myself, and I answered, ‘You son of a bitch!’ A few days later the major asked my father for a talk and threatened him that I’d be fired from school for offending the honor of the Polish army. I wasn’t afraid because, firstly, I didn’t go to a public gymnasium, and, secondly, war was coming up. So that’s how it looked more or less. We were, as young Jews, isolated, met in small peer groups, and we knew about anti-Semitism and its manifestations.

State-owned companies had stopped hiring Jews, and in my gymnasium some of the teachers were from as far away as Cracow, as, despite their degrees, they weren’t able to get a job there. That’s how it looked. We listened to the radio so we also knew something bad was brewing in Germany [see Anti-Jewish legislation in Nazi Germany] 14. But no one suspected things would get that far, would assume such catastrophic proportions. Some people, those who remembered World War I and who had lived under the Austro-Hungarian occupation, believed Germany was a decent nation and everything we were hearing was just propaganda. Or maybe it was simply beyond our imagination?

In 1939, talk started that there might be war. Following the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 15, it was clear that the situation was tense and that ‘something is wrong here.’ I remember how, in late August [1939], my father came home late in the evening and said people had been driving up to the square in front of the house because the military had ordered a requisition of all private cars. As if the people suspected something.

A few days before the war we started carrying all the merchandise out of the store and hiding it because we were afraid it’d get stolen. And indeed, immediately after the war broke out people started robbing shops, or at least buying up everything they could to get rid of the money. Several days later the Germans entered the town, and anti-Jewish riots began. That didn’t last long because the Germans left Drohobycz after seven or eight days, this is after the time they needed to empty all the oil and petrol stocks. [Pursuant to the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, the Germans withdrew from Drohobycz on 24th September, leaving it for the Soviet military administration to take over].

The Russians took over soon afterwards. A couple of weeks later we, as well as all the other tenants, were evicted, as the Russian military requisitioned the building. First we moved to the apartment owned by a certain industrialist. It was a five-room apartment, of which we occupied three. The Russians tried to nationalize our property, and to that end searched the shop and the house. They found money and jewelry. Some of that they returned later to us after it turned out the things had belonged to our late mother. Those were family assets, not things father had bought in a store. I don’t remember why, but they observed the law in that particular case. They didn’t return the money, though. Even the money that we hid between the fabrics for a rainy day. I’m sorry to say this, but those requisitions for the Russian army were always carried out by people of Jewish descent. Those were communists, aspiring to destroy the so-called capitalists.

In April 1940, we Jews were deported from Drohobycz as ‘undesirable elements’ [see Deportation of Jews from Drohobycz] 16. We received no-return passports with a provision saying we weren’t allowed to live in Drohobycz. We moved to Truskawiec, where our aunt lived. There we rented a room with a kitchen from some peasant and lived there until 1942 when all the Jews were deported to Belzec 17 and when I lost virtually all my relatives.

By that time I had already ended my education due to the fact that I was banned from entering Drohobycz. Only my sister, who was too young to receive the passport with the no-return clause, was still able to go to school until the time the German-Soviet war broke out. She lived in various places, never sleeping in the same place for too long, hiding a bit, and she continued like that until June 1941. During that time I fell ill with pericarditis, or inflammation of the heart sac, and was confined to bed.

My father didn’t have any job, and we had to survive by selling various private items. Sometimes Father went out to play cards or went fishing, or stood in a queue to buy bread. Most of the time, however, he did nothing. The Russians didn’t forbid us to pray, and as there was a synagogue in Truskawiec, we normally went to pray. The synagogue was quite large due to the fact that Truskawiec was a major health resort. Very many Jews, both from Poland and from abroad, used to visit the place to treat kidney and asthma conditions. The synagogue could seat 100, or perhaps even 200 people. I went to Truskawiec in 1990 and found the place, but the synagogue was no longer there. I think some other building stands there now.

In June 1942, all Jews received special armbands 18 and were sent to work. That lasted until August 1942. Then, one day, all Jews were told to go to the synagogue. The first day the Ukrainian police (there was no German police in Truskawiec) went from house to house and took all the Jews they found to the synagogue. That was followed by a two-day lull, and what had happened to the people taken to the synagogue, we could only guess. People said they had been taken to a camp in Boryslaw [10 km south-west of Drohobycz] but that wasn’t true [on 6th August, 1942, a transport of some 6,000 Jews from Drohobycz, Boryslaw and other places was sent from Boryslaw to the Belzec camp]. The only people around were our Christian neighbors. Later it turned out some Jewish families had been hidden. The Germans also left the Judenrat 19 in place to watch over the liquidation of Jewish property. Some two months later all of its members were executed.

On our way to the gathering point, my father met a Ukrainian police officer who told him to leave us at the station and said we’d be taken from there to a labor camp near Truskawiec. We had never heard of the place before. Father brought one more girl from the synagogue with who I later started meeting in the camp [at the vegetable grange in Truskawiec]. Then he returned to the gathering point and we never saw him again. Like we never saw again the rest of the family, taken away the night before [as part of the 6th August 1942 transport].

As I later found out, they were all taken to Belzec. I was left alone with my sister. The camp to which we were sent from the police station in Truskawiec was more like a grange where they grew potatoes, beets, all kinds of cereals for a military sanitarium. The place was in Truskawiec itself. It was a kolkhoz dating back to the Soviet times. Besides the vegetable gardens, they also had large stables there where they brought sick horses from the eastern front to treat them. There were initially some 30 Jews at the camp, then someone managed to escape. We wore special badges with the letter W, which meant we were working for the military: W stood for ‘Wehrmacht.’

That lasted until April 1943 when it was decided it was inappropriate for the military to use Jews as labor force. They transported us to what remained of the Drohobycz ghetto. There I started working at an oil refinery. We found our cousin Matys, the son of Eliasz Hoffman, my father’s eldest brother. He was a doctor and it was thanks to his contacts that we managed to avoid execution. Later I was sent to work at a brickyard, and I lived like that in that camp created on the ghetto’s remnants until February 1944, when they decided to dissolve the place and move us west. My sister decided to escape to Truskawiec with two girlfriends. There she was hidden by some Christians we knew. I was transported first to Plaszow [camp] 20, then, in October 1944, to Gross-Rosen 21, where I spent about six weeks and from where I was taken to Walbrzych. The Gross-Rosen camp had its branch there [Waldenburg], and it’s there I was liberated on 9th May, 1945.

Of my whole family, the only ones that survived were myself, my sister, and that single cousin Matys, thanks to whom we actually survived, avoiding execution. Later I found out that one more cousin had survived who during the war was enlisted for the Russian army and returned from Russia in 1941.

When the war was over I settled in Walbrzych and registered with the Jewish committee [Central Committee of Polish Jews] 22. After I found my sister and my two cousins, I went first to Cracow, where Cousin Matys lived, and then to visit my sister who lived in Katowice. We all decided to return here and set up a business together with some friends.

My sister Stella got married here, to a man who once, before the war, had worked for my father – Izydor Kawe. Several years after getting married, I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was in 1950, they immigrated to Israel and settled in Haifa. My brother-in-law died in a car accident over 20 years ago, and my sister still lives there, has two children, six grandchildren, and two great-granddaughters.

I visited my sister and her family many times. First time I went there in 1957, and the last time so far has been in 1998. Me and my wife went for all the weddings, bar mitzvot, and other special occasions. Besides, the cousin that lived with me here after the war immigrated to Australia. He is 95 today, so he comes no longer to Poland, but in the past he used to come to Walbrzych very often.

Soon after my sister left, I met my future wife. We got married and soon our daughter Sabina was born. We kept a house in which all holidays, both Jewish and Catholic, were observed. To this day we have tried to observe both traditions, and our daughter has done the same.

During a certain period in my life I thought about emigration. I was afraid, however, that we were a mixed marriage, without proper education, and that it would be difficult for us to establish a new life in Israel. Besides, my relatives in Israel weren’t so well-off and simply didn’t notice certain things. In particular the difference between capitalism and socialism, a difference we are able to notice today. It seemed to me it would be difficult for us to adapt to life in Israel. Later we had some opportunities to go to Australia, but we decided against it because of my mother-in-law, who would have been left completely alone here.

As far as my professional life is concerned, I initially operated, with a partner, a textile trading business. Then, after 1950 when they started nationalizing private businesses, I had to start working for public-sector companies. And so until 1990, when I finally retired, I worked for various state-owned domestic trade enterprises. Due to the fact that during my career I never joined the communist party, I never felt the impact of the various political changes on my skin.

In 1968, when I worked for the Spolem cooperative, I was openly told that, as I wasn’t politically involved, I had nothing to fear [see Anti-Zionist campaign in Poland] 23. Neither myself nor my family were affected by any anti-Jewish campaign [Editor’s note: not only politically involved Jews were harassed during the 1968 campaign]. Though it’s possible such things took place, because very many people left Poland following those events.

There were between 15,000-20,000 Jews in Walbrzych after the war. Today, the Walbrzych branch of the Social and Cultural Association of Jews in Poland 24 has a mere 40 members. The only moment when I experienced discrimination because of my Jewish descent occurred when Solidarity 25 came. My former immediate superior was fired and the new one believed that, because I was drawing benefits as a war veteran, I could be sent into early retirement. He made efforts to fire me, arguing that I was blocking promotion opportunities for younger employees. But the other executives, who knew about my longtime professional experience in commerce, decided I could stay as long as I wanted. That’s why, in 1989, at the age of 67, I decided I no longer needed to work and, due to the fact that I’d receive quite a high pension, I decided to leave.

As far as my activity in Jewish organizations is concerned, there wasn’t any until 1982. That year they came to me to ask whether I’d agree to head the TSKZ. I did, and I still work there today as instructor. Besides that, I’m a member of the board of the Wroclaw community, and my daughter is the secretary general of the Polish-Israeli Society. The club functions normally, as always, though the sessions are a bit less frequent than they used to be. Our recent Chanukkah meeting gathered an audience of some 40. Young people also come, the Polish-Israeli Society, the Righteous Among the Nations 26. The club is open three days a week, and events such as the Chanukkah or Purim parties are organized if the budget allows it. Besides, the club’s activity depends on the weather and the health of those old people; after all, some of our members are over 90 years old.

In my view, it doesn’t make any sense for there to exist several Jewish organizations in Poland. Instead, they should all merge under the patronage of, say, the Jewish Congress, as is the case in all other countries. As it is today, it’s pointless. You can have different views, conservative or liberal, you can be an atheist or a religious person, you can have different tastes and habits, but it’s still one nation. The state of Israel. We all have to live together somehow.

I also believe that, since the state of Israel has emerged, we’re all either Israelis or Poles of Mosaic faith. That’s why I can’t understand why they keep saying: Jew, Jew, Jew. According to what my Jewish friends from France, Greece, or the Netherlands told me, they have never said, ‘I’m a Dutch Jew,’ but always ‘I’m a Dutchman.’ And my religion is my private business. And here they’ve insisted on calling us Jews. Well, I won’t change that, nor, I guess, will my generation.

For many years I’ve lived with my wife here, in Walbrzych. I have a daughter and two grown-up grandsons, Artur and Dominik. I did what I liked in life and what my father had taught me. I remember how he always told me that money is not made on the rich but on the commoners. Because the common people buy thousands of yards of cheap and poor-quality fabrics, whereas the material for an expensive suit you buy once in several years. And I was so used to that that to this day if I buy something, it has to be good quality and a good brand. I never buy cheap, that’s not my style.

Glossary

Interjúalany: Várnai Györgyné
Készítette: Sárdi Dóra
Interjú időpontja: 2008. március
Interjúkészítés helye: Budapest, Magyarország

Az apukám, dr. Klein Ármin Bács-Kiskun megyében, Császártöltésen született 1890-ben. Orvos volt, általános orvos. Mikor elvégezte az egyetemet, jött az első világháború, ahol végig harcolt mindenütt, az orosz, az olasz fronton volt, és századosi rangú ezredorvosként szerelt le, nagyon magas kitüntetéssel. Az 1940-ben kiadott Magyar Hadviselt Zsidók Évkönyvében fényképpel is benne van, az egész nacionáléja le van írva, a kitüntetései, minden a világon.

Apai nagyapám, Klein Sámuel és a nagymamám, Krakaer Etel 1879-ben házasodtak össze, és Császártöltésen laktak. Sok korkülönbség volt köztük, a nagypapám 31 éves volt, a nagymama 19, mikor összeházasodtak. A nagyapám borkereskedő volt, és ahol laktak, a háznál volt szeszfőzde, borospince, lovak, kocsik, libák, kacsák, minden. Zsidó parasztok voltak, gazdálkodtak, állatot tartottak, igazi hagyományos paraszti életmódot éltek egy teljesen egyszerű, világítás nélküli, petróleumlámpás parasztházban. A házban volt hálószoba, volt egy ebédlő, konyha, meg volt az öt gyereknek egy szobája. A bútorok kispolgári, egyszerű bútorok voltak. Volt nekik egy paraszt cselédlány, aki kiment a kúthoz vizet hordani, meg karbantartotta a lakást, segített főzni a nagyanyámnak, ahogy régen ezek a kis háztartási alkalmazottak voltak – mit tudom én – fillérekért.

Nagyszüleimnek öt gyerekük volt, négy fiú és egy lány. A testvérek között egy év különbség volt, sorba jöttek évenként. A legidősebb fiú Klein Adolf volt. Adolf Kispesten lakott a családjával, borkereskedéssel foglalkozott, és volt két fia és két lánya: Ernő, Imre, Klári, Gizi. A felesége pedig Zsenka néni volt, de hogy mi volt az eredeti neve, fogalmam nincs. Adolf bácsi gyerekei elpusztultak Auschwitzban, a felesége is, de a bácsi túlélte a holokausztot, mert ő Ausztriába került, és végül Pécsen egy zsidó szeretetotthonban élt kilencven-nem tudom hány éves koráig.

A következő testvér volt a Jani bácsi. Ő is borkereskedő volt, és ők is Kispesten laktak. Jani bácsi felesége Gizi volt, de nem tudom, milyen Gizi. Ott egy gyerek volt, Bandi. Jani bácsi meg a Gizi néni Auschwitzban pusztultak, de ez az egy unokatestvérem Koltai Bandi néven – mert megmagyarosította a nevét – még hál’ istennek él.

A harmadik fiú Klein Dávid volt – mi Dódinak hívtuk –, Dódi bácsi. Neki Császártöltésen volt szatócsboltja, a felesége Stein Ella volt – véletlenül tudom a nevét, mert ő jánoshalmai volt. Nekik a gyerekük volt a Juci, és volt egy később született fiuk, Pista, aki kikerült a háború alatt Izraelbe és az Izraeli Hadsereg tagja lett mint pilótatiszt. Mikor Dódi bácsi, Ella néni meg Juci hazajöttek a deportálásból, kimentek a fiuk után Izraelbe. Ők is azért maradtak meg, mert Ausztriába kerültek. Az úgy volt, hogy Bácsalmáson volt a gyűjtőtábor, onnan indították a vonatot. Az egész Bács-Kiskun megyei részről ott gyűjtöttek össze mindenkit, és még elmentek Szegedre, felvették a szegedi gettóból az ott begyűjtött zsidókat is. Ausztriában kettékapcsolták a vonatot, egyik része ottmaradt, a többi ment Auschwitzba. És azok, akik Ausztriába kerültek, azok mind megmaradtak.

A következő az egy szál lánytestvér volt, Bella néném, aki Pécsre ment férjhez. A férje Frankfurter Ignác volt, egy nagyon jómódú bútorgyáros, és Ignác bácsi fiatalon, még bőven a háború előtt meghalt egy sérvműtétben, Bella néni pedig nem jött vissza a deportálásból. Itt volt két fiú, Miklós és László, akik közt nagyon sok korkülönbség volt, mert Miklós 1910-ben született, Laci pedig velem egyidős volt, 1921-es. Miklós hazajött a munkaszolgálatból, egy darabig a bútorgyárat vitte – kárpitosmester szakmája volt –, és azután csinált egy kárpitos üzemet. Nagyon sokáig a pécsi hitközség elnöke is volt, körülbelül olyan tíz éve, hogy meghalt. Hogy Laci hogy maradt meg a háborúban, azt nem tudom, de ő Érden volt körzeti orvos. Ő megmagyarosította a nevét dr. Faludi Lászlóra. Egy éve körülbelül, hogy meghalt.

A fiúkból az apukám volt az egyetlen diplomás, a többi mind a nagyapám borkereskedő mesterségét folytatta. Nagyon rosszul, mert örökké eladósodtak, állandóan elárverezték a házuktól kezdve mindent, és a pécsi nagynéném meg az apukám – akik relatíve jólszituált emberek voltak – fizette ki a váltókat utánuk, meg mindig ők vásárolták vissza a családi vagyont.

Az apukám a gimnáziumot Zomborban végezte, az egyetemet Pesten. Jánoshalmán – ami körülbelül 10 kilométerre volt Császártöltéstől – folytatott praxist. A megyének ebben a körzetében, ezekben a kis falukban nem volt sehol orvos, se Hajóson, se Császártöltésen. Jánoshalmán minden pénteken volt hetipiac, és akkor jöttek be az emberek, hozták az árut, és akkor jöttek az apukámhoz is; akkor értek rá betegnek lenni, meg orvoshoz menni. Apukámnak nagyon nagy praxisa volt, és nagyon köztiszteletben álló orvos volt, akinél nem számított, hogy a betegnek van pénze vagy nincs pénze, mert ha nem volt, akkor gyógyszerre is adott neki pénzt. Nagyon-nagy tiszteletben állt, 2006-ban a hitközség és a jánoshalmai Polgármesteri Hivatal emléktáblát is készített neki Jánoshalmán. A táblát a szegedi rabbi avatta fel a zsinagóga falán.

Az anyukám részéről az volt a helyzet, hogy a nagyapám úgy vette el a nagymamámat, Reiner Reginát, hogy két kislányt hozott a házasságba, Rózát és Ellát. Hogy nagyapám megözvegyült-e vagy elvált, ezt a részét nem tudom. A két testvér között egy év volt – nem tudom, mikor születtek –, és utána a nagyanyámnak 1894-ben született egy fia ebből a házasságból, Gábor, meg 1900-ban az anyukám, Szerén. A nagypapámat és a nagyapám részéről egyetlenegy rokont nem ismertem soha, mert amikor én visszaemlékszem, a nagypapa már nem volt. Az I. világháborúból nem jött vissza. Azt tudom, hogy osztrák származású volt, mert Goldschmied Manónak hívták. Pesten laktak, a Mozsár utca 12-ben, és hogy a nagypapám nem jött vissza, a nagyanyám itt maradt a négy gyerekkel. De ez a négy testvér úgy nőtt föl, hogy ha édestestvérek lettek volna, nem lettek volna jobb viszonyban.

Az anyukám leérettségizett, utána a Zeneakadémiára járt, elvégezte a hegedűművészi tanfolyamot, Hubay tanítvány volt [Hubay Jenő (született: Huber Jenő) Pest, 1858. szeptember 15. – Budapest, 1937. március 12., hegedűművész, zeneszerző és pedagógus. –
A szerk.], úgyhogy ő gyakorlatilag hegedűművész volt. Gyakorolta is egy darabig, de miután a nagyanyám itt maradt a négy gyerekkel, mellette az IBUSZ-nál, a békebeli, régi IBUSZ-nál [Több mint 100 éves, mára már holdinggá terebélyesedett cég. Fő profilja az idegenforgalom, a kül- és belföldi utaztatás. – A szerk..] dolgozott. Az apukámmal meg úgy jött össze, hogy egyszer a Gábor nagybátyám hazajött szabadságra az I. világháborúból és az apukám, mint katonatársa, elkísérte őt a Mozsár utcába. Mert ők együtt voltak a fronton.

Így ismerte meg anyukám az apukámat, és ebből szerelem lett. A háború után házasodtak össze, 1919-ben, és az anyukám leköltözött Jánoshalmára. Vidéki orvosfeleség lett. 1920-ban született egy első gyerek, aki halva született, és utána jöttem én, Klein Magda, 1921-ben. És anyukám egész családjában az anyukám volt az egyetlen, aki férjhez ment. A nagynénéim vénkisasszonyok maradtak, a nagybátyám meg nem nősült meg. Én voltam az egyetlen gyerek a családban, és agyon voltam kényeztetve.

Amire visszaemlékszem egész kicsi kislánykoromból, hogy akkor még nem volt meg a saját házunk, hanem egy parasztházat béreltünk, ahol se villanylámpa, semmi nem volt, ahol a kútról hordták a vizet. Oda születtem bele. Hogy ki segített a szülésnél, ezt a részét nem tudom, de Jánoshalmán születtem, abban a házban. Később aztán a belső részén Jánoshalmának, mondjuk az elitebb negyedén – mert falun úgy van, hogy a templom, a fiúiskola, és az egyebek az már a centrum – vett az apukám egy romos házat, és az már normális, mondhatnám nagypolgári módon volt berendezve. A háznak verandája volt vadszőlő lugassal, és nagy kert, amit a háztartási alkalmazottunk tartott rendben.

Anyukám nagyon jól beilleszkedett a falusi életmódba. Azért sem volt nehéz beilleszkednie, mert a jánoshalmai férfiaknak – a zsidóknak – majdnem mindegyiknek a felesége nem jánoshalmai bennszülött volt. Volt még rajta kívül pesti lány, a szomszédunknak a felesége szegedi volt, a családtagjai meg Újvidéken voltak, tehát így állandóan külföldi meg budapesti jövés-menés volt. De anyukám nagyon sokat kézimunkázott, biciklizett, hegedült. Nálunk otthon mindenféle hangszer volt, a zongorától kezdve a hegedűtől, a fuvolától a gitárig, és az apukám is minden hangszeren játszott. Ha csak megfogott egy hangszert, már gyönyörűen játszott rajta, és ha volt öt perc ideje a rendelőben, akkor rögtön előszedett valamilyen hangszert. Apukámnak gyönyörű hangja volt, és nagyon muzikális volt.

Én sokáig, nyolc évig tán eljártam zongorát tanulni, az anyukám meg a parasztokat, akik már valamilyen hangszeren játszottak, azokat tanította. De csak úgy passzióból. És szervezett egy zenekart, ami egészen 1944-ig nagyon jól prosperált. Csupa orvosok, tanító, állatorvos, ügyvéd, tisztiorvos, aki tudott zenélni, azokból állította össze, és úgy hívták a zenekart, hogy Úri dzsessz. Mind kiváló zenészek voltak, az anyukám volt a prímhegedűs, és minden szombaton este volt egy baráti összejövetelük, ahol zenéltek, a vendégek pedig táncoltak. Az egyik kocsmában egy helyiségben, nyáron meg a kerthelyiségben. Ez az összejövetel zártkörű volt, oda akárki nem jöhetett, hanem az úri társaság volt ott, a falusi notabilitások, a tanító, a patikus, szóval a jánoshalmai értelmiség. Ezért volt Úri dzsessz a zenekar neve.

Kiváló társaság volt, és kevesebb zsidó volt benne, annak dacára, hogy Jánoshalmán nagyon nagy zsidó közösség volt. Több mint száz család, és a nagy része nagyon ortodox vallásos, ahol nagyon sok gyerek volt. Anyukám családja mondjuk hagyományőrző volt, de nem volt vallásos. Anyukám nem vezetett kóser háztartást – arra nem emlékszem, hogy gyújtott-e gyertyát pénteken –, de az apukám úgy tartotta a vallást, hogy kiválóan beszélt jiddisül, héberül – svábul is, miután Jánoshalma sváb falu volt –, minden ünnepet megtartottunk, és apukám minden nagy ünnepnél ott volt a templomban. De ha jöttek érte, hogy: „Doktor úr! Rosszul van a Marcsa néni a falu végén”, akkor a templomból kijött, fölült a biciklire és elment a beteghez. Utána már, ha nem volt komolyabb baj, vagy nem volt szüléslevezetés, vagy valami, akkor visszajött a templomba és imádkozott.

Apukám minden imát kívülről tudott. Ő otthonról hozta ezt. A nagypapámék jiddisül beszéltek otthon – magyarul is, meg a nagypapám a parasztokkal svábul beszélt. Császártöltésen nem volt templom, de volt zsidó közösség, és a nagyszüleim nagyon vallásosak voltak. Nagypapának volt egy kis szakálla, kapele a fején és kalap is, a nagymamám parókás volt, kóser háztartást vezetett, szóval ortodox vallás szerint éltek. Ott pénteken megállt az élet, jött a szombat, és vasárnap reggel kezdődött újból. Azért is kellett cselédlány, aki eloltja a villanyt, elmegy a pékhez a sóletért, ami ott sül a kemencében, és hasonló ilyeneket elvégez.

Nagypapáékhoz Császártöltésre általában mi mentünk látogatóba, főleg ünnepekkor. A nagypapámék – amikorra én emlékszem – már nagyon öregek voltak, kicsi lány voltam, amikor az ötvenéves házassági évfordulójuk volt. Úgyhogy mi jártunk át Császártöltésre, eleinte még parasztkocsival meg lóval, később, amikor már úri módunk volt, és már volt saját autónk – a háború előtt, 40-ben vettünk autót –, akkor azzal.

A széder estét Jánoshalmán tartottuk, apámék legjobb barátjánál, apukám I. világháborús katonatársánál, Jungreiszéknél. Náluk voltunk minden évben a nagyünnepekkor, és olyankor minden úgy zajlott, forsriftosan, ahogy a nagykönyvben meg volt írva. Jungreisz Izidor felesége szintén pesti lány volt, aki nem Jánoshalmán ment férjhez, de a férjét kinevezték az ottani Általános Takarékpénztár igazgatójának, úgy kerültek Jánoshalmára. A feleség nagyon korán, 42 éves korban meghalt méhen kívüli terhességben. Ott maradt két kisgyerek utána, akiket az anyukámék patronáltak, meg ott maradt az I. világháborús hadirokkant férje, tehát tényleg segítségre szorultak. Nem anyagilag, hanem lelkileg, meg egyáltalán a gyerekek nevelésében.

Jánoshalmán nekem nagyon sok barátnőm volt, velem korabeliek, akik aztán mind elpusztultak Auschwitzban. Zsidók voltak, és az teljesen mindegy volt, hogy én orvosnak a lánya voltam, a másik meg egy szatócsnak, de általában zsidó gyerekekkel barátkoztunk, a keresztény gyerekekkel nem nagyon jöttünk össze. Nem azért, mert szelektáltuk, nem voltunk rosszban sem, hanem ez így jött ki.

Az elemi iskola, ahova jártam Jánoshalmán, zsidó iskola volt. Mivel novemberben születtem, nem voltam még hat éves, és nagyon nagy probléma volt, hogy az apukám szerezzen egy tisztiorvosi engedélyt, hogy bekerüljek az első elemibe. Az iskolában négy elemi egyben volt egy osztályban, és turnusokban minden nap mind a négy osztállyal foglalkozott a László tanító bácsi, az elsőtől a negyedikig. Amikor például az első elemistákkal foglalkozott, akkor mi nagyobbak addig valami feladatot kaptunk.

Nem tudom, hogy jutott eszükbe aztán a szüleimnek Budapestre iskoláztatni engem. Jánoshalmához 40 kilométerre van Kiskunhalas, ott volt a legközelebbi gimnázium. Nyilván azt akarták, hogy jobb iskolába járjak, és akkor a két legjobb iskola Budapesten volt, az Angol Kisasszonyok meg a Veres Pálné Gimnázium. Így kerültem a Veres Pálné Gimnáziumba. Az volt az elképzelés, hogy leérettségizek, utána megyek az orvosi egyetemre, és orvos leszek. Azért nem mentem reálgimnáziumba, hanem a normálisba, ahol latint tanultam, mert az kellett az orvosi egyetemen. És úgy volt, hogy majd ha kiöregszik az apukám, akkor az ő praxisát folytatom. De miután apukám 54 éves volt, amikor meghalt Auschwitzban, a kiöregedését nem tudtam megvárni.

Tízéves koromban, 1931-ben kerültem fel Budapestre, a Mozsár utca 12-be a nagyanyámhoz, anyukám édesanyjához, és tizennyolc éves koromig csak akkor voltam otthon Jánoshalmán, amíg a tavaszi, a karácsonyi, meg a nyári szünet volt. Az anyukám nagyon sokat jött föl Pestre, mert mi nagyon-nagyon jó viszonyban voltunk. Anyámat imádtam, a legjobb barátnőm volt, de az apukámat rajongásig szerettem. Az volt a legboldogabb percem kisgyerekkoromban, mikor elhívták a falu végére beteghez, és akkor biciklivel karikáztam el, hogy legalább odáig elkísérjem, és kint megvártam, amíg esetleg egy szülést lebonyolított. Borzasztó apás voltam.

A nagymamámnál nem volt férfi a házban, négyen voltunk lányok, én, a nagyanyám meg a két vénkisasszony nagynéném. Gábor nagybátyám is velünk lakott, de ő a Magyar Aszfaltútépítő Vállalatnak volt a főmérnöke, az összes magyarországi nemzetközi utakat az ő irányításával végezték, és ő tavasztól őszig, amíg az első hó nem esett le, addig kint volt a munkálatokat irányítani. Nem a pesti irodából irányított, hanem akkor még az volt a divat, hogy a főmérnök úr ott van, ahol a munka folyik. Nagybátyámnak nem volt felesége, és mindig mondtuk neki, hogy nősüljön, de akkor azt mondta: „Hogy nősüljek? Három nőhöz egy negyediket nem hozhatok ide.” Mindig gyönyörű barátnői voltak, de hát ő meg az apukám tartották el a nagyanyámat és a két féltestvért.

A Mozsár utcai lakás nagyon szép komfortos négyszobás lakás volt, volt benne egy hatalmas fürdőszoba fürdőkáddal, hengerkályhával, külön vécé is, a szobákban cserépkályha, és akkora szobák voltak, mint a Tattersall. Három méter magasak voltak, és a nagymama az egyik udvari szobát, az egyik utcai szobát meg a cselédszobát mindig kiadta. Az neki megélhetési forrás volt.

1934-ben az egész család átköltözött a Pozsonyi út 28-ba. A ház 1933-ban épült, és mi a második lakók voltunk, én elvileg tehát őslakó vagyok, mert azóta is itt élek. A lakás valójában első emeleti volt, de a háziúr – a háztulajdonos, akitől béreltük a lakást, és aki felettünk lakott – magasföldszintinek jelentette be, mert így kevesebb adót kellett fizetnie. Mert akkor nem hatemeletes a ház, hanem csak öt, tehát ez az emelet ilyen sunda-bunda lett. Akkor is volt simliskedés, akkor is volt adócsalás, nem csak manapság! A lakás fél központi fűtéses volt, a mellékhelyiségekben volt központi fűtés, és az egyik szoba sarkában volt egy gyönyörű fafűtéses cserépkályha, a hálószobát pedig rézszobának hívtuk, mert csodálatos rézbútorok voltak benne.

A gimnáziumban elég sok zsidó lány volt az osztályban. Ez nem zsidó iskola volt, az iskolával nem kellett járni zsinagógába és zsidó ünnepekkor is mentünk iskolába; aki odajárt, azok az abszolút neológ zsidókhoz tartoztak. Akkoriban kötelező volt a hittan, és akkor derült ki, hogy ki kicsoda. Minden vallásnak volt saját hittantanára, egyik transzport ment az osztályból a katolikushoz, a tiszinek az órájára, mi meg mentünk a zsidóhoz. Valami Klein nevű volt a tanár, nagyon vallásos. Az iskolában kötelezően mindig Bocskai-egyenruhát [lásd. bocskai ruha] kellett hordani, az ünnepeken fehéret, hétköznap pedig fehér és kék csíkosat, mint a matrózblúz. És sötétkék Bocskai-sapkát, sötétkék hosszú Bocskai-kabáttal, a kabáton sújtásokkal, a sapkán pedig középen a gimnázium zománcozott jelvényével. Ezt a felszerelést a Sütő utcában lehetett megvásárolni készen, az a bolt erre volt szakosodva, és két garnitúrát kellett venni, mert váltás is kellett.

Nehéz volt az iskola, sokat kellett tanulni, és komoly követelmények voltak. Három nyelven tanultunk: latin, német, francia. Ez kötelező volt. Énnekem a matematika ment nagyon jól, nyelvérzékem nem volt, de sok tantárgy volt, és annak meg kellett felelni, úgy a matematikának, mint a földrajznak. Volt egy földrajztanár, úgy hívták, hogy Geszti, ő is írta a tankönyvet, és fújnunk kellett az égtájakat, városokat, országokat! Bejött: „Papírt, ceruzkát!” – akkor elő kellett venni egy papírt, és meg volt adva egy téma, hogy a nem tudom melyik országnak a fekvése, a folyó, a városok, a főváros, minden, és azt le kellett rajzolni. Fejből! De előtte be kellett tanulni a könyvből, hogy az ember meg tudja csinálni.

Az igazgatónőnk nagyon szigorú volt, olyan igazi tipikus békebeli, háború előtti vénkisasszony, dr. Hajcs Ilona. Rettenetes rendet tartott. És mi fegyelmezettek voltunk. Ott nem lehetett fiúzni, hogy várjon az utcán, a sarkon a fiú bennünket. Mert utána raportra hívott, és jött a letolás. Egyszer az apukám eljött értem az iskolába – az apukám nagyon fiatalos volt, nagyon jól nézett ki, egy jóvágású fiú volt –, és másnap fölhívott raportra az igazgatónő, hogy hogy képzelem én ezt? Voltam 16-17 éves. Be kellett az apukámat vinni, hogy ez az apukám volt, nem egy lovag. Szóval más volt az iskolarendszer is, tiszteltük a tanárokat. Volt egy Molnár Erzsike nevű lány – főorvos-asszony lett –, és mi voltunk ketten az osztályban a legfiatalabbak, mert novemberben születtünk mind a ketten. Egymás mellett ültünk nyolc évig a padban, két kis félszeg vidéki kislány. Evvel a dr. Molnár Erzsike barátnőmmel minden héten órákig beszélgetünk, és utólag jövünk rá, hogy mennyi minden megbeszélnivalónk volt, amit most, 86 éves korban tárgyalunk ki. Mert hát elsősorban mi volt akkor? A két óra közt tíz perc szünet, és akkor ott szigorú dresszúra volt.

Az iskola után jártam a barátnőkkel teniszezni, télen korcsolyázni, jártam zongoraórára, németórára, franciaórára, mert ez kötelező volt az iskolában. Egészen fiatalkoromtól kezdve kedvencem volt a teniszezés. Jánoshalmán volt teniszpálya, és olyan játékos arány volt, hogy három fiú és én voltam az egy lány köztük. Teniszezni imádtunk és biciklizni minden mennyiségben, és nagyon szerettünk táncolni. Volt Jánoshalmán egy zsidó tánciskola, a Malvin néni, és odajártunk minden héten – hogy hányszor, már nem tudom –, de nagyon szerettünk odajárni táncolni. Meg volt beszélve, hogy ha olyan fiú kér fel, akivel nem szeretek táncolni, akkor akivel szeretek, az gyorsan lekér. Ilyen fifikás dolgok voltak.

Téli-nyári szünetekben otthon voltam Jánoshalmán, ahol nagy társadalmi élet volt, nagyon kellemes és ténylegesen egy nagyon jó értelmiségi társaság volt Jánoshalmán. És otthon minden program menetrendszerű volt. Pont a templommal szemben laktunk. Amikor tizenkettőt harangoztak, akkor kötelezően le kellett ülni ebédelni. Este, mikor hét órát harangoztak, kötelezően le kellett ülni vacsorázni.  A háztartási alkalmazott szervírozta az ebédet meg a vacsorát, amit közösen főztünk, de az anyukám irányításával. Mindig olyan háztartási alkalmazottunk volt, aki főzni is tudott. Vacsora után átmentünk a Jungreiszékhez, akinek a felesége meghalt méhen kívüli terhességben, kisétáltunk a vasútállomáshoz a Fő utcán, és megnéztük együtt 10 órakor a vonatot. Ki jött meg Pestről? Meg mit tudom én honnét. Akkor hazasétáltunk, és ezzel vége volt a napnak.

Kötelező program volt, hogy elmentünk este sétálni. Elöl mentek az öregek, utánuk meg mi, a fiatalok. Mi gyerekek nagyrészt csak a szünetben voltunk otthon, mert az egyik Szegedre járt iskolába, a másik Bajára, a harmadik Kiskunhalasra. A szünetekben összeverődtünk, és akkor ez nekünk is program volt, hogy este elmentünk sétálni. Hát nem volt más! Egy héten egyszer volt mozi, akkor mentünk a moziba. És volt a tánciskola. Meg volt egy libaúsztató. Strand. De bennünket kielégített ez a szórakozás.

Néha elmentünk az autónkkal Balatonra, Balatonkenesére, vagy apukám azzal hozta el Jánoshalmára a nagymamámat Budapestről, aki aztán több hónapig ott is maradt nálunk. Apukámnak volt ugyan rendes jogosítványa, de nem nagyon vezette az autót. Volt a házunkban lévő Hangya boltban egy segéd, aki teherautóval szállította az árut, a Miska, és autózáskor mindig a Miskát szedte elő az apukám. Ő volt a sofőr. Ha csak egy mód volt rá, apukám inkább a Miska mellett szeretett ülni. Ha mégis egyedül ment és bedöglött az autó, akkor otthagyta, beszólt az első parasztházba, hogy fogják be a kocsit és hozzák haza. És aztán Miskát küldte ki az autóért. Mondtuk az apukámnak, hogy milyen dolog az, hogy autót vezet, jól vezet, és ha valami probléma van, nem nyitja ki a motorházat, hogy megnézze? Azt mondta, hogy ő nem nyúl hozzá, mert neki a keze a kenyere, és az nem szabad hogy megsérüljön. Mindig ez volt a mottója: „Nekem a kezem a kenyerem.”

Jánoshalmán mentem a családdal együtt zsinagógába is, ott egy olyan jó társaság volt, jöttek a gyerekek is, és nagyon jól elszórakoztunk. Ott nem volt mese. De Pesten nem voltam zsinagógában. A nagyanyám abszolút nem volt vallásos, két nagynéném se, a nagybátyám se. És otthon mindég kiruháztak, mikor jöttem vissza Pestre. Meg Hanukakor is kaptam ajándékot, de a karácsonyt nem tartottuk. Rendes, hagyományos, nagyon jó vidéki életet éltünk, nagyon jó hely volt Jánoshalma, és nagyon szerettük, addig, amíg nem volt a vészkorszak.

1939-ben érettségiztem, akkor jött a következő numerus clausus [lásd. Zsidótörvények Magyarországon], és már az egyetemre nem vettek föl. Hazamentem Jánoshalmára, és azt mondta az anyukám, hogy minden úrilánynak meg kell tanulni varrni. Volt egy nagyon rendes keresztény varrónő, és odajártam szabni meg varrni tanulni. Ez nem volt kötelező, de szerettem menni, a többi lányokkal jóban voltunk, jó barátok, jó ismerősök voltak. Olyan 2-3 órát ott voltam, a többi időt meg kellett biciklizni menni, meg kellett teniszezni menni.

A varróiskolában addig voltam, amíg férjhez nem mentem. A férjemmel úgy ismerkedtünk meg 1940-ben, hogy kóser disznót vágtunk. Minden évben vágtunk. Mert az apukám két nagy földbirtoknak volt az uradalmi orvosa, a kalocsai érseké és a Rosenberg uradalomé, és nem pengőben, hanem természetben kapta az orvosi honoráriumot. Decemberben disznót vágtunk – nem az apukám vágta le, hanem hívtak egy hentest, aki levágta, rendesen, forsriftosan volt csinálva –, és olyankor az volt a szokás, hogy az összes barátot, mindenkit, nagy disznótoros vacsorára meghívnak. Az egyik orvoskolléga szólt telefonon, hogy nem tudnak átjönni, mert Pestről jön egy vendégük. Mondta nekik apuka, hogy ez mért probléma? Plusz egy személy, ahol ennyi ember van vacsorára meghívva?! Hát a férjem volt az a plusz egy személy, akivel percek alatt jó beszédes viszonyba kerültünk. Akkor olyan rettenetes nagy tél volt és olyan hóesés, hogy hetekig nem mentek a vonatok. Szegény férjemnek ez lett a veszte. Ott ragadt nálunk.

A férjem Weizenfeld György – Várnaira lett magyarosítva – 1908-ban született, tizenhárom évvel volt nálam idősebb. Az apósom, Weizenfeld Jakab eredetileg jánoshalmai származású volt, és miskolci lányt vett feleségül, Weisz Irmát. Apósomnak nagy textil és konfekció áruháza volt Miskolcon, úgyhogy ők Miskolcon éltek. Hat gyerekük volt, és a sors különös kegyéből öt gyerek hazajött a háború után. Az apósom, az anyósom, meg Magdi lányuk Auschwitzban maradt a kisfiával, de a többiek átvészelték. A legidősebb lány Olga volt – ő a háború után kiment Ausztráliába –, volt még a Pál – ő megmagyarosíttatta a nevét Vári Pálra –, volt még a Pista, és volt a Teréz. Ezek voltak a férjem testvérei.

Nekem – aki a Goldschmied családban, anyám részéről egy darab gyerek voltam – furcsa volt egy ilyen nagy családba bekerülni, ahol hat gyerek volt, a hat gyereknek férje, felesége, gyerekei, és rettenetesen összetartottak a testvérek. Az anyósom egy határtalanul intelligens, igazi dáma volt. Megkövetelte, hogy minden este vacsora után, aki testvérek Miskolcon laktak, unokástul, férjestül, feleségestül összeüljenek. Ha nem volt ott senki idegen, akkor is voltak vagy tizenöten, és anyósoméknak akkora ebédlőjük volt, mint a Tattersall.

A szüleim nagyon szerették a férjem, de voltak olyanok, akik megjegyzést tettek – hát akkor volt a férjem 32 éves –, hogy: „Doktor úr! Az egy szem lányát egy ilyen öregemberhez adja férjhez?” 1941-ben házasodtunk össze. Először polgári esküvőnk volt, és amikor mentünk a községházára, akkor tankok között mentünk, mert akkor kapcsolták vissza Délvidéket, elözönlöttek bennünket a menekültek, a katonaság meg ott állt hadisorrendben a tankokkal. Az egész jánoshalmai csendőrséget, akik mind az apukám betegei voltak, lecserélték, és délvidékieket tettek helyettük. Akkor már tudtuk, hogy nagy baj van. Hát már bőven ment a háború.

A polgári esküvő után forsriftos ortodoxesküvőm is volt, nem is volt téma, hogy ne legyen egyházi esküvő! De nem vallási okok miatt volt, hanem azért, mert Jánoshalma az ortodox egyházközséghez tartozott. Részemre furcsa volt. Nálunk, az egyik szobában volt felállítva a hüpe, én az egyik szobában voltam leültetve a sarokban egy fotelba, letakarva, bádekkolva – azt sose fogom elfelejteni! – és mellettem gyertya. Úgy ültem ott, mint akit felravataloztak. Egyik szobában voltak a nők, másik szobában a férfiak, és ott imádkozott a Lorgyán bácsi, a kántor (Jánoshalmán ő volt a sakter is), meg a pap. A férjem egyszerre megunta ezt, bejött hozzám, odaült a fotel karfájára és átölelt. Észrevette a Lorgyán bácsi, a kántor. Rettenetes vallásos volt! Az aztán az ortodoxoknál is ortodoxabb volt, és bekiabált: „Nem jön ki rögtön?! Eltréflizi a menyasszonyt.” Végigröhögtem az egész esküvőnket. Mikor a hüpe alatt álltunk, ott is. A férjem megbökött, azt mondja: „Sírsz vagy nevetsz?” Hát végigröhögtük az egész esküvőt. Úgyhogy el lettem tréflizve.

Utána nagy fogadás volt. Az egyik szobában volt a kóser koszt az ortodoxoknak, a másikban a nem olyan vallásosaknak, a neológoknak. Ebéd után mi sarkon fordultunk és elutaztunk. Följöttünk Pestre. Ez volt 1941. április 27-én. A férjem, annak dacára, hogy miskolci volt, Pesten lakott, a Dohány utca 20-ban volt konfekcióüzemük a bátyjával. Egy egész emelet, és ott volt a férjemnek lakása is. Azután megvártuk, amíg felépül a Kresz Géza 38-ban egy új ház, és akkor ott lett a lakásunk. Egy három szoba hallos, nagyon szép lakás.

A férjemmel olyan jól voltunk egymással és olyan nagy szerelem volt, hogy tényleg egymásnak éltünk. Nagy társadalmi életet éltünk, jól éltünk, nem volt anyagi problémánk, semmi a világon. Amikor eszembe jutott, akkor fölültem a vonatra, elmentem haza Jánoshalmára. Amikor megérkeztem, kérdeztem a házvezetőnket, a Mariskát: „Hol vannak az anyukámék?” Azt mondja: „Lakodalomban vannak, parasztlakodalomban.” Mondom: „Melyik kocsmában?” Mentem utánuk. És a férjem jött utánam hétvégén.

1942-ben meghalt Róza nagynéném vesezsugorban, és nem sokkal utána meghalt az anyai nagyanyám is. Nagyanyám 88 éves volt ekkor. Nem is volt beteg, fájt ugyan a lába, de azonkívül semmi baja nem volt, de a nagynéném halála után teljesen összeroppant. Úgy szerette a nagynénéimet, mintha az édes gyerekei lettek volna. Szegény kiment a vécére, sokáig nem jött ki, és akkor mondtam az Ella nagynénémnek: „Mit csinál az ómama ilyen sokáig?” Ott halt meg, egy perc alatt. 42-ben halt meg az apai nagyapám is, és 42-ben behívták apukámat is, mert mindig behívták, mikor volt valami rumli. Kelebiára vonult be, akkor már munkaszolgálatra, egyenruhában, de aztán leszerelt egy bizonyos idő után.

Apukámnak az volt a személy szerinti kívánsága, hogy amikor a fiam születik, ragaszkodik ahhoz, hogy Budapestről hazamenjek szülni. Mintha érezte volna, hogy nem sokáig lesz az unokájával. Mert János 1943. januárban született, és 1944-ben az anyukámékat elvitték. Jánost úgy hordtam ki, hogy még a kilencedik hónapban bicikliztem. Kutya bajom nem volt, és hazautaztam szülni. Kiskunhalason volt az apukám egyik kollegájának magánszanatóriuma, autónk volt, hogy ha ne adj’ isten valami komplikáció közbejön, meg az egyik orvos barát vezette le a szülést. Apukám ragaszkodott hozzá, hogy otthon szüljek. Most olyan nagy cirkuszt csinálnak az otthonszülésből! Hát falun hol szültek a parasztok? Még utána fölkeltek, kitakarították a lakást, fölhúzták a tiszta ágyat, aztán lefeküdtek a gyerekágyba. A másik két gyerekem a Fasor Szanatóriumban született, úri módon, nagyon előkelő körülmények között, és nem maradtak meg.

A fiam is mikor megszületett teljesen élettelen volt. Akkor – soha nem fogom elfelejteni – engem otthagytak, és egyszeriben nagyon elkezdett kapkodni a két orvos meg a bábaasszony a gyerek körül. János azóta se kapott annyi injekciót, mint akkor. Mert nagyon nehéz szülés volt, nagy is volt a gyerek. Az én testalkatomhoz egy 3 kiló 80 dekás gyerek…! Nem volt könnyű dolog. És egyszerre a hideg vízre fölsírt. Akkor láttam az apukámat életemben először sírni. Azt mondta: „Tudod, ha Pesten született volna ez a gyerek, nem maradt volna életben.” Borzasztóan szerette a fiamat!

A nyolcadik napon forsriftosan, ahogy kell, megvolt a körülmetélés. Azt mondta az apukám, hogy ha semmi másért nem, de higiéniai okból ragaszkodik hozzá. A fiamnak apukám adta a zsidó nevét, de nem emlékszem rá. A sajátomat sem tudom, a fiamét sem, pedig nagyon nagy keresztelője volt, forsriftos zsidó keresztelője, körülmetéléssel, mindennel, ahogy az a nagykönyvben meg volt írva. Jánoshalma ortodox egyházkerület volt, úgyhogy rendes ortodox keresztelője volt.

Hat hétig otthon voltam, akkor az anyukám följött velünk Pestre. De nem volt probléma semmi, mert minden olyan gördülékenyen ment. Gyuri dolgozott a konfekcióüzemében, a Dohány utca 20-ban, én meg otthon voltam a gyerekkel. Aztán mikor bejöttek a németek, apukám telefonált, hogy azonnal gyertek haza, mert itt jó helyen lesztek. Anyukám éppen itt volt véletlenül Pesten, összepakoltunk, és hazamentünk. Gyuri is jött. Két vagy három hétig voltunk otthon, amikor jöttek a délvidéki csendőrök, hogy aki nem jánoshalmai lakó, 24 órán belül el kellett hagynia azt. Akkor már Jánoshalmán kellett sárga csillagot viselni.

Apukám nem engedte a gyereket felhozni Pestre, mert már akkor tudtuk, hogy embereket leszednek a vonatról. Azt mondta, hogy nem lehet tudni, nem fognak-e bennünket is levenni. Akkor még Auschwitzról nem tudtunk. Azt tudtuk, hogy embereket összeszednek, meg leszednek a járművekről, de azt, hogy utána vagonírozzák és elviszik őket, ezt még nem tudtuk. Azt mondta az apukám: „A gyerek itt jó helyen lesz. Ti menjetek haza szépen!”

Szerencsésen fölértünk Pestre Gyurival, és hamarosan jött a telefon, hogy elviszik apukámékat. Nálunk Jánoshalmán már leszerelték a telefont, be kellett szolgáltatni a rádiót is, de szerencse volt, hogy a házunkban volt egy Hangya. A Hangya országosan elterjedt üzlethálózat volt, olyan, mint ma mondjuk a CBA. Vegyeskereskedés, ahol mindenféle háztartási gépeket, kerti szerszámokat, cukrot, mindenfélét lehetett kapni, egy falusi bolt volt. Ott volt telefon, nagyon rendes volt a vezető, avval nagyon jóban voltunk, és azok megengedték, hogy apukámék telefonáljanak. Én nem hívhattam őket, mert a lakásból nem jöhettek ki. De viszont az a kertrész, ahol a rendelő is volt, az még a mi részünk volt a házban, és ott át lehetett menni a Hangyába hátulról. Nem kellett kimenni az utcára. Onnan felhívtak minket, úgy tudtunk valamennyire kapcsolatot tartani egymással.

Feltelefonáltak anyukámék, hogy visznek minket, mi legyen? Pár napig a levegőben lógott, hogy hátha mégis maradhatnak, de aztán egyik percről a másikra összepakolták, és elvitték őket is, meg a gyereket is. Apukám az utolsó levelében, május 12-én tökéletesen leírta, hogy hogy zajlik az egész procedúra, hogy mindent leltárba vesznek, és semmiről nem adnak papírt. Leírta, hogy egész éjjel az egyik orvos-házaspárral volt, mert öngyilkosok lettek. A nagybátyámnak írta, mert azt írta, hogy nem akarta nekem írni, nem akar nekem szomorúságot okozni. „Az Úristen velünk lesz és nem hagy el bennünket és nem fogja hagyni már sokáig tűrni százezrek szenvedését.” Ez volt az utolsó levél, amit otthonról, Jánoshalmáról írtak.

Az apukámat nem vitték volna el, mert ő kivételezett volt mint első világháborús, magasan kitüntetett ezredorvos, de az anyukámat viszont nem akarták otthagyni. Azt mondták, hogy rá nem vonatkozik a kivételezettség. Akkor azt mondta az apukám, hogyha az anyukámat elviszik, ő nem marad ott. Könyörögtem neki: „Gyertek fel ide hozzánk! Vedd föl a katonai uniformisodat, üljetek föl a vonatra, mert egy ezredorvost nem fognak leszedni ezek a nyikhaj nyilasok…!” Nem. Mert ő olyan optimista volt. Akkor még nagyon reménykedett, hogy őmellette kiáll az egész falu, és nem fogják elvinni. Az az igazság, hogy tényleg még a Turul Szövetség [lásd. Turul Szövetség] is kiállt mellette, márpedig az aztán igazán elég sötét, nyilas bagázs volt. De az anyukámat mindenáron vinni akarták. Szegény anyám! Az is volt a vesztük, hogy olyan rettenetesen optimisták voltak.

Bácsalmásra kerültek gettóba, és az apukám ott a gettókórházban dolgozott, az anyukám meg az irodában volt. Úgy tudott nekünk írógépen levelet írni. És pár nap múlva egy éjszaka apukámat kvázi elhívták egy beteghez ott a gettókórházon belül, és akkor a volt háztartási alkalmazottunk egy pokrócba bebugyolálva kilopta a gyereket a gettóból, és fölhozta Pestre, a Pozsonyi útra.

Ezt írta az anyukám a gettóból: „Az idő kellemesen telik, de azért már jó lenne tudni, meddig fog tartani ez a nyaralási akció.” Ezt írta 1944. május 23-án. Azután apukámat a gettóban félholtra verték. Szerintem valaki feljelentette. Lehet, hogy a volt házvezetőnőnk, ezt nem merném ráfogni, nem merem meggyanúsítani, de ő tudta, hogy mit hova ástunk el, mit hova tettünk. Akkor raktunk el mindent, mikor otthon voltunk, március közepe fele. Mert akkor már tudtuk, hogy be kellett szolgáltatni a rádióktól kezdve mindenfélét. Hát persze hogy az ember mentette, amilye volt. Azt hittük, hogy egyszer majd vége lesz, és akkor majd lesz miből kezdeni.

Miután az apukám fogorvos is volt, rengeteg fogarany volt otthon, meg hazavittük Jánoshalmára az ékszereinket, és az anyukámnak nagymamám után volt nagyon sok családi ékszere, meg személyes ékszerek, amit az apukámtól kapott. A rendelő nagy ablakának ki lett véve oldalt a kerete, és oda rejtettük el. A rendelőben voltak nagy sterilizátorok – akkor még másfajta volt a rendelő, mint most – és abba lettek eldugva az ezüst evőeszközök. Volt ilyen sterilizátorunk több is, apukámék a kertben fölástak egy nagy részt, és ott lettek elásva. Olyan volt, mint egy temetés. És ezt nem tudta más, csak a házvezetőnőnk. Mert kellett, hogy ásni segítsen. A jánoshalmaiak szerint ő jelentett föl minket. Ez vagy igaz, vagy nem, nem tudom. De egy percig nem jutott eszembe, hogy bármit ellene tettem volna. Ő annál nagyobbat nem tehetett, mint azt, hogy a gyereket megmentette. Akkor már kijárási tilalom volt, de ő, a keresztény, hozta a karján, bebugyolálva egy pokrócba. Én csak hálával tartozom, hogy a gyereket megmentette.

Az apukámat félholtra verték, kiverték belőle, hogy mit hova tett. Azt írta az utolsó levelében: „Még többet is mondtam, mint amennyi van, csakhogy a verést abbahagyják.” Apukámat elvitték a bácsalmási gettóból Jánoshalmára, és a rendelőablaknak kiemelték a tokját. Megtaláltak mindent. A háború után hetekig jártunk a férjemmel a Széchenyi Könyvtárba megkeresni azt a 44-es újságot, amiben benne volt, hogy „Elrejtett zsidó vagyont találtak”, doktor Klein Ármin jánoshalmai lakos elrejtett zsidó vagyona. Több mint 200 000 pengő értékű arany és ezüst ékszert találtak. Megvan az az újságom, 44. július 16-i Pesti Hírlap, de minden nyilas újság megírta. És az összes nyilas újságot, minden dokumentumot, ami a jánoshalmai deportálásról volt, mindent elvittem magammal a gettóba, hogy majd egyszer jó lesz. Nem tudom, mért voltam ilyen optimista. Persze az égvilágon mindent elvitt a bomba. Mindent.

Azután mindkettőjüket elvitték Auschwitzba, apukámat meg berakták egy orvos-századba, és abból az orvos-századból egyetlenegy ember nem jött vissza. Egy se! Volt egy unokanővérem, szintén jánoshalmai, és ő mesélte, hogy eleinte még egy-kétszer küldött az apukám Auschwitzba anyukámnak üzenetet, utána eltűntek. Az orvosokat nem szerették 44-ben. Pusztavámon egy halom orvost gyilkoltak meg, volt köztük jánoshalmai is. Ez egy sötét ügy.

A férjem nemsokára elment munkaszolgálatra. Őt előtte is behívták, csak mindig sikerült neki valahogy hazajönni többször is. De utoljára először Tardonára vitték, ahol egy munkaszolgálatos gyűjtőtábor volt, onnan aztán egész az osztrák határig, és végig ott voltak. Tardonán még együtt volt Pista bátyjával, meg a sógornőmnek a férjével, meg annak a testvérével, meg Pali testvére is velük volt, aztán valahogy szétszórták őket. A férjeméknek nem tudom, mit kellett dolgozniuk, hogy mit csináltak, de mindig hurcolták őket jobbra-balra. Volt, akivel jóban lett a munkaszolgálatban, és egy kvázi alakulatot képeztek maguknak. Vigyáztak, hogy mindig együtt maradhasson ez a társaság és igyekeztek megszökni mindig, de mindig elkapták őket. Az volt róla az utolsó hírem – mert valamelyik munkaszolgálatosnak sikerült megszökni, hazajönni, és azzal üzent a férjem –, hogy elfogták és halálra ítélték őket, mint szökött munkaszolgálatosokat.

Nekem a Kresz Géza utcai lakást június 16. körül el kellett hagynom, mert az nem volt csillagos ház. Szerencsém volt, hogy a Pozsonyi úti ház, ahol Gábor nagybátyám és Ella nagynéném maradt, csillagos ház volt. A Dohány utca 20-ban egy nagyon rendes stróman volt, és a bútorainkat odavittük, mert Pozsonyi úti lakás egy berendezett polgári lakás volt. Akkor én átköltöztem a kisfiammal a Pozsonyi út 28-ba, és október 15-ig olyan extra bajunk nem volt, egész jól elvoltam. Délelőtt volt egy óra kijárási lehetőség és délután volt 4-től 5-ig kijárás, de sárga csillaggal. Én általában nem nagyon tartottam be a szabályokat, mert levettem a csillagot, nagyon előkelően fölöltöztem és többször is elmentem. Elmentem csavarogni, ezt venni, meg azt venni, meg amihez hozzá lehetett jutni. Élelmet kellett szerezni! Itt voltam a nagynénémmel, Ellával és a pici gyerekkel, a gyereknek enni kellett adni. Egy volt a cél, hogy a gyerek ne haljon éhen.

Eleinte csak mi laktunk a Pozsonyi úti lakásban, de már a proklamáció[lásd. Horthy proklamáció] előtt ezeket a csillagos házakat feltöltötték, beköltöztettek embereket. Körülbelül olyan hatvan ember lett ebben a lakásban. Akkor én kivittem a gyerekágyat a cselédszobába, és a nagynéném, én és a gyerek a cselédszobában voltunk, ahol csak a gyerekágy fért el, a nagynéném meg én a földön aludtunk. Mert azt mondtam, hogy a gyereknek a nyugalmához ragaszkodom. És mondtam, hogy a lakásba meg annyi ember jöjjön, amennyi csak befér. A szobákban a bútorokat egymás tetejére raktuk, a hálószobából a gyönyörű rézbútorokat kiraktuk a ház udvarára, hogy üres legyen a szoba, és minél több ember férjen el. És mikor a Horthy-proklamáció lezajlott, akkor mindannyian mentünk az utcára. A házban a hatodikon volt egy keresztény tanár, nála halottuk a proklamációt. És volt egy vezérezredes, aki a Radnóti utcában lakott – akkor még Sziget utca volt –, aki meglépett, nagyon rendes pali volt, és az rohangászott az utcán és kiabálta, hogy mindenki vegye le azonnal a házakról a sárga csillagot! Hát mindannyian mint az őrültek rohantunk ki, boldogok voltunk. És mire levettük a sárga csillagot, akkor egyszerre jött a fönti lakó, hogy nyilasuralom van. A szemben lévő házba bevonultak a nyilasok. Ott volt a Nyilas Ház.[lásd. nyilasház]

Az első öt percben elvittek innen a Népszínház utcai Nyilas Házba pár velem-korabeli embert, és két napig voltunk ott. A nagynéném nem akarta engedni, hogy a gyereket is vigyem magammal. Fölöltöztem elegánsan, magas sarkú cipő, kalap, minthogyha az Operaházba mentem volna. A nagynéném – szegény! – a haját tépte: „Meg vagy te bolondulva, hogy így öltözöl fel!” Mondtam: „Idefigyelj! Nem tudom, hova visznek a nyilasok, de a gyerek nélkül én egy lépést nem megyek!” Bepakoltam egy kis bőröndbe a gyerek cuccait, meg pelenkát, hát még nem töltötte be a két évét se! És akkor elvittek egy istentelen nagy hodály házba, egy óriási raktárba. Jaj, az szörnyű volt!

Rögtön elvették a bőröndöt, a gyerekholmival, mindennel együtt. Szörnyű volt, ahogy ültünk a földön a hidegben, a gyerek az ölemben, és hemzsegtek a poloskák! Másnap éjjel a Köztársaság térre (akkor Tisza Kálmán tér) összetoborozták, akiket a Népszínház utcában meg a környékből összeszedtek, sorba állítottak, és elindítottak valahova. Én úgy mentem, hogy ment a sor, és én mindig egy kicsit hátrább mentem a gyerekkel. Amikor már egész hátul voltam, az egyik utcába bekanyarodott a sor, én meg ott megálltam. És a nyilasok nem vették észre! Elegánsan föl voltam öltözve, hát egy dámát nem fognak meggyanúsítani, hogy az egy csillagos zsidó! Gyerek a karomon, a sárga csillag eltakarva, megálltam, és úgy sikerült meglépnem. A Népszínház utcából éjjel jöttem a gyerekkel haza, aki világi jó gyerek volt, és végig csöndben maradt.

Kijárási tilalom volt, üres volt a város. Egész békésen jöttem a Nyugati-pályaudvarig, amikor egy nyilas leszólított: „Nem tudja, hogy kijárási tilalom van?” Mondom: „Most jöttem, romániai menekült vagyok.” Azt mondja: „Hova megy?” Mondom: „Pozsonyi útra.” „Akkor elkísérem magát.” El is kísért. A Pozsonyi út 26. szerencsére nem volt csillagos ház, és ott egy nagyon rendes házmester néni volt. Becsöngettem a Knausz néninek. Mondom: „Knausz néni! Tessék szíves lenni beengedni!” Ő tudta, hogy mi van, azt is tudta, hogy a mellette lévő ház csillagos ház. Beengedett, és mondtam neki: „A gyereket tessék fogni, én átmászok a két ház közti kerítésen, és azután a gyereket tessék ideadni!”

Akkor már nem lehetett kiszökdösni. Volt kapuőrség, mert a csillagos házban be kellett a kaput zárni, nem lehetett kimenni. Meghatározott időben lehetett kijárni, ki volt írva, hogy mikor. Elméletben. Gyakorlatban időközönként az ember ki-kiszökött, de nagyon kellett vigyázni, mert az utcán sem volt biztonságban, hogy nem igazoltatják. Reggel, délben, éjjel, nappal, folyton jöttek a nyilas suhancok. És mindig valakit elkaptak és elvittek.

Ételt csak szerezni lehetett. És aranyosak voltak, mert azért a zsidók is meglopták egymást. De az étel nekünk nem volt probléma, mert még mielőtt az anyukámék a gettóba kerültek, nem sokkal előbb vágtak disznót és egy csomó kaját fölküldtek a háztartási alkalmazottunkkal, aki mivel keresztény volt, szabadon mozgott, ezért jött hozzánk többször is. Töménytelen kaját felküldött az anyukám, így rengeteg ennivalónk volt, aki ott volt a lakásunkban, az mind abból evett. Kolbász, sonka, minden, olyan sok volt, hogy a spejzom tele volt. Amikor bevittek minket a gettóba, akkor a gyerek mély babakocsija csordultig tele volt ennivalóval, letakartuk és annak a tetejére raktuk a gyereket.

A Pozsonyi úti lakásban a nagynéném volt a főzőmindenes, én akkor még nem nagyon tudtam főzni. Sárgaborsó volt, ha krumplit kaptunk, akkor krumpli volt, tejet nem is tudom, hogy hogy szereztünk. Már erre nem emlékszem, hogy hogy volt. De én nagyon sokszor mentem. Üzletek még voltak, ami nem zsidó üzlet volt, és az ember igyekezett, akkor még voltak az üzletekben tartalékok. Volt egy sparhelt, amin főztük, amit főztünk, latyakokat, majdnem vizet ettünk vízzel, szegény János fiam mindig mondta: „Giros kenyeret akarok!” Hol volt akkor zsíros kenyér?

A házunkban lakott egy fűszer- és gyarmatáru nagykereskedő, rajta keresztül kaptunk svájci Schutzpasst. [ lásd. svájci diplomaták embermentő tevékenysége] Mert ő felajánlotta a Svájci Követségnek meg az „Üvegháznak”[lásd. üvegház] az egész raktárkészletét – amit a nyilasok nem fedeztek föl! –, és annak fejében kaptunk legális svájci Schutzpasszokat. Le voltak pecsételve, hivatalosan rajtuk volt a Svájci Követség pecsétje, csak nem írtak rá neveket. Éjjel-nappal mást se csináltunk, mint a svájci Schutzpasszokat állítottuk ki névre. De éjjel-nappal! Mindenkinek szóltunk. A lakásban mindenki kapott, még aki becsöngetett a szomszéd házakból, az is. Elterjedt, hogy a Pozsonyi út 28-ban a Harsányi Gyula meg a Magda állítják ki a Schutzpasszokat.

Volt egy nagyon rendes pap, aki járta a csillagos házakat, hozott ennivalókat, meg ha kellett valakinek üzenetet vinni egy másik csillagos házba, akkor elvitte, és én nagyon összebarátkoztam vele. Mindig azt mondta, hogy soha ne kérdezzük tőle, hogy hogy hívják, kicsoda, micsoda, semmit ne kérdezzünk, csak annyit tudjunk, hogy Tamás atya. Ő szerzett pápai menlevelet [1944. nov. 12.-1945. jan. 16.: fővárosi és újpesti épületek, amelyekben a zsidó lakókat pápai menlevél védte a hatósági zaklatásoktól. - Az igénylők a pápai követségtől beutalókat, azután az ideiglenes lakásirodától (Pozsonyi u. 20. sz.) lakásigazolást kaptak, hogy melyik házban szállásolják el őket. A házak parancsnokai minden változást kötelesek voltak a nunciatúrának jelenteni. A ~ a zsidóknak a pesti gettóba telepítése befejezésekor (1944. XII. 2.) már 3 hete léteztek. Újpesten 12, Bpen 4, össz. 16 önálló ház, ahová oltalomlevéllel (amihez a hatóság ragaszkodott) be lehetett menni. Ezek: Pozsonyi út 20 (230 férőhely, 297 személy), Pozsonyi út 24 (195 férőhely, 317 személy, 16 fő lakott a kapu alatt) Pozsonyi út 30 (166 férőhely, 324 személy), Légrády u. 48/a (156 férőhely, 330 személy), Wahrmann u. 28. (220 férőhely, 262 személy), Wahrmann u. 29. (152 személy), Wahrmann u. 36. (62 férőhely, 129 személy, 4 fő a lépcsőházban), Phőnix u. 14. (109 férőhely, 114 személy), Sziget u. 19/b. (137 férőhely, ?), Sziget u. 25. (270 férőhely, 154 személy, 150 főt elhurcoltak), Pannónia u. 54. (180 férőhely, 124 személy, 54 főt elhurcoltak), Pannónia u. 56. (? férőhely, 130 személy); a 12 újpesti védett házban kb. 3000 személy tartózkodott. X. 30: az előzetes terv szerint 2500 fő kaphatott volna menlevelet, de 1944. XI: kb. 15.000 p. „menleveles” élt Bpen az engedélyezett 2500 helyett (a svájci követség 7800, a svéd kb. 5000, a portugál 698, a sp. 300 főt védett). A területenkívüliséget az SS-katonák nem méltányolták, ezért a 16 házból csak 12 maradt mindvégig védve. Az elhurcoltak visszahozatalára Bp-Hegyeshalom között a zsidó Újvári Sándor (1904-88) kv-kiadó pápai menlevéllel mentőszolgálatot szervezett, ebbe kapcsolódott be Zsarnay Kálmán főispán és neje. A nunciatúra házában 200 személyt rejtegettek., úgyhogy volt az is. – A szerk..] Rettenetes sokat segített, amit tudott, még a gettóba is bejött egyszer utánunk. Aztán a végén kiderült, hogy dr. Kis György, egy zsidóból lett jezsuita pap, a családjának egy része Auschwitzban elpusztult és a végén neki is bujkálni kellett. De ez csak a háború után derült ki.

Körülbelül olyan október végén jöttek a nyilasok. Hiába mutattuk a Schutzpasszot, mindent itt kellett hagyni, és elvittek minket a Hollán utca és Gergely Győző utcai házba, egy csillagos házba. De hogy milyen elgondolás alapján, nem tudom. Ott voltunk két napig, és két nap múlva azt mondták, menjünk haza. De hogy mért, ezt a Jóisten tudja. Csak.

Azután novemberben kaptam a Sütő utca 2-be hadiüzemi behívót, egy varróüzembe, kényszermunkára. Itthonról kellett bejárni, minden reggel jött értünk a nyilas. A szomszéd lakásban lakott egy nagyon helyes lány, ilyen korú, mint én, a 4. emeleten az egyik lakótársunknak a húga, aki ideköltözött, meg fönn az 5. emeleten annak a Harsányinak a sógornője, akivel a Schutzpasszt csináltuk, és aki szintén ideköltözött. Négyünkért jöttek minden reggel öt órakor, és be kellett menni a Sütő utca 2-be. A németeknek volt ott a hadiüzeme, varróüzem, katonai ruhákat kellett varrni. Töménytelen gép volt ott, amivel varrtuk ezeket a katonai vackokat.

Már körülbelül három hete jártunk oda, és amikor láttam, hogy nagyon sok nőt, embert összetoboroznak ott, akkor mondtam a lányoknak: „Idefigyeljetek! Én oda többet nem megyek, mert ha a németek ennyi embert összegyűjtöttek, el fognak bennünket vinni.” Nem hittek nekem. Nem tudtunk Auschwitzról semmit, csak azt tudtuk, hogy embereket összeszednek, elvisznek, de hova teszik, nem tudtuk. Másnap fél ötkor fölmentem a lányokhoz és – én nem vagyok sírós – sírva, zokogva könyörögtem nekik, hogy ne menjünk el. „Ne menjetek be!” – mondtam – „Én nem megyek.” Elmentek. Mi lett az eredmény? Nem jöttek soha többé haza, elvitték őket Dachauba. A németek a gépekkel együtt az embereket is felpakolták és elvitték. Egyetlenegy jött vissza, akinek később a papája szedett ki engem a romok alól a gettóban.

Közben a Pista sógorom valahogy valahonnan meglépett egy munkaszolgálatos barátjával, akit idehozott magával. A konyhaszekrényt odatoltuk az ablak elé, vagy az ajtó elé, hogy ne lássanak be, és mögébújtattuk őket. Volt egy nagyon rendes barátunk a Kresz Géza 38-ban, a szomszédunk, aki a fővárosnál dolgozott, városi főtanácsos volt. Nagyon sokszor hozott ennivalót, vajat meg tejet, meg mindenfélét. Ekkor is eljött és hamis papírokkal elvitte a sógoromat a Dohány utca 20-ba, a családjához. Úgyhogy a sógorom ott vészelte át.

Gábor nagybátyám, amikor elvitték anyukámékat, ő még dolgozott valahol, ahol utat építettek. Apukám azt írta neki az utolsó levelében, hogy ameddig csak lehet, dolgozzon. „Inkább te fizess nekik, csak dolgozhass!” De amikor a nagybátyám hazajött, behívták sáncmunkára. Akkor valahogy, nem tudom honnan, kerítettünk egy keretlegényt, aki pénzért hazahozta a nagybátyámat 1944. december elején. És akkor nagyon boldogok voltunk, hogy jaj, de jó, együtt van a család.

Naponta háromszor jöttek hol a nyilasok, hol a rendőrök – a rendőrök rendesek voltak. Karácsony előtt aztán jöttek a nyilasok és összeszedték a fiatalokat meg az időseket és vitték a Duna-partra. Lakott nálunk egy fiatalember, aki, amikor a nyilasok lőttek, beugrott a Dunába. Ott volt hajnalig, és mikor nem volt már senki, akkor egy zsákot magára húzott, úgy jött haza. Ő mesélte, hogy mi történt, hogy az embereket a Dunába lőtték. Énnekem az volt a szerencsém, hogy nem volt már akkor villanyvilágítás. A nyilasok bementek a szobába, a hátuk mögött a sötétben felosontam a 6. emeletre, és az a keresztény tanár elbújtatott. A nagynéném meg ott volt a lakásban, a karján a gyerekkel, de a nagynénémet nem bántották. Javarészt fiatalokat szedtek össze, de nem tudom, szegény Hűvös bácsi mért volt az útjukban a 80 nem tudom hány évével, de azt is elvitték.

Minden hajnalban mentünk a Váci úti kenyérgyárba, avval a keresztény emberrel, aki egy nagyon rendes tanár volt. Mentünk, sárga csillag nélkül. Hát ő árja volt! Volt egy kis tolókocsink, azt teleraktuk kenyérrel, és szétosztottuk mindenkinek, mindenki kapott. Attól függ, hogy mennyien voltunk, ha csak fél kenyérre tellett, akkor fél kenyeret. Alapjában véve mi láttuk el a házat ennivalóval. A házban csak ő maradt nem zsidó, a többi elcserélte a lakását. A fölöttem lévő lakásban lakott például a háziúr, azok elmenekültek Amerikába. Azóta se tudunk róluk.

Január 5-én volt a fiam kétéves. Hatodikán megszállták a házat a nyilasok, hogy itt kell hagyni mindent, azonnali hatállyal a gettóba kell menni! Akkor már a többi házakból is szedték össze az embereket, hiába volt svéd, svájci menlevelük, azokat is. Sorba állítottak minket a fönti emelettől végig a kapualjig. Az egyik fönti lakótársunk egy nagyon helyes mérnök volt, az is a munkaszolgálatból lógott meg, megszólalt fönn a 6. emeleten, hogy nem is érti, hogy lehet egy olyan fajt üldözni, amelyik föltalálta a sóletot. Úgy elkezdtünk röhögni lent, hogy azt hittük, ott helyben agyonlőnek bennünket.

Január 6-án bevittek bennünket a gettóba. Ha tudtuk volna, hogy 18-án felszabadulunk, akkor nem megyünk el, hogy ott veszítsem el az utolsó két családtagomat egy bombázásnál! Akkor fölmentünk volna a padlásra elbújni! A gettóban töménytelen nyilas és töménytelen ember volt, és a nyilasok szétparcelláztak bennünket. Minket a nagybátyámmal és a nagynénémmel a Síp utca 10-be, egy harmadik emeleti lakásba raktak, ahol volt még rajtunk kívül vagy harminc ember. A pincébe nem mertünk lemenni, mert minden éjjel valamelyik pincében agyonlőtték a nyilasok az embereket. Abban a bombazáporban, ami volt, az emeletre nem mertek a nyilasok se fölmenni de akik a pincében voltak, egy csomó helyen agyonlőtték őket. Tele volt sebesültekkel a Wesselényi utcai ideiglenes kórház, és nagyon sok halott volt, részben a bombatámadástól, részben meg a pincékben.

Január 13-án délelőtt 10 órakor kaptuk a bombatámadást. Szombati nap volt. Vallásos öreg nénikék, akik nem akartak a pincében imádkozni, feljöttek a lakásokba, és imakönyvvel a kezükben haltak meg. A nagynéném éppen ült a sparhelt mellett, a rántott levesbe csipetkét csipegetett. Szegénykémet a csipetkével a kezében érte a bomba! Rettenetes bombazápor volt, János rettenetesen sírt, és mondtam a nagybátyámnak, hogy: „Vidd le a gyereket a pincébe, rögtön megyünk mi is.” János így maradt életben. Mert miután őt levitte a nagybátyám, feljött, és nem telt bele két perc, amikor elrepültünk!

A Síp utca 10-be csapott be a bomba, és a ház nagy része ledőlt. Egy másodperc alatt! Nagy sötétség lett, és vége volt a világnak. Három emeletet zuhantunk! Én a romok tetejére estem, úgy, hogy szerencsémre a fél testem kint volt, ki tudtam mászni. És mellém esett – ez olyan igazi akasztófahumor – egy ruháskosár, lepedőkkel meg mit tudom én mikkel, és egy fehér lepedőt raktam magamra. Istentelen hideg tél volt, olyan hideg tél azóta se volt. Kiálltam a romok tetejére és ott rikácsoltam fönn a hegycsúcson, hogy jöjjenek és mentsenek ki. Egy Pozsonyi úti házi lakónk, Lakatos Sanyi észrevett, összeszedett egypár embert, akik földobtak kötelet, és úgy hoztak le a romok tetejéről. De a romok alól még napokig jajgatás hallatszott, és nem volt, aki a romokat el tudná takarítani! Végül két embert tudtak még kiszedni, az egyiknek (az is a Pozsonyi úti házunkból való volt, Harsányi Gyula) csákánnyal, ahogy odacsaptak, véletlenül szétrepesztették az arcát. Az egész Síp utca 10-ből összesen hárman maradtunk életben. Hetven halott volt, köztük az utolsó két családtagom, Gábor nagybátyám meg Ella nagynéném.

Levittek Jánoshoz a pincébe, mert a lábamra alig álltam, és egy padra lefektettek. János úgy irtózott tőlem, mert olyan szörnyen néztem ki, hogy a közelembe nem jött. Szürke, fekete, a szivárvány minden színe rajtam volt, ahogy én kinéztem. A hajam meg olyan volt a törmeléktől, mintha megőszültem volna. Szegény gyerek meg se ismert! És én ott feküdtem a pincében, nem tudtam lábra se állni, János meg az idős emberek öliben kuporgott állandóan. Azok hordták, mert én nem tudtam semmit csinálni. De aztán muszáj volt menni! Mikor felszabadultunk 18-án, borzasztóan néztem ki, a fejemtől a talpamig sötétkék voltam. Minden porcikám! Egy ép tagom nem volt.

Bejött a pincébe egy orosz katona, és mondta: „Budapest felszabadult, tessék kimenni!” De nekem mindenemet elvitte a bomba, babakocsit, mindent, semmim a világon nem maradt! Épp csak én maradtam meg egy szál rövid ujjú ruhában, meztiláb. Az első utam a Dohány utca 20-ba vitt. Ebben a sarokházban volt a konfekcióüzemünk, de ez a ház már kint volt, a gettófalon kívül. Fölmentem a sógoromékhoz, Pistáékhoz, adjanak nekem valamilyen holmit, hogy haza tudjak menni. Adtak kölcsön egy nagyon szép kabátot, amit aztán a következő sarkon elvettek tőlem. Levettek. Egy rövid ujjú blúzban érkeztem meg a Pozsonyi útra. Elsősorban azért jöttem ide vissza, hogy megnézzem, maradt-e itt valami, amit itt hagytunk. Ruha vagy valami. Hát semmim nem volt! Azt nem tudtam akkor még, hogy van-e lakásom, hogy a Kresz Géza utcában mi történt. Nem tudtam, hogy ott egyetlen lakás volt, amelyik belövést kapott, az enyém, és hogy az a lakás ettől lakhatatlan állapotba került.

A Pozsonyi úton a holmijaink a szomszédba voltak bedobálva, és a lakásba már beköltözött egy fiatal házaspár, a Fokán úrék egy pici gyerekkel. Biztos nyilasok voltak. Meg voltam lepődve, hogy valaki itt van, és közöltem velük, hogy a lakásnak a tulajdonosa én vagyok, és vegyék tudomásul, hogy itt az úr én leszek. Mondtam, hogy csak abban az esetben maradhatnak itt, ha normálisan viselkednek, meg segítenek tüzelőt, ennivalót szerezni. Az első utam a Wesselényi utcai kórház volt. Oda vitték a gettóból hordágyakon a sebesülteket, az élőket és a holtakat, és én nem tudtam, hogy a nagybátyámat és a nagynénémet meg tudták-e menteni vagy nem. Végigjártam az egész kórházat. A családtagjaimat nem találtam meg, de rátaláltam az egyik lakótársunkra a Pozsonyi út 28-ból. A folyosón feküdt, már haldoklott. Aztán a házból elmentek érte a férfiak és a vállukon hazahozták.

Akik túlélték a ház pincéjében a bombázást, mindenkit idehoztunk a lakásba. Mert a fönti emeleteken nem volt fűtés, nem volt ablak, minden lakás ablak nélkül volt. Elvitte a légnyomás. Itt a magasföldszinten meg véletlenül egyben maradtak az ablakok. A fél háznak a zsidó lakossága itt lakott nálam. A földön feküdtünk, egy ágy volt, amin a haldokló volt, akit aztán hat hónapig ápoltunk. Végül felépült, de nyomorék maradt. Az volt a szerencséje neki is, meg a Harsányi Gyulának is, hogy a hálószobánkban egy orosz orvos volt beszállásolva, és neki voltak valami amerikai antibiotikumai meg mindenféle gyógyszerei.

A lakásban megmaradt gyönyörű antik bútorokat szép lassan eltüzeltük a cserépkályhában. Valamivel fűteni kellett! A választásunk annyi volt, hogy vagy megfagyunk, vagy a bútort elégetjük. Hülyéskedtünk, hogy na holnap melyik szekrény lesz szétvágva? Egy nyomortanya lett itt, és be volt osztva, hogy aki épkézláb, az ide megy sorba állni, aki nem épkézláb, az megy oda sorba állni. És a Fokán úrék valahonnan annyi ennivalót loptak, hogy a szoba egyik sarka a plafonig tele volt ennivalóval. Életemben annyi mazsolát nem ettem. Fokán úr nagyon rendes volt, mert járt a Duna-partra, ahonnan sok fatönköt hozott tüzelőnek, amiket a víz dobált ki a partra. Tehát hasznát vettük, mert itt különben egy csomó szerencsétlen, sérült, beteg ember, gyerek volt, ez tisztára egy vöröskeresztes szállóhely lett. De a férjem aztán, mikor a munkaszolgálatból hazajött, kidobta innen Fokán úrékat.

Februárban az egyik üres lakásban – hogy azok hogy tudták meg, hogy az a lakás üres, nem tudom – nyilas karszalaggal honfoglaltak. Láttam őket. Utána később már nagyon rendesek voltak, ideszületett három gyerekük is, a férfi tanárember volt. No hát az a férfi lopott egy stráfkocsit lóval, de hogy honnan lopta, azt nem tudom. Mondtam neki, ha már lopott egy lovat, akkor szedjük össze a házban kinek mije maradt, elmegyünk Pest környékére és a parasztokkal seftelünk. Egy stráfkocsi kaját hoztunk, és szétosztottuk a lakók között. Én nem tudom, hogy az az ember elfelejtett-e a lónak enni adni, vagy mi történt, de megálltunk a ház előtt, a ló fújt egyet, hogy: „Fúú!”, és összeesett; mint egy luftballon, leeresztett. A finisnél szegénykém elpusztult. Megrohanták az emberek szegény lovat, és feltrancsírozták öt perc alatt.

Áprilisban a Síp utcában eltakarították a romokat. Egy csomó halottat felsorakoztattak, de felismerhetetlenek voltak, nem találtam meg a rokonaimat. Hát három vagy négy hónapig a romok alatt voltak, összevissza voltak kaszabolva, ahogy kiszedték őket. Mondták, hogy mért nem mondom rá egy férfire, egy nőre, hogy ők azok? De ha nem ismerem föl!? Egy vadidegen embert nem fogok eltemetni! És akkor megkérdezték, hogy hozzájárulok-e, hogy a Dohány utcai templomnak a kertjében legyenek? Mondtam, természetesen. Úgyhogy a nagybátyám meg a nagynéném ott vannak a Dohány utcai templomban, a tömegsírban.

Egy csomó ember volt itt a házban, és egy csomó olyan korú gyerek, mint János, úgyhogy egyik nap azokra bíztam a gyereket, hogy lemegyek Jánoshalmára, megnézni, mi van a szüleimmel? Két napig voltam kinn a Keleti pályaudvaron, és vártuk, hogy vonat, vagy valami jön, de nem jött semmi, és akkor hazajöttem vissza. Amikor megnyitották a Dunán az ideiglenes fahidat [lásd. pontonhidak], amikor már kezdtek szivárogni haza a deportáltak, akkor én minden isten adta nap elmentem oda. Egy bizonyos időpont volt, azt hiszem délután négy-öt óra között, amikor a hidat megnyitották, és csak ebben az időben engedték át rajta az embereket. Én mindennap odamentem várni a szüleimet. Azt tudtam, hogy deportálták őket, de mást nem tudtam róluk semmit! Egy-egy ember hazaszivárgott, egyik Ausztriából, a másik Auschwitzból, és mesélték, hogy mi történt. De el nem tudtam képzelni, hogy az én anyám, aki 44, és az apám, aki 54 éves volt, stramm, makkegészséges emberek, valaha is meghalnak… Nemhogy így! Előtte egy sportember volt az apukám, tornászott, lovagolt, volt egy vitrinünk, ami tele volt serlegekkel, amiket nyert. Egy sportember, meg orvos, az hogy halhat meg?

A férjemhez – akiről azt tudtam, hogy fölakasztották – a sors kegyes volt, valami rendes vezérkari tiszt megkegyelmezett nekik, és 1945. május végén érkezett haza. Először a Dohány utca 20-ba ment, mert az volt a híre, hogy engem bombatámadás ért. Nem tudom, honnan tudta, erre már nem emlékszem, de ez volt az utolsó híre. Először elment a Dohány utca 20-ba, és Pista sógorom mondta neki, hogy tényleg bombatámadás ért, de élek, és a Pozsonyi úton vagyok. Akkor a férjem mindjárt idejött.

A szüleimről akkor jött az első hír, amikor Jánoshalmán a szomszédunk felesége megérkezett Auschwitzból. Az mesélte el, hogy az apukámat elvitték egy orvos-századba, ahonnan soha többet nem hallottak róla, az anyukám meg, mikor megtudta, hogy már Pest környékéről viszik ki a zsidókat, és az, aki kisgyerekkel érkezik, az megy egyenesen a gázba, akkor az anyukám elhagyta magát, nem evett, nem ivott, és tífuszban meghalt. Azt a hírt már nem érte meg, hogy Pesten leállították a deportálást. Csak azt látta, hogy akik kicsi gyerekekkel, két-, meg három-, meg négyéves gyerekekkel kerültek ki, azok már mindjárt eltűntek. Elvitték őket „fürödni”. A mamám nem bírta a gondolatot elviselni, hogy az egy szál lánya, meg az egy szál unokája meghaljon. Abból az orvos-századból pedig, ahová apukám került, egyetlenegy ember nem jött vissza! Egy lélek sem. Én meg borzasztó sokáig, el nem tudom mondani, hogy meddig járkáltam minden isten adta nap az ideiglenes hídhoz. Nem tudtam elképzelni, hogy ne jöjjenek haza, az elképzelhetetlen volt, hogy ők nincsenek. A mai napig az.

Amikor a férjemmel először hazamentünk Jánoshalmára, otthon a kertben ki volt túrva a föld, kiásva minden, szétszedve az ablakkeret. Az orvosi berendezés megmaradt, meg a bútorok nagy része is, mert azok nagy műbútorok voltak, úgy voltak csinálva oda, hogy amekkora a fal, akkora volt a bútor, oda volt építve, nem tudták elmozdítani. Volt egy ember, az első világháborúból itt maradt orosz ember, nem tudom a nevét, de úgy hívták, hogy orosz Miska bácsi, és az orosz Miska bácsi honfoglalta a házunkat. Még a ház közelébe se mehettem, még arra se léphettem. Mert kitalálta, hogy az a ház az övé, és ő ott fog lakni. Apukám egyik orvoskollégájának a házába mentünk, és ott voltunk egy darabig, amíg az orosz Miska bácsit ki nem tudtuk paterolni, ami nem volt egy egyszerű dolog. Ő volt az, aki a házban lévő mozdítható, fekete ébenfa gobelines bútorokat az orrom előtt vitte el. Nem lehetett megállítani. A hatóság sem avatkozott bele.

Amikor az orosz Miska bácsi elment, akkor el kellett intéznem, hogy a szüleimet holttá nyilvánítsák, és én lehessek az örököse és a tulajdonosa a jánoshalmi háznak. Hát ez borzasztó volt! Maga az, hogy a szüleimet holttá nyilváníttatni?! Ezt fegyelmezetten végigcsinálni nem volt könnyű. És egy csomó procedúra volt. Bácsalmásra kellett menni, minden papírt utánuk összeszedni. Nem volt egyszerű dolog! És ehhez nagyon fiatal és tapasztalatlan voltam, egy elkényeztetett lány, akinek korábban a feneke alá raktak mindent.

Ezután bérbe adtam a házat egy orvosnak, és egy szobát fenntartottam magamnak, hogy a pici gyerekkel nyaranként le tudjak menni. De ez nem vált be, mert az orvos felesége szörnyű bolond nő volt. Nem vette tudomásul, hogy az az értékes lakás nem arra való, hogy spájznak használjon egy ebédlőt, ahol kihúzott drótokat és oda akasztotta disznóvágás után a szalonnát, kolbászt és egyebeket, és a parkettra csöpögött a zsír. Felmondtam nekik, elküldtem őket, mielőtt teljesen tönkretették volna a házat.

Annyi pénzem nem volt, hogy a házat is fenntartsam meg rendbe is hozzam. Nem volt semmim gyakorlatilag. Fenntartottam a házat körülbelül két évig, és lejártam a gyerekkel nyártól őszig. 1948-49-ben – nem is tudom, hogy volt az államosítás – egy jó ismerősöm, aki a községházán dolgozott és nagyon jó barátok voltunk, közölte, hogy a levegőben lóg az államosítás, és ha nem akarom, hogy a házat államosítsák, sürgős iramban adjam el. Szerencsém volt, mert jó helyen volt, nagyon szép ház volt, s találtam egy vevőt, aki öt perc alatt megvette. A rendelő berendezését egy zsidó orvos vette meg, aki visszajött a munkaszolgálatból, a bútorokat meg egy másik család vette meg.

Borzasztó volt megválni az otthonomtól, amit imádtam, és amibe a szüleim a lelküket beleadták. Az egy hatszobás ház volt, és úgy volt építve, hogy külön volt a rendelő és a váró. Tényleg maximálisan jólszituált család voltunk, és az tényleg egy nagypolgári ház volt. Apám rengeteget dolgozott. Szegény nagyanyám mindig mondta neki: „Mért dolgozol annyit? Nem mész bútorkocsival a temetőbe.” Milyen igaza volt, tényleg nem ment bútorkocsival a temetőbe.

Hosszú évekig lelkiismeret-furdalásom volt, hogy mit fogok mondani az anyukáméknak, ha hazajönnek, miért nincs meg a ház. „Valahonnét egyszer majd előkerülnek.” Vártam őket. De hát semmi remény. Mert akkor már mindent tisztán tudtunk, hogy mi történt. Én sajnos a szokásaimnak a rabja vagyok. Nagyon sokáig nem hittem el, hogy a szüleim nem jönnek haza. Akkor én nagyon fiatal voltam, 23 éves. És – a férjemen kívül – nem volt olyan közeli hozzátartozóm, akivel a problémákat megbeszélhettem volna. Mert más egy férj, és más egy mama. A fiam velem megbeszéli, vagy a papájával megbeszélte – ez nekem 23 éves koromtól nem adatott meg.

A férjem is reménykedett, hogy a szülei hazajönnek. Lement Miskolcra, és a szülei nem jöttek haza, de az az isteni csoda volt, hogy a hat testvérből öt hazajött. Pali sógorom együtt volt a férjemmel, együtt jöttek haza a munkaszolgálatból, Pista meglépett, bujkálásban maradt meg, és a többiek, akik hazajöttek, mind Auschwitzban voltak! Olga sógornőmnek a lánya 14 éves volt akkor, de olyan fejlett nagylány volt, hogy azt mondták, húsz éves. Vitték őket dolgozni mindenhova, aztán elvitték őket Allendorfba, és ott szabadultak fel. Ott dolgoztak valamilyen – én nem tudom milyenben – kertészetben, vagy hol.

Azután 45-ben a strómantól visszavette a férjem meg Pista sógorom a konfekcióüzemet, csinálták tovább, Pali meg Miskolcon megnyitotta az apósomék áruházát, és ő ott kezdett dolgozni. Palinak a felesége meg a kisfia Auschwitzban meghalt, és ő újra megnősült, úgyhogy ők ottmaradtak Miskolcon a feleségével. Később Pista sógorom is leköltözött Miskolcra, és ketten csinálták az áruházat. És amikor majdnem csődbe vitték, akkor kapcsolódott be a férjem. Közben eladtuk a jánoshalmi házat 100 ezer forinttért, ami akkor nagyon sok pénz volt – akkor volt új a forint –, és azt fektettük be a miskolci áruházba. Evvel a 100 ezer forinttal a férjem föllendítette a bótot, és nagyon jól menő üzlet lett.

Én a háború után beiratkoztam az egyetemre, de mikor a férjem hazajött a munkaszolgálatból, rögtön terhes lettem, és volt egy héthónapos koraszülésem. Egy halott kisbaba. 1946-ban pedig volt egy nyolchónapos koraszülésem, ami annyit jelentett, hogy a bombatámadásnál olyan károsodást szenvedtem, hogy egy bizonyos ideig tudtam a gyereket, mint veszélyeztetett terhes hordani, de életképes gyereket nem tudtam világra hozni. Azt mondta az orvos, aki apukámnak volt nagyon jó barátja és kollegája, és nekünk családi barát meg háziorvosom volt, hogy: „Idefigyelj Magda! Ha ezt az egy gyereket föl akarod nevelni, ne kísérletezz! Két halott szülés után ne kísérletezz!” Az csak pár éve derült ki egy orvosi röntgennél, hogy mindennek az volt az oka, hogy a bombatámadásnál eltört a hátsó alsó csigolyám, és rosszul forrt össze.

Amíg nem jött az államosítás, a férjem mindig hétfőn lement Miskolcra, és pénteken hazajött. És mikor már minden egyenesbe jött, akkor jött az államosítás, úgyhogy a jánoshalmai ház így Miskolcon lett államosítva. Egy az egybe elvették az áruházat, és megint a nulláról kellett kezdeni. Akkor a két fiú, Pali és Pista elment valamilyen állásba, a férjem meg hazajött, és miután ő konfekcióüzem-tulajdonos volt, egy frászban voltunk, nehogy kitelepítsenek bennünket. Mikor a felettünk lévő lakót kitelepítették – egy nagyon helyes, szintén zsidó házaspárt, azok is épphogy átvészelték a háborút meg az üldöztetést, és azok is nagyvállalkozók voltak –, akkor pánikba estem. Na, mondtam, mi leszünk a következők. Volt egy csodálatosan szép pianínóm, mert én komolyzenével foglalkoztam, úgy, mint az anyukám, és gyors iramban eladtam a gyönyörű pianínómat hat- vagy hétezer új forintért. Akkor az nagyon sok pénz volt. Mondom: „Ha elvisznek bennünket, a pianínót nem vihetjük magunkkal, hát legalább legyen pénzünk az induláshoz!”

A férjem konfekcióüzemét szintén államosították. Nem tudott mit csinálni, elment sofőrnek, mert ott nem kellett megmondani, hogy konfekcióüzem és egy nagyáruház tulajdonosa volt, így az önéletrajzába nem került be. Hála istennek, a kitelepítést megúsztuk, de a férjem végig azért nem ment el rendes tisztviselői állásba, mert mindenhol be kellett írni az előző foglalkozást. Azt nem írhatta be, hogy nem volt semmi.

Először az élelmiszer-szállítási vállalatnál volt teherautósofőr, a végén aztán a Taxi vállalatnál dolgozott mint taxisofőr. Onnan is ment nyugdíjba. Nem volt könnyű dolga a férjemnek, én meg anyagilag nem tudtam besegíteni, nem tudtam elmenni dolgozni, azon egyszerű oknál fogva, hogy se egy nagymama, se egy nagynéni, senki nem volt. Nem tudtam kire bízni a gyereket. Közben János mikor kisiskolás volt, első elemista, az ég egy adta világon minden gyerekbetegséget, amit lehetett, hazahozott. Beoltották őket első elemiben diftéria elleni oltással, következő héten a létező legsúlyosabb diftériát kapta a szérumtól, úgyhogy rohammentővel vittük a László Kórházba, ahol élet-halál között volt. Hazahoztuk, akkor viszont a László Kórházból hozott egy kanyarót. Ez a kettő kiváltott nála aztán egy szívizomgyulladást.

Ráadásul én meg kaptam egy epe- és májgyulladást és egy olyan sárgaságot, hogy hat hétig feküdtem. Én feküdtem egy kihúzható rekamié egyik oldalán lázasan a sárgasággal, a másik oldalon meg feküdt János. És a gyerek úgy járta végig szívizomgyulladással a négy elemit, hogy majdnem végig feküdnie kellett. Hála a Jóistennek, kiheverte teljesen, de állandóan figyelni kellett, és nagyon nehéz volt úgy szoktatni, hogy neked most pihenni kell, elmész iskolába, de ha hazajössz, le kell feküdni. A szívizomgyulladás nem volt egy egyszerű dolog, és hordani kellett a Heim Pál Kórházba a szívspecialistához. Tehát az, hogy elmenjek dolgozni, kivitelezhetetlen dolog volt. Csak a gyerek, a gyereknevelés meg a háztartás volt nekem. De nem hiányzott a munkahely, ezt szoktam meg.

János a nagy Szigetbe [XIII. kerület, Radnóti Miklós utca 8-10., az 1950-es évektől Rajk László Általános Iskola, ma Gárdonyi Géza nevét viseli. - A szerk.] járt általánosba, egész nyolcadikig, és utána a Bolyai Gimnáziumba. Jó tanuló volt. Tudta azt is, hogy zsidó gyerek, de abban az időben nem nagyon lehetett hittanórára járni. Mindent tudott, csak nem érdekelte. Mikor valakiről mesélt, mit tudom én, osztálytársról, rákérdeztem: „Te, mondd, ez milyen vallású? Zsidó?” Azt mondta: „Mama! Hagyjál békében! Nem érdekel engem, hogy az zsidó vagy keresztény.” De a barátaira rákérdeztem, mert érdekelt a társasága, hogy azok milyenek. János volt talán a legtájékozottabb zsidó ügyekben a családban. Ha valami van, ma is mindig elmagyarázza.

Itthon semmilyen ünnepet nem tartottunk a háború után, csak születésnap volt. Se karácsony, se Hanuka, semmi. A fiam gyerekkorában nem az ünnep volt a lényeg, hanem az, hogy élni tudjunk. Hogy a férjem meg tudja keresni azt, hogy a családját eltartsa, és hogy a gyereket föl tudjuk nevelni. Mert mindig azt mondta: „Tőlem elvettek mindent, de a fiamból urat nevelek.” És ez sikerült. De nem kis áldozat volt! Nagyon sok mindenről le kellett mondani ahhoz, hogy a fiam nyelvekre taníttassuk. Elküldtük először Németországba nyelvtanfolyamra, aztán Angliába nyelvtanfolyamra, szóval lehetőségünk szerint a maximumot nyújtottuk neki. Nem arról van szó, hogy éheztünk! De az, hogy a férjem egymaga meg tudja teremteni a megélhetésünket, az nem volt egyszerű dolog.

A férjem reggel – mivel a sofőrök hat órakor kezdtek – már elment itthonról fél ötkor, és késő este, ameddig fuvarozni kellett, addig távol volt. Így teltek az ötvenes évek. Volt társaságunk, egy komoly baráti, értelmiségi társaság. Kilencven százaléka zsidó volt, egy része az apukám révén orvosok. Mentek a kártyapartik, a férjem nagy bridzsjátékos volt, a férfiak bridzseltek, mi nők römiztünk. Mentünk kirándulni is, nyáron is voltunk több napig a Balatonnál, ahol az egész társaság összeverődött. Az államosításig, és míg a gyerek nem volt iskolás, minden májusban lementünk Görömböly-Tapolcára, ahol az egyik sógornőmnek volt villája, és egész őszig ott voltunk a gyerekkel. Jánoshalmára csak a holokauszt emlékünnepre mentünk vissza, 1989 után. Nem volt senki barát vagy rokon, aki ott maradt volna. Császártöltésen sem voltam, csak keresztülutaztam rajta, Miskolcon meg egyáltalán nem voltam a háború után. Autónk nem volt, hát a férjem reggeltől estig autót vezetett. A fiam volt az első autótulajdonos, aki autónyeremény-betétkönyvvel nyert egy autót.

1956-ban a baráti körünk nagy része disszidált. Akkor összeült a család itthon maradt Weizenfeld része is – 1948-ban ugyanis a férjem legidősebb nővére, Olga és a családja már kiment Ausztráliába. Mentek? Kiszöktek. Gyalog mentek Bécsbe! Legelőször a sógornőm lánya ment el a férjével. Ő itt már elvégzett két évet az orvosi egyetemen, de állandóan szekálták, hogy a papája bornagykereskedő – magyarul rossz káder volt. Nem a vallás számított akkor, hanem az, hogy ki milyen káder. Utánamentek a sógornőmék is, és Ausztráliában végül a sógornőm egy szál lánya Sydney legnagyobb kórházának a hematológus osztályvezető főorvosa lett. Az egész élethez tulajdonképpen szerencse kell.

1956-ban Pali, meg sógornőm, a férjem legfiatalabb testvére összeültek, hogy együtt menjünk el, disszidáljunk.  Azt mondtam: „Én itthonról nem megyek sehova. Minek? Nyelvet nem tudok, hiába tanultam még a gimnáziumban nyolc évig németül, latinul, franciául. Nekem senkim sincs, én nem akarok kiszolgáltatottja lenni senkinek. Én nem megyek.” A férjem – annak nagyon mehetnékje volt – azt mondta: „Kérdezd meg a gyereket! A gyerek már nem pici.” János akkor már 13 éves volt, és azt mondta: „Én a mamával itt maradok.” Ezzel a disszidálási téma le lett zárva. És amikor húsz évvel ezelőtt kimentünk Ausztráliába a sógornőmékhez – ők hívtak meg, és ők küldték a repülőjegyet is –, azt mondtam a férjemnek: „Látod, most elmegyünk megnézni, hogy hova kellett volna 45-ben menni.” Mert akkor kellett volna elmenni. Mert ott az ember új életet kezd. De ki mert akkor elmenni?! Vártam a szüleimet. Ha isten adta volna, hogy hazajönnek, és engem nem találnak meg? Nem volt olyan könnyű akkor külföldről kapcsolatot tartani. Ausztráliában aztán az egész család, korhatár nélkül meghalt, tehát most a differencia az lenne, hogy Ausztráliában lennék egyedül. Hát akkor inkább legyek itt egyedül. Akármilyen milliomos lennék, akkor sem ebédelnék kétszer.

Külföldre nyaralni a hatvanas évektől kezdve jártunk, előtte nem volt olyan nagyon divat külföldre menni. Én a háború előtt még a gimnáziummal iskolakiránduláson voltam Olaszországban, meg Ausztriában, pont az Anschluss előtt jöttünk haza Bécsből. Az anyagi kérdés volt, hogy az osztálytársaim közül ki engedhette meg magának, hogy elutazhasson. 150 pengőbe került egy ilyen egyhetes olaszországi út, de akkor 150 pengő nem volt kevés pénz. A férjemmel is először Olaszországba mentünk, akkor, amikor behozták a 70 dolláros útlevelet 1960-ban [A 60-as, 70-es években kétféleképpen lehetett nyugatra utazni: évente egyszer egy nyugati rokon meghívója alapján, vagy háromévente egyszer turistaútlevéllel. Ez utóbbihoz 70 dollár költőpénzt lehetett kiváltani, több valutát büntetendőnek számított kivinni az országbó. A szerk.]. Kiváltottuk az útlevelet, kiváltottuk a kétszer 70 dollárt, és három hétig végigutaztuk Olaszországot, még Palermóban is voltunk, Szicílián. Ebből a kétszer 70 dollárból. Nagyon olcsón. De akkor mások voltak az árak, akkor 1 dollárért lehetett 1 gramm aranyat venni. De mi nem seftölni mentünk. Mi vittünk egy koffer ennivalót, kajára nem kellett költeni, mert állandóan volt a táskában kolbász, sajt, kenyér. Mindig olcsó szállodákban voltunk és vettünk cirkuláré jegyet, ami 1300 forintba került. Egy hónapig lehetett éjjel-nappal utazni, és mindig éjszaka utaztunk, akkor az nem került szállásba. Életünk egyik legjobb nyaralása volt ez.

Utána aztán nagyon sok helyen nyaraltunk, végigutaztuk Európát. Miután semmi extra allűrjeink nem voltak, minden évben elutaztunk két hétre. Izraelben sajnos nem jártam, a családom volt, mindenki, csak én nem, de tán háromszor voltunk Olaszországban, nem tudom hányszor Spanyolországban, Jugoszláviában voltunk a Hvar szigetektől kezdve mindenhol. Azért maradt meg családi ékszer, amiket eladogattunk! Úgy maradt meg, hogy a nagybátyám odaadta a házmesternek. Nem tudom, mért bízott olyan nagyon a házmesterünkben. Mikor hazajöttem a gettóból, mondtam, hogy: „Mátyás bácsi! Kérem szépen vissza az ékszereket!” Nagyon sok ékszer volt, családi ékszerek. Azt mondta: „Elvitték az oroszok.” Na, amikor a férjem hazajött, mondtam neki, hogy Mátyás bácsi nem adta vissza az ékszereket. Ő akkor szerzett a rendőrségen egy valamilyen nexust, egy nyomozót, és a Mátyás bácsit bevitték. Ott is tagadta, a végén rátettek egy gázmaszkot, attól megijedt, és rögtön megmondta, hogy az ékszer a kapu alatt van. Ahogy bejön az ember, van egy rács, és az alá volt elásva. A férjem a rendőrnyomozóval fifti-fifti alapon megegyezett, hogy ha sikerül, akkor az aranynak a fele az övé. Meglett, és a fele is elég sok volt. És akkor azt eladogattuk. Hát így lavíroztunk a nagyvilágban.

Minket a férjemmel a pártdolgok nem érdekeltek. Agitáltak persze, de soha semmiben nem vettem részt, a férjem se. A baráti köröm, akik idejártak, meg később a kosztosaim is indiferens pártonkívüliek voltak. Nem volt téma. Minek politizáljak? A világot nem tudom megváltani egyedül. Véleményem van mindenről, de ha nem szólnak hozzám, akkor nem kell válaszolnom. Én nyugodt természetű, simulékony ember vagyok. Soha nem kritizálok semmit, úgy van jól, ahogy van. Igyekszem magamnak nyugodt környezetet kialakítani.

Akárcsak én, a fiam is orvosnak készült, latintagozatos gimnáziumba járt. Az utolsó évben mondta neki az osztályfőnöke – mert akkor már régen tanult németül meg angolul –, hogy akinek ilyen jó nyelvérzéke van, az menjen nyelvpályára, ne menjen el orvosnak. Így lett János külker közgazdász. Egyből fölvették, három nyelvből tett felvételi vizsgát. Jelen pillanatban német, angol, francia, oroszból van felsőfokú nyelvvizsgája. A fiam mindig magas állásban volt, mert az ARTEX-nél [Külkereskedelmi Vállalat - A szerk.] volt harminc évig, az ARTEX franciaországi leányvállalatánál is dolgozott Párizsban, és miután hazajött, akkor a NIKEX Külkereskedelmi Vállalatnak lett az igazgatója. Utána bekerült a Gazdasági Minisztériumba, ott meg a Közbeszerzési Tanács vezető főtanácsosa volt. A második MSZP választásnál [2002] azt mondta: „Na, ebből a közbeszerzésből elég volt!”, és elment nyugdíjba.

A fiam most társadalmi ösztöndíjas, ahogy én hívom a nyugdíját. Nem dolgozik semmit, majdnem ő a háziasszony otthon, mert a menyem tíz évvel fiatalabb, és ő két kerületnek az ÁNTSZ főorvosa [Az Állami Népegészségügyi és Tisztiorvosi Szolgálat (ÁNTSZ) állami költségvetésből működtetett, közegészségügyi feladatokat ellátó központi hivatal. – A szerk.], rettenetes sokat dolgozik. Van egy nagyon helyes kislányuk, Zsófi, aki 1983-ban született, és a Közgazdasági Egyetem után most végzi a második diplomáját, nemzetközi jogot Montpellier-ben. Most megy Párizsba, kötelező gyakorlatra egy nagy nemzetközi bankhoz. A fiamék hat és fél évig éltek Párizsban, kiküldetésben, úgyhogy Zsófi nyolc hónapos volt, amikor kimentek, és már kétéves korában francia bölcsiben volt. Hamarabb tanult meg franciául, mint magyarul. Az első elemit ott végezte, aztán mikor hazajöttek, a Mátyás király úton volt francia iskolában, ott érettségizett, és onnan automatikusan fölvették a francia egyetemre. Neki is megvan már franciából és angolból a felsőfokú nyelvvizsgája.

Amikor kiküldetésben voltak Franciaországban, azt mondtam a fiamnak: „Itt olyan a helyzet, amilyen, menjetek a világnak bármelyik részébe, ne gyertek haza.” De a menyem azt mondta, hogy hogy képzeljük azt, hogy ő itt hagyja a mamáját, aki akkor már özvegy volt. A fiam is közölte: „Hogy képzeled mama, hogy téged itt hagylak?” 2000-ben aztán hazajöttek. A fiam ma sem bánja, pedig igazán az egész világot körüljárta, tehát neki rutinja is volt ahhoz, hogy feltalálja magát.

Én háztartást vezettem, és ma is főzök mindennap, de az nem jutott volna eszembe, hogy főzéssel foglalkozzak. 1956-ban azonban a baráti körömnek a nagy része disszidált, és három-négy barátnőm is bejelentette, hogy elmennek, de nem tudják, hogyan alakul a sorsuk. Arra kérnek, hogy az öreg, idős hozzátartozóikkal – akik itt laktak a környéken, és akkor nekem egy 70 éves nagyon öregnek tűnt – tegyem meg, hogy ne hanyagoljam el őket, gondoskodjak róluk. Mondtam: „Jó, nem probléma. Itthon vagyok, háztartást vezetek, ha ezen múlik, hogy egy ebédet úgy főzök meg, hogy többet főzök, akkor természetes. Amennyibe kerül az alapanyag, annyit elszámolunk egymással.” Azután mindig jött még valaki, hogy: ”A barátnőmnek a mamája is itt maradt egyedül, nem vállalnád el?” Így felszaporodott a társaság harmincra, és egy nagyon jó kollektíva, baráti társaság alakult ki.

Volt egy házmesternő a Szent István park 2-ben, ő vitte el azoknak az ebédet, akik nem tudtak idejönni. Csak olyanokat vállalt, akik effektíve rá voltak szorulva, mozgássérültek vagy nagyon betegek voltak. Volt csereedény, vitték nekik az ebédet, és hozták vissza az edényt, ahogy most csinálják. Aki itt evett, az a kisszobában ült le. Turnusokban jöttek, hármasával, megvolt mindenkinek az időpontja. Percnyi pontossággal be volt osztva. Egy órakor elkezdtem az éthordókat tölteni, amit a nő elvitt. Mikor a szállítás lebonyolódott, akkor jöttek ide az én barátaim, barátnőim, a szűk baráti körhöz tartozók. És akkor én tálaltam. Kétféle kaja volt. Megkérdeztem, melyiket akarják, melyiket nem akarják. Mindennap friss süteményt sütöttem, de minden istenadta nap. Nem tudom, hogy csináltam, ma már nem működne, nem is tudom elképzelni. De olyan gördülékenyen ment. És ez ment szombaton, vasárnap – szóval nem volt egy szabadnap se. Viszont június elsején leálltam, és szeptemberig szünet volt.

Végül több mint harminc évig csináltam ezt. A kosztosaim között az nem számított, hogy ki milyen vallású, hanem aki nem volt szimpatikus, azt elzavartam. Volt olyan zsidó is. Szekánt öregasszony volt, mondom: „Köszönöm, most szakítsuk meg a barátságunkat, és ne szóljunk egymáshoz.” Egy idő múlva az öregek lemaradtak sorban, betegek lettek, meg kórházba kerültek, meg meghaltak, akkor csak gyerekekkel foglalkoztam. A szülők elmentek dolgozni, a gyerekekről nem tudtak gondoskodni, és egy csomó barátom gyereke járt hozzám. Egész az egyetemig jártak ide, míg el nem végezték. Idejöttek ebédelni, és utána itt ragadtak, itt volt a napközi, itt volt a dumaparti. A gyerekekkel abszolút baráti viszonyunk lett, a mai napig nagyon jóban vagyok velük. Amikor aztán a gyerekek maradtak ki, közben a szülők mentek nyugdíjba, akkor megcserélődött, és akkor a szülők jöttek ide ebédelni.

Úgy szerveztem meg az egészet, hogy az ebédhez én szereztem be a hozzávalót, én mentem vásárolni. Nem a piacra, hanem ide az Ági zöldségeshez. Ágival összebarátkoztam, neki mindig megmondtam, mire van szükségem, elment, és beszerezte. Mondjuk fölküldött 25 kg krumplit meg mindent. Mindig előző délután, vagy előző nap gondoltam ki, hogy mi lesz holnap. Reggel lementem az apróságokat megvenni, majd nekifogtam főzni. Két tűzhely kellett eleve. És arra is kellett plusz, hogy ha ne adj’ isten elromlik a főzőn valamelyik platni, akkor is legyen.

60 éves volt a férjem, amikor a sógornőm egy szál huszonnégy éves fia meghalt. Egy csodálatosan szép, makkegészséges fiú. Lipcsében járt egyetemre. Akkor jött divatba a számítástechnika, és ott kint elvégezte a legmagasabb fokozatig. Hazajött huszonnégy éves korában, elkezdett dolgozni, rosszul lett, és hónapok alatt leukémiában meghalt. Az egész család összezuhant. Borzasztó volt. Akkor a férjem azt mondta, hogy ő olyan idegállapotban van, hogy nyugdíjba megy, leszáll a volán mellől. És akkortól ő segített nekem. Nagyon jól tudott krumplit meg zöldséget pucolni, meg nagyon szeretett vásárolni.

Mire megtörtént a bevásárlás, addigra a férjem megpucolta a krumplit, zöldséget. Minden istenadta nap legalább kétfélét főztem. A kosztosaim nagyon szerették a vadas húst krumplis krokettel, volt rántott hús, volt fasírthús, volt pörkölt, voltak főzelékek, levesek, és mindenféle sütemény, a tortától kezdve a bejgliig, amit el lehet képzelni. Minden. Szegény anyám, mikor férjhez mentem, írt egy receptkönyvet nekem – az szent ereklyém volt – egy orvosi naplóba a saját kezével, süteményekről, és azt mindig elővettem. Amikor sütöttem, 30 évig mindennap a recept ott volt előttem, nehogy valamit kifelejtsek. Hát miért kellene nekem megtanulni, hogy 10 deka cukorhoz meg 20 deka cukorhoz, meg a nem tudom mennyi liszthez mennyi élesztő meg mennyi sütőpor kell? Elővettem a receptet, odatettem mellém, kikészítettem a belevalókat, és kontrolláltam a szakácskönyvből, hogy az ténylegesen annyi, és nem felejtettem ki semmit.

Olyan gyorsan ment a főzés, annyira belejöttem! Eleinte nem ment, amikor kezdtem az öregekkel, a barátaimnak a szüleivel. Amikor férjhez mentem, nem tudtam semmit főzni, a nagynéném és a nagyanyám főztek. Minden délben egy kis kosárkával szaladtam a Pozsonyi útra a Kresz Géza utcából, s vittem haza a kaját. Mert a férjem mindig hazajött ebédelni, és mindig egy frászban voltam, hogy nehogy előbb érjen haza, mint én. És a férjem nem tudta, hogy amit ő olyan jóízűen megevett, azt nem én főztem. Csak évtizedek múlva mondtam meg neki. Semmit, egy teát nem tudtam főzni.

A háború után volt egy nagyon jó házvezetőnőm, egy dunabogdányi parasztlány. Akkor fogadtuk fel, amikor János beteg volt, és nekem sárgaságom volt. Ő zseniálisan tudott főzni, és nagyjából tőle tanultam meg. De akkor még nem voltam rutinírozott. Mondjuk hármunknak a háztartását elvezettem. Az államosítás után azt mondtam a férjemnek, hogy inkább mindent eladok, de a Mariskát tartsuk meg. Mert ő családtag volt, és imádta a gyereket. Imádta! Az nem igaz, hogy hogy foglalkozott vele! Pedig egyszerű sváb parasztlány volt. De nagyon rendes volt. És amíg Mariska itt volt, addig nekem nem kellett főzni, csak belenéztem a lábasba, hogy mi lesz ebédre. Aztán lassan, szakácskönyvekből meg egyebekből meg az akaratomból úgy kifejlődött.

Szegény kosztosaim átvészelték a tanulóidőmet, amíg megtanultam böcsületesen főzni. A végén aztán már rutinszerűen csináltam, és ahogy szaporodott a kosztosaimnak a száma, aszerint nőttek a lábosok. Lábosméretre tudtam, hogy ekkora lábos ennyi embernek elég, ekkora fazék leves ennyi embernek elég – és ez centire ki volt számítva. Olyan, hogy másnapra valami is el legyen téve, olyan nem létezett. Elfogyott minden, úgy volt kiszámítva.

Egyik kedvenc nála a vadas hús volt: Én zsírral főztem mindig, hol disznó, hol libazsírral. A vadas húst úgy csináltam, hogy húslevesben megfőztem a marhahúst. A vadas szósznál a sárgarépát megreszeltem, rendesen a reszelővel, és a reszelt sárgarépát borssal, babérlevéllel külön megfőztem. A levesben, ami volt zöldség, azt krumplinyomóval átnyomtam, csináltam egy rántást, amibe belejött mustár, tejföl, egy nagyon pici ecet, egy kis cukor, ízlés szerint megízesítettem. A marhahúst kiszedtem a húslevesből – általában fehérpecsenyét, ami a legjobb része a marhahúsnak, nagyon jól lehet szeletelni, és nem száraz, hanem jó omlós –, fölszeleteltem, és a vadas szaftba beletettem.

Lezajlott az ebéd, utána én mosogattam, mert nem volt elég precíz ehhez senki se. Mert én minden nap minden edényt, evőeszközt lesúroltam. És utána megszűntem háziasszonynak lenni. Délután jött a társadalmi élet. Ha valaki délután megkérdezte, mi volt ebédre, annak legszívesebben elharaptam volna a torkát. Mondtam, az ebéd lezajlott, elmosogattam, kijöttem a konyhából, kész. Akkor én átmentem privátba. Az nem volt téma a barátokkal, hogy: „Jaj, mit főztél, mi volt?” Tudták, hogy nem szeretem, ha megkérdezik, mert nekem kellett akkor az az idő, hogy kikapcsoljam magam a konyhából. Vagy társaságba mentünk, vagy nagyon sokat jártam koncertre, Operába. Az Opera főtitkára volt a legjobb barátunk, és attól örökké voltak jegyek. Anyagilag én annyi operát és annyi koncertet nem engedhettem volna meg magamnak, de a kultúrigényem az megvolt rá.

A főzésből annyi pénz jött be, hogy a háztartásom ingyenben volt, arra nem kellett pénzt költeni. Ebből a főzésből nem kellett fizetnem adót se. Föl is jelentettek egyszer. Jött a nagy ÁNTSZ, és megállapították, hogy semmi szabálytalanságot nem követek el azzal, hogy beteg, idős embereken segítek. Effektíve tényleg az volt a nagy része, akiknek hazaszállítottam, hót beteg emberek voltak. Akkor bementem a fővároshoz, kaptam egy hivatalos papírt, hogy beteg, idős embereknek főzök, akik annyit fizetnek nekem, amennyi a kiadásom. Akkor volt 10 forint egy ebéd. Szóval az én háztartásom teljesen ingyen volt. Amit a férjem keresett, míg dolgozott, annak egy részét eltettük. Mindig azt mondta, hogy tizenhárom évvel idősebb nálam – ami nem számított, nem ez volt a lényeg –, úgy szeretné, hogy ha én ne adj’ isten egyedül maradok, nekem anyagi gondom ne legyen.

A férjem tizenöt éve halt meg. 1968-ban ment nyugdíjba, zseniálisan jó kondícióban volt, még a halála előtt, a 85. évében is. Nem látszott rajtunk a tizenhárom év korkülönbség, nagyon-nagyon jól nézett ki. December 14-én lett volna a 85 éves születésnapja és 12-én halt meg. Nem volt soha semmi baja, de pillanatok alatt kapott egy olyan szívritmuszavart, hogy pacemekerrel sem lehetett helyrebillenteni, és három hét alatt meghalt. De nagyon jó kondícióban lévő és végtelenül rendes ember volt. Ötvenkét évig éltünk együtt, kimondottan jó házasság volt. Nem tett soha szemrehányást, hogy mért maradtunk itt. Jól elvoltunk a konyhában.

Én alapjában véve alanyi jogon nem vagyok nyugdíjas, de szép csendben éhen halnék, ha akkor nem gondoskodott volna a férjem arról, hogy ha egyedül maradok, ne legyen anyagi gondom. Nem arról van szó, hogy a fiam nem segítene, de nem szeretnék a nyakukba szakadni. A körzeti orvosom volt jópofa, amikor a férjem meghalt. 15 évvel ezelőtt az első özvegyi nyugdíjam 7300 Ft volt. Nagyon jóban vagyok a körzeti orvossal. Azt mondta: „Magdika, most mi lesz magával? Ebből hogy fog megélni?” Mondom: „Drága doktornő! Nem azért főztem több mint 30 évig, hogy most haljak éhen.”

Amikor főzni kezdtem, elhatároztam, hogy 70 éves koromig főzök, és amint betöltöttem a 70 évemet, abban a percben abbahagytam. Azóta azért főzök magamnak, természetesen, disznóhúst is, mindent, ami nem hal. És ugyanúgy van, mint amikor a kosztosaimnak főztem, hogy az ebéd leves nélkül nem ebéd. Otthon szegény apám mindig azt mondta a házvezetőnőnknek: „Az ebéd leves nélkül nem ebéd.” Ez annyira belém rögződött, és ugyanez van a fiaméknál is. Ők is levesesek, a menyem is mániákusan húszfélét főz egyszerre. De leves nélkül étkezés nincs. Az időmbe belefér.

A zsidósághoz, a zsidó identitáshoz való viszony az én magánügyem. Nem tagadom, hogy zsidó vagyok, kiállok maximálisan minden zsidó ügyben. De én nem voltam vallásos soha, bevallom férfiasan.  A zsidó hagyományokból csak addig tudtam konkrétan valamit, hogy milyen ünnep van, mit, hogy kell csinálni, amíg a szüleim megvoltak. De őket elvitték, nem jöttek vissza. A háború után meg nem volt kitől kérdeznem. Aki tudta, a nagybátyám meg a nagynéném biztos tudta, ők a gettóban haltak meg. Itt maradtam egyedül, nem volt kit kérdezni. Akik meg Jánoshalmán az esküvőnkön voltak, meg aki a tanú volt, azok is elpusztultak Auschwitzban. Ma Jánoshalmán abból az óriási zsidó közösségből van két darab zsidó. Kettő! Mindig hívnak jánoshalmai találkozóra, de ott már csak csupa szélsőjobboldali gojok vannak. Engem nagyon szeretnek, de dísz-zsidónak nem megyek oda. Minden évben, amikor lemegyünk holokauszt ünnepre, van mit tudom én tíz zsidó, épphogy összejön annyi, hogy el tudják mondani az imát.

Itt a házban is összesen vagyunk ketten zsidók. De a másodiknak – avval együtt voltam a gettóban, s annak a papája szedett ki a romok alól – a férje keresztény volt. Nagyon rendes, nagyon aranyos volt, és nagyobb zsidó volt, mint a felesége. Akivel mostanában sétálok napközben, ő is keresztény. De nagyon rendes nő, mert a barátnőmnek – ő zsidó volt természetesen, a Szeretetkórházban halt meg – nagyon sokat segített.

Széder estére a Thököly úti zsinagógába megyek minden évben a barátaimmal. Zsinagógába egyébként nem jártam, csak megnézni voltam. Ez lelki dolog. Az én apukám olyan vallásos volt, hogy az egész imakönyvet fejből tudta. Lehet, hogy magamat büntetem azáltal, hogy nem megyek. Nem megyek el mászkerra sem 45 óta. Ebből a részből olyan meghasonlott valaki vagyok. Nem megyek, mert nem tudok menni. Nem tudom, miért. Majd az égiek megbüntetnek érte.

Egy családtagomnak sincs sírköve. Azt sem tudom, hogy hol van Császártöltésen zsidó temető. Már lehet, hogy szántóföld. A nagyanyám és az egyik nagynénim a rákoskeresztúri temetőben lett 42-ben eltemetve. Halvány gőzöm nincs, hogy hol. A férjemnek az volt a kívánsága, hogy mivel a szüleit elégették, szórjuk szét a hamvait. Én ugyanezt szeretném.

Zuzanna Mensz
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Aleksandra Bankowska
Date of interview: January – February 2005

I’ve met Ms. Mensz thanks to her cousin, Ms. Anna Lanota, another Centropa interviewee. Ms. Mensz lives alone in downtown Warsaw. We had a couple of meetings. She’s a very gentle person, always with a smile on her face. She speaks quietly due to her hearing impairment. She loved to talk about her childhood, but the conversation would turn less fluent whenever we touched the postwar times. The interview was interrupted for a few months by her serious health problems.

My father’s parents, the Rossets, came from Volodymir-Volyns’kyy [presently a city in Ukraine; a town in pre-war eastern Poland, ca. 200 km east of Lublin]. I don’t remember my Grandpa’s name, Grandma was called Pola. Grandpa owned a printing house in Volodymir. The family later moved to Lublin, I don’t know why. Grandpa was a middleman in grain trade, and my father used to help him I believe. My sisters and I used to visit our grandparents once a week. They lived on a narrow street stemming from Lublin’s main artery, Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street. About the only thing I remember from those visits was my Mom taking us to a candy store and buying us cookies. I don’t remember Grandma ever talking to us. She would stroke our heads, but not talk. I generally didn’t have any closer relationship with my grandparents. Grandpa died of pneumonia as a relatively young man. I’m not sure which year it was but I remember it very clearly. The family was rather sickly. Grandma died a week after my Father’s death, in 1933. It was her only son; she had been very attached to him. I’m not able to tell anything more about my grandparents.

My father had two sisters, Pola and Adela. Pola never married, she lived with the grandparents. I didn’t know Adela’s husband, he’d left her and emigrated to America [in the 1930s]. She had two grownup children and a girl of my age, Esterka [diminutive for Estera]. She was always ill and Pola took care of her. I remember when my Father got ill Pola came from Skryhiczyn [a village ca. 90 km from Lublin, by the river Bug; the family of Ms. Mensz’s mother had an estate there] to take care of him, and she taught me how to cook. I don’t know much about Father’s sisters, because Mom didn’t keep in touch with them after Father’s death. Then the war came, I know they were killed.

My maternal grandparents were called Horowicz. Mom’s mother, Sara Zlata née Rottenberg, died during labor [giving birth to her next child], she was twenty-something [According to the family saga Nad Bugiem - Rottenbergowie ze Skryhiczyna (By The River Bug - The Rottenbergs From Skryhiczyn) Zlata Rottenberg died in 1917.] She managed to give birth to ten children. She was born in Skryhiczyn. Grandpa was called Hersz Horowicz. He came from Piotrkow Trybunalski. He floated timber from the Skryhiczyn woods to Gdansk by the Bug. He had some business in Gdansk. After Grandma Zlata’s death he remarried a widow who already had some children, and later they had a daughter. They lived in Lodz. I remember him visiting Mom in Lublin once. I was 6 at the time I think. He brought us some toys. My elder sister also recalled visiting him in Lodz. That’s all I know about him.

All the orphaned children of Zlata Horowicz grew up in Skryhiczyn at Grandpa Rottenberg’s manor. My maternal grandparents had a big estate there all the family lived at. As for Mom’s uncles Rottenbergs, they were very religious. They wore beards, no payes as far as I remember, but they observed all the regulations. I remember there was no cooking on Saturdays, only the meals prepared the day before were kept in the oven. The dinner was very early in the day and before it Mom’s aunt Hena [wife of Mordechaj Rottenberg, Zlata’s – Ms. Mensz grandmother’s brother] used to call me over to have some gingerbread and milk. There was a small room in the manor, a synagogue of sorts, where [Mom’s] uncles prayed together. They were very pious and used to go to a rabbi [tzaddik] to Gora Kalwaria I think 1. People in Skryhiczyn spoke Hebrew, Yiddish, and Polish, with no Jewish accent but rather the rural one like everywhere in the Lublin region. Mom used to live there until she got married.

Of the ten children [Mom’s siblings] I knew seven, not all of them survived [lived to grownup age]. Mom’s eldest brother was called Motel, he had a wife and eight very nice children. He was a very religious Jew, reportedly an expert in Talmudic philosophy. He didn’t talk to me I think. Perhaps he didn’t speak with women at all, but I guess he didn’t like it that we [Ms. Mensz often uses ‘we’, meaning her and her two sisters.] were raised in not a very religious way, we went to Polish schools, we spoke Polish. Motel raised his children in a religious fashion. He even sent his eldest son, whose name I don’t remember, to a religious school in Lublin 2. He was later in Warsaw in a [religious] school, but he quit, supposedly lost his faith. He was killed in the Warsaw Uprising 3. Uncle Motel’s second son was called Pinio [diminutive for Pinchas]. He looked after the Skryhiczyn farm, he farmed the land and he bred horses. Third son, Froim, was a very audacious boy. There was this story about him. He went, as everyone, to the elementary school in Skryhiczyn. The teacher kept saying that Jews smell of garlic and onion. When he later told them to write an essay on ‘Why do I love Poland?’, Froim wrote: ‘I love Poland, because lots of onion and garlic is grown here.’ Later he had Communist sympathies; he was arrested for hanging red flags on 1st May. Uncle Motel’s youngest son was called Dawid and he was my age, we were friends. Uncle also had three daughters: Bala, Hinda, and Zlata. Aunt Hanka [diminutive for Chana], Mom’s younger sister, used to grieve over Motel’s not giving his gifted children the education. She took to Czestochowa with her first Bala, who later became a nurse, a very esteemed one, and then Dawid, who completed high school thanks to her.

Motel was also raising Mom’s youngest brother, the one whose birth resulted in his mother death [in 1917]. His name was Henoch. He moved to Warsaw and founded a printing house. Motel’s youngest daughter, Hinda, a very pretty girl, worked there as well. I don’t know if there was anything between them, but I don’t think so. Henoch died very young of brain tumor.

Another Mom’s brother was called Jojl. He was a very good-looking man. He went to Russia, he took part in the revolution 4, but he got disillusioned [about Communism] and came back. He never got married; he lived with his younger brother Josel. Josel had a wife, Rachela, who came from Lodz, and five children, bright and pretty. He managed the farm, she was a seamstress and she also ran a tailoring school for country girls. They really struggled to get by, because they only had a small patch of land, same size as what my Mom inherited, seven hectare [ca. 17 acres]. I remember him bringing water in a bucket yoke, because he didn’t have his own well at the time and had to use the one in the middle of the village. We liked their home very much. Aunt Rachela was very cheerful and hospitable.

The eldest son of Josel and Rachela, Kalmus, [diminutive for Kalman] was more or less my age. After finishing elementary school he completed on his own [supporting himself] the gymnasium in Hrubieszow, a small town some twenty kilometers from Skryhiczyn. He worked hard every summer at his uncles’ farm during haymaking and harvest, and he also tutored, and that’s how he was able to pay for his education. He passed the final exams. He married a girl from Skryhiczyn, Hadasa Kaminer, our distant relative. It had been a puppy love. When the war broke out, they went to Russia, up-country. Well, their lives there weren’t all roses, naturally, but he worked in a mine, she worked in a canteen, and supposedly it was not that bad. Hadasa got pregnant, though, and wanted to go back to her mother, who was in Volodymir-Volyns’kyy at the time. When they were on their way back, the frontline moved forward and they disappeared without a trace. They were killed.

Kalmus’ younger brother was called Szmulek, [diminutive for Szmul] and his youngest Chaimek [Chaim]. He also had two sisters: Sara and Rywcia [Rywka]. Szmulek was not very fond of studying, unlike Kalmus. Chaimek was very talented, he also studied in Hrubieszow and later in Volodymir-Volyns’kyy [Volodymir-Volyns’kyy and Hrubieszow were the nearest towns with gymnasia]. During the war Chaimek, Surcia [Sara], and Rywcia were hiding in the woods around Skryhiczyn, but the Germans found their hideout and murdered them. Szmulek was the family’s sole survivor, he was in Russia and he emigrated to Israel right after the war, he still lives there. He got married, he has two children and many grandchildren.

My Mom had two sisters. The aunt I loved most was called Chana. There were these legends about her, that as a young girl she dared walk around Dubienka [a small town near Skryhiczyn] barefoot, it was unacceptable, how come the granddaughter of  t h e  Motel Rottenberg walked barefoot?! She took part in the demonstrations in Dubienka, and she ended up in the Bund 5. It was there she met her future husband, Aron Perec, who was a dentist from Zamosc. They moved to Czestochowa. They had two children, Zosia [Zofia] and Mietek [Mieczyslaw], whom we always used to spend the summer holidays in Skryhiczyn with. You might say we were raised together, we were like brothers and sisters. I remember my sister Zlatka [diminutive for Zlata] playing four hands [piano duet] with Mietek, they were both very musically gifted. In 1939 Aunt [Chana] and Uncle [Aron] left all their belongings in Czestochowa and fled to Volodymir-Volyns’kyy [After the outbreak of the war many people, especially Jews, fled the Germans eastwards, to the Soviet-occupied areas.]. When my sister and I reached Volodymir, they were already there. They later enrolled for going to up-country Russia [People from the Soviet-occupied parts of Poland could volunteer for work in the eastern federative states of the Soviet Union]. Zosia finished school there, she became an English teacher. They came back to Poland after the war.

Mom’s other sister, the youngest one, was called Ita. She was the only one to live with her father, my Grandfather Hersz Horowicz. She studied and passed her final high school exams in Lodz. Inspired by a teacher she left for the already Soviet Russia and she lived there until her death. Her husband was called Rylski, he was the then First Secretary of the Polish Communist Party 6. They lived in Moscow, they had three children. She was shot with her husband in 1937, at the time of the Jagoda trials 7. They were later rehabilitated of course; their sons even received some kind of compensation. As for their children, they really had a tough life. The girl, Iwonka [diminutive for Iwona], was taken care of by her mother’s friend. Later she got married and lives in Israel now. Both Ita’s sons went to an orphanage. The elder one, Olgierd, was rebellious and ended up in prison as a teenager, and later was sent to Siberia. After Stalin’s death, in 1956 perhaps, we started looking for them, we established contact and both Olgierd and Michal came back to Poland, they settled in Warsaw. [Joseph Stalin died in 1953. A political loosening followed in the Soviet Union and its satellite states.]

My Mom’s name was Mariem Szyfra. I found out it was ‘Mariem’ later, I’d always thought she was called ‘Maria’. She was born in 1886, she was the eldest child. I don’t know when exactly she got married; I’m assuming she wasn’t very young. She met her husband through a matchmaker. I heard she also tried to liberate herself [emancipate], just like Aunt Chana. As all the girls from Skryhiczyn she completed five years of gymnasium, she used to learn French, she had some education. But eventually she let them find her a husband. My father was called Mosze Rosset. They lived in Volodymir-Volyns’kyy, but later, still before World War I, they moved to Lublin with my eldest sister.

Mom was very pretty, a bit plump. She was a very good person. After Father’s death [in 1933], for example, we rented an apartment in Volodymir and we had a neighbor who was even poorer then us. She was a widow with two children, who made her living selling things at the market and fairs. She cooked a meal only once a week. Mom, although really poor herself, used to take this woman’s daughter with us on summer holidays to feed her up a bit. Mom was remarkably absent-minded. There were jokes about the whole Horowicz family, they were all considered scatter-brains, they often got distracted, absent-minded, forgetful, and Mom was no different, she would always lose her keys and such. She was not a very religious person, unlike my father. Father was very religious. I remember him attaching the straps with the biblical Commandments [tefillin] to his forehead before prayers. He prayed alone, every day. I don’t remember him wearing a yarmulka. He told me not all the religious regulations were reasonable but had to be kept nevertheless, as they allowed Jews to maintain their tradition and identity. There were arguments sometimes, when Mom mixed the milk knife up with the meat one or some such. Mom’s relatives valued Father higher than her, because she was absent-minded and not religious, and he was religious. They also liked my Father for his sense of humor, he was witty.

Father stayed home once a week, he had his business trips; I think he traded in grain. He was a middleman. He also had a job in Rejowiec [a small town ca. 50 km south-east of Lublin], he kept the books for a flour mill. I was not really interested at the time in what he did. He always came home [to Lublin] on Fridays and we had a holiday dinner. Mom lit the candles. Father used to drink a small glass of vodka before the meal. He produced it himself from wheat. He would come home on Friday and leave again on Sunday. When we were in Skryhiczyn for the summer, he would come to us just the same, Saturday only.

My elder sister was born in 1909, I was born in 1918. The age gap was quite big. Later our youngest sister was born, a year and a half my junior. My eldest sister was called Sara Zlata, we called her Zlatka. I was nicknamed Zunia [diminutive for Zuzanna]. The younger one was called Hilka. I’m not sure what was her name in the birth certificate, Hinda I think, or perhaps Hilara? Zlatka was born still in Volodymir and us already in Lublin. Zlatka moved to Warsaw to study when she was 16. She studied Polish history at the Warsaw University. She already had Communist sympathies back then. She spent a year in prison for some political affairs. With a sentence like this she was unable to find a work as a teacher. She gave private lessons; she was a very good math tutor. She earned so well on tuition that she was even able to help Mom a little. My father’s political views differed from my sister’s but I got the impression he was nevertheless proud of her in a way. It might have something to do with the fact people were not so hostile towards the communists before the war as they are now, ommunists and socialists were thought to be people fighting for their ideals. Father was generally on better terms with Zlatka than with me and Hilka. Maybe it was because he was younger when she was young, I don’t know.

My younger sister Hilka was, as Zlatka used to say, the wisest of us all. She was truly very gifted, but she was also the so-called problem child. Mom always gave in to her. Hilka had her whims, she could say some day she didn’t want to go to school and she wouldn’t go. As a matter of fact, she didn’t have such superb grades in her first years at school, maybe she just didn’t feel like learning. But then she had a year off, because Mom could not afford to send us both to school; I went to Lublin to school and she stayed in the country with Mom. It was a very tough time for her. When she started to go to school in Volodymir again a year after Father’s death in 1933, she studied really hard and was an outstanding student.

Hilka and I were born already in Lublin. We lived in a house on 1 Cicha Street. Cicha was a small cross-street of Trzeciego Maja Street, right in the center of Lublin. There were many Jews living in Lublin, in some quarters more than in the others. On Lubartowska Street, in the Old Town, beyond the Grodzka Gate around the synagogue lived almost exclusively Jews I think. But there were no formal restrictions. Neither we nor Grandpa Rosset lived in the Jewish quarter.

We had a second floor apartment, with a balcony, three rooms, and a kitchen, no bathroom. Zlatka had her own tiny room while she still lived with us in Lublin. It was a narrow room with a bed and a bookshelf. The dining room and parents’ bedroom were big. We had nice, solid furniture in the ‘gdanski’ style [huge, dark, ornate, middle-class], Mom got them as a gift before she got married. The rooms formed a suite, the kitchen was spacious, a hall, balcony. It was very cozy in there. It was nothing luxurious; our friends said the apartment was dark. Mom sold it all when Father died and she wanted to move away.

Was my family wealthy? Middle-class, I’d say. We had that apartment, which cost much, the food was cheap, Father was paying for my sister’s studies. Mom always used to argue with Father - that he wasn’t bringing enough money, that he was helping his family; she wanted us to have bicycles for example and he couldn’t afford that. But generally we had everything we needed.

Throughout my childhood, until my Father’s death, we always had a maid. Mom would usually bring some girls from the country, from Skryhiczyn. One of them was Olga Mickiewicz, who was Christian-Orthodox. There was this story about her that she got appendicitis while she lived with us and she was treated in the Holy Ghost Hospital, managed by the Sisters of Charity [Catholic nuns, whose mission is looking after the sick]. We went to see her every day, and when she got well and came back home it turned out she had vowed to one of the sisters that she will convert to Catholicism. The sisters started to pay us visits, because they wanted her to keep her promise. The girl had to quit [her job as Rossets’ maid] and go back home, because she was not willing to change her confession after all. The last of our housekeepers was called Jadzia, a very nice, gentle girl. She had a fiancé, who later left her and my sister Zlata took care of her and soon enough turned her into a leftist activist and had her come to Warsaw. Having a maid wasn’t all that expensive back then. Mom used to sew for us by herself, she did the shopping, but we always had a housekeeper.

We spoke Polish at home. Mom spoke Yiddish, Polish, and Hebrew, because some families in Skryhiczyn spoke Hebrew [Knowledge of Hebrew in the Rottenberg family resulted from the religiousness of the elder generation on one hand and the popularity of Zionism among the young on the other]. Grandpa and Grandma Rosset spoke Yiddish. I don’t know why, but it so happened that our parents spoke to us in Polish and used Yiddish when talking to each other. I was accustomed to Yiddish, I understood everything, I could read, I remember there were only Yiddish papers in the house. Father tried to introduce us to Jewishness, he told us about the holidays, taught us Hebrew. I’ve forgotten everything since.

We celebrated all the holidays, Father always made sure we did. I remember Easter [Pesach] the best, because then we’d have the seder, a festive family supper, and my sister would come from Warsaw. The house had to be cleaned, scrubbed before the Holidays, including all the drawers. I remember I once found, to my horror, a slice of dried bread in my table drawer. I didn’t tell my Father and threw it out as soon as possible. We had a separate set of dishes, used exclusively on Easter. If a particular dish wasn’t double [without a Pesach counterpart], it had to be put into boiling water. The cupboard was full of matzot, we were not allowed to eat a single slice of bread for the whole eight days, and indeed we didn’t. We only ate matzot, which Mom would use to prepare many different dishes, for example a cake from matzah flour that you bake similarly to a sponge-cake, or an omelette, the so-called matzebray. You make it like this: first you soak the matzot in water or milk, then add some eggs, two eggs for two matzot, whip the whites, add some salt to taste. You then form a sort of pancake out the mass and fry it on a pan. I still prepare it sometimes.

The seder looked like this: Father sat on a coach in the dining room, the table was pushed closer to the coach, Mom would place pillows on it, because the tradition demanded that the head of the family was comfortable. We all sat at the table, the candles were lit. Father had some matzot of special importance. There was that custom that children could steal the matzot from their father and hide them, he would look for them and if he couldn’t find them, the children could say wishes and he had to fulfill them. [Editor’s note: The most popular form of the custom was different. The last piece of matzah was hidden from the children and they were given small gifts when they found it.] Naturally, Father had never found any matzot and we could say a wish. Mom prompted us to ask for bikes, but either we had different dreams or we had mercy on him, and our wishes were much more modest… I remember asking him for a drawing pad, oh, Mom was so angry with me! Father would naturally promise to buy the things we wanted, we’d show him where the matzot were and the seder would start. There is this custom that during the seder a child asks its father four questions about the Jewish Exodus from Egypt. I was always the one to ask, although it was supposed to be the youngest child. My sister Hilka was very moody and she wouldn’t always do what she was asked to. So it was me who asked the questions in Hebrew and Father answered, reading them aloud. That [Exodus] Haggadah is very long but I think he only read excerpts of it because I don’t remember being bored at the table, just some joking, laughing, and finally a normal supper, consisting usually of dishes like broth and chicken. In the meantime Father would drink six, I think, glasses of wine. We weren’t given the wine, maybe a sip. Father would always joke a bit when drinking the wine. There was also a glass left for the prophet, but he never showed up.

My sister Zlatka usually came home for the holiday. They lasted eight days and supposedly she couldn’t stay that long, so she would leave after four days. Father once asked her not to eat bread during the remaining days of the holiday. She was already a grownup and an atheist at the time, and she told him she didn’t want to make him such promise since she wouldn’t keep it. And he blurted out: ‘In that case I won’t send you the tuition money anymore.’ In a fit of pique, she said: ‘Alright then.’ And from then on she wouldn’t accept any money from him.

Easter was a holiday one remembers well, just before the spring would come, it was very nice. And there were also Kuczki [Sukkot] in the Fall. A shack would be made in Grandpa Rosset’s backyard and the meals would be eaten in it. There was also Purim, Mom baked special poppy seed cookies for the occasion, they were called hamantashen; it had something to do with a story of some sorts [the story of the evil Haman]. Purim wasn’t celebrated the way it is done nowadays in Israel, no one wore costumes. We had the Rosh Hashanah holiday, when Father used to say people should enjoy themselves and gave us apples spread with honey. Then Yom Kippur would come, the fast, you weren’t allowed to eat from one evening till the next. My Mother, the kind person she was, always used to bake lots of cakes for that holiday and leave them in an open cupboard so that the children wouldn’t starve to death. And so I just decided to fast once, when I was older; I tried not to eat anything and somehow I made it. Mom, however, always fasted and went to the synagogue with my Father. That was the only occasion she would pray. I guess that’s the most important holiday of all, Yom Kippur.

Before we started to go to school [until 1930], Mom had always taken us to Skryhiczyn right after Easter. She used to say the urban air was not healthy for the children. So we would pack a horse cab full of baskets with cooking pots, bedclothes, and everything, and leave. We used to go to the country in early spring and leave at the end of summer.

The whole big family Rottenberg lived in Skryhiczyn. There was Skryhiczyn-Dwor [Manor] and Skryhiczyn-Folwark [Farm], 3 kilometers apart. All that owned one family [the Rottenbergs]. During our first visits we probably all stayed in the manor. Later the land was divided between the heirs [According to the book Rottenbergowie znad Buga it happened in 1926.] and Mom got her 17 acres at Skryhiczyn-Folwark. Mom’s cousin, who worked in a sawmill, rented her a large shed. I remember the building clearly, we stayed there with my sister and a friend of her; it was a room with a cooking stove. And later Mom decided to build a house. There was a brick wall on the land she inherited, the remaining three had been pulled down, I don’t know why. A house was built. It had three rooms and an annex with a traditional country kitchen, with a large stove which you could sleep on, and which you baked bread in. The kitchen was built before the house was finished, we spent our first holidays there. Aunt Hanka [Chana Perec, mother’s sister] came to visit us and she liked the place, and added one more room with a balcony and a large kitchen. And so the house had two porches, a balcony, and a great attic. We had our tenant farmers, the Blanders, living in the house whole year round. It was a couple with three children, very religious Jews. He’d earlier worked for some Germans; he was a very good farmer. He built a barn next to the house, had his own horses, a cattle. When the house was finished, one room was occupied by the Blanders and we would take the other two. When we were gone, they used the whole house, and when we came, their two sons slept in the attic.

There were five more houses in Skryhiczyn-Farm apart from ours, among them Aunt Masza Halperin’s [sister of Zlata Horowicz, Ms. Mensz’s grandmother; the age gap between the sisters was so great that Masza had Ms. Mensz’s mother’s age despite being her aunt], and in Skryhiczyn there was the manor and the houses of our Uncles Motel and Josel, and of the Kaminers, who were from our family as well. There was a sawmill between the Manor and the Farm, where the Szydlowski family lived, also our relatives. A bit farther stood the house of a Ukrainian, Demczuk (his wife still lives there). Farther still was the village, where the peasants lived. I’ve retained in my memory the Techewiczers, a Jewish family. They had a big house; a boy who was friends with my one of my cousins, Guta, lived there. Apparently her parents did not approve of that, as she always used take me along as a chaperone. The boy made beautiful figures out of wood; he carved a whole chess set for example. He was later a well-known painter in Israel, had his exhibition. There was also the Bocian family, who we bought meat from, they had a little store where we used to go and have ice-cream. A Bocians’ boy later married a Ukrainian, they lived in Russia; their daughter was a doctor. There were not too many Poles. The Ukrainians prevailed, as everywhere in the Lublin region.

Aunt Chana didn’t come too often but she always sent her children, Zoska and Mietek. A whole bunch of kids used to come to Skryhiczyn every summer, an awful lot of people, and all of them family. Skryhiczyn is our legend, our happy childhood. We had this game, it went on and on. It was called The Kingdom of Fun. The idea was of course Ida Merzan’s [née Halperin, daughter of Masza, 1907-1987, educationist and writer, associate of Janusz Korczak]. We had a Queen, it was always Sara, Ida’s sister, the most beautiful of the girls; we made a bulletin, flags. It went on for years. We used to go swimming in the Bug river, three kilometers from the Farm, and visit the uncles at the Manor on our way back, they would give us treats and we would go back to the Farm. We often worked in the fields, helping harvesting or threshing. The harvest was still done with scythes. We tied the sheaves and carried them over to the barn. There was a treadmill in the barn and we tossed the sheaves into the threshing machine. We helped our tenant farmers that way, although it was not our duty. When there was some work to do, we did it with pleasure.

Many of the younger members of our Skryhiczyn family left for Israel [Editor’s note: Palestine] before the war. During my first visit to Israel [in 1959] I met people from Skryhiczyn I didn’t know, but I’d known their parents. Why would they emigrate? I suppose their primary motive was the idea. They were Zionists; they wanted the state Israel to come into being. But apart from that, those young people had no perspectives in Poland. The seemingly huge estates did not allow paying for the children’s education. Well, at least not many of them did study. Ida Merzan, who came from Chisinau already after completing high school, literally forced her mother to send her younger sisters to school. She arranged for them to have a teacher, a friend of Zlatka, and she coached them a bit. She then sent them to the elementary school in Dubienka. Ida’s sister Hanka, who rode on horseback, used to say: ‘I don’t need to learn geography – I know how to get to Dubienka anyhow.’ They did go to school eventually, however, and they all worked for Korczak at the Orphans’ House 8. Ida’s two sisters later emigrated to Israel and set up their families there.

I started my studying late, either; I went straight to gymnasium. I’d studied at home before because as soon as I’d gone to the kindergarten or school I’d caught a cold. I would always get tonsillitis. They would put compresses on my neck and ears, because I’d get ear inflammation in no time, and so I lay all wrapped up. First a surgeon-barber would come to see me, then, if the illness lasted long, a doctor, his name was Wajnberg. During the summer stays in the country I was sickly just the same. I even remember lying on a sun lounger covered to the chin despite the heat. When I was ten some famous doctor came to Lublin and told my parents I ought to have my tonsils removed. And so I had a surgery and got my tonsils removed. But I haven’t grown too tall and it’s said that the lack of tonsils affects your height.

Mom thought I inherited sickliness from my father. As a child he’d fallen ill with tuberculosis that hadn’t been treated completely and he used to have relapses. He was treated in Krynica and later he went to Otwock [well-known health resorts in Poland]. He also had a heart condition. He never was a completely healthy person. I was ten when he fell ill. I remember we came back home from the summer holidays and Mom told us to be quiet because Father had got ill. It was his first heart attack. He hardly worked anymore from that time on. He lay at home, he was on diet. I lasted three years that way. He did some business sometimes; some clients came to see him. I’m not sure how Mom managed it financially through that couple of years until we finished our schools. They had some savings, I suppose. We had a small profit off the land. My elder sister had already completed her studies by then, she lived in Warsaw; she was a private tutor and helped Mom, she sent her money. Mom also did some tailoring, embroidering, she had a special embroidering machine; she learned how to use it and sold her products.

It all happened at the same time – Father’s illness and my going to gymnasium. Mom convinced Father to send us to a public school, where you had to attend on Saturdays, instead of a private, expensive Jewish gymnasium. Father wouldn’t allow it at first but we had no money. A public gymnasium was much cheaper – the monthly tuition fee was 20 zlotys, while the private ones cost 60 zlotys [a craftsman earned on average approx. 60 zlotys per month]. The problem was, they allowed only ten percent of the students to be Jewish 9; out of 30 students [in the class] there was the three of us Jewish girls. There was an entry exam. I passed it and was admitted. The school was called the Union of Lublin Public [Girls’] Gymnasium.

I was an average student. I was taught geography by Ms. Chalubinska, the daughter of the geographer Chalubinski [Tytus Chalubinski (1820-1889) – doctor, botanist, explorer of the, founder of the Tatra Mountains Museum]. I wasn’t that good at geography but I liked the teacher. I also liked the nature teacher. I read a lot. I used to go to the Macierz Szkolna library [Polish Education Community, a national education organization founded in 1905] ever since my first year, the librarians offered me books, gave advice. When I was a bit older I started to use the LSS [Lublin Food Producers’ Cooperative] library as well. They had translations of many Soviet books, the revolutionary literature. I’m sure they had Gorky [Maxim Gorky (1868-1936) – Russian and Soviet writer, creator of the Socialist realism literary style], but also How the Steel Was Tempered [a socialist realism novel by N. Ostrovsky]. I read Dostoyevsky at the time as well [Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821-1881) – Russian writer].

I sure had school friends, we went to see each other. I remember Zosia Grudzinska, I met her in Lublin after the war. Many of them were killed. I had a friend in a higher grade, she was called Halinka Zandberg. We met in Lwow during the war, she already had a child, her husband was in the army. I know she was killed in the Lublin ghetto.

I had two major influences around me: my sister agitated for Communism and my cousin Sara Leja from Skryhiczyn for Zionism. And I was unfortunately very easily influenced… I remember Sara always took walks with me one summer and agitated. I guess it would be probably better for me if I opted for Zionism. Eventually, however, I followed my sister’s steps. There was this youth organization in Lublin, active in many schools which were under Communist influence. When I was in fifth or sixth grade my sister asked a friend to coach me, and I started to attend a self-study club. We read pamphlets by Radek [Karol Radek, real name Sobelson (1885-1939) – born in Poland, Communist activist in the Soviet Union, he took part in the October Revolution, sentenced for 10 years in 1937, he died in prison], we learned from them.

My Father died in Skryhiczyn in July 1933. He was buried in Dubienka. Mom set up a gravestone there. The tomb made it through the war but under the Communist rule the area was turned into a machine depot. That’s how it was – the Jewish cemeteries were being erased. The Turkish ones have not been destroyed, nor the Armenian, nor the Russian, only the Jewish ones.

Lots of things changed after Father’s death. Mom sold our Lublin apartment and moved to Skryhiczyn with Hilka. Hilka had a year off from school, as Mom couldn’t afford to send us both to school. I was left in Lublin by myself, Mom arranged for me to stay with some friends of her and to have dinners at some others’ house, and that’s how I spent the year. A year later we moved to Volodymir-Volyns’kyy. My parents had already planned to move to the city, 30 kilometers from Skryhiczyn. It was cheaper there than in Lublin, and Mom had some friends there.

In Volodymir we lived in a different place every year. We would go to school on 1st September and Mom would place us for a month or so at her friends’ or some Father’s relatives’. She would then come to the town, rent an apartment for nine or ten months and afterwards we would go back to the country again, to Skryhiczyn. Volodymir was a cheap place; you could find an apartment easily. I completed gymnasium there, I went to the public Copernicus Gymnasium. I came from a girls’ school in Lublin to a coeducational one in Volodymir and found it hard to settle in, so many boys. Besides, I only spent two years there, until my final exams.

After my exams I went to Warsaw, to my sister Zlatka. Mom stayed in Volodymir with Hilka. We lived in a rented room on Ogrodowa Street. My sister made her living with private tutoring, I also got a few people to coach and that’s how I earned some money. But Zlatka wanted me badly to have a profession. I said I wanted to become a nurse and she found me a nursing school. It was located on Dworska Street, at the Czyste quarter hospital 10. Ms. Szindler, Ms. Lubowska, and Ms. Bielicka taught at the school. (Luba Bielicka is a well-known person; she even has a memorial plate in Warsaw, because she ran the school during the German occupation.) They were very strict teachers. Only Ms. Bielicka was a bit more approachable, maybe because she was also a bit happier. Ms. Szindler completed Florence Nightingale’s nursing school in England [Florence Nightingale (1820-1910) – English nurse, founder of the very first nursing school] and she based her school on the principles applied there. The education at the school lasted two and a half years. We only had the theory during the first six months and afterwards we practiced in various wards at the [Czyste] hospital. At first our duty was simply to clean the tables and provide such help, and only in the following years we were allowed to carry out medical procedures. It was a Jewish hospital, meaning it was financed by the Jewish community of Warsaw. The patients varied, however most of them were Jews. Same with the doctors. Naturally, there were often patients who didn’t speak Polish, but I understood everything and was able to communicate with them. It was a big hospital, lots of buildings, all kinds of wards. Nowadays there’s a children’s hospital there.

During my first year in Warsaw I stayed with my sister. Later she moved to Vienna to the man she loved, Srul Bursztyn, who worked there. I think it was in 1937 or 1938. It was an affection dating back to their school years. And anyway, we were friends with his whole family; they lived in Lublin, used to come to Skryhiczyn for the summer. He was a Communist, just like her. Right after she’d arrived there was the Anschluss 11 and Hitler took over Vienna. At that time many communists, with the help from various people, were somehow being transported to England. They were given money for the flight which they returned once they’d reached England. Anyhow, she went to England and someone helped her find a job as a maid. Some time later came her fiancé, who already held an engineering degree, and got a job at a factory. They got married just before the war, in 1939. I remember Mother getting the letter with the news of their wedding. She was happy her daughter got married.

When I was in the nursing school I lived in a dormitory on Dworska Street. There were like four of us in each room. They stressed keeping things in order very much. You had to air your room in the morning, keep your closet perfectly organized. There were many different girls, coming from various families, and I was not the only one who had to learn how to maintain such perfect order as was required. We had a day off once a month.

I used to go to the movies a lot before the war. First with Mom, in Lublin, to children’s movies, later with my school and on my own. I still remember seeing Ben Hur in Lublin. In Warsaw I used to go to the Uciecha Movie Theater, on Leszno Street or maybe Wolska Street. It would usually be Polish comedies, starring Dymsza, Bodo [Adolf Dymsza, Eugeniusz Bodo – Polish film actors, entertainers, and pre-war movie stars]. I also saw Soviet movies, which made a huge impression on me, for example Counterplan [aka Turbine Number 50.000, with score by the famous composer Dmitriy Shostakovich], about the making of Socialism, The Road To Life, Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin [Sergey Eisenstein (1898-1948) – innovative Soviet film director and theorist, author of propagandist historical film epics]. Sometimes the nursing school took us to the movies; I remember seeing The Lady Of The Camellias. I didn’t go to the theater that much. I sometimes used to get free tickets to the satirical theater Qui Pro Quo a relative of mine worked at. Krukowski was among the performers [Kazimierz Krukowski (1902-1984) – an actor and entertainer].

After my younger sister Hilka had passed her final gymnasium exams Mom sold her land in Skryhiczyn and bought a house in Falenica, just outside Warsaw. It might have been 1938. I was already a student of the nursing school. Mom wanted to live closer to us. We had a deal my sister would start her studies when I completed the school. During the remaining year she gave private lessons, lived with Mom. I used to visit them on my days off. There were two houses next to each other in Falenica. One was relatively small, consisting of four rooms and a kitchen. The former janitor lived in one of the rooms. The owner who sold the house to Mom asked her to let her stay. And Mom said yes. The second house had not been finished off yet. In 1939 Mom found a tenant for the house for the summer. She lived there the entire war. Some more people moved in, finished the house off and boarded it up, so it started to be inhabited. The house still stands there, I’d like to get it back but I didn’t know how to deal with that. You’d need a lot of money.

When the war broke out I was in Warsaw, at the Czyste hospital. Most of the personnel moved eastwards after the order from the government 12. Maybe five students stayed, the rest went back to their homes. The school was closed. Only the housekeeper stayed and she cooked us meals. We worked at the hospital. The patients able to go home left. When the battles outside the city started the hospital quickly filled up with the wounded, they simply lay all over the floor. Since there were no personnel and no supplies only few of the wards were open, surgery the longest.

In Wola [the quarter of Warsaw where the Czyste hospital was located] the water works and the power plant were destroyed early on by an air strike [Editor’s note: the Wola power plant was destroyed on 23rd September, just before the end of the siege]. We had to go fetch the water in buckets. It was really tough. The air strikes never ceased. The sky was clear throughout that September and all the targets were clearly visible, and the Germans loved to bomb hospitals. Many buildings were destroyed. If the bombing got real bad, we moved all [the patients] to the basement. Once, when everyone was already downstairs, I realized there was a feverish wounded man left upstairs. We went to get him with a young doctor, who was lame and therefore hadn’t escaped to the east. We put the wounded on stretchers and brought him to the basement. A moment later a bomb hit the room he’d lain in. At some point they bombed our kitchen and stores and it hurts me to say this, but there were many people [who lived nearby] who simply stole our flour, sugar, everything, all the hospital’s supplies. We were then included in the army hospitals’ supply. After Warsaw’s surrender we had to wait three days for a soup delivery [28th September, 1939] 13. The wounded were given soup served by the German soldiers. The Germans were acting in a very arrogant way, they jeered at us. That’s when I learned to hate them so much I wanted to be as far from them as possible.

During the siege of Warsaw my sister Hilka was in Falenica with Mother. They heard about the bombing and were sure I’d been killed. Hilka came to look for me. We went to Falenica together on foot. Various friends began to show up in Falenica, staying at my Mom’s on their way east [to the Soviet-occupied, eastern parts of Poland]. My sister and I decided to go east as well. Unfortunately, we left Mother in Falenica. We thought we’d have her come as soon as we settled. We had a weak imagination. It later turned out the janitor living with us was German. When the Germans marched in she told my mother to get out because from then on the whole house belonged to her. We didn’t know about it all. Mom went to Skryhiczyn and stayed there. I later found out she went to Lublin on her way from Warsaw and she spoke to a friend she had much respect for and he advised her against going to Russia. He knew it from his own experience: his son had gone to Lwow and later come back because otherwise he would be arrested. Later we tried to bring Mom to us. You could get a special permission from Stalin to cross the border. I got it for Mom and sent it to her in a letter to Falenica. It probably got there too late for her to receive it. And Mom did not come. We exchanged letters later on, I sent her parcels.

Hilka and I left Falenica and went to Skryhiczyn. The border had already been closed, but there were people in Skryhiczyn who could smuggle you by night across the Bug river in a boat [the river Bug defined the demarcation between the German and Soviet occupation zones]. When we got to Skryhiczyn we met my cousin Kalmus with some young people from Lodz and we crossed the Bug together and went to Volodymir-Volyns’kyy.

In Volodymir I started to work in an infectious diseases hospital [as a nurse]. It was my first real job and I was very glad to be working at last. Hilka learned later you could enroll for studying in Lwow and so she went there with some friends. She started to study agriculture. We made a deal I would earn the money for the time being and she would study. She was a very good student, she was very happy. In 1940 I joined her in Lwow. I wanted to study medicine but I failed the entry exams. I started to work at the Na Gorce hospital, in the children’s ward. I shared a room with three other girls. Hilka’s department was later moved to Dublany, a town outside of Lwow [10 km from the city]. I used to come to see her on Sundays. It was always a great joy.

And the war broke out again [German – Soviet war, in June 1941] 14, and the Germans bombed Lwow. I remember the day the air strikes began [23rd June] Hilka and our cousin Guta Rotenberg from Volodymir stayed over at my place, we slept on the floor. Guta decided: ‘I have to be with my Mom’ and soon left for Volodymir. We tried to talk her out of it, to persuade her to go east. Our cousin Ita Kowalska was just about to leave Lwow with her family at the time. But Guta came back to her mother and they were both killed.

[Right after the first bombing] my sister went to Dublany, to the university. And I left for work. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, I think someone came over to the hospital and told us a car was waiting outside and we should leave. In all that rush I just got in the car and left with them. But on the way I came upon a student, a friend of my sister’s, who told me Hilka was in Lwow and he gave me the address. I came back to Lwow and found my sister. A draft notice was waiting for me at home – I was to report to the Soviet army as a nurse. I didn’t even think about disobeying. We decided Hilka would come to me to the barracks everyday and when it was time for me to leave Lwow, she would leave with me. And come she did. There was a terrible air strike one day and they put all of us drafted to the Red Army in a double line and we marched out heading for Kiev. Our commander lead the column for some time and then told us to use whatever means of transport available, because there were lots of cars with people and their belongings and you could get a lift. He said our rallying point was the school in Zhytomir. And somehow I managed to get to that school. In Zhytomir they put us in a freight train to Kiev, and in Kiev we were told there were no uniforms for us, they gave us some pay and disbanded the unit.

Once I got to Kiev I started to visit the places the evacuees from Lwow stayed at looking for my sister but I didn’t find her. Eventually I met a large group of her fellow students and was told she hadn’t left Lwow. She said: ‘Whatever happens to all of us, I’ll stay, too.’ She managed to make it through to our Mother. She stayed with Mom in Skryhiczyn where they were both killed along with everyone else. Those friends of hers also told me some military group is being formed, that they’d applied but hadn’t been accepted because they came from Poland. I went there and they enlisted me, but only me. Apparently they needed a nurse. Kiev was almost encircled already so we left the city on foot and headed to Poltava.

It was all really well-organized, as the towns and villages along our way had been informed a military unit was to arrive and they’d prepared food and boarding for us. We usually covered between twenty and thirty kilometers a day. That way we got on foot to Poltava, where a so-called war town had been created. There were tents made of wood [sheds]. There were some women among us and we were put in a newsstand. There was a floor there and glass walls, so it was weatherproof. The commander said it was a palace, that the girls went to sleep in a palace. And so we slept there on the floor. We stayed very shortly in Poltava and we were soon transferred to Charkiv.

I met two students from Kiev in Poltava, Jewish girls from Ukraine, who have become my lifetime best friends. Roza was a bit older; she’d already finished her studies. She vouched for me, because I doubt they would accept a Polish girl into a military unit. She introduced me to the second one, Ania, who was also in the group marching from Kiev to Poltava. That’s how we’ve become friends. The three of us worked in a military hospital in Charkiv. We were like sisters, we shared everything. We lived together. Whenever one of us found out there was some extra food somewhere, she either let the others know or brought it home. We were young so we were always hungry.

We stayed in Charkiv for a month. Later the hospital was evacuated. They ordered that no women were to be sent to frontline units and so we were all transferred to Kemerovo in the Siberia. I spent the following two years there.

Kemerovo is a town in the western Siberia [200 km east of Novosibirsk]. It is situated on both banks of the river Om [Editor’s note: Tom]. On one side of the river the town was built of wood but densely populated, and on the other it looked as if it was still under construction. There was a single street with some brick houses, three- and four-story high. The town grew during the war, because they evacuated the factories from Charkiv and Kiev, mostly arms factories. I remember a giant Charkiv tractors factory, which made tanks instead of tractors after the evacuation. When we arrived we found two empty school buildings with beds and tables with tablecloths on them put by the children. We were supposed to set up a hospital there. The personnel were boarded with the locals. They didn’t have any decent houses, just that sort of large barracks. They had a corridor in the middle you entered the rooms from. Everyone had a room with a kitchen. We – me and another nurse – were hosted by a woman who worked in a factory all day long; her husband was in the army. She had an eight-year-old boy so she was glad there was always someone home when he got back from school. She had a bed and we were given a second one, and since we had night duties interchangeably we didn’t need separate beds.

The hospital in Kemerovo was located in school buildings. It was large, consisted of two buildings. We only had one real surgeon, the rest were general practitioners. Everybody was retraining back then. I was told to put plaster casts. In Poland casts were applied by doctors and in Russia it was done by technicians. There was this girl in Kemerov, a very good plaster technician. Because there were two buildings they decided to create a second casting room and to put me in charge of it. I didn’t have a clue about it but the girl taught me everything. To help me I was assigned a cleaning girl, Marusia, and a medical orderly who knew as much as I did. But I did learn and [the quality of] my casts was never questioned. It was a very tough work. Whole transports of wounded soldiers kept coming from the frontline; we had to remove all those pus-covered casts. They came all dirty, infested with lice. Whenever a train with the wounded came the personnel didn’t sleep for a few days straight, until we brought them back to normal.

I was the only Pole among the personnel. There were some Ukrainian girls and the whole staff of a Kiev hospital. I didn’t have anyone to speak Polish to, I didn’t speak Russian. But I learned fast and later I used only Russian. Once a fire broke out in a local factory, lots of people got burned. We went to the civilian hospital to give them a hand. I stood there helping with something when I heard a female doctor speak to a girl: ‘Zosia give me this, Zosia give me that.’ I later came up to that Zosia and it turned out she was Polish. So I started to use Polish again.

During my stay in Kemerov I contacted Aunt Chana and Uncle Aron Perec. In 1939 they were in Volodymir as well and they volunteered there to go to up-country Russia. They went to Orel [a city ca. 360 km south of Moscow]. When it was time for evacuation, they moved to Kuybyshev [presently Samara, a city 800 km east of Moscow]. I found out about them somehow and we wrote letters to each other. Uncle Aron wrote me once there was a Polish paper being published in the USSR. It was published by the ZPP, Union of Polish Patriots 15. I subscribed to it. And from the paper I learned a Polish army is being formed and people were invited to enlist. The air was such that I wanted badly to fight; it seemed to me I wasn’t doing enough. So I wrote a couple of letters to Berling 16, to the ZPP, and got a draft notice some time later.

I went to Sielce near Ryazan [a city ca. 180 km southeast of Moscow] where the camp of the Second Dabrowski Division was located 17. It was in August 1943. I was assigned straight to the medical battalion – the sanbat. I wanted to be on the frontline as soon as possible so I volunteered for the assault battalion.

I met a friend of mine in the army, Helka Seid. She came from Hrubieszow [a town ca. 100 km east of Lublin], she was in the nursing school with me. She crossed the border in 1939 and the Russians arrested her. Her father was a Bund member and knew Molotov 18 from before the war. He used his influence and she was released from prison and sent to Kazakhstan instead 19. She lived in a kolkhoz [a collective farm] in the backwoods. Because she completed a year or two of a nursing school she passed as a doctor there, she treated everyone. She told me she was on good terms with the people. She later met Mietek Starkiewicz, who’d been in the Anders’ Army 20. He fell ill with typhoid fever and was not able to leave with the army. He stayed in that place [in Kazakhstan]. That’s how they met and they later got married. They were in the First Army. He came from Lwow, from the cadets’ school, a background completely different to hers. They had two children, they emigrated to Australia.

I met my future husband in the assault battalion. I felt very lonely there and suddenly someone took interest in me. My husband came from Lwow, his name was Wilhelm Mensz. He was born in 1920. His father was a representative for a Swiss company, he sold watches. When the war broke out, they were left with a certain amount of those watches and that was how they made their living. It was a Jewish family, although entirely assimilated [Polonized], they didn’t speak Yiddish at all. My husband had two brothers. The elder was called Aleksander, he was a Zionist. The younger, Poldek, was ten when the war broke out and he supported the whole family throughout the occupation. They were all killed in Lwow. My husband had started to study at the Lwow Technical University before the war. Early on he was drafted into the army [the Red Army]. Some time later they transferred all Poles out of the army [frontline units] and he ended up in a so-called stroy-battalion [Russian: stroitelnyy batalyon, construction battalion; people who were too politically suspicious to be sent to the frontline were assigned to such units] in the Kolyma. He nearly starved there, loss much weight, became weak. When he learned the Polish Army was being formed he escaped and made it to Sielce. And that was where we first met.

We came to Lublin in 1944 with the army. On our way there, while stationed somewhere near Chelm [a town ca. 60 km east of Lublin] I asked for a few days furlough and went to Volodymir. I wanted to find out about my family. During the war there was a German administrator at the Skryhiczyn manor. Everyone [from the family] had been reportedly evicted from the manor. I don’t know where they lived. And later all the Jews from that area were transported to Sobibor 21. I came upon a friend of my sister Hilka and she said she’d seen her on a horse wagon with the group which was to be transported [to Sobibor]. She urged her to escape but she didn’t. Apparently, she didn’t want to leave Mother alone. It was also then my husband learned about the death of his parents and brothers. And so we decided to be together.

In Lublin I found the sister of my brother-in-law, Bursztyn [husband of Ms. Mensz’s elder sister, Zlatka] and the first close relative from my family. It was my cousin Hania Lanota [Anna née Rottenberg, daughter of Szlomo, brother of Ms. Mensz’s grandmother, Zlata Rottenberg. Ms. Anna Lanota is also a Centropa interviewee.] I don’t recall it all that exactly but I think I’d had some business with the military commandant, he’d put down my name and when Lanota arrived in Lublin he told her I was around and gave her my telephone number. I recognized her voice right away. She escaped from outside Warsaw with Jadzia Koszutska. They were two heroes in Lublin, veterans of the Warsaw Uprising. They were both terribly gaunt, unbelievably, and Hania was pregnant. So that was my first meeting with someone from my family.

I soon found my other cousin, Esterka Rottenberg. Her father was Nusyn Rottenberg [brother of Zlata Rottenberg, Ms. Mensz’s grandmother]. He’d lived with his family in Skryhiczyn-Manor, right next to our house. Esterka survived the war in Volodymir-Volyns’kyy. She was 16 in 1939, she came to Volodymir on her own, she was given some training, taught how to make injections and she worked in a hospital. I met her then, we lived together. I later moved to Lwow while she stayed in Volodymir. She worked, went from village to village giving vaccinations. She was later in the ghetto. A group of nurses from the hospital she’d worked in hid all the doctors – Jews from Volodymir. When the [deporting] action was just about to start in the ghetto Esterka was taken by one of the nurses, her name was Stasia, and hid in a wardrobe in her apartment. Esterka had pneumonia then, she was ill overall. She was the sole survivor from her family.

After the war Esterka found two children, Hanka and Szmulek, from our relatives the Szydlowski family [Grandmother Zlata Rottenberg’s sister Fejga married Mosze Szydlowski; they were the children’s grandparents]. Their mother, Fryda, was a teacher. She left her two youngest children with a friend of her, also a teacher, in a village near Volodymir. They both survived. The boy didn’t want to leave Volodymir, he already went to school there, wanted to learn there, and he stayed in the teacher’s care. Esterka arranged for him, so that his uncle’s house was signed over to him. He later became an engineer and moved to Moldova. Hanka returned to Poland with Esterka. They went to Lodz, because Esterka had used to live there, she had some relatives. Ida Merzan put Hanka in a children’s home and Esterka moved in with Hania Lanota, who had already left Lublin. Esterka took care of Hania’s child, Malgosia. One day a relative of ours, who’d served in the British army 22, came to us from Israel and decided to take our whole family from Poland to Israel. He spent a whole night persuading us to go with him. Only Esterka and Hanka Szydlowska joined him.

I worked in Lublin as a nurse in the hospital of my military unit. It was a very small hospital. At first it was located in Majdanek 23 in one of the barracks and then we were given some different place. Generally we treated only sick soldiers, there were no wounded. My husband and I were quartered with some strangers. We were not exactly married yet, I didn’t care for all the weddings and formalities. You had to go the commander and announce you were a couple, and you’d be quartered together. We were later transferred to Katowice, to a unit stationed there. I was pregnant at the time and my husband said I ought to at least be able to get a benefit in case he was killed, and so we had a civil marriage. Our eldest son, Julek [diminutive for Julian], was born in February 1946. I quit the military right after my maternity leave, I didn’t like the institution.

When we were still in Katowice the Perec family came to see us, Aunt Chana [mother’s sister], Uncle Aron [her husband], and Mietek with his wife. Zosia stayed in Russia, because she got married there. Their whole family spent the war in Russia. They returned as repatriates 24. The repatriates from Russia were brought to the western parts of the country, where there were houses. They let us know in Katowice they were coming soon. It was a great joy. They later settled in Gliwice. Uncle was a dentist, he was given an apartment and he ran a dentist’s practice. Mietek, who was an engineer, got a job in a foundry. We kept in touch.

I went to see Skryhiczyn once after the war. The manor was ruined. The roof had got leaky, no one had fixed it and it had just gone from there. Few of the former inhabitants were alive; there was nobody to take care of it. The whole estate had had more than 250 acres so it was parceled out between the peasants [As a result of the 1944 land reform the big estates were divided into smaller farms and given to peasants]. There was one place in Skryhiczyn we visited regularly. It was the grave of our cousin Niuniek [Arie] Prywes. He was an engineer, he was drafted into the [Polish] army in 1939, his wife and child came to Skryhiczyn and he later joined them, but they didn’t manage to escape on time. He was a teacher there, he gave private lessons. In 1941, I think, a German was killed in the area, so they took three hostages, including Niuniek, and shot them just behind the manor. Their grave was located on the meadow behind the manor, and schoolchildren took care of it. A dozen or so years after the war the grave had to be exhumed, because some melioration works were to be conducted.

My husband was an officer. After spending some time in Katowice, in 1948 I think, he was transferred to Warsaw and we had to leave. We moved into the military quarters on Pulawska Street. Our son fell gravely ill at that time. We were told he got tuberculosis when he was 6 months old. We had a very good pediatrician, his name was Bialecki, and he told us to leave the city with the child. So we rented an apartment in Jozefow [near Warsaw] and I lived there with our son for a year. We couldn’t afford renting an apartment and me being a housewife, even though my husband had his salary and also received some food rations. But my sister Zlatka, who lived in London, helped us then. Some time later, in 1951 I guess, we were given an apartment here [downtown Warsaw]. In 1949 I started to work in the War Veterans Union. I had a decent salary. I worked as a clerk in the social services department. I thought it quite suited my profession. We set up children’s homes, arranged care for the disabled.

My sister Zlatka stayed in England for a couple more years after the war. We wrote letters to each other. She even came to see us. Her husband, Srul Bursztyn, didn’t want to come back to Poland but she had him come. They returned for good in 1949 I think. They lived in Warsaw. They came with their son, Jerzyk, who was born in England. Later they had two more sons: Wlodek and Andrzej. Zlatka was an editor in a popular science publishing house. Her husband worked in the PKPG [Polish Committee on Economic Planning] as the head of the technology department.

In 1948 my second son, Pawel, was born and in 1954 – my third, Piotrek [diminutive for Piotr]. The Veterans Union was closed down and I started to work in the radio, in the editorial staff of the Radio University. I took care of all the self-education clubs organized by the University. When my third son was born, I moved to Przyjaciolka [a weekly, still existing]. It was easier that way. I stayed home with my child and answered the readers’ letters. Later I worked normally again, in Przyjaciolka editorial office. The editor-in-chief was Hania Lanota at the time, the she left and I stayed. I used to work there until I retired, that is till I was 60.

The Kielce pogrom 25 was a painful experience; it made us realize there is anti-Semitism in Poland. You could sense it in post-war Poland, even though it was not supported [present] in the press, or the radio, or anywhere at all. Nevertheless, I had a job which involved trips in-country and meeting people, and many times I heard: ‘The Germans did one good thing, they cleansed Poland from Jews.’ I heard that a couple times, but I thought the government combated anti-Semitism and would eventually fight it off.

I was an enthusiast of the new order – I thought we were making a brave new Poland. I was in the party [PZPR] 26 until the Wujek coal mine shooting during the martial law 27. When I heard about it I gave back my membership card. But even before that I knew that’s not the way. My husband got disillusioned early on and turned to revisionism. He did not question the ideology as such but there were things he didn’t like and he would be vocal about it. He stayed in the army after the war. He completed extension degree in Polish history. He was a teacher in a military academy and he spoke or perhaps wrote about his doubts a bit too early. When Stalin died in 1953, critical voices rose in Russia about the cult of personality. My husband said something to that effect; a tad too early for Poland, it turned out. So they demobilized him in 1955 I think. He gave back his party membership card soon after the Khrushchev’s letter 28. He then worked in the Ksiazka i Wiedza publishing house as an editor. His health deteriorated early and he retired at the age of 55 – he was entitled to a military retirement plan. He died in 1991.

Some time around 1956 my brother-in-law [Srul Bursztyn] went to see his parents, who were already in Israel. When he got back, his desk was taken. He was an ambitious man and he said ‘no’. That’s when the first official anti-Semitic actions took place, firing people. My brother-in-law was pushed aside. And later their son Jerzyk was riding on a bus and heard some remarks: ‘What is this little Jew doing here?’ or something to that effect, and no one at all stood up to take his side. He was 15 or 16, he jumped out of the moving bus and told his mother: ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m leaving.’ And their youngest son came back home and said: ‘I don’t want to be a pretty little Jew’, because someone in the street said to him: ‘What a pretty little Jew.’ He sensed the offense in that. And so my sister’s husband and children made the decision. They left for Israel in 1956.

My brother-in-law got a job at Weizman’s Institute, a large research center in Rehovot, outside Tel Aviv. They were given an apartment there. Very nice place: woods, flowers, laboratories right next to the housing. After my brother-in-law’s death Zlata moved to Tel Aviv as her children wanted to have her closer. The boys changed their names in Israel to Hebrew ones, just like many people did. They’re now called Igal, Michael, and Arie. Igal is a filmmaker, Michael – medicine professor, and Arie is a choreographer and dancer.

I went to Israel for the first time in 1959 to see them. You were already allowed to visit your closest relatives abroad. My brother-in-law sent me the money for the ticket, the invitation form, and all the other formalities. I remember the long flight to Athens and a ship from there. You could only exchange five dollars worth in Poland – that was the limit. But it was enough; Israel was a relatively poor country back then. I liked the people there very much, they were so full of enthusiasm. Lot of work had been done, you could see the large amounts of labor invested – the watering systems for example – anywhere something was farmed. Most importantly, I was happy to see all my relatives who had emigrated to Israel back before the war as well as those who ended up there after the war. I felt like being in a sort of a branch of Skryhiczyn.

Some of them were pioneers in a large kibbutz in Kineret, some lived in Hedera, some in Tel Aviv. I met all my cousins there, Hanka Szydlowska, Esterka Rottenberg, Ida Merzan’s two sisters. Esterka got married, her name is now Szlomowicz, she’s got two daughters and plenty grandchildren. Hanka also established a very nice family in Israel, she has two gifted sons, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, she still looks young herself and she even drives a car. I also met the children of our tenant farmers the Blanders, Nuchym and Masza. First thing Nuchym did there it was he bought some land and a horse. He was great friends with my sister, she used to visit him often with her children, they loved it. I liked it very much in Israel and I’ve been there a couple times since.

We’ve never decided to leave for good. During the 1968 campaign of hate 29 lots of people left, many of my close friends, first of all Mietek Perec and his wife. We stayed. Maybe I still had faith in socialism, maybe I was attached to Poland, no use debating it. Our son Julek moved [to Denmark] later, in 1969 I think. When the opportunities arose, the young people started to go abroad; they saw opportunities for themselves there. He said before leaving: ‘Oh Mom, I’ll be able to work and study there.’ He emigrated and got a degree from a technical university there and worked as an engineer in the local company F.L. Smidt. He’s dead now. He died in 2002 of a heart attack. My younger son, Pawel, got a degree from the Warsaw Technical University, and Piotrek holds a degree in physics. Pawel later worked in an Institute of the PAN [Polish Academy of Science]. He went on a yacht cruise to America and was supposed to come back but the martial law was imposed and he stayed. He works in a university. My third son, Piotrek, lives in Canada. I have five grandchildren. My granddaughter Asia lives in Warsaw, Susanna in Denmark, and Janek, Olenka, and Izabella in the United States.

My opinion on the Solidarity 30? My elder son [Pawel] signed the students’ protests. My husband supported the movement. For me there were too many nationalist slogans, besides, I told my husband I didn’t want to be a member of any organization anymore. And I’m not. I’m a member of TSKZ 31, the veterans’ organizations, but I’m no activist. They send me invitations to lectures, and if it’s something interesting I go to listen to them. I had an accident there by the way, I fell, broke my leg, I suffered through a lot. I don’t go out anywhere now, I’ve been home for only a month and I’m still very weak.

GLOSSARIES

Iosif Yudelevichus
Kaunas
Lithuania
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: October 2005

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

Iosif Yudelevichus lives in a beautiful antique house in the downtown Kaunas. I was met at the threshold by a handsome elderly man in house outfit and a bandana on his neck instead of a tie. The apartment was in chime with the looks of the host. It reflected his inner world. The apartment was spacious. There were high ceilings with stucco moulding. The furniture looked antique. It was likely to look better in the past. There was a lot of dust everywhere- it was palpable that there was no hostess. There were pictures, purchased by the host’s father. Most of the pictures were landscapes painted by the host as he was fond of art. There were a lot of bells all over apartment- in the cupboard, on the bookshelves. They ranged from the tiniest and up to the big ones. The host had collected the bells for many years. There was a gorgeous curio set of dishes in the cupboard. It was felt that it had not been used for quite a long time as it was covered with dust. The host served tea in cups of different size and style. The host got ready for my visit. There were pictures and a drawn lineage tree on the table. Iosif is a good story-teller. He had a connate romanticism and the sense of humor. But still, I could feel that Iosif ‘guarded’ his life and inner world cautiously so that there would be no intrusion from the outside. At any rate, he delicately dodged from discussing his private life, letting me understand that I should not broach the subject.

My family background

One of my distant relatives, who lives in Israel, had a goal to make our family tree. It took him many years and efforts. The maternal lineage made by him and sent to me does not say much. I knew just my grandparents, so many of the names mentioned in the lineage are not known to me. My paternal and maternal ancestors are from Latvian Jonava [about 80 km from Vilnius]. In late 19th century Jonava was a picturesque town being on the junction of two rivers-Nevis and Villia. It was a small town, inhabited mostly by Jews. My maternal grandfather Aba (he was called Avel in the family, so I used to hear that name oftener) Pagirskiy was born in 1866. Judging by the family tree, grandfather had a lot of siblings. But all of them most likely had died long before I was born. At any rate there is nothing I know about them.

Grandpa Avel owned a rather large house on one of the central Jonava streets. It was a solid log house, which could stand for centuries. Avel was a well-to-do merchant. He owned a large hardware store as hardware goods were in demand. Nails, horseshoes, fastenings, buckets and other inventory were mostly purchased by peasants. The store was in a five-minute walk from the river. There was a warehouse in the yard of the store as well as big scales, on which peasants used to weigh cattle. It was also income-bearing for grandfather. Elderly Jew Avrumke worked with the scales. He also was slightly mistaken saying that the weight was less than the scales showed. Then perturbed peasants went to complain of him to grandpa and he tried to find out, who was right. Avrumke used to say that the cow had much to eat, so there was a lot of food in its stomach. The food would be released soon, therefore he considered that factor in the weighting. No matter how grandpa scolded Avrumke, he always did what he wanted. Apart from Avrumke other people worked for my father-some in the store and several in the warehouse.

Avel’s wife, my grandmother Sarah Pagirskaya, nee Krasko was born in 1865. Sarah had sisters. I just know their names from family tree. I had not known them. Sarah was a rather educated woman. She could read and write in Yiddish and Russian. She spoke Polish. Her Lithuanian was not good though. Sarah ran the house as grandparents had servants. Grandmother was a tall, buxom, stately woman- a true beauty. She and grandfather had their own honored seats in the synagogue. Avel and Sarah were rather religious, trying to keep Jewish traditions. Neither grandmother nor grandpa covered their heads all the time. When they went to the synagogue, grandpa put a kippah on and grandmother wore a hat or a nicely tied kerchief. Grandpa had a modern beard- short and neat. Avel and Sarah often went abroad on vacation. As a rule they went to Karlovy Vary (at that time that resort was called Karlsbad) 1. Grandpa had problems with stomach. He was recommended by doctors to drink healing water every year. In 1935 Avel was operated on in Konigsberg 2 –he had a carcinoma behind his ear, which looked like a big plum. It was a malignant tumor, so grandpa lived only for a year after operation. In 1936 he passed away.

After grandpa’s death grandmother Sarah did not live in Jonava for a long time. She moved to Kaunas with her daughter’s family. Here she bought a house for lease and lived on the rent fee paid by the tenants. She helped children and pampered her grandchildren. In 1941 grandmother did not manage to get evacuated and was imprisoned in Kaunas ghetto 3. During assortment within a big action in September 1941 she happened to be among the Jews, whose lives were spared. She probably was not willing to go through ordeal having anticipated inevitable death or for the reason of being very proud, she just waved her hand and went to the group of the people to be executed. She was taken to the forest along with other people and shot there. The house of Sarah and Avel and their store burnt down during the bombing in Jonava. It was a huge fire, after which only a cathedral and dilapidated synagogue were spared by miracle.

Sarah and Avel Pagirskiys had ten children. All of them got an excellent for those times  education in lyceum. They were literate and cultured people. When children grew up, they were not religious, like their parents merely sticking to the traditions and marking Jewish holidays. I did not know two daughters –Hava and another one, whose name was unknown to me. They died infants. There were five daughters out of the eight who reached adulthood. The eldest was Masha, born in 1887. Masha married a Jew Reuben Leib Granevich. I do not know what he did for a living, but he was rather well-off. Reuben Leib died several years before the outbreak of Great Patriotic War 4. Masha, being single by that time, remained in the occupation. She had lived in Kaunas ghetto for three years and only in 1944 she was sent to Nazi concentration camp Stutthof 5 along with the group of Jewish women. My aunt died there not having lived for only couple of weeks to see the liberation. Masha had three daughters. The eldest Ester, born in 1908 left for Vienna to study. There she married Italian Jew Gulyemo and had lived with him happily ever after in Paris. They had several children. Ester died several years ago in Paris. She was almost one hundred years old. Masha’s younger daughters- Nadya (Jewish name Nehama) and Anna (Hanna) being unmarried left for Palestine in the 1930s. Both of them got married there – Nadya’s husband name was Blat, аnd Anna’s – Zimrani. Nadya died in 1978. Her son Ilan, a doctor and a musician, is living in Israel. Anna is still alive. After her husband’s death she did not want to be a burden for her children. She is not living in kibbutz on her own.

The next daughter was Frida, born in 1890. Her husband Boris Shlapoberskiy was rather feeble. He had heart trouble, which could not be cured. Boris died in 1935. He was a pretty wealthy man. He owned a house in Kaunas and Tel-Aviv. Frida lived in Kaunas several years before Great Patriotic War. When on the first of September 1939 fascists unleashed war beginning with the occupation of Poland 6, she left Lithuania for Palestine that very day. When the war was over, she got married again. Her second husband’s name was Eremei Shochat. He was a good friend of the family. His wife perished in occupation. Frida, remaining active and energetic even when being over the hill, was the so-called ‘connecting link’ in our family. She wrote letter to us and other relatives, dispersed all over the world. Until death she remained kind and good-humored.  Frida had lived a long life and died in Tel-Aviv in 1970. Two sons lived in France– Aria, born in 1913 and Eliahu born in 1915. Both of them got an excellent education in Europe. The eldest became a doctor and the younger opened up printing business in New-York. During Great Patriotic War both of them happened to be in the army of the allies- the youngest on the part of the USA and the eldest was enrolled as a volunteer in British army in Palestine, which was a mandated territory of Great Britain. The world is close- the brothers met in Italy during deployment of Soviet troops. Both of them survived war, but none of them had a long life. Brothers, like father, suffered from heart trouble. Aria died in 1959 and Eliahu in 1963.

Mother’s sister Malka was born after Frida in 1891. She married a man from Vilnius- Lipman Maysel and they lived in Vilnius with their children- son Efraim and daughter Miriam (we called her Mika). Mother had not seen her sister for a long time, when Vilnius belonged to Poland 7. We went to see Malka as soon as Vilnius again became the capital of Lithuania in 1939. The most vivid memories I had from that time was our trip on the small diesel train, consisting of one or two cars. I made friends with Miriam, who was my age. We saw each other rather often before war. Unfortunately aunt Malka, her husband and Miriam did not manage to get evacuated. Malka and Lipman perished during one of the first actions. Miriam lived in Vilnius ghetto and perished in 1943 before liquidation of ghetto. The only survivor from their family- Efraim - left for Palestine in 1936 at the age of 20. He lived in Tel-Aviv and died there in 1973.

My mother was the last-but-one daughter, and the youngest was Bluma. She was born in 1904. Bluma’s husband Jacob Epstein was an expert electrician engineer. He had lived and worked in France for couple of years with his family. He was involved in lineup of high-voltage power lines. When grandfather died, grandmother insisted that Bluma came to Jonava. By that time Bluma had daughter Anna, born in 1930. She and her family came back to Jonava. In 1937 their younger daughter Dalia was born. Jacob was a very gifted man. He was fond of theatre. He had the main parts in town Jewish amateur theatre. Jacob sympathized with communists. He had connections in communistic underground. Thus, when the Soviets came in the Baltic countries in 1940 [Occupation of the Baltic Republics] 8, he was assigned Jonava’s mayor at once. Jacob had not worked for a long time. [Great Terror] 9 commenced in Lithuania as well as all over USSR. He was also getting involved in the process. He was supposed to make the lists of people who were not wanted by new regime, walk from one house to another, taking away people’s things and exile people to Siberia [Deportations from the Baltics] 10. Jacob, being a truly decent man, quitted his job and focused on theatre. Soon he and his family moved to Kaunas, where he also had a part in amateur troupe. Thus, Jacob was able to save his face. When Great Patriotic War was unleashed, Jacob sent Bluma and younger girl in evacuation, and left shortly after them. Aunt was against it, but still she was finally convinced to leave. The matter was that elder daughter Anna was in summer camp in Palanga. As it turned out later, children left the camp and had been walking along the coast towards Latvia. Many of them died on their way during bombing. Those who survived, were captured by fascists and returned in occupation. Bluma and Dalia lived in Middle Asia. In 1942 Jacob was drafted in the army. When military band was established in Lithuanian division11 he was enrolled there. Thus, he was not involved in military actions, he gave performances with the band. When Vilnius was liberated, he invited Bluma and his daughter there. Bluma had been grieving over her elder daughter all life long. They tried tracing her via Red Cross, also asked those people they knew about her, but it was useless. No information was found about Anna. We assume she perished in June 1941. Bluma died in 1985 in half a year after Jacob had died. Her daughter Dalia is currently living in Vilnius. She is working in Jewish museum.

Mother had three brothers. I did not know the eldest, Benjamin, born in 1892. He left for Palestine with his wife Ella Sagalovskaya in early 1930s. Benjamin died in 1953. His wife survived him by 10 years. Their children – son Efraim and daughter Rahel - live in Israel, but we do not keep in touch.

Middle brother Haim Itshak (he was called Mitya in the family) was born in 1902. He graduated from Vilnius university. Haim served in Lithuanian army, in medical battalion. He married a Jewish lady Haya Feinstein rather late, when he was over 30. In late 1930s Haim and his wife left for Palestine. He settled in there pretty well. He worked under his specialty. Later on he bought orange-tree grove. Haim and Haya had two sons- Izya, 1935 and Aba, 1937. Before the outbreak of Great Patriotic War Haim came to Lithuania for a visit. I remembered his peculiar looks and Southern tan. Haim took part in Great Patriotic War. He served in the troops of the allies as a military doctor. He perished in Egypt in 1942. His wife had lived a long life. Their children live in Israel, but we do not keep in touch.

My mother’s youngest brother David Pagirskiy was born in 1907. David married a Jew Maya Kanber. They lived in Kaunas not far from us. In 1937 daughter Ilan was born and in 1940 – Dalia. When Great Patriotic War was unleashed, David decided to stay in occupation. Like most of the Jews who remembered Germans from the World War One treating Jewish population rather loyally, David’s family remained in occupation. David perished during the first action in Kaunas ghetto. His wife Maya perished in concentration camp Stuttgof, when the war was about to end. The girls were rescued. They were taken out from ghetto by turns and sheltered in Lithuanian families. We had been looking for them after war for a long time. It did not take that long to find Ilan. The family of Epsteins adopted and raised one the girls. It was harder to find Dalia as she stayed in orphanage, then in some Lithuanian family, she even did not know where she came from. When the girl was found, mother took her in our family. She was treated like a younger daughter. Being an adolescent, she left for Israel. Dalia died there in 1980s. Ilan married Leo Rozental, they is currently living in Vilnius.

My mother Tauber Pagirskaya was born in 1898. Mother as well as her siblings got a good education at Russian Commercial Lyceum. Upon graduation mother lived with her parents before getting married. She did not work. I do not know exactly where my parents met. I think they knew each other when they were young. I have the picture of my young parents and mother’s siblings, taken at the beginning of the 20th century by the boat, traveling to Jonava across river Neris. My parents got married in 1923.

I have never seen any of my paternal ancestors. I know that my grandpa Lazar Yudelevich, was born in the 1860s in Jonava. He was a rabbi. His wife, my grandmother Gitel Chazan was ten years younger than grandpa. She died rather early, in the 1920s or earlier. When she died, grandpa left for Palestine. He got married there for a second time. I do not know his second wife’s name. There was grandfather’s portrait in the house. I vaguely remember him. He looked stately having a beard, wearing a kippah on a small beautiful grey-haired head. He was as if still in grief, whispering something to himself. This is all I know about my grandparents.

Lazar and Gitel Yudelevich had three children. The eldest was my father Abram Yudelevich. Isaac was the middle son. He was born in 1896. He was a subcontractor before war. He took the orders for construction of the houses. He was in charge of a construction crew, practically having the functions of the foreman. Isaac lived in Kaunas with his wife Raya Melamed and daughter Giten, born in 1929. When Soviet army came to power, he had to be in hiding as he might be deported for being rather rich. He stayed with us for some time, but mother was against it thinking that our house could not serve as a shelter putting our family in danger. I do not know how, but Isaac was able to escape repressions and arrest. During Great Patriotic War all of them, including Raya’s elderly mother were in Kaunas ghetto. Being rather active Isaac understood at once that they should get out from ghetto at any cost. He managed to ingratiate with Lithuanians, who were helping out Jews. All of them left ghetto in different time and by different means. Uncle Isaac was in hiding for a long time. He was sheltered by Lithuanians, passing from one reliable person to another. In 1943 he lived on a picturesque island on a farmstead of two Lithuanian brothers. Somebody gave away Isaac and he was found by politsei. Both Isaac, and brothers, who sheltered him, were beaten black and blue and imprisoned. He was sent to Estonian concentration camp from the prison, and then to Dachau 12. There he lived to see the liberation. All those years Isaac had known nothing about the fate of his family and he was sure that all of them perished. Uncle was afraid to come back to his motherland understanding that Stalin’s camps would be imminent for him instead of the fascists’ ones. He left for Palestine upon liberation. Being there he found out that Raya and Gitel were rescued. They lived in Vilnius. The family reunion took place only in 1972 as before that time Raya and Gitel were not issued a permit to depart for Israel. Being tortured by yearning for her husband in long separation, Raya had lived with him for ten years. Uncle Isaac passed away at an old age - 89 or 88.

Father’s younger sister Pera, born in 1900, married Emmanuel Katsnelson- a mirthful and witty man. He well-read and possessed encyclopedic knowledge. Pera and her husband lived in France for a while. Emmanuel was involved in revolutionary movement in Russian and was an adherer of communist party, so he talked Pera into leaving for Russia. In 1926 Pera and Emmanuel happened to be in Moscow. They were lucky not to have come in the period of repressions. Emmanuel and Pera had a serene life in Moscow. Emmanuel was acquainted with outstanding activists of Soviet regime and communist party. He knew most of them from the underground. Either somebody gave him a hint, or Emmanuel himself understood what was going on, he decided ‘not to stand out’. Thus, he was assigned to inconsiderable positions and escaped almost inevitable arrest in his position – native of bourgeois Lithuania and resident of France. Emmanuel died at the age of 70. Pera died shortly after him, in 1997. Pera’s son Yuri, born in 1930s, is currently living in the USA. Younger daughter Nina, born before war, is currently living in Israel. She was not happy in her marriage. She got divorced. She does not have children. Now Nina is living in kibbutz.

My father was born in Jonava in 1894. He has been an atheist since early childhood, and that strongly displeased grandpa, who was deeply religious. I do not know if father went to cheder. He went to Russian lyceum in the town of Suwalki [Poland, 10 km away from the border of Lithuania and Poland and 170 km from Vilnius]. Upon graduation he decided to enter university. He dreamt to become a lawyer. Grandpa Lazar was very displeased with father’s decision. He hoped that his son would follow in his footsteps, but my young father was adamant. That is why grandfather practically cut him off a shilling. Father went to Russia to enter the institute. I do not know how he happened to be in Siberia. He entered Tomsk university [about 3000 km from Moscow]. Father studied there for couple of years and got transferred to Yekaterinburg [Russia, 1500 km from Moscow], where he graduated juridical department. Father came back to the motherland in 1918 right after Lithuania became independent [Lithuanian independence] 13 In couple of years, namely in 1923 father proposed to mother. Parents had never told anything about their wedding. I think it was carried out in accordance with Jewish traditions. At any rate before war at home there was parents’ wedding certificate issued by the rabbi.

My parents did not stay in Jonava for a long time. They moved to Kaunas shortly after wedding. They rented an apartment in the heart of the city. They barely stayed there for a year. In 1925 my elder brother David was born. The family needed a more spacious apartment, so they had to move. Another apartment was in the house leased by Boris Shlapoberskiy. Father was a private lawyer and made pretty good money. The amount of rent was 800 litas. At that time it was a lot of money. Parents could afford a trip to the spa. It was in style and decent to take a vacation for couple of days or weeks to go seaside in any season. My brother was a feeble and in 1928 my mother expecting a child in couple of weeks, took brother to the seaside. They went to a village not far from Klaipeda [300 km from Vilnius]. Soon father came there as well. I, Iosif Yudelevich, was born in that village on the 25th of December 1928. Before long the family came back in Kaunas.

Growing up

I remember myself from the age of five. Since early childhood my brother I had been close. We were called – Dodya and Osya, pronouncing our names separately. I remember the apartment, where I spent my childhood. There were five rooms in it- one room was after another. The first two rooms were occupied by father: one room was a reception, where his clients and visitors were waiting for him, and another room was father’s office. Father’s secretary Kozlovskiy was at the reception desk. Father’s customers sat on the leathern couches waiting for my father to receive them. At that time my father was one of the most famous lawyers on civil cases in Kaunas. There was a large desk in father’s office with a lamp and ink well ,a small adjoining table for negotiations and book shelves containing the works on jurisprudence, books by ancient Greek and Roman philosophers and regulation documents. There were few fiction books. Most of them were written by Russian classics - Tolstoy, Turgenev etc. I do not remember whether there were books by Jewish writers at home. There was a large dining-room behind father’s office. There was a large round dining table, the one we are sitting now, arm- chairs, chairs, beautiful carved cupboard, bedroom furniture and children’s furniture used by brother and I . Of course, there was a kitchen, but I cannot recall my being there. There were servants and a cook in the house so there was no need to go in the kitchen, as the food was served in the dining-room. The servants changed with time and the only maid I remember was a cook- Lithuanian lady Elya. She treated us very good and cooked tasty food. Mother only ran the house, giving orders. Sometimes she went in the kitchen to make some corrections. We, children, had the governesses. Our first governess was a Russian girl Irina. She was very kind and tender. I loved her a lot. Even now I cannot get why she was fired by my mother. Maybe she thought that brother and I were grown-up enough to have a nanny and she wanted a governess for us. After Irina German ladies worked for us. The first one was froelein Zina, then Gerta. They also were very kind. They had stayed by 1934 or so. When Hitler’s power was strengthened in Germany and Kristallnacht 14 came to place, they were fired. In 1937 they left for Germany. By the way, a kind Zina, subsequently joined fascist party and became Gestapo agent. Later on, when brother was a lyceum student, I was taken care of Froebel lady 15 Doba, a young Jewish girl. One of her duties was to take strolls with me. Mother requested that we should stay outside as long as possible in the park or in the street. Mother said– «the child should breathe some air». Young Doba was mostly interested in cinema. German, American and even Soviet comedies were demonstrated in Kaunas. She and I watched a lot of movies. We agreed that mother would not know about that. Doba and I went to a café to eat ice-cream. There was Italian ice-cream café in the park. There was delicious ice-cream there, but mother would not approve of it so she thought there was a risk to have a sore throat. So, we did not tell her about that either.

I was growing a good and a robust boy, but mother being frightened by brother’s feebleness (he was afflicted with rickets in early childhood and was constantly getting ill), looked into the way we were dressed and fed. In summer our family went on vacation for two months. The first month was spent in Kemery and then we went to Buldury- the spa with salves, baths and all kinds of treatments. At that time it was customary to spend summer on the coast. Many of our relatives came there with children, so we were not bored. Later on we spent summer vacation in Palanga. Parents often had rest and recreation abroad. They went to Karlovy Vary, to the spas in France, Switzerland. Usually they went on vacation separately. There were few times when they went together.

When mother came back from vacation in 1934, she decided that brother and I should be taught music. There was no musical instrument. We went to a lady, who taught us music. We were as if glued to a piano for an hour. Both brother and I were against it. We did not like our music classes.  Father, having decided that it was useless, talked mother into giving up our music education.

My parents were not religious. Moreover, they did not observe Jewish traditions. That is there is nothing for me to say on family traditions, or Jewish holidays marked in the family. Only in early childhood, when brother and I went to Jonava with parents, grandpa took us to the synagogue. I enjoyed those times, when we went to the synagogue. I liked carrying his prayer book for him. I took it as a game. We went to Jonava couple of times. At that time the distance of 35 kilometers was considerable. First we had to hire a cabman, then there was a bus traveling between Jonava and Kaunas. The trip was always like a holiday to us as we spent the night in grandparents’ place and played with grandpa. If we came on Friday, we met Sabbath. Beautiful grandmother in white laced kerchief lit the candle, grandpa said a prayer and our Sabbath dinner started. There were all kinds of different dishes on grandmother’s table, but I cannot remember what was there since I was pampered with chicken cutlets at home. We did not mark Sabbath at home. There were no candles on Friday. Though, there was a silver candlestick in the drawing-room and judging by that I could say that mother used to light candles. I do not remember if father worked on Saturdays. As a rule, he sat in his office, read and wrote something, if needed as he was an active atheist. He must have continued his inner argument with his father Lazar. I did not know anything about kashrut in my childhood. There were all products at home, including sausages, ham, pork. I just heard from my cousins that chicken was to be cut by shochet in the synagogue, meat was to be eaten separately from milk, but Jewish traditions were alien to me. Sometimes, when uncle Isaac was going to the synagogue, he would take me with him. But it was rare. I think that father was strongly against my going there. Though, when I was a child we celebrated Chanukkah. Mother lit beautiful silver chanukkiah, which was placed on special round table. The cook made potato fritters, doughnuts with jam. There was an air of holiday at home. I do not remember if we were given money the way it was with other children. We marked Purim for couple of times. As a rule there was a pageant for us and neighboring children. But it was arranged only in early childhood, in elementary school I should say. Parents did not observe mandatory fast for Jews on Yom-Kippur. They did not mark Rosh-Hashanah. On Pesach we were always invited to uncle Isaac. There was matzah on the table as well as different dishes from matzah, gefilte fish, delicious stew, all kinds of tsimes and deserts. Uncle Isaac reclined at the head of the table carrying out seder. Some of the children asked him questions on the origin of the holiday. We also looked for afikoman and waited for prophet Iliah in accordance with the holiday traditions. Father came to Isaac without kippah. He did it deliberately, empathizing his negative attitude to Jewish traditions. When grandmother Sarah moved to Kaunas, father could not refuse marking holidays and family festivities were moved to her place. Father contributed a lot of money to Jewish mutual aid fund. Both religious Jews and atheists donated money for revival of the Jewish state. Later on, when brother went to Ivrit lyceum, he took an interest in religion. It was easy for David to be carried away. He started talking on Judaism and asking father a lot of questions, which irritated him. Father took a lot of efforts to convince brother in malignancy of the religion. Father tried to persuade us that religion was created by domineering classes in order to subordinate common people. In general, he had his own views, which were in compliance with the ideas of global revolution 16.

I was a rather developed child. I often was present at my brother’s studies and I had learnt letters before going to school. When parents were to choose where I should study, they chose secular Jewish lyceum Shvabes right away. There were several schools for Jewish children in Kaunas– Ivrit Realschul, commercial lyceum, Lithuanian Jewish lyceum, where children were taught in Lithuanian, religious school Yavne. As for the last one, there was no way I could go there. There used to be German lyceum in town and many Jewish children from privileged families went there. My brother David finished the first grade there. As soon as Hitler came to power in Germany, parents took all Jewish children from lyceum. Brothers Shlapoberskiys and other our friends left that lyceum, and brother was transferred to Shvabes lyceum. I went to Shvabes lyceum in 1934. Our wonderful teachers and headmaster Rutskus made a real team of like-minded people. The ideas of repatriation to Israel were delicately nurtured in the lyceum. Other than that it was an ordinary school, where subjects were taught in Ivrit. We had religion classes taught by Lipskiy. He was not a very educated person. He was only knowledgeable in his subjects, so we boys often were frolicking. For instance, I came to school without a kippah and said that I had left it at home (I followed my father’s example). In general, neither I nor my comrades were awed by religion. I was not a bad student. I liked to spend my spare time running around with my friends in the hallway and play children’s games. Here in lyceum I got a better understanding of Jewish holidays and traditions. Chanukkah was marked in lyceum. There was a pageant on Purim. I also knew about Pesach as there was a general seder in lyceum, carried out by director or some of the teachers. Shavuot was marked as well. On the eve of every holiday we were expressly told about the history and origin of the holiday. There was a period of time when I was the member of Jewish Scout organization. We marched, learnt all kinds of sports techniques, went hiking and were explained the rules. There was a strong Zionist spirit 17 in lyceum. There were members of Beitar 18 organization. They wore brown shirts, without even knowing that brown color would be soon disgraced by fascists. I did join Zionist organizations.

My father did not pertain to any political party-neither to Zionist nor to Communists. Though, he was one of the people who sympathized with communists. He was interested in anything in connection with the Soviet Union, Russia, new socialistic camp. He even donated money to international revolutionary aid organization. Father had no idea what was going on in USSR –mass arrests, repressions. Knowing about actions taken by Hitler followers and about the way they treated Jews, parents had hopes for Russia. They often talked about Russia with each other, made plans, even thought of sending brother and I to Soviet Union. In 1939 mother went to Moscow for a visit. She processed visa in accordance with the rules and went to Pera and Emmanuel. Mother had stayed in Moscow for two weeks. When we met her in Kaunas train station, she leaving the train, sighed and said that there was no way we could leave for Russia, and in general we had to kiss Lithuanian land for living here.

We were subscribed to several news-papers – some Jewish paper, Lithuanian press of the left wing, Russian immigrant paper Echo, published in Riga. Father, brother and I closely followed the events in Spain war 19. There was Spain map at home, where we daily marked the course of the battles. Even now I can see that map and remember demarcations on it. I did not have any particular hobbies. Once I was taken to Jewish theater- but I did not enjoy it -either the performance was not for children, or I did not like the actors’ play. It was in style to go to the opera in the theatre seasons in late 1930s. Parents took brother and me there for couple of times. I liked opera and in spite of my unwillingness to study music, since childhood I came to liking opera genre.

During the war

In 1939 the war started from captured Poland. Vilnius became the capital of Lithuania again. Parents and I went to see aunt Malka. I enjoyed traveling by train. I met my cousins. Parents were getting more and more concerned. There were vivid fascist and anti-Semitic moods. They had not reflected on us so far. There appeared anti-Semitic slogans, calling upon buying goods from Lithuanians, not to use Jewish stores and enterprises. But not further actions had been taken yet, there were mere slogans. When in June 1940 Soviet Army came in Lithuania, most Jewish people, including intelligentsia, where my parents belonged to, were happy welcome the Soviets. Nothing changed for us. Though, products had vanished from the stores. Wives of Soviet officers appeared in the streets looking dowdy and ill-kempt. Of course I did not like to see Soviet officers to be uncultured people, who often even did not know how to use tableware. There were times when almost all of us considered Soviet people to be ideal. The most amusing thing that lower strata of society, like our servants, were mostly perturbed with the brusqueness and ill manners of Soviet people. Mother often had to comfort Elya, who quite often came across their harshness. Now almost every day the proletarian meetings were held in the city. Nationalization of property commenced, but people had not been arrested and exiled in Kaunas yet. Later on at the beginning of 1941 the family of mother’s cousin Shapiro and his family, who lived in Ukrmerg, were exiled. He had a tiny store, which barely brought any income, but still he was considered a capitalist. Father was not afraid of the exile as he was a lawyer, owning no property and being no Zionist, so he was of no danger to the Soviets. Our tenant’s house, where we were living, was sequestrated. In 1940 we moved to the apartment in a small wooden house not far from the train station. There were a lot of changes in the life of mine and brother’s. All educational institutions had been shuffled. Some of them were closed down and the assignment of the rest of the students was not clear. In fall 1940 we went to school. Most of my classmates went to other institutions, but I met new boys and girls. I was not pleased with the ongoing, as there were a lot of friends among those who left. I had to get used to new friends and teaches and to teaching in Yiddish. When Soviet regime was in power, there was teachers’ congress, were some of the teachers took the floor against the innovations in the educational system, introduced by Soviet regime. Many participants of the congress were arrested when it was over. In general, the pre-war year was tense. Then many of my comrades turned 13 in 1941. I was invited for celebration of bar-mitzvah and started thinking what I should do next. Father even did breathe a word of celebration of my bar-mitzvah. Brother’s bar-mitzvah had not been marked either. My anxieties were of no importance. My thirteenth’s birthday was in December and on the 22nd of June our life took a sharp turn- Hitler attacked Soviet Union.

We found out about the war via German radio from Hitler’s speech who was crying that the war would be over in couple of weeks after Soviet Union had been totally ruined. Soon there was Molotov’s speech 21 and there was no doubt that the war was unleashed. Bluma’s husband Jacob Epstein came to us shortly after Molotov’s speech. He swiftly talked parents into leaving at once. We packed documents, some precious things- mother’s jewelry, father’s golden watch and necessary things. We took uncle’s Chevrolet and went to the train station which was in a stones’ throw. We were not going to leave for a long time as we were convinced in a quick victory of the Soviet troops. There was a passenger train at the station, full of wives and children of the Soviet officers. There were not very many people as they had hopes for the better and did not think that the should run away. We calmly bought the tickets and got in the car. We decided to get to Vilnius and stop by aunt Malka as Vilnius was a little more far away from the border and it would be calmer. When we reached Vilnius train station, we came out to the platform being on the point of going to aunt Malka. There were a lot of panicking people and parents decided to go further. We came back in our car and went on to Minsk. At the frontier station Kena all citizens of bourgeois Lithuania, including us, were taken out of cars and our seats were given to Soviet militaries and their families, who were carrying huge suitcases. Only families of militaries were leaving on that train. We were locked in some shed. We were worried, though we were promised that we would take the next train. Father decided not to wait for anything. He took mother and us, told us to climb in the window. There was a train, crammed with fugitives. Lithuanian Jews from pioneer camp Druskeninkae were on that train. We could hardly find the seats. Many people, including our neighbor from Kaunas George and his parents had to stand in tambour all way through to Minsk. When we got to Minsk, we still were doubting whether to leave further or not. There were a lot of fugitives from Poland and Lithuania. People were gossiping , so we were scared to stay and moved on. As it turned out, shortly after our departure Minsk was fiercely bombed. Several trains were crushed. There were a lot of wounded and killed. Thus, I can say that we left at the right moment.

It was a long trip. Fortunately, my parents had enough money, which was not devaluated yet, for father to buy food for us at the stations. Sometimes the fugitives were given soup or gruel. I quickly got used to eat anything I was given, without picking and choosing. Thus, we reached the town of Sarapul in Udmurtia [about 1300 km from Moscow]. We had stayed in Sarapul evacuation point for couple of days. Father decided to head to Sverdlovsk – first of all his distant relative Chazan lived there, and secondly there were some of father’s friends from student times. We came to Chazan’s wife in Sverdlovsk. Chazan was dead. His wife Maria Genrikhovna accommodated us and parents looked into other arrangements. Father found his old fellow student, who was working as a doctor, and he helped us go to regional center Rehta. It was an industrial town, having several plants and factories. The first thing mother did was going to the market. It was empty. We could not even get potatoes. We understood that the war would not be over soon, and we had to get ready for a long life in evacuation. That is why mama said that we could not stay in the town, where it was problematic to get even potatoes. We came back to Sverdlovsk to Maria Genrikhovna, who hospitably received us again. Father again addressed to his friend, who suggested that we should go to Sukhoy Log, Sverdlovsk Oblast [about 2000 km from Moscow] in couple of days. It was a large settlement in agricultural area and father’s friend said that we would have potato there for sure. Sukhoy Log consisted of industrial community and couple of dispersed hamlets. First we were sent to the resort area Kuryii, a scenic place at the bank of the river. Here we stayed for a while. Father was looking for a job. Every day he asked if there was anything for him. He was promised the position of a lawyer, but he had not got the offer. We came back to Sukhoy Log.

There mother took over. Even now I am wondering, how she having been pampered by life in the pre-war period, changed completely and became a tough mother and wife, who knew how to get what she wanted. She went to the officials, made a scene saying that we ‘westerners’ hardly escaped fascists and had to die by hunger because of some officials. Her demarche brought results. Father was almost immediately offered a job as a lawyer. He started getting food cards 22, including dependent’s cards for us. It was getting a little easier for us. By that time we almost ran out of money and started exchanging precious things for food. Luckily, mother had enough jewelry so we were not starving. I was not picky, and had to eat anything they were able to get. In a while father got another job at fish factory and the situation with products became much better as the employees of the factory got much better rations. Besides, father was on some odd jobs- making applications, filing claims etc. and people were paying him with products.

We were not lodged in the settlement, but in an adjacent village. I do not remember the name of our hostess. We were given one through-room and the hostess had to walk across our room to get to hers. She was a grumbler, constantly complaining that we were making her hut cold. I cannot say that she treated Jews in a bad way. I think she did not care what nationality we were. Like many other dwellers of that area she associated her aggravated material position and the lack of products and food with the arrival of crowds of evacuees. They maltreated fugitives of all nationalities. It was strange, to put it mildly, and it spoke for the shallowness of people. The war was on and their husbands and sons were dying in the lines, and they, at any rate, did not see the true reason- the war, but thought that our arrival was to blame. Though, our neighbor Anna Stepanovna Berseneva, who lived next door, was marvelously kind. In my soul I have always pictured her as a true image of a real kind Russian peasant woman. Anna Stepanovna always tried helping mother. First, mother did not know how to cook on stove or do gardening. She gave us a small plot of land where we planted potatoes and other vegetables. Having followed her tips we had a good yield. Sometimes Anna Stepanovna asked brother and I to come over and treated us to pies, pancakes and other food she cooked.

Brother and I went to local school. We did well. It was easy for us to study Russian and our level of education and development was much higher as compared to local guys. We became adults quite fast. Our childish anxieties and pranks vanished we had to think of daily bread and help mother. The second year of my stay at Sukhoy Log I found a job of the assistant of the secretary of the cement plant committee, where father was working. I also was a bread-winner of the family. Within that time father was drafted in the army on a number of occasions. There was one and the same scenario. He got a notification from military enlistment office, we saw father off and in a day or two he would come back as people from the territories annexed to the USSR in late 1930s were not admitted in the lines as they were not trusted by Soviet regime. In late 1942 David was drafted in the army. He happened to be in Balakhna, in Lithuanian division ,which was positioned there. Soon brother got seriously ill, he had tuberculosis. David was demobilized and he came back to Sukhoy Log. Brother was really unwell, on the brink of death and again mother used her mettle. She wrote a letter to her sister Frida Shlapoberskaya in Palestine asking her for help. Frida started sending us parcels with products, fats, canned fish and meat – everything which was needed by David. She also sent medicine. Brother had stayed in the hospital for almost a year and fortunately tuberculosis process stopped and brother got better. We had stayed in evacuation until summer 1945. By that time mother had known about death of grandmother Sarah and her relatives.

In summer 1945 we came back to Lithuania. We decided to come back to native town Kaunas. The Epsteins family had been there already. Jacob was deputy director of cooperative society, and that position was very important. Uncle and his family lived in a posh 4-room apartment in a beautiful two-storied mansion in the downtown area. We also moved in there. We did not have to leave with another family for a long time. In half a year uncle was transferred to Vilnius, their family moved out and we started equal owners of the apartment. I lived in that apartment after war and I am still living here by myself.

After the war

First postwar years were hard. Our family did pretty well, father worked as a lawyer and made pretty good money. Brother was given the certificate of secondary education in evacuation. He finished school pre-term. I had studied for a year in Kaunas and finished school. That year I joined Komsomol 23, I was not eager to be involved in social work, but I had to do it for me to enter institute. I was not attracted by communistic ideology. I was always fond of art and could draw pretty well, so I entered Kaunas construction institute, the architecture department. Later on the institute was reformed into polytechnic one. I got the specialty of the architect. I worked with layouts. During my first years after graduations I made designs for agricultural arrears in Lithuania. I traveled a lot and communicated with people.

We had a calm life trying not to get attention. Father worked a lot and met with his colleagues after work to play poker and preference. Very often the company of lawyers kept late hours in our place, well past midnight. In 1950 father got into trouble. I do not know if it is connected with anti-Semitic campaign 24 [Campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’], launched in USSR at that time. There was information against my father sent by Jew from Jonava, party activist. I do not want to mention her name. She sent a letter to KGB saying that father owned shares of foreign capitalistic companies. He was called by KGB and interrogated. Father explained that before war he really owned shares of German Sanitary Engineering Company, which representative he was. Father was called in KGB again. He was called by the investigator who told him that his defense was done in a wrong way and that he did not choose the right clients. Besides, in early 1950s father submitted document for getting a permit to see his brother Isaac in Israel. The response was negative. So, father was getting nervous. In 1950 he had a first heart attack as father was affected by that story. In 1955 father died. His death was easy and sudden, but too early- he was only 60. He was buried in Jewish cemetery in Kaunas without any rites.

I had lived with mother since that time. In 1957 my mother managed to get a permit for guest visit in Israel. Of course, she had to use connections. Mother’s pal Kaganene, who was in charge of protocol department in Ispolkom 25, knew somebody in the Ministry of Foreign Affaires. She convinced him that mother would be coming back and said that she would be her guarantee. Mother was issued a visa 1957 and she spent two months in Israel. She saw Isaac, father’s brother and all her relatives. Upon return from Israel, mother started marking some Jewish holidays. We bought matzah on Pesach, lit candles on Chanukkah the way it was before war.

My brother graduated from institute, drama department and became an outstanding drama critic. He married Lithuanian lady Laima. They have two children – son Leon and daughter Irma. My brother is a famous man in literature and theater circles of Lithuania, the member of the council of Lithuanian writers, the author of several books. Brother lives in Vilnius. His son is an entrepreneur. He has his own house out of town and spends half of the year there with his wife. His children have their own families. Both of them are successful both in private and professional life.

I always got along with my brother, but mother had always been an only true friend. Maybe that was the reason why I had always compared her to women, who came across in my life. I remained a bachelor. I do not regret it. I do not like answering question regarding my private life in the sense that I do not have it. Believe me, my private life was rather boisterous, but I had not met a woman with whom I wanted to live together. I was not interested in social life. Moreover mandatory komsomol meeting, I had to attend, made me sick and giddy with their slogans and phrases on the bright future. From the very beginning I took Soviet power with irony. Unlike most Soviet people I did not grieve over Stalin’s death in 1953. I understood who he was, judging by hundreds of repressed and unjustly convicted people. Though, the truth of his activity was revealed only after ХХ party congress 26, where Stalin’s cult of personality was divulged. When I turned 28, I withdrew from komsomol organization and never tried to become party member. Of course, it was not absolutely possible to be absolutely free in the social life in Soviet society. I had to attend general and trade-union meetings, events, dedicated to the anniversary of October revolution 27, 1st of May. We also went to demonstration. We were compelled to do that. Instead of carrying flags and crying out slogans, my friends and I had fun watching people who were gradually getting drunk. Usually workers of plants and factories went to demonstrations and by the end of the day they had been pretty drank and their behavior was invariable. In the 1970s my friends immigrated to Israel, USA. I understood that my negative attitude to the Soviet regime required some actions from me. Israel always appealed to me. But I am a conservative man and it is hard for me to imagine that I have to break things conventional for me, get used to new town, country, language, friends. Besides, my mother had been rather sick in the last years of her life and I had to take care of her. Mother died in 1976. She was buried next to father. I have lived by myself since then.

I always had different interests. Being adult I learnt how to play accordion and I played classic repertoire pretty well. Music was my passion. I attended all opera performances. Another passion of mine is art. Having some penchant for that I have always painted some pieces, mostly landscapes of my native Kaunas. I have always traveled at lot. I was in many cities of former Soviet Union. I liked old cities most of all, where I enjoyed architectural masterpieces. Gradually I came to liking bells and I started collecting big, small and diminutive ones. Collectors are crazy with their hobby. I remember one story about it. I went on a tourist trip to Czechoslovakia in order to meet my friend collector who lived in Austria and give him some of my exhibits. In Soviet times KGB 28 agents were in every tourist group being on vigil to follow the morale of Soviet tourists. I had to exert my every effort to slip out from the group and to meet with the guy. Fortunately, the meeting with my friend was not noticed.

I am currently living in bourgeois Lithuania and I am happy with that. I also treated Soviet regime as something negative and temporary, so I took the independence regained by my country in 1991 as long-awaited and wishful. I think, when being the member of European Union my country will become a true European country with European ethic standards. Recently I became the member of Jewish community not because I started being religious, but out of solidarity. There are few Jews, and there are getting less of them in Kaunas, and in Lithuania in general. That is why we have to stick to each other, learn Jewish culture and history. I make my contribution the way I can. The first thing I decided to do was to find people, who saved my relatives - uncle Isaac, his wife and daughter. I met uncle Isaac in the 1960s in Leningrad. He came there from Israel and was still scared to come to Kaunas. Uncle invited me in Leningrad and we met couple of times. He was constantly saying how grateful he was the people, who rescued him. Uncle asked me to do my best to find them. It was impossible in Soviet times. In the 1990s I found two brothers, who saved him on the island and other people who saved our family. I plead for them to be recognized as righteous among the nations. 29, some of them posthumously. Then I enjoyed doing that. I spend a lot of time in the archives, meet people, help them find those, who saved Jews in Lithuania. Owing to my modest work, many people became famous and got recognition and gratitude from the state of Israel. It is my last hobby. I think this is the most important thing in my life. Besides, I help out community members with some legal issues. I was raised in the lawyer’s family and was taught how to make applications and claims. I also do it voluntarily.

Glossary

Aleksander Fredi Mosic
Belgrade
Serbia
Name of interviewer: Ida Labudovic
Date of interview: January 2002

For my own reasons I will begin presenting myself from an unusual perspective. I have my own name, family name which appears in all my documents but I also have a nickname, Fredi, by which I am known to all my friends. You probably sensed that I pronounced that in the German manner, the Viennese pronunciation, that is because my mother was Viennese and my father a Belgradian. My mother was Ashkenazi and my father Sephardi. He was even a fifth generation Belgrade Sephard. When I was born I was given the name Avram. Later, during WWII, I was forced to change that name to Aleksandar. I will tell you about why I did that during the second half of our conversation when we come to WWII, Holocaust, the period of the partisans, and the like. Thus, I am originally Avram Mosic, professionally I am called that today, I have a passport with that name and an identity card with Aleksandar Mosic.  I am a chemical engineer, I have a diploma from 1947. As I mentioned already my parents are of a mixed marriage from the Jewish perspective—my father was Sephardi and my mother Ashkenazi. Since they married on January 5, 1913 when WWI broke out my parents situation was very difficult as mother was an Austrian and father a Serb. Based on the fact that Austria attacked Serbia that family, that is that marriage, was a very uncomfortable situation from the standpoint of state security of the Kingdom of Serbia, from the standpoint of social relations which existed at that moment, so that my parents escaped to Sofia via Nis. From Sofia I do not the exact path they followed, whether it was through Romania or Austria or Greece or Italy but they ended up in Switzerland as my mother had highly risky pregnancy. They lived in Switzerland during WWI so that I was born in Zurich on May 21, 1919. Even though in all my documents it is written that I was born in Zurich I never was Swiss and I only saw Zurich for the first time when I was sixty years old. During one of my travels I went to see my birthplace.

Growing up
During the war
After the war

Growing up

My parents returned to Belgrade, via Vienna,  immediately after WWI. My grandfather and grandmother’s families still lived in Vienna at that time. I had two maternal uncles there Hannes and Fritz and aunts Emma and Edith and we spent some time in Vienna. Hannes inherited grandfathers shop for men`s ready-made clothing and Fritz was a partner at Penichek and Rainer fur trading. My first visual memory is of the Viennese train station. It is difficult for me to say whether I was two or three at the time, but I remember the scene from the east train station in Vienna, where the trains leave for Budapest and Belgrade, where I saw a train being assembled on the other track and I was astounded how those wagons travel without a locomotive, namely locomotives pushed the wagons. The wagons only had a motorman who at the right moment stopped them. I think that I could not have had less than three years. Immediately after that comes our arrival in Belgrade. At the Belgrade train station there were no cars rather carriages. Upon our arrival in Belgrade we got into a carriage, we  climbed up the steep Balkan Street and went to my grandmother Mosic’s apartment.

Grandfather Mosic had already died from Parkinson’s disease, I don`t remeber him and grandmother still lived on Knez Mihailova Street, across from the so-called Grand Passage. This building, built in the urban baroque style, still stands today. Halfway between Kneginje Ljubice and Obilicev Venac. We lived there a very brief time and I am amazed at myself that I still remember this even today. Grandmother Bukas was well educated; she spoke German language and was a typical Sephardim. She spoke judeo espagnol and I visited her often for a lunch as she cooked my favorite dishes mirinjenu (made of eggplant) and pastel (meat pie).

We  moved later to 31, 33 or 35 Strahinica Bana a house that still exists today. We entered our apartment on the third floor and I remember very well the balcony where I was allowed to play. That street is my first “homeland”, essentially where I began my childhood. For those who does not know Belgrade I will tell you that Strahinica Bana is in Dorcol. In the part of Dorcol above Dusanova Street. The buildings were modern at that time, built at the turn of the century. A lot of Jews lived on that street. Most were Sephardic Jews, because there was a large concentration of  Sephardic Jews in the area of Dorcol. Sephardic Jews were darker colored, they dressed differently, spoke judeo espagnol. Sephardic women wore darker clothing with pearls. There were Ashkenazik Jews in several houses, but their numbers were significantly fewer. Afterwards I learned that Ashkenazik Jews were mainly concentrated near the Savska Padina and in all other parts of Belgrade up to Smederevska Derma and Cubura.  These were the outer areas of Belgrade, after these areas there were vineyards and in the twenties this was the periphery. Ashkenazi Jews were scattered all the way to there, while the Sephardic Jews were truly concentrated in Dorcol. I do not believe that when speaking in Serbian one must define what Dorcol is. On one occasion three or four years ago I wrote a book in German called “Jews of Belgrade” for an intellectual circle in Berlin and there I described more clearly what Dorcol was. In Dorcol was a Synagogue Bet Israel, Kal Nuevo (New Synagogue) in Cara Urosa street, which was robbed and destroyed at beginning of the war. Kal Vieju (Old Synagogue) was demolished in 1946 as it was completely destroyed during the war. My childhood therefore begins on Strahinica Bana Street which I want to describe to you. It was a street of Jews from the middle class in good apartments, nice houses, the street was treelined and with asphalt in the center or checkered track, on the sides there was still macadam road and the outer part of the sidewalk was treelined, these trees still stand today, however the street no longer resembles what it once was. It was a peaceful street on which we later, when I was already in the lower grades of the gymnasium, today these are the higher grades of elementary school, played football without fear of cars. Today this is not at all possible.

My father was a merchant and had a unique store with dental material which was called »Dental Depo«. Today those types of stores are called the same in German and French. Father ran that store and had excellent contact with all dentists in Serbia, and when I say Serbia I mean Vojvodina, Sumadija and Pomoravlja, in brief father was the one who supplied dentists in eastern parts of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. After living on Strahinica Bana, if my memory does not fail me, we moved to Balkanska Street. That building no longer exists, it was hit bya bomb in 1941 or 1944, I do not know if it was hit by a German bomb or an Allies bomb. The building was in the immediate vicinity to the »Luxor« movie theater, which today is called »20 oktobar«. It was at the corner of Pajsijeva and Balkanska streets. Pajsijeva Street remains very clear in my memory because it was steep. I used to sled down Pajsijeva Street. That was the period before elementary school. 

My grandmother, I cannot say exactly when she left her apartment on Knez Mihailova Street, since she was already a widow, a young widow since my grandfather died in 1920 or 1921 from Parkinson’s, moved to Marsala Pirsuska Street. Grandmother moved and joined my paternal aunt Neli Nehama, nee Mosic, she married Josif Demajo, family. This family had two sons and a daughter, who were older than me. And as was customary among close relatives I admired them and they were examples for me. I was young and they were already merchants or students at the Commercial Academy and in their twenties. Grandmother lived with my aunt and uncle, in that house they spoke Ladino or Jewish Spanish. We differentiate between Ladino and Jewish Spanish in that Jewish Spanish is a literary language and Ladino is a type of spoken language, a bit of a dialect. I understand Ladino to be the lower level of language of educated Sephardic Jews. So, at home my grandmother and uncle spoke Ladino and Jewish Spanish which enriched my childhood. Because I listened to Ladino throughout my childhood and it remained in my ear, today I can understand Spanish, be it Jewish Spanish, Catalina, Mexican,  even though I cannot speak it.  I can always get by in spoken Spanish. Having listened to one romance language in my childhood helped me a great deal later, when I went to gymnasium and had to learn French, based on which I later learned Italian. So that my knowledge of romance languages and my love of romance languages begins from my pure Sephardic surroundings. At home my parents did not speak Ladino even though my father spoke Ladino, rather they spoke Serbian and German because my mother was from Vienna and did not know Ladino. My father completed his commercial middle school education in Germany. If I am not mistaken, many years have passed, it was a commercial academy in Mahtbrajt, I do not know what part of Germany that is. Certainly during father's schooling in Germany he mastered German and spoke it without any kind of foreign accent. I have to say that the Mosic family paid a lot of attention to education of children. My grandfather Mosic was an industrialist, he had a hat factory which among other places sold in Vienna and that is how Grandfather Mosic of Belgrade came to know Grandfather Nojvelt in Vienna. This relationship between my grandfathers resulted in my parents marriage. In my parents family German and Serbian were spoken. My mother tried very hard, she was a good bride, she was a very good young wife and she understood it to be her obligation to learn Serbian and she learned it. The truth is she sometimes made mistakes with the cases but today with the greatest amount of love and admiration I excuse her because she never claimed to know perfect Serbian but she spoke it. During my childhood I already learned German as well. The fact that I grew up bilingual later had a great impact on my upbringing, schooling and interests. I grew up bilingual, actually knowing two and a half languages, I spoke Serbian and German and understood Ladino. When I came to middle school, I must remind you that in those days school lasted four years, and after that one went to the lower gymnasium and then to the higher. When I came to the lower middle school already in the second grade I began to learn French as part of the curriculum and it was very easy for me. I am certain that the ease with which I learned French was a consequence of my two and half language upbringing. By the way, let it be said, I already mentioned middle school, it was called »Realka« and this no longer exists today, today this type of school is the mathematics gymnasium, so that I did not learn Latin nor Greek only modern languages. Upon graduating I already spoke fluent French. In the fifth grade then and the first grade today, I began to learn German, which was a breeze for me. I would like to draw attention to one thing, the knowledge of language which a child brings from home is very limited. The vocabulary from home life is limited and does not surpass 1000 words. My mother was a very well educated woman and she knew that she needed to develop German language for me parallel to Serbian. I subscribed to a German or Austrian magazine, which I received regularly and enjoyed reading, because it was very good. When I graduated from the gymnasium I spoke three languages fluently, with a vast vocabulary, with full knowledge of grammar and syntax. At the university I used only Serbian textbooks, but later in the higher years there were no Serbian textbook so I used German and French textbooks parallel and in the end I graduated with a knowledge of technical terms in three languages. We will leave my early childhood to graduation. We will continue with that in the second half.

Now it is interesting the life of a Jewish family with both Ashkenazik and Sephardic components. My mother socialized well and got along with the Mosic family, I want to tell you that my two aunts also knew German, so they accepted my mother very well. My aunts who my grandmother lived with were Nehama or Neli and the elder one was Sarina or Sara, her married name was Alkalaj. Both aunts spoke German well and my uncle, my aunts younger brother, also did. They all knew German and they accepted my mother nicely. My mother, perhaps out of sentimental reasons, remains a very clear memory for me. When she came from Vienna she had an affinity towards the Belgrade Ashkenazik circles, she socialized with her friend with the same name, Elza Flajser, the wife of the famous Belgrade glass and porcelain merchant Benjamin Flajser who had a shop on Terazija and was the court supplier. We socialized with the Flajsers, and the two ladies had the same name like my daughter Elza. From my father's side I had very close contact with the Sephardic milieu which was in this area. My grandmother lived on Tadeusa Koscuska with the Demajo family. Jews families such as: Gabaj, Tajtacak, my uncle Mosic, Karaoglanovic lived on the whole row of apartments and houses on Jevremova Street, and on Cara Urosa Street. Today, since unfortunately that Jewish milieu disappeared during the Holocaust it will be interesting for me to tell you that the Sephardi Jews after the plague in Belgrade I think in XVII century moved from Savska Padina to Dunavska Padina and from then on Dorcol was the Jewish center. At the same it was always a multi-ethnic milieu where a mix of people lived and there were always excellent relations between the Jews and the Serbs, Cincars, Albanians and Turks as long as they lived in Belgrade. Because of this mixture in Dorcol all those who lived there learned great national tolerance; an attribute unique to Dorcol. To a great extent this spread to today's Belgrade which ends at Cubura and Smederevska Derm. Due to Dorcol, which represents the old center, Belgrade today is nationally a very liberal city. This was especially true before WWII and not to say WWI which I do not remember.

I remember best the period between the two world wars. We played in Dorcol among ourselves and we did not care at all who was of which religion or nationality, in general we knew each other by nicknames. In the school where I studied in close proximity to the Sabor church there were a lot of Jewish students. Around 30 students were in the grade, and if someone was called Adanja, and someone Mosic or Bararon they were Jews, but as was said earlier we knew each other by nicknames and no one paid attention who was of which religion and we did all this playing in Kalemegdan. There were also harmless children's fights between the students of Realka and the First Male Gymnasium, but there were no injuries. That was how territory was possessed and they were child's play that is played in every neighborhood in every city and in retrospect it is very cute. I knew all the kids from my generation in Dorcol. Now I will tell you something about Dorcol, when Jews in the XVII century moved to Dorcol from Savamala, that is the Sava mahala, this is a Serbian and also Sephardic verbal contraction, it is then mala with a long »a« , they moved northward from Dusanova Street that is between Dusanova Street and the banks of the Dunav. Today this remains Jewish Street, once it was Mojsijev Street. It is between Tadeusa Koscuska  and Dubrovacka Streets. We have a picture in the Jewish Historical Museum of how it looked in the XIX century. However, after the Turks left in the second half of the XIX century an economic boom came to Serbia and to the Jewish communities. Those families that were poor moved into the middle class, they moved to the west from Jalija via Dusanova Street to the area called Zerek, slope from Uzun Mirkova Street to Dusanova. Today there are still Jewish residents on Strahinica Bana, Jovanova, Jevremova streets to Uzun Mirkova and Vasina streets. When I was a kid all the Mosics already lived in this part of town, therefore all the Mosics fell into the middle class. My grandfather was an industrialist and had a hat factory. That hat factory was on Banatska Street, today it is Mike Aalasa. That building no longer exists, and the Mosic's economic standing was good. Due to this I can tell you that they were elegantly dressed in European clothing, without any trace of the Turks, oriental clothing, which existed until the period before my childhood especially among older women. My aunts, all dressed in the European style. Also the houses were arranged in those circles if I can say on par with what I saw at my aunts and uncles in Vienna, it was that level. Concerning pure Jewish life, we went to the synagogue on Cara Urosa Street. This was the Sephardic synagogue Bet Israel, which was built before WWI. It is well known that King Petar I placed the corner stone, on the occasion of dedicating the synagogue he was present, and relations between Serbs and Jews were excellent. Since my father was a Sephard we were members of the Sephardic community and went to that synagogue. As a student I had to go to religion classes during which we learned tefila, praying customs and Biblical history. Friday night for every Erev Shabbat I had to be in synagogue. I also had to be in synagogue, independent of my parents desire, for each holiday. It is true that sometimes we skipped these religious services like we ran away from classes in the gymnasium. Yes I was an excellent student but I was also a little bit of a hoodlum. We felt very at home in synagogue, we knew the gabai who took care of Synagogue, cantor, rabbi, chief rabbi. We also knew to read Hebrew from the prayerbook, which we called tefila. However we did not learn the language, exactly what those prayers mean, but we did know the meaning of certain blessings. We learned these blessings because they are much shorter. When we had to read prayers or psalms from 10 to twelve lines from the book were read them but we did not know what we were reading. I had a Bar Micva when I was 13 years old. I do not have a lot to tell about this, I had a Bar Micva in the same way that other boys had one. We were prepared for this in Jewish school. Today I still remember that one Saturday at the end of the morning service, I had to give a speech in which I had to show that I knew something about Judaism. I remember that I spoke about Maimonidies and while preparing this presentation I acquired a special respect for a man who is a humanist and philosopher. It was very interesting for me; studying his life was easier for me than studying his teachings because I was too young to understand his philosophy. It was very interesting to me because it showed me life of the Sephardi Jew before the expulsion from Spain. This awakened in me a special affinity for this Roman-Jewish culture.

My mother occasionally went to the Ashkenazik synagogue, not because she was of Ashkenazik religious determination, rather simply because that is where her friends were. Mother was also a member of a Jewish women's society, which I no longer know. It is barely felt that my mother and father were from two different, Ashkenazik and Sephardic cultures. For example my mother taught me to say the Sema Israel before going to sleep. She did not teach me to say it in the Ashkenazik manner, rather she adopted the Sephardic manner. She wanted to entirely fit into the Mosic family therefore I did not say Sema Jisroel rather Sema Israel. We did not observe kashrut at home, because it was very hard to do this at home however there were families that did observe it. Pork we practically did not eat, simply it was fatty and we did not question this. My mother did not say kosher, rather kasher. And with that one can see her desire to enter the Sephardic milieu.

At grandmother and grandfather's in Vienna it was a different style, here one could notice the difference between the cultures of Vienna and Belgrade. Yes both cities are on the Danube, but Vienna was a city of the Tsar, much richer and more orderly. Belgrade, before WWII, was much more orderly than it is today, this terrible condition is an entirely other theme of urbanism and social problems. I happily went with mother to Vienna where my uncles and aunts pampered me, because except for me there was only one other grandchild, so that the entire Nojvelt family really pampered me. Till 1935 when uncle Fritz got a son I was the only child and for that reason everyone fondled me. I got to know Vienna as a pre-schooler and especially as a student. I got along very well there due to my knowledge of German. Vienna was very interesting to me: it had a zoo, lovely parks, the Prater amusement park. The life of my ancestors and  relatives in Vienna I have the impression that the lives of my ancestors and relatives in Vienna were less full of Judaism than the Mosic's in Belgrade. They were rich merchants. My grandfather, my uncle inherited it, had a men's fashion shop, clothing, in the middle of the main commerce street in Vienna, Kertnerstrase, which is comparable to Knez Mihailova Street in Belgrade. My uncle was richer, I think, than my father, and his standard of living was a half of degree higher than my parents. I remember my uncle's apartment which was very richly furnished, uncle had a car before we did, so that from this perspective maybe I was spoiled with a high standard of living. As a young boy I went with my grandfather and grandmother every summer on vacation. Summer vacation I spent two months with grandfather and grandmother around Vienna in the Alps in nice orderly places and that is how I acquired my affinity for nice and orderly surroundings. Later, this carried over to my life, but I will talk about that when I discuss my professional career, how that additional upbringing from Vienna influenced my career.

There were many prominent people in the Mosic family. Some of them are not called Mosic. In the extended family there was the very respectable Aron Alkalaj, who was the general secretary of a mortgage bank, an exceptionally well educated man and very prominent in economic circles in Belgrade. Another friend of ours, I do not know to what extent we were related, among Sephardis many are relatives, I did not know who was related to whom but I knew them through the friendly relations between my parents and these families. One was Avram Levic, the head of the ministry of finance. He was the one who was entrusted to carry Miroslav's Gospel during the withdrawal through Albania. I know that there is some controversy concerning whether it was him or someone else, but in any case his name is associated with the withdrawal through Albania and the saving of the Miroslav Gospel. I will give an example of the type of circle my parents socialized in. One of the famous and respected Jews of Belgrade was Solomon Alkalaj, doctor president of the Sephardic Jewish community who was married to the sister of an aunt of my aunt, that is to say a distant relative. Solomon Davidovic, urologist, when he operated on me to remove a birthmark he was a docent at the medical faculty. When I was 13 I had caecum (appendix) and I remember that he operated on me in an emergency operation at the »Zivkovic« sanatorium. In my happy memories I remember a grocery store on Kralja Petra Street, who had a grocery store on Rajiceva Street. In the period of my childhood it was a street that stretched all the way to the French embassy. In that row of shops, there were the Koen brothers, there were more Jewish than Serbian grocery stores and many horse drawn carriages passed by there which brought and took merchandise around Belgrade or to the train station, that is how things worked then. There were no trucks. Then along Kralja Petra Street, store next to store was owned by Adanjas, Bararons, Almozlinovs, pharmacy, all of which were well stocked stores and respected people. These people's children were my school friends, in the elementary school and secondary school. Since I mentioned school I cannot skip our religious studies lessons. I must tell you that for some unknown reason I did not go to the religious lessons, somehow elementary school passed and I did not get grades from religion classes, I do not know how this happened. When I entered the Realka secondary school, this could no longer go on and I had to go to the religious studies lessons in the first and second grade. Ashkenazi religious lessons were held in the newly constructed synagogue on Kosmajska Street. That is the sole remaining synagogue today. The headquarters of the Ashkenazi community and the rabbinate were located in that building. I did not go to that building even though I did socialize with Ashkenazik Jews. I went to Jewish school in the Sephardic community on Kralja Petra Street, in the Jewish communal religious school which took care of the synagogue and school and religious lessons, which was obligatory. The school was where the Jewish Historical Museum is today, on the first floor of the building, the Jewish community building at. When I went to Jewish school we had classes two afternoons a week. We had two professors: one was professor Solomon Kalderon, who was educated to be a professor of history and worked at the First Male Gymnasium, before that he was a professor in Sapac. He taught us Biblical history. That is the part of the Torah which describes the Jews, Israel and Judea. We liked those classes very much because he was an excellent professor, not only a first class historian but a good lecturer too. I went to the classes very willingly. The other teacher was according to academic levels a step higher, Dr. Juda Levi, I think he was a doctor of philosophy or theology or both and he was educated as a rabbi. He was an exceptionally well educated and a good man but he was not a good teacher. He was supposed to teach us about the customs in the synagogue that which is called tefila. We mastered certain texts from the tefila, but we could not learn Hebrew language which was part of the educational program for his subject as it was too difficult for us. Was it because he was not a gifted linguist, was it because we only had a few classes, I do not know, but it is a fact that I did not learn Hebrew and today I still do not know it. That is how we passed the religious lessons. I can tell you that when I finished middle school I knew more about Biblical history than I did about the religious services and more than I knew Hebrew. Learning Biblical history I think instilled in me the feeling of belonging to the Jewish people, because through learning the Biblical Jewish history one comes to understand Jewish ethics. Dr. Levi did not even talk to us about that, it was not his duty. And professor Kaledron, whether it was his job or not I do not know, but I learned that with him. Many years later I came to understand that which would be called philosophy of Judaism, when I tried to understand the essence of Jewish monotheism. But that is a theme which falls into my memory of my later years. Jewish school was the only mixed school because earlier schools were divided between male and female. I have to say that this had its nice side as well. There first loves were born. These were very innocent and naïve, but then we already entered puberty and girls interested us, and we interested them, but there were different forms of interest.

Speaking about that Jewish youth world and life I must deal with two more forms of socializing. Dances, tango, waltz and others, were organized in the big hall of the Jewish community. Ashkenazi girls came to these dances, as well as boys, but the girls were of interest to us because they were different from us. And you know how it always is, I think that it is a good side of life, that which is a little bit different is more interesting. And those Ashkenazi girls were very interesting to us. We danced with them very eagerly, and we happily socialized with them and after that there were walks in Kalemegdan. It was different, maybe it was great courage, but it is better that I say this as the opinion of one of many boys. Jews in every country take on some of the characteristics of the nation in whose milieu they live and that is how it was with us in Belgrade where there were 80% Sephards and 20% Ashkenazi since the end of XIX century till 1941, approximately speaking, commenting on the difference of origins of Jews. Spanish Jews came from Spain and brought with them certain Mediterranean characteristics both physical and cultural. They were swarthy, temperamental, they had strongly developed lyric poetry and poetry. They had their wonderful Spanish love songs as poems which expressed their joy, love and sorrow and this was that cultural tradition. As a young boy, I could differentiate Sephardic from Ashkenazik mentality which was more utilitarian. They were very hardworking, systematic in their facial features German influence was visible. This means that Ashkenazi Jews experienced that German influence just like we experienced a Mediterranean influence. This was blond hair, blue eyes and a bit different behavior and this was interesting to us. And I think that we were interesting to them. The other type of socializing was associated with Zionism. Zionism had its own focus and center in Zagreb. It is understood that it was came to Belgrade where it was also strong. Zionist youth socialized entirely independent of whether they belonged to this or that community, there was no type of division in fact there was ideological resistance to any type of division. In the Zionist Ken, headquarters of the Zionist youth, there was a special atmosphere. In Zionist Ken were premises of Hashomer Hacair and other Zionistic organizations as Tehelet la van and Betar. I was not part of the Zionist movement, because I was too engaged with other things. At that time I was studying music, French and I was very busy. Zionism interested me as such. However, we have to take something else into consideration. Since Belgrade was nationally very liberal, in Belgrade there was no anti-Semitism. Tolerance and national liberalism are the best catalyst for assimilation. I think that the Belgrade Jews were closer and more strongly assimilated than Jews from the Austro-Hungarian Empire of the day, who for centuries and decades were oppressed socially and religiously and whose caution towards the surroundings were far greater. All of which made them better Zionist than we were. This explains why Zagreb and Novi Sad had stronger Zionist organizations than Belgrade. The Zionist of Belgrade had as a façade scouting organization, whose headquarters were in the Ken on Solunska Street, if I am not mistaken. Jasa Amuli, my playmate and schoolmate with whom I lived in the same street till 1941,  can tell you much more about this.

In the upper grades of the gymnasium I had my first encounter with anti-Semitism imported in Serbia. And this was connected to the growth of Nazism in Germany. The Nazis infiltrated and bought out the politicians of the day: Dimitrije Ljotic with his group Zbor, the Cicvaric brothers with the weekly paper »Balkan«, who first published the Serbian translation of the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion«. When I encountered that I was astonished, because before that I did not have any contact with anti-Semitism. The appearance of the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion« was an intellectual shock for me. I thought of it as idiotic, as something incomprehensible and not serious. At that time I did not have enough political education to understand the history surrounding the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion« and to understand the purpose of this publishing. This was the beginning of my encounter with anti-Semitism. This was a very personal encounter with anti-Semitism. During the second year of my studies I fell in love with a colleague, Radica, who was in the first year, and it lasted one academic year. During the summer one of our docents won her heart, he later married her. Later I learned that her future husband, a functionary in Ljotic's Zbor, blamed her because she had a boyfriend in her youth that was a Jew. When I learned this I was upset, because this was incomprehensible for me. My entire youth to the beginning of the war I never had a conflict with anti-Semitism. I never saw this girl again, she went with her husband to America.

During the war

At the beginning of the war I was a student in my VIII semester. The war began in September 1939 and I enrolled in the chemical engineering department of the chemical engineering faculty in September 1937, that means that at the beginning of 1941 I enrolled in the eighth semester. We were very good students and we felt the war growing near and we hurried to graduate before war broke out. It did not succeed. In April 1941, I had passed exams, colloquiums and lab work I would have graduated in March, at the latest June 1942, if there had not been war. When war broke out I was a loyal citizen of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, even though I had not served in the army because I was exempt. On April 6, I went to the military district to register as was the obligation. At the military district they told me I was to go to Sarajevo where there would be a battalion of educated students. My friend, Mose Koen, who unfortunately was killed later, and I made it to Umka, embarked on a freight train and that is how we arrived in Sarajevo. In Sarajevo I met up with another two or three of my fellow students of chemical engineering, Jews. One or two days we spent in Sarajevo gathering, thinking and finally we went back to the barracks to sign in. At night an officer was on duty who gave us a room to sleep in and the next morning to change clothes. In other words we took off our civilian clothes and became soldiers. That night around midnight a reserve corporal or first sergeant came into our room. His last name was Altarac, but unfortunately I do not remember his first name. I am very grateful to him. That night Altarac was the non-commissioned officer on duty. He asked us where we students were from. It was obvious that he recognized us as one Sephard to another Sephard. He told us: tomorrow in the morning before the shifts change while it is still dark get out of here while you still have your civilian clothes. No one will stop you. With this army you will end up either in captivity or in a concentration camp. Disappear however you know how. It is best for you to head south towards the sea. Thank him.

How we succeeded to reach Herceg Novi, is a long story which I will not discuss here, but we made it. I spent some time in Boka Kotor and then in Dubrovnik. When the Ustache took over the civilian government in Dubrovnik I heard again through a friend that in the morning the Ustache were going to take control and I went back to Boka Kotor by bus, and then by boat from Boka Kotor to Split where I lived from June 1941 to October. In October the Italian police confined me to Korcula, and I spent two years there. During the second year of my confinement on Korcula I made contact through  an organization that existed then which had several of our young Jewish refugees, connected to the background organization of the NOB (The People's Liberation Battle). I got connected with them in November 1942, so that I have war service. In September '43 I entered a combat unit of the NOV (People Liberation Army), in the 26th  division, on Pelješac in coast artillery, that is in the marines, and that is how I, a young man from Dorcol, became a marine. I survived the end of the war on Vis, in a marine workshop where I was stationed because I was a student of chemical engineering so they expected that I would do the work of a technician, which I did myself and I can tell you that due to mechanical part of my education which I had at the chemical engineering faculty I got by very well at the marine workshop and I learned a lot of mechanics. I waited for October 1944 when Split and Belgrade were liberated on Vis, I returned with the marines to Split and then to Trogir, where I worked in a shipyard. I met my wife again who I met for the first in 1941. Our acquaintance developed into love and we married in May 1945, 5 or 4 days before armistice. My wife was a student of agronomy three years in Zagreb and then in Belgrade.When WWII began she showed a great sympathy towards Jewish refugees and she risked her life bringing 100 Napoleon coins from Belgrade to Split to a Jewish family Rais from Sisak.

My war ended in Split where I was stationed after Trogir in a marine workshop, from there to the Spilt shipyard which again served as a good part of my education, because I learned a lot at the shipyard.

Mama suffered a great deal. She tried to escape and hid herself in Obrenovac, then in Loznica and then she was captured on May 9, 1942 and she was killed in Banjica. We were wrong in our estimation that women will not be in such a danger as man. My mother suffered terribly. This is one tragic story among many others from the Holocaust. My father succeeded with fals papers through southern Serbia, Kursumlija and Albania to reach Dalmatia and I do not where exactly but he boarded a boat. We saw one another again on Korcula. We met, he knew that I was on Korcula. For some time we wrote to one another it went through Zemun so that father knew that I was on Korcula and he simply one day disembarked. Someone ran to me and told me your father is on the coast. That is how I was with my father until fall of Italy. Then they transferred my father, along with the other refugees, not only the Jewish refugees but also the Dalmatians, to southern Italy and to Esat, and the rest of Italy. Father survived and mother perished. The rest of the members of the Mosic family were also killed. The death of each one is a story unto itself.

After the war

In Split I married in May 1945. It was a civil wedding as it was a mixed marriage. Quickly, after that I asked for a transfer to a river flotilla. Instead of that I was demobilized, because it was already the time of the armistice.  I came to Belgrade. At the beginning I did not have anything, not even a place to stay. I moved into a one room apartment of my parents, we slept on the floor. I got the idea into my head to finish my degree, in contrast to many of my friends, to mention Jasa Almuli who started a political career, and became a journalist. I wanted to be an engineer. I returned to the chemical engineering faculty, walking in the hallways on the first floor I met a famous professor of mathematics Radivoja Kasanin. Before this he only saw me twice in his life once during the first year in a seminar and the second time in July 1938, when I passed the test. We passed by one another and I said hello. Then I hear a voice behind me: Stop Mosic! How did you survive the war? How are your parents? What happened to Karijo, Benvenisti, Singer? My legs froze. After seven years he correctly asked about the Jews from my generation. I was speechless. That kind of memory and friendship towards Jews I will never forget. I happily and frequently retell this anecdote. Professor Kasanin I remember also as a scientist and an exceptional professor, but his humanity I will never forget. I graduated in 1947 and I have to thank the army for this, because I was returned to the army as a chemical engineer and I worked in a military laboratory on the analysis of explosives. My thesis concerned the method of analysis of smokeless powder. This was purely practical work because our army had confiscated  a large amount of smokeless powder, this was a trophy and it had to be classified which is what I worked on. I was demobilized in '48 because I was not a member of the party, and in '48 after the Infobiro resolution it was very important to the army to have trustworthy people. I was not trustworthy because I was not a member of the party. I was happily demobilized, and I did not know how easily members of the party ended up on Goli Otok easier than those outside the party. We who were outside the party were marked as pro-Western. Then I went to work in a soda factory in Lukavac as the head of the laboratory. The man who had this job prior to me was also a Jew but I no longer know his name he went to Israel and his position was vacated. I worked there for three years and I started to worry how I would send my children to school since Lukovac did not have a school. Andre was born in '46 in Belgrade and Elza in '48 also in Belgrade but in Zemun. It was of great concern to me that my children not have a worse education than I had. At that time my brother-in-law from Split called to say that the Zagreb newspaper »Vjesnik« published information concerning a concourse for a job with an oil refinery in Sisak. I applied and won the position. We moved to Sisak in 1952. I spent 12 years there from '52 to '64. These were good years, nice years. I am a Belgradian, from Dorcol, a Jew and I climbed from an assistant head of a laboratory, which was like an apprentice, to the technical director of a refinery, which is not a small thing. In '64 we returned to Belgrade. While I was in Sisak I became a member of the Zagreb Jewish community and while I was in Lukovac I was a member of the Tuzla Jewish community. There were no Jewish activities there nor did I have time for any. In Zagreb I also was not active in the Jewish community, but I was a member. In Sisak there were two or three other Jewish families and the wife of a doctor was a representative of the Zagreb Jewish community in Sisak. When I returned to Belgrade I enrolled as a member of the Belgrade Jewish community.

When the 67 war broke out they also broke off diplomatic relations with Israel. Nota bene I must say that  in Sisak in '56 I was accepted to the party, because without this I could not become a technical director. Since it was estimated that I was the person for that job I had to become a member. In Pacevo I  again held a high position, because we built a refinery and I was one of the few refinery experts, I received that position and the apartment in which we are sitting. Consequently, I rejected to give a contribution to the unfortunate Arabs and blood for Egyptians. I knew exactly what was happening in the Middle East as my father was in Israel. This then caused me to leave the party and I saw that my place is in the Jewish community. My father left for Israel with first or second Aliya in 1949, with his second wife.

I told Kadelburg, who was a President of Federation of Jewish Communities in Yugoslavia at that time,  this and that thing happened to me, and Kadelburg happily tells me that we need such people. And that is how I started to collaborate first with the Jewish Historical Museum. Then Kadelburg brought me into the Executive Board of the Federation and I can tell you that I hope I was useful, because I had knowledge which I gathered during the time of confinement on Korcula. I only dabbled in Judaism. The Holocaust brought me to be more occupied by Judaism. Of course I brought that to the Federation as well as my knowledge of languages. In Paris I very easily spoke French, in London, Washington and New York I spoke English and when it was necessary in Vienna I spoke German. It was significant to the Federation that they have someone who could do this so easily. This was true until 1994 when a argument broke out between me and the late Aleksandar Demajo and Cadik Danon, because Brane Popovic as president of the Jewish community and his ex-wife Tamara frontally argued against the warriors and we had a tempestuous meeting of the board of the Jewish community where I threatened to leave the community, because you who were born after the war cannot tell me some things. Then for some time I was truly passive because I was deeply upset and then I got over that and again began to collaborate, now without any title and without money I work. I`m President of The Memorial Committee of Jewish Community Belgrade and member of editing for book We survived, edited by Jewish Historical Museum.

I am too old to work. I think we have finished for today. At the end I would like to say that I am very interested in the Kladov transport. This was the tragedy of Austrian Jews who were caught in 1939 actually 1940 in Kladov in the ice and who were the victims of a game of the British Foreign Service. They were transferred to Sabac, and there they were killed, and the women died in the »Sajmiste« camp. The story about the Kladov transport remains a bit in the shadow, but this year we will erect a memorial plaque in Kladov. I hear that Zeni Lebl received an award from the Federation of Jewish communities for her history of the Kladov transport. It is of great interest to me to see her work, because I think I know a lot about the Kladov transport.

With a great admiring I`m related to the Jewish ethics. As I become more mature professionally and socially it was more and more clear to me that founds of the Jewish ethics are in unique understanding of abstract monotheism.

Teodor Kovac
Novi Sad
Serbia
Interviewer: Ivana Zatezalo
Date of interview: March 2003

As previously arranged, I arrived at Mr. Kovac’s place for our interview. He opened the door for me, helped me take off my coat and took me into the room. He was really good-mannered, a real gentleman. He and his wife, Ana, welcomed me in a really friendly way. First they offered me juice and wonderful home-made cookies. Only after that, said Mr. Kovac, we would start the interview. There was a beautiful wooden table with six chairs in the room. We sat opposite each other and relived the story of his past.

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

My family background

I’ve found documents that say my ancestors lived here in Backa [part of Voivodina] 1 ever since the beginning of the 19th century. They are all from here or from Slavonia. [Today it is split between Croatia and Serbia. Slavonia is the area between the Drava, Danube and the Sava rivers.] I don’t remember my great-grandfathers and my paternal great-grandmother. I only remember my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She was born around 1840 and was about 92 years old when she died in 1932. She was born somewhere here in Backa. I don’t know exactly where. I don’t know about their financial situation, nor their living standards. They were probably poor like everyone else at that time. They must have been religious as other people back then. I don’t mean Orthodox, but they probably observed all the holidays that were celebrated anyway.

I know that my great-grandfather, my grandfather’s father, was married twice. He had several children from his first marriage, then his wife died. He remarried and had many children with his second wife, too. She also had several children before, so probably all together there were 15 or 16 children. With the exception of my grandfather, and apart from those who died, they all went to America. During World War II the contact to these relatives stopped, so I’m not in touch with their descendants.

My grandparents on my father’s side died ten or even more than ten years before I was born. My paternal grandfather was called Adolf Kovac and he was born in Ruski Krstur [Bacskeresztur before 1920]. He was born as Kohn; later he changed his family name. In 1896, during the celebration of the thousand-year anniversary of the arrival of the Hungarians to Pannonia, the Jews collectively changed their names to Hungarian last names. [Editor’s note: There was never a collective magyarization of family names in Hungary. It is true, however, that voluntary magyarizations accelerated towards the end of the 19th century, and the 1896 Millennium Exhibition in Budapest gave a special impetus to such efforts.] Magyarization of family names was a sign of belonging to a certain milieu. Gratitude was expressed this way to the Hungarian nation which acknowledged the equality of Jews. It was the first time in two thousand years of Jewish history in the land of Hungary that full equality was given to Jews. [Civic rights were granted to Austro-Hungarian Jews in 1867, the year of the so-called Compromise of 1867.] The Hungarian part of the Dual Monarchy was ethnically so mixed, that Hungarians hardly comprised 50% of the population. The rest were Serbs, Croats, Slovaks, Romanians, Ruthenians and Ukrainians. The Hungarians willingly accepted this kind of declaration of loyalty of Jews. In 1896 my grandfather changed his last name to Kovacs. [Kovac is the Serbo-Croatian spelling of the Hungarian Kovacs.]

I don’t know what education my grandfather had. I think he must have attended cheder and Jewish elementary school, as all other Jews at the time. He was engaged in everything. I know that for some time he was a manager of a quarry in the village of Paragovo and probably lived either in Paragovo or in Kamenica. I remember that I found a prescription before the war, which was written and prescribed to my grandfather by Jovan Zmaj. [Zmaj, Jovan Jovanovic (1833-1904): well-known Serbian poet, physician and academician.] I don’t remember from what year it was. My grandfather had a cold and Jovan Zmaj prescribed him some cough-syrup. Because of that prescription I know that he lived either in Kamenica or in Paragovo. My grandfather was moderately religious, he wasn’t Orthodox though, he was far from that. I don’t know what his mother tongue was. It wasn’t Yiddish though, probably Hungarian, but I don’t know for sure. He also spoke German. My father told me that my grandfather served in the army for a long time. I don’t know for how long and I don’t know where. He died just a few days after World War I broke out, that is, sometime in August 1914. I don’t know anything about his brothers and sisters.

My father was called Arpad Kovac, and he was born in Pivnice [Pinced at the time] on 27th February 1893. It is a village in Backa. He graduated in Novi Sad. His parents moved to Novi Sad while my father was still small. My grandfather was doing business at the quarry in Paragovo at that time. My father spoke all three languages very well: Hungarian, Serbian and German. He also knew French very well. My father wasn’t religious, not at all. He went to school in Novi Sad, and he also studied in Pest [Budapest]. After finishing law school, he worked as a lawyer in Titel for a year and a half. Then World War I broke out and he joined the army. After the war he returned and opened an office in Novi Knezevac, where I was born. He was killed in 1941 around 12th or 13th October. He was deported along with the Jewso of Banat 2 to Belgrade and probably he was killed in Jabuka [infamous Serbian concentration camp].

My father had two brothers and two sisters. One of his brothers was called Boldog Kovac. He was a lawyer in Novi Sad, on Mileticeva Street. He was about seven or eight years older than my father, and he was born somewhere in Banat, I think in Kucura. He lived at the corner of today’s Jevrejska Street and Bulevar where the Sveca boutique is located. He died of a stroke in 1939. His daughter was married and lived in Belgrade.

Boldog’s wife and daughter perished along with the Jews from Belgrade and Banat in Sajmiste 3. His son studied food industry technology in Germany. He received his doctorate in 1933 when the Nazis came to power, and then left for Palestine where he survived the war. He died 10-15 years ago. His wife died, too. He has a son, who works as a physicist at the University of Tel Aviv. He’s probably already retired. He has a son and two daughters, but I don’t know their names.

My father’s oldest sister, Piroska, was a lawyer. Her husband’s family was quite wealthy and among the richest citizens of Novi Sad, not only among the Jews but among all the citizens; they had everything. They owned a farm in Sremski Karlovci, even today they call it after his name, though 60 years have gone by.

Piroska’s husband, was called Rot. His parents had a fabric store, so they called him ‘Stoff-Rot’ [Fabrics-Rot]. He managed to go with his wife and a three-year-old child to England from Novi Sad. They first went to Switzerland, from Switzerland to Portugal, and then from Portugal to England. Piroska went to London to give birth to the child there in order to get English [British] citizenship. Back then England was something America is today. She gave birth on the day World War II broke out. Afterwards they came back here. They survived the war, but Piroska’s husband died shortly afterwards in 1946 or 1947; he was buried in Novi Sad.

They had three daughters and a son. One of them committed suicide shortly before deportation, I don’t know how she did it. The other daughter managed to leave for England from Hungary with her husband and her small child during the war. Leaving for England wasn’t an easy thing to do back then. From England they traveled further on to Chile. The third and oldest daughter was a doctor. She managed to survive in Budapest by declaring herself Hungarian. She was very talented when it came to languages and thus spoke several languages without an accent. From her looks it was easy to conclude she was Jewish but she managed to survive. After the war they all met.

The three sisters had a brother, George. He had been in labor units and survived and came back to Novi Sad. He was somewhere near Szeged [Hungary]. Since Szeged was liberated before Novi Sad he arrived in Novi Sad just before the Hungarians left Novi Sad. [The interviewee is referring to the Hungarian occupation of Yugoslavia] 4. He fled from Yugoslavia, and his sister, the doctor, left legally from Yugoslavia and they all met in Chile. Georg became a journalist and today, I hear, he is the publisher of a Spanish journal or weekly newspaper in America. He grew up in Chile, so Spanish is his third mother tongue. Georg also made the last interview with Che Guevara. He managed to get to Che Guevara when he was besieged and made him give an interview. [In 1967, directing an ineffective guerrilla movement in Bolivia, Che Guevara was captured, and later executed by government troops.] Here newspapers presented the success of ‘our man’ from Novi Sad. Once he called, that’s how I knew he was alive. Now I don’t have any contact with him any more.

My father’s other sister, Aunt Ernestina, was a big Zionist, just like my father’s younger brother Balint. Once my aunt and uncle traveled to Palestine to visit my uncle’s son who lived there. In those times it was a big adventure. They traveled by ship because it was impossible to travel any other way. They spoke some French, the other passengers on the ship also knew French, so they understood that my uncle worked for the government. He was the Minister of Justice of Yugoslavia.

Aunt Ernestina married a court clerk, named Ede Almai. He had an exceptionally nice handwriting. When the Jewish Cultural Home [teachers’ school today] was being built on Petra Drapsina Street, he wrote a charter. His calligraphy was put into a coated box, which was built into the foundations, and it’s still there today.

Ernestina’s family lived in Pavla Pap Street. Ernestina and her husband were both deported and killed in Auschwitz. Today their former house is half destroyed. They had a daughter, and I’ve heard that she died of tuberculosis during World War II. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Novi Sad. Up until a few years ago her photo was engraved on her tombstone. I don’t know how, but it suddenly disappeared.

My other uncle, Balint, lived on Mileticeva Street. He died shortly before World War II. He had a heart attack. I don’t have any other information about him.

My maternal grandfather, Adolf Berger, was born in Vrbas [Verbasz before 1920], here in Backa. They didn’t magyarize their family name. He was a rather introverted person. At that time Adolf was considered a Scandinavian name. Hitler hadn’t yet been heard of. My grandfather was religious; every Friday and Saturday he would go to the synagogue. He didn’t wear a beard, a kippah or a hat, though. They regularly followed the news and listened to the radio. He read in Hungarian and German, too. They had a subscription to Politika [a daily newspaper, which still exists in Serbia and Montenegro]. My grandfather wasn’t a member of any organization.

My grandfather had seven sisters, but not a single brother. These sisters, except for one, all lived in Subotica [the second city of Voivodina], but shortly before the war they gradually all moved to Novi Sad. They all perished. I don’t know their names and dates of birth.

My grandparents’ apartment was situated in today’s Avgusta Cesarca Street. They had two rooms facing the backyard. It looked like a family house located in the middle of the city. There was water and electricity, and they heated the house with coal and wood. There was a garden, too, with flowers and vegetables, but they kept no animals. They were mainly in contact with their neighbors and with Jews. To my knowledge, they had no other friends. They used to go on vacation because my grandfather worked at the railroad and had the opportunity to travel for free. I don’t know whether they took my mother along with them.

I don’t know much about my grandmother’s and grandfather’s childhood. I know that, while my grandfather was at high school his mother died and his father remarried later. The stepmother wasn’t very motherly. My grandfather finished high school in Baja [today in the south of Hungary] and enrolled in medical school in Vienna. In those days medical science in Vienna was among the best in the world. He had no money to pay for his studies, so he dropped out a year later.

My grandfather had a hard life. Austria-Hungary was economically expanding and gaining strength: railroads were built extensively and there was a constant demand for railroad personnel. He completed a course and started working at the railroad [the Hungarian State Railways]. Soon he became station manager in Dalj [today Croatia, called Dalja before 1920], then in Borovo [now in Eastern Slavonia, Croatia] and after World War I he got transferred to the main office of the railroads in Subotica, from where he retired. After he retired, he came to Novi Sad and they bought a house. My grandfather didn’t serve in the army because he worked at the railroads, and railroad workers were exempt from service.

My maternal grandmother was born in Dalj on the Danube in 1874. Her name was Irma Veltman. The Veltmans came from Curug [in Voivodina, called Csurog before 1920]. A few years ago, a man told me that they still call a house in Curug as ‘Veltman’s house’. One of the Veltmans, Martin Veltman, went to Palestine in 1938. He was a lawyer in Novi Sad. There he became Meir Tuval. For some time Palestine didn’t have enough personnel, so they hired ambassadors under contracts and he, too, was hired as an ambassador. During the war he was called Meir Marcika, the representative for Sochnut 5 in Istanbul with a mission to try to help European Jewry. He has a son, I think he has a daughter, too, but I don’t know for sure. His son is called Sadija; he was a professor of political science at several universities, including Tel Aviv and Washington. His main interest was to create peace among warring parties, to conclude peace treaties. He wrote a study on Somalia and was here, too. So, the grandson of a Curug Jew became an expert on Somalia... They still speak Serbian well.

At home my grandparents mainly spoke German and Hungarian but they were also quite fluent in Serbian. My grandmother didn’t wear a wig, she wasn’t observant to such an extent, but she kept a kosher household. Sabbath was observed, they went to the synagogue every Friday and Saturday, and of course on holidays. Neither my grandmother nor my grandfather was very much into politics, but my grandmother was rather active in a Zionist organization for women.

My mother was their only daughter. She was called Olga Berger. My mother was religious. She regularly lit candles on Fridays. She went to the synagogue on holidays. Also, she didn’t allow us, my brother and me, to eat pork; we had kosher food. When we ate bacon with my father in his office sometimes she pretended she didn’t see us. My father wasn’t religious, although we celebrated Jewish holidays together. My mother was a housewife.

My parents probably met, like others at that time, through a shadkhan – a matchmaker. They got married on 10th December 1912 in Slavonski Brod [in Croatia, called Brod in 1912]. I know that the wedding took place in the synagogue. Besides they also had a civil marriage.

As far as I know, my father held no position in the Jewish community. They were politically non-committed, they didn’t belong to any party. Father served in the army during World War I, and I think he once said that he worked himself up to the rank of lieutenant.

They didn’t socialize that much with the neighbors. My parents mainly socialized with Jews. One neighbor was a farmer and had a coach. He was a sort of country coach. The other neighbor was a tailor. Sometimes they went on vacations. At that time they mostly went to spas, but not that often. My parents were in touch with their relatives, but there weren’t any in the village. Their relatives mainly lived in Novi Sad; outside Novi Sad they only met occasionally.

They dressed just like other middle-class citizens did at the time. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. I remember that my father bought a house in 1928; and then he added an annex to it. For village conditions it was quite a big house with a big plot of land facing the street. I remember when water supply was introduced and when they built the bathroom. That was at the time I was attending school already. There are artesian wells in Novi Knezevac [Banat], and one well was near our house; it was so rich with water that around 15-20 houses got connected to that well and supplied with water. Only during the summer, when the gardens were watered in the afternoon, the pressure declined, otherwise we had plenty of water. We had a garden, where we grew what we liked to grow. We had pets, a dog and a cat, which was pretty common. I also had a squirrel and a hedgehog. We had servants, among them a maid. We had books in the house, but no religious books, and the library was a mess. I remember that one summer I put everything in order and catalogued the books: there were around a hundred books, mainly fiction. Newspapers arrived regularly. There was no public library in the village.

I have one brother, Karlo, who is nine years older than I. He was born in Titel in 1914, three weeks before World War I broke out. Karlo went to university and became a lawyer. He lives in Novi Sad.

Growing up

I was born on 24th April 1923, in Novi Knezevac, which is a fairly small place in Banat. It’s a district town though. Back then there were no boulevards in Novi Knezevac, it was paved like the villages in Voivodina [with cobble-stones]. Electricity was supplied periodically. At the beginning there was only electricity from noon to midnight, or to 10 or 11 o’clock in the evening; later there was electricity all day.

There were many Jews in Novi Knezevac, around 70 people in total. Jews were, like everywhere in Voivodina, mainly merchants. My father was a lawyer, there was a Jewish doctor, a banker. There was a small synagogue, which the Germans used as a warehouse during World War II, and it continued to be used as such after the war. There was no rabbi, no mikveh, no talmud torah, no yeshivah. Unless my parents forced me I didn’t go to the synagogue. I had a bar mitzvah though.

I don’t remember what my favorite subject was in school. In the 1st and 2nd grade there was only one teacher; he was a good teacher. He died not too many years ago, probably when he was 98 or 99. The 3rd grade was taught by a female teacher, and the 4th by another one. The teacher from the 4th grade lived long, too, when she died I was still working, but I was about to retire. They were good teachers. I had some classes outside school; my parents made me learn music, but they were quickly convinced that it was useless, since I showed no interest.

I had no problems in school for being a Jew. In our class it was the same as in Novi Sad: there were Serbs, Hungarians, Slovaks, Germans and Jews. Several of us were Jews. As a child, I don’t remember anti-Semitism; that was long before Hitler. I remember, in my birth-place the store was just opposite the house where we lived. The owner was a Serb merchant whose wife was half German, half Romanian from Romanian Banat. She spoke poor Serbian, and she would often get together with my mother and they would speak German with each other.

There were several restaurants in Novi Knezevac, one of them belonged to a Jew called Jelinek. It was a casino, a noble restaurant. The second restaurant belonged to a Hungarian, and there were more, but I’ve already forgotten their names. [Middle class] gentlemen mainly went to the casino.

Before the war I attended the school in my birth-place, there were only four grades in elementary school. The 8-year high school I attended here, in Novi Sad. Novi Knezevac is 130 kilometers away from Novi Sad, so it was impossible to travel daily. I lived in Novi Sad at my maternal grandparents’. When the war broke out in Novi Sad [April 1941] I was a graduate; we graduated during the occupation..

Sometime in 1931-1932 we heard about Hitler. Anti-Jewish laws, the so-called ‘Koroscevi’s law’, were introduced in Yugoslavia in 1940. Koroscevi was the minister of education, he had introduced that law in the first grades of high schools and universities. At the same time a law was introduced according to which Jews weren’t allowed to trade with groceries, so it wasn’t only an educational law, therefore we all called it ‘Koroscevi’s law’. [Editor’s note: In October 1940 the Yugoslav government enacted two anti-Jewish laws. One established a numerous clausus for Jews in secondary schools and universities, and the other excluded Jews from trading in certain food items.]

I remember Hitler’s rise to power very well, especially the beginning of World War II. I even remember the Spanish Civil War, the Japanese invasion of China and the Anschluss 6.

During the war

Karlo was already a lawyer in 1937; he started his training period in my father’s office, and from there he was doing his exams. He was just finishing his exams when World War II broke out. As a reserve officer he had no war disposition, so in that chaos one unit would send him to one place, the other unit to another place. He arrived in Ujvidek and from here he went on with a troop that was leaving the city. They put him into the barracks [today’s Vidovdanska elementary school] in the evening. He stayed a few days, then the troops went over the bridge to Fruska Gora, in a long column, and the last men blew up the bridge. When they retreated they would take the poles with them. The second bridge was Kraljevic Tomislav Bridge. The whole night they walked in chaos until they arrived in Ruma. The Germans were there and locked them up in wagons in order to take them into captivity. Since the Germans didn’t have enough men, the wagons remained without guards and when the train stopped for the first time after Ruma, those captives from Backa got off and walked to Ilok. In Ilok they crossed the Danube and arrived in Backa Palanka. That way Karlo made it back to Novi Sad and stayed here.

During the Holocaust I spent a full three years and two months in many camps along with my brother Karlo. Apart from short periods of time we were mainly together. We were arrested together, and released together.

Banat was the first place in Europe where, with the help of the local Germans, Jews were cleared out. They were very proud that Banat was ‘judenrein’, clear of Jews. Hardly more than four month after German troops entered Banat, there were no more Jews. They had all been deported. Men were killed soon after deportation and women were in Sajmiste in Belgrade. If they didn’t die of the cold of winter, they were murdered in gas trucks. The gas was released into trucks, which women were locked in. They suffocated. My parents were also killed quite quickly. No one survived. I don’t know if my mother was taken to Sajmiste, whether she died in winter, either froze to death or died from a disease, or if she had survived only to be suffocated later; I don’t know. [Editor’s note: In the Banat the Nazis placed the Jews in camps during the summer and in September 1941 deported them to Belgrade. All Serbian Jews were then deported to various concentration camps and killed. In August 1942 a German report stated that the ’problem of Jews and gypsies had been solved; Serbia is the only country where this problem no longer exists’.]

Both my parents perished. My mother was deported with the Jews of Banat. Novi Knezevac is in Banat. [Banat came under direct German military administration after the occupation of Yugoslavia, in 1941.] My father was deported with the Jews of Banat to Belgrade. First they took them to Novi Becej and put them in a warehouse, where they stayed for probably around five weeks. Then they took them with barges to Belgrade. They released the women and took the men to Topovske Supe 7 in Belgrade; and from there, after a few weeks, they would take them group by group. Most of them were killed in Jabuka, near Pancevo [southern Banat, on the Danube]. A smaller number, about 50 to 60, was killed in Deliblatska Pescara [near Bela Crkva in southern Banat], but most of them were killed in Jajinci [camp near Belgrade]. It was a prewar military rifle range, and there they killed them one by one.

I don’t know where my father was killed, probably in Jabuka. Jabuka is isolated, there is nothing in close range, under it is a large swamp and above that a dike. There is no place to flee, even if someone had tried to flee he had nowhere to go since they had closed it from the sides, under it was water and above it was a settlement. They had put them there and then executed them. Gypsies buried them.

Women and children under the age of 14 were released to find their way in Belgrade. They weren’t allowed to leave Belgrade and had to cope with the situation in any way they could. Those who had no one to go to were given accommodation by the Jewish community: they were put in two synagogues. My mother lived with Uncle Balint’s daughter. She lived in Belgrade and my mother settled at her place. They were taken away on 10th December and brought to Sajmiste. In February there were one or two transports every day. They suffocated them in gas trucks in Jajinci. They buried them first, later, in 1943, they exhumed and burned them – that’s where my mother perished.

My brother and I survived. My father’s two brothers had died before the war. One uncle’s whole family – his widow, his son, his daughter, brother-in-law and his eight-year-old granddaughter – was killed during the Novi Sad massacre 8. The other uncle’s son left for Palestine in 1933 where he survived the war. His daughter, my cousin, stayed in Belgrade and she perished, I suppose she was with my mother so they perished in Sajmiste. She got married quite late and had no children. Her husband was probably killed in Topovske Supe.

My grandmother’s house in Novi Sad, where I attended gymnasium, remained. I remember when we went back. My grandmother had a female lodger who was in the house when my grandparents bought it, after they came here from Subotica in 1920. The lodger was there when we returned to Novi Sad a day before the Christmas Eve in January 1945. [Editor’s note: Orthodox Christian Christmas is on 6th January.] We knocked on her window, she wouldn’t open the door since she was afraid. There was a black-out in the whole city, it was still war, she was alone at home, and didn’t open the door for us. I had managed to save the key of the gate to my grandmother’s house. My brother and I opened the gate and knocked on the backyard door, saying who we were. The woman opened the door and almost fainted when she saw us. She told us that some Hungarians lived in the house, who had been moved there by the Hungarian authorities. Novi Sad wasn’t bombarded, only a few bombs fell on the city. There were a few Hungarian houses among those damaged. After my grandmother was deported the Hungarians who had lived there were accommodated in my grandmother’s house. They got frightened, since they noticed we were looking for something. The following day they left the house.

After the war

You see, when we returned in January 1945, everything was frozen. My brother went to the city, he told me exactly where he had buried the documents and I went to dig them up. I didn’t have anything else to dig with, so I tried to dig up that frozen soil with a knife. Those Hungarians who had moved in were watching through the window, and when they noticed that I was trying to dig up something, they said: ‘You know we took coal from the basement, and chopped wood, but they didn’t tell us it was yours. We had noticed that the soil here has been dug before. We took out some kind of special cans for fat’.

My grandmother had put something into those cans; we didn’t know what. I don’t know what they stole, because I don’t know what had been in there. ‘Look, they said, ‘we will return it to you’. They got frightened because they noticed that we had been digging, which meant we were looking for something. They thought we were suspicious of them. And the following day they left the house, so it remained vacant. Up until two or three years ago I have been collecting documents here and there. I dug up those documents that belonged to my brother, they weren’t damaged very much, the only damage was from the moisture. Sometime in 1959 we got a very small amount of money for that house.

My brother, who was a lawyer – a very rare profession at the time – was placed in the military administration of justice. He stayed in Novi Sad.

I only became a graduating student after the war. I left the army, and reported at the headquarters of the army in Novi Sad. It was in July or August 1945; when Tito 9 or the state issued the order that the war was over, and that everyone who had been a graduating student needed to be demobilized in order to go back to his studies. I went to the headquarters for demobilization. I handed over the papers to lieutenant commander Jure Mihajic, and later on I read in the newspapers that he had been a Yugoslav military attache in Bucharest. He told me: ‘Stay here and help me with demobilization.’ I stayed another six weeks to help with demobilization because at that time, being a graduating student was much more rare than today. I demobilized hundreds in order to help my lieutenant commander. He was an honest person.

In Belgrade I stayed in the Jewish students’ dormitory. I stayed there from the first day up until I received the papers for my diploma. No doubt, I would have stayed in Belgrade after graduation, but I didn’t have an apartment, and in those times getting an apartment was something you could only dream of. Then I left for the countryside. I stayed and I worked here and there. I came to Novi Sad, because an opportunity arose to come here and also to get an apartment.

I wasn’t a member of the Communist Party, and my opinion about the regime was the same as everyone else’s who didn’t stand out politically. I could never stand Stalin, and even though I was still a child, I remember those trials in Russia [during the so-called Great Terror] 10. They always seemed vague to me. All of Stalin’s associates, at the time, became spies and agents of foreign countries, which, even as a child, I didn’t like. Then, when he made a treaty with Hitler on the eve of the war, he caused trouble, and I had enough of him once and for all.

I cannot say that I had problems only because I’m Jewish. I’ve always had problems. I had problems because I wasn’t a party member, it wasn’t a plus at that time not being a party member. Probably I could have achieved more if I had been in the Party, but it didn’t bother me. I went to our village to see if we could get any money for the house, since it hadn’t been nationalized but expropriated for some more important needs of society.

The house had been demolished and they ordered a small amount of money to be paid. Those times even that little money meant a lot for me. I went to the party secretary. First they told me that he was in a meeting, but when he heard that I had come from Novi Sad, he came out. He was a short person. I told him that he should pay for the house. He was first looking at me and then said, ‘What do you want? You should be happy that you stayed alive!’ I became angry and wanted to hit him. It was the time of the Informburo Resolution 11 and he would have filled me with more holes than Swiss cheese has, so I only swore at him and left. It was an anti-Semitic incident, other than that I didn’t experience anti-Semitism.

After I graduated from university I got married and then my wife Vera and me left because I didn’t have an apartment in Belgrade. A year later I went to the village and stayed exactly five years. I came to Novi Sad in 1947 and I’ve been here since. It has been 46 years. I was a doctor and I practiced.

I’m in my second marriage now. My first wife, Vera, was Serbian. As most Serbs, she spent the war at home in Srem [southern Voivodina, the area in between the Danube and the Sava rivers]. My daughter, Olga, is from my first marriage. From my second marriage I don’t have children.

My second wife, Ana, was born in Novi Sad. She worked in the hospital. I never met her parents. We are both retired now. I work in the Jewish community as much as I can. I used to hold some positions in the community.

I’ve always had an exceptional pro-Israeli disposition, and I still do today. I’ve been in Israel 13 or 14 times so far. My wife worked in Israel for about four months after she retired. It happened by pure chance that we both got jobs in Israel, so we both worked there, at the Dead Sea.

Our daughter, Olga, has partly been raised Jewish, and she says she identifies herself as a Jew. She was born in Belgrade on 2nd August 1952. She has lived in Novi Sad ever since kindergarten. She finished medical school, specialized in biochemistry and worked as a biochemist in the laboratory of the medical faculty. I don’t have any grandchildren.

I’m a doctor and I’ve practiced my profession. I wasn’t religious since I was raised in the youth movement Hashomer Hatzair 12, and it wasn’t a religious organization. I served in the army towards the end of the war, for only a few months. I’m bilingual; my mother tongues are Hungarian and Serbian. Apart from that I also speak German, and a little bit of English.

After the fall of communism nothing has changed, when the Berlin wall was brought down, nothing essential has changed. We are a secular community, and have no particular religious life. Rosh Hashanah and holidays were celebrated though.

It’s difficult to say why I didn’t emigrate to Israel. I don’t know why I didn’t go. My brother thought that he had no perspective there as a lawyer. I had only been a student then, what would I have done there? He didn’t go, I didn’t go either.

I have received assistance from the Swiss compensation fund and from the Claims Conference.

Glossary

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

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

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

My family background

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up

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

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

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

During the war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Életrajz

Az [anyai] nagyapám, Deutsch Sámuel dunapentelei [Dunapentele – nagyközség Fejér vm.-ben (ma: Dunaújváros); az 1910-es népszámlálás idején 3900 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.] származású volt, a nagyanyám, Schwartz Perl pedig Soltvadkerten született [Soltvadkert Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun vm.-ben lévő nagyközség, 1910-ben 7800 főnyi lakossal. A községben működött jesiva. – A szerk.].

Hat gyerekük volt, az egyik az én anyukám. A nagyszüleim szigorúan vallásos, jómódú emberek voltak, egy Kreislereiuk [német: ’szatócsbolt’] volt Soltvadkerten, amiben mindent lehetett kapni, vasárutól a fűszerig. Külön volt nekik borkereskedésük, szóval jómódú emberek voltak. Nálunk mindenki magyarul beszélt. Tudtak ők németül is meg jiddisül is, de magyar volt a beszéd. A famíliában egymás között is, és általában is.

Amikor megöregedett a nagyapám, az egész üzletet átadta a három fiának. A negyedik az sokkal fiatalabb volt, és az aztán, mikor megnősült, csinált magának egy textilkereskedést, az is egészen jól ment. És az én anyukám pedig kapta a textilrészt, a rőfösüzletet.

Az anyai nagyszülők, a Deutsch család és a Schwartz család az egy nagyon nagy család volt. Ottan össze volt házasodva az egész falu, mindenki Schwartz volt. Összeboronálták őket, gondolom, mert akkor még csak úgy mentek a házasságok a vallásosaknál [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen]. Meg a szomszéd faluban, Kiskőrösön, ott is rengeteg Schwartz volt.

Azok össze voltak házasodva, és nagyon nagy família volt. Az én nagypapám (a dunapentelei) egy olyan családból származik, amelyiknek egy része keresztény volt, egy része meg áttért a zsidó vallásra, és az én nagyapám az már egy egészen vallásos zsidó lett.

De volt neki nagy-nagybácsija, az katolikus püspök volt ott [Duna]Pentelén [Dunapentele nem volt püspöki székhely. – A szerk.], még ma is ott a sírja biztos. Érdekes családfája volt neki, de hát ezzel ő soha nem dicsekedett.

És volt neki két testvére, szóval hárman voltak csak testvérek. Volt egy lánytestvére, az is ott élt Soltvadkerten, és volt egy bátyja Dunapentelén, de vele nem tartotta a rokonságot, mert az vallástalan volt, ő meg nagyon vallásos. A nagyszüleimnek nem volt semmi kapcsolatuk a nem zsidó rokonokkal, sőt, le volt tagadva. Nem is beszéltek róla.

Voltak keresztény ismerőseik meg szomszédok, akikkel jóban is voltunk. Igazán jóban voltunk a szomszédokkal. De úgy baráti körük nem volt, mert a család maga olyan nagy volt, hogy már nem volt hely arra, hogy még barátokkal is barátkozzunk. Amikor összejött az egész család, mondjuk, a hat testvér és azoknak a gyerekei, azok olyan sokan voltak, hogy nem is fértek el a nagymama lakásában, nem lehetett egyszerre összejönni.

Soltvadkert falu volt, nem kisváros, mint Kiskőrös [Közigazgatási státusa szerint Kiskőrös is nagyközség volt akkoriban, de lényegesen nagyobb, mint Soltvadkert, és járásszékhely volt. – A szerk.]. 

A [későbbi] férjemmel vagy tíz kilométerre laktunk egymástól. Körülbelül 8-10 ezer lakosa volt [A községnek az 1930-as években 8500–8600 lakosa volt. – A szerk.], és körülbelül 100 zsidó család élt ottan, annak a 85 százaléka ortodox volt. De nem az a bigott ortodox, nem volt szakállas vagy kaftános, olyan nem létezett nálunk, hanem csak modern kinézésű. Úgy hívják, hogy askenázi zsidó.

Mi askenázi zsidók voltunk. [[Az interjúalany nyilvánvalóan a kaftános-pajeszos haszidokat hívja „bigottnak”, és a „sima” ortodoxot modernnek. (Soltvadkert ortodox hely volt, még jesivája is volt.) A haszidok imarendje ún. szefárdi, ezért is mondja, hogy ők askenáziak voltak.

A haszidok is askenáziak, de nem egészen az askenázi rítus szerint imádkoztak. – A szerk.] És általában elég jó anyagi körülmények között éltek a zsidók, mert ottan a legtöbbje vagy borkereskedő volt, mert az egy bortermelő vidék volt, vagy textilbrancsa volt. Szóval kézműves nagyon kevés volt, talán kettő.

Volt hitközség, természetesen volt zsidó iskola, héder, azaz ivrit iskola [A héder nem azt jelenti, hogy héber, a héder héberül szobát jelent. – A szerk.], akkor volt kántor, rabbi, minden volt. Nagy zsidó élet volt. Templom is volt, szép nagy templom.

A zsidók és a keresztények össze-vissza laktak, de általában azért a zsidók igyekeztek egy helyen, a város közepén vagy a falu közepén lakni, mert az volt közel a templomhoz. A templom a főutcán volt. És akkor azon a környéken laktak a zsidók.

Nem gettószerűen, de mondjuk, inkább, mint a falu szélén. Volt, aki egy kicsit a falu szélén lakott, de a falu nem volt nagy, aki a falu szélén lakott, tíz perc alatt az is bent volt a város közepében. De általában úgy volt, hogy két perc alatt ott voltunk a templomban.

Volt egy nagy jesiva is, nagyobb, mint Kiskőrösön, pedig a falu kisebb volt [Kiskőrösön nem volt jesiva, hanem tanulócsoportok voltak, amelyek a jesivákhoz hasonlóan foglalkoztak az anyaggal. – A szerk.

Volt zsidó iskola. Nagyon jó iskola volt, olyan híres jó iskola volt, pedig csak egy tanító tanított 60 gyereket. Délelőtt egy részét, délután egy másik részét, fölváltva. De ha összehasonlítottuk a tanítási anyagot, amit mi tanultunk az elemi iskolában, az az volt, mint amit a keresztény gyerekek már a polgáriban tanultak.

Olyan nívós, jó iskola volt, annak híre volt, olyan jó tanítója volt. Ezenkívül még nyári iskola is volt, ahol tanítottak bennünket a zsidó imákat átfordítani magyarra, meg az imáknak a tartalmát meg a hittant, a történelmet, a zsidó történelmet. De nyelveket nem tanultunk, csak a polgáriban meg a gimnáziumban tanultak a gyerekek németül. De az elemibe nem fért bele, mert így is egy tanítónak 60 gyereket kellett tanítani. Az rengeteg.

A falu fejletlen volt annyiból, hogy még 1944-ben, amikor én elkerültem onnan – ugye amikor deportáltak –, még nem volt villany. Csak a háború után, a második világháború után jött a városba villany, illetve a faluba.

Ilyen kutak voltak az utcán, ahonnan az ivóvizet kellett hordani, és minden háznak – ugye majdnem mindenkinek vagy saját háza volt, vagy egy-két család lakott egy házban – az udvarában volt egy kút. Nálunk is volt. Két kutunk volt, egy elöl és egy hátul, mert olyan nagy ház volt, és hosszú udvar volt, mert hátul az udvarban voltak a borpincék.

Óriási borpincék voltak, mert a nagybátyáimnak ugyanabban a házban volt a borpincészete, tehát ezek még mind a nagypapától örökölt telkek voltak, és a ház, amiben mi is laktunk, nemcsak a többiek, meg az üzleteik is ott voltak. Egy nagy öreg ház volt, és ott volt benn a házban az üzlet meg a lakás meg az irodák meg a borpincészet.

És hátul, az udvar végében, egy hold volt az udvar, a legvégében volt egy új ház épülve az egyik nagybátyámnak. Auschwitzba került a családja, a felesége és öt gyereke ment Auschwitzba. Egyedül a nagybátyám jött vissza… Mozgalmas nagy ház volt. A nagymamám is ott lakott. Az ünnepeket szigorúan betartották, az asszonyok parókát hordtak [lásd: haszid öltözék; paróka], mindig sütés-főzés, vendégség volt.

Az apukám Boldogasszonyon született, az akkor még Magyarország volt [Boldogasszony (Frauenkirchen), Moson vm.-ben lévő nagyközség volt, 1910-ben 2700 főnyi lakossal. 1910 óta Ausztriához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Pozsonyba járt iskolába, kereskedelmi érettségije volt neki [lásd: kereskedelmi iskolák], és osztrák–magyar levelező volt, amellett, hogy volt neki egy textilüzlete is, de mind a kettőből pénzt keresett.

Az első világháborúban az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchiában volt katona, és az olasz fronton volt mint szanitéc, orvos mellett és kitüntetéseket kapott a háborúban. Volt egy nagyon csúnya része a világháborúnak, amikor az olasz folyónál nagyon nagy harcok volt [lásd: isonzói harcok]. Ott volt az én apám szanitéc, orvos mellett dolgozott.

A szüleim véletlenül kerültek össze, úgy, hogy az én anyukám egyik unokatestvére elvette az apukámnak a lánytestvérét. És akkor ez a lánytestvér bemutatta anyukámnak az ő testvérét, a bátyját, az én [majdani] apukámat, és így házasodtak össze.

Nagyon vallásosak voltak, mindent betartottak, szigorúan, mindent. Parókában járt az anyám. Kóser, streng [szigorúan] kóser háztartás…

Az én apukám is járt minden nap templomba. Minden reggel ment a templomba, és amikor visszajött, akkor reggelizett, és utána kinyitotta az üzletét. És este, mikor bezárt, akkor ment megint a templomba. A nők nem, közben a család otthon maradt.

Amíg kicsik voltunk, előre meg kellett vacsorázni, mire a papa jött, addigra már a mama bedugott minket az ágyba. Amikor nagyobbak voltunk, hát akkor együtt vacsoráztunk. És volt segítség a házban, addig amíg szabad voltam. Manapság azt mondják, hogy háztartási alkalmazott vagy házi segítség vagy valami ilyesmi. De hát akkor még úgy volt, hogy volt cseléd.

Apukám megtanult magyarul, gyönyörűen beszélt magyarul, de az anyanyelve német volt. És az anyámmal magyarul is és németül is beszélt. Úgyhogy mi mindig hallottunk német beszédet otthon, de velünk a nagyszülők magyarul beszéltek. Sajnos!

Bár beszélt volna velünk az apám németül! Akkor megtanultunk volna gyerekkortól. Lett volna két anyanyelvünk. Máma azt csinálják a szülők. Például az én lányomnak van két gyereke, ő a gyerekekkel csak németül beszél, a férje meg csak magyarul.

Mert ő pesti származású, az anyja most is Pesten él, és azt akarja, hogy a gyerekek… Itt él a fiú, már itt ismerkedtek meg, de magyar fiú. És magyarul beszél a gyerekekkel, azért, hogy ha mennek Pestre, a nagymamával tudjanak beszélni, mert az nem tud németül. Ez sajnos nem volt divat. Máma nagyon gyakori, hogy két nyelven nevelik a gyerekeket.

Az apukám minden nap olvasta az újságot, minden nagyon érdekelte, okos ember volt. Semmilyen szervezetnek nem volt tagja, mint ahogy a vallásosaknál nem divat, hogy valamilyen párt tagja. Nem volt semmiféle pártban.

Négyen voltunk testvérek. A bátyám tanult egy ilyen jesivában, a legidősebb lánytestvérem és a másik, a dunapentelei varrni tanultak, én meg órásnak tanultam. 16 éves koromban kezdtem el tanulni, mert nagyon sovány, vékony gyerek voltam. Mindig attól félt az anyám, hogy elvisz a szél, olyan vékony voltam és sovány. Kímélt a család, és 16 éves voltam, mikor elkezdtem tanulni és 17 éves koromban befejeztem. Úgyhogy csak egy évig tanultam.

Nem mozogtam nem zsidók között soha. Megvoltak a zsidó barátnőim és a mi társaságunk. Akkor aztán, később, mikor olyan 14-15 éves voltam, pedig akkor már az 1940-es évek voltak, nem volt semmi értelme nem zsidókkal barátkozni.

Tehát, egy kislánynak persze imponált… elég szép kislány voltam, a házunk előtt biciklivel le-föl sétáltak csak azért, hogy egy picit odanézhessenek. Szóval úgy gyakran, gyerekeknél ez előfordult. De előfordult például, hogy két keresztény fiúval mentünk kirándulni, ami nagy titok volt.

És ugye akkor már kezdődött az antiszemitizmus, mikor én olyan 8-10 éves voltam, akkor már elég nagy voltam. Soltvadkerten svábok laktak, és elég antiszemiták voltak. Emlékszem, hogy már gyerekkoromban beverték az ablakokat, meg a zsidó üzletekre ráírták, hogy zsidó, meg egy Mogen Davidot [Dávid-csillag] rajzoltak, meg az utcán például… ezt sose fogom elfelejteni. 

Kicsi lány voltam, és mentem tőlünk az egyik rokonomhoz, az egyik nagynéninkhez, mi a főutcán laktunk, és a sarkon be kellett fordulni, és ott laktak a kis utcában. És befordultam a kis utcába, és szalad utánam egy gyerek, egy keresztény fiú, és hátulról elkapta a nyakamat, és véresre kaparta. Szóval a körmét végighúzta rajtam. Csak azért, mert zsidó gyerek voltam.

Nem lehetett semmit sem csinálni. Sírva hazaszaladtam, a szüleim nem mertek reklamálni. A szüleink nem magyaráztak semmit, tudtuk úgy is. Szóval megértettük, hogy miről van szó, megértettük, de ugyanakkor mégis bennünk maradt a félelem, hogy ugye…

Nyaralni pedig rokonokhoz utaztam. A nagynénéméknek, akik kiskőrösi lakosok voltak, tehát nem messze tőlünk laktak, több tanyájuk is volt. Azok is nagyon jómódú emberek voltak. Szőlőskert tanyával vagy gabonaföld tanyával meg erdő tanyával [lásd: a földművelés szerepe]. És az a tanya, az nagyon szép volt. Ott nyaraltak a gyerekek, és ott nyaraltam én is.

A nagynénémnek a gyerekei az én korosztályom volt, és én is velük nyaraltam. A szüleim nem utaztak sehova, de a Deutsch gyerekek, akik a gazdag borkereskedők gyerekei voltak, azok mentek nyaralni. És a legidősebb lánytestvérem, az Erzsébet, az is ment velük, vitték magukkal. Tapolcán volt nyáron nyaralni, meg egy olyan gyerekintézettel. Volt egy házaspár, azzal foglalkoztak, hogy nyáron gyerekeket vállaltak nyaraltatni. Ott voltak nyaralni.

És a nagynénémék, akik megengedhették maguknak és mehettek nyaralni, azok vagy Semmeringen [Semmering – hegy Stájerország és Alsó-Ausztria határán, a vidék kedvelt üdülőhely volt. – A szerk.] nyaraltak, vagy a Tátrában, vagy fönt Miskolc környékén is vannak hegyek. Hogy is hívják azt a hegyet? Mátra! A Mátrában kibéreltek egy villát, és oda mentek nyaralni. Vitték a cselédlányt magukkal, mert főzni kellett, ugye.

Autóban is eléggé hamar, olyan 8-10 éves koromban ültem, mert volt egy unokatestvéremnek autója, ott a faluban. És hát csak úgy vitt bennünket autózni. Vagy pedig az apámhoz jöttek ügynökök árut eladni, és azok közt is már volt olyan, aki autóval jött. És akkor azok is persze kedveskedtek, az apám szépen bevásárolt náluk, nahát akkor a kislányokat elvitték, körbeautóztuk a falut.

Az apám minden évben egyszer elutazott vonattal Csornára [Csorna – járásszékhely nagyközség volt Sopron vm.-ben, 1920-ban 7700 lakossal. – A szerk.], mert ott élt az anyja meg a bátyja. Azoknak Csornán volt nagy textilüzletük. 

Ott is nyaraltam egyszer egy nyáron, mint kislány, olyan 10-12 éves lehettem. Minden évben, amikor az apám utazott meglátogatni az anyját, akkor én másik gyerekek nyakában ültem… És visszafelé megálltunk Budapesten egy napig, hogy megmutassa nekem Budapestet meg az állatkertet meg a Vidámparkot [akkor még: Angolpark].

Aztán sokkal később mentem megint Pestre, a háború után. Mikor jöttünk vissza a háború után, akkor Pesten keresztül jöttünk vissza. Sose fogom elfelejteni, a háború után mi már otthon voltunk a faluban, és a testvéremék lejöttek oda lakni, mert ott már volt ennivaló.

És a férfi [a későbbi férj] azt mondta, hogy ő meghív minket, az én testvéremet meg engem, menjünk föl Pestre, és elvisz minket az Operába. Hogy tudjam, hogy mi az, hogy Opera. Mert addig nem tudtuk. A háború után, 1945 őszén már nyitva volt az Opera Pesten.

És akkor meghívott minket. Pesten laktunk egy rokonnál, és ővele találkoztunk az Operánál, és elvitt minket az Operába, és az „Álarcosbál”-t adták éppen Verditől. És ez volt az opera, amit láttam. És aztán egy évvel később már férjhez mentem.

Fodrász akartam lenni, hát ugye akkor mindenki valamilyen szakmát tanult, mert már iskolába járni nem tudtunk. És miután az az egyetlen egy keresztény már nem mert zsidót felvenni tanulónak, mert félt, hogy elítélik mint zsidó gyerekek tanárát. Az egyetlen zsidó fodrásznő meg nem akart engem felvenni, mert félt attól, hogyha kitanulok – akkor még nem tudta, hogy egy év múlva mindannyian Auschwitzba megyünk –, szóval azt hitte, hogy majd én neki konkurencia leszek.

És az órás család, ez egy egész család, mind órás volt, az egész család, papa, mama és az összes gyerekei, volt egy csomó gyereke. Mind órások voltak [Minden bizonnyal a soltvadterti Fogler családról – Fogler Izidorról és a családjáról – van szó, Faludi (Fogler) József interjúalanyunk apjának testvéréről. – A szerk.] fölvett, és ott tanultam egy évig, és hát egy év után úgyis abbamaradt.

Amikor visszajöttem, az az év be lett nekem számítva, mintha tanultam volna. De hát nem tanultam, ezáltal nem voltam nagyon jó szakmunkás.

A legidősebb lánytestvérem az Elisabeth, Erzsébet, aki sajnos nem jött vissza, az anyámmal együtt eltűnt Auschwitzban. Együtt voltunk 3 hónapig a deportálásban, együtt mentünk a gettóból Kecskemétre és Kecskemétről Auschwitzba. Itt voltunk 3 hónapig. 

Az alatt a 3 hónap alatt x alkalommal átestünk különböző szelektálásokon, hogy kivittek és bevittek egy másik lágerba. [Szelektálás: a koncentrációs táborokban megérkezéskor volt az úgynevezett szelektálás, amelyet SS orvosok végeztek. Az egyik oldalra küldték azokat – általában az időseket, gyerekeket, kisgyerekes anyákat, betegeket – akiket rögtön elgázosítottak, a másikra a munkaképeseket, akiket munkatáborokba vittek kényszermunkára.

Auschwitz-Birkenauban, ahova a magyar zsidók többségét vitték, attól függött, hogy melyik oldal jelenti az életet, és melyik a halált, hogy éppen melyik krematórium működött. Ha a 2-3-as krematórium, akkor a jobb oldal jelentette a halált, a bal az életet, ha pedig a 4-5-ös krematórium, akkor a bal oldalra állókat gázosították rögtön el, és jobb oldalra küldték a munkaképeseket. 

Egyébként a szelektálást többször is megismételték, amikor kiválogatták azokat, akiket munkatáborokba küldtek, és a betegeket, legyöngülteket, akiket a gázkamrába küldtek. – A szerk.] És aztán 3 hónap után velem is az történt, hogy… Ezzel a testvéremmel együtt [tehát a másik lánytestvérével, Irénnel], kettőnket elvittek Németországba, Bergen-Belsenbe, egy másik lágerba.

És a testvérem az ott halt meg. Elválasztott bennünket a Mengele. Az választott szét bennünket, és november elején, úgy november 10-e vagy 12-e táján Bergen-Belsenből vittek el munkára minket Hannover mellett Duderstadtba [a buchenwaldi koncentrációs tábor egyik altábora – A szerk.]. És mikor minket elvittek, pont jött Auschwitzból egy szállítmány ember.

Oda hoztak Auschwitzból embereket. Ott találkoztam még egy unokatestvéremmel. Ettől a kiskőrösi unokatestvéremtől, akit akkor hoztak, kérdeztem, hogy hol van az anyám és a testvérem, nincsenek-e ott. Mert nemrég ott maradtak, de élnek. November 15-én tudom, hogy még éltek Auschwitzban. És mi pedig Németországban a testvéremmel muníciógyárba kerültünk és ott dolgoztunk.

A Sándor, a bátyám, az hamar visszajött, az Szegeden volt katona, illetve munkaszolgálatos, és oda az oroszok nagyon hamar bementek. Ő már 1944 novemberében otthon volt, ő szabadult föl elsőnek. És Soltvadkert már 1944 novemberében föl volt szabadulva. 

Nem úgy, mint Budapest. Mi ketten pedig a lánytestvéremmel – május 8-án volt vége a háborúnak – és mi május 10-én szabadultunk föl, mert Theresienstadtban még addig harcoltak a németek, nem akarták föladni azt a lágert ott.

És akkor 10-én fölszabadultunk [A theresienstadti gettót  1945. május 8-án szabadították fel, és május 10-én a Nemzetközi Vöröskereszt megbízottja átadta a gettót a szovjet hadseregnek. – A szerk.], május 10-én, és június 15-e táján jöttünk haza. Mi is akkor még azt reméltük, hogy hazajöttek a többi családtagjaink is, de hát akkor láttuk, hogy…

Az apukám az megmaradt úgy, hogy amikor a Hitler bejött Magyarországra, őt már pár nappal később deportálták Ausztriába egy munkatáborba, egy gazdaságba. És akik oda kerültek, ebbe a gazdaságba, körülbelül 60-80 ember – csodálatos, volt, aki a feleségével vagy az apa a fiával – azok mind megmaradtak.

Olyan jó soruk volt és megmaradtak, és ő is visszajött [Valószínűleg Strasshofban volt: a dél-magyarországi csendőrkerületekben összeállított transzportok némelyikét ugyanis Strasshofba irányították, ami egy Bécs melletti tábor volt, ahol kelet-ausztriai ipari és mezőgazdasági üzemekben dolgoztatták az oda irányított mintegy húszezer embert.

A munkaadókon és munkavezetőkön múlott, hogy milyen bánásmódban részesültek. Mintegy háromnegyed részük – köztük idősek és gyermekek is – túlélte a deportálást.  – A szerk.]. Az apukám visszajött és két évvel később megnősült újra.

Amikor visszajöttünk Soltvadkertre a háború után, az életünket ugyanúgy folytattuk, a falu többi részében ugyanúgy megvolt minden, ugyanúgy ment az élet tovább, mintha semmi se történt volna. Mi csak egy évig voltunk el. Persze a keresztény szomszédokra nem nagyon tudtunk ránézni, mert bennünk volt még az az érzés, hogy hát tulajdonképpen hagytak minket, hát magyarul mondva: megdögleni.

Mert azért volt olyan is, ahol voltak olyan rendes emberek, akik azt mondták, hogy „Majd én elduglak” vagy „Megmentelek” vagy valami. Nálunk ilyen nem volt. És nem nagyon találkoztunk aztán senkivel.

Aztán pedig átmentünk Vadkertre, onnan Pestre, a lánytestvérem [Irén] elköltözött Hőgyészre [Tolna megye], a bátyám kivándorolt, az apám megnősült. Apám a háború után közvetlenül kinyitotta a textilüzletet, és amíg tudta, csinálta.

És ott maradt egészen 1951-ig, aztán kimentek Izraelbe, mert akit elvett feleségül, annak volt egy lánya, aki kint volt Izraelben, még a háború alatt valahogy ki tudták küldeni [Palesztinába]. És a család-összehozási [egyesítés] alapon hivatalosan kiköltöztek Izraelbe.

Apám 32 évvel ezelőtt halt meg [1969], Izraelben. 81 éves volt, amikor meghalt, és az utolsó hétig dolgozott és pénzt keresett. Még 80 éves korában pénzt keresett. Egy szuvenírüzletben volt eladó, nem volt saját boltja többé, de nem is akart, nagyon jól megvoltak abból, amit ott kapott. És a felesége is kapott német jóvátételt. És így nagyon szépen megéltek, semmi anyagi gondjuk nem volt soha. Ő is vallásos maradt, de nem volt bigott.

A bátyám rögtön, amikor visszajött, elkezdett szabóságot tanulni ott a faluban. Sose lett belőle jó szabó, csak hát valamit kellett hogy csináljon. És a lánytestvérem meg én, ugye amikor én visszajöttem, akkor továbbra is órás voltam ezeknél, ahol tanultam, mert ezeknek Pesten is volt egy üzletük, és ők Pesten dolgoztak, és én vezettem a soltvadkerti üzletet. 

És a lánytestvérem, aki másfél évvel idősebb, mint én, az Irén, az meg képtelen volt szegényke a háztartást vezetni. De ott volt a bátyám, az apám, én és ő – négyen voltunk, és egynek kellett a háztartást vezetni. Anya nem volt. És akkor így éltünk, amíg… A bátyám kiment Izraelbe 1948-ban. Én tartottam vele a kapcsolatot tovább.

Az Irén nővérem a háború után férjhez ment Magyarországon, a férjének Hőgyészen volt bőrkereskedése, de paksi származású volt. De hát ők is aztán ott hagyták az üzletüket, nem lehetett a kommunizmus alatt már, nem volt maszek üzletes.

Ők Izraelben élnek, és még mindig ott vannak, ahol akkor voltak. Falusi életet élnek, és nagyon nehéz élete volt őneki is. Végül is öt kicsi gyereket fölnevelt, az enyém volt a hatodik. És azért is nagyon szerette az én lányomat, mert legalább egy lány is volt ott. [Az interjúalany férjének sikerült Ausztriába szöknie a kisebbik gyerekkel, és onnan Izraelbe mentek, ahol a gyerek a nagynénjénél nevelkedett.] Nagyon nehéz élete volt neki is. Most már könnyebb neki, de még mindig sokat dolgozik…

Öt fia született: a legidősebb fiának van 14 gyereke, a második fiának van, azt hiszem, 10 vagy 12, a harmadiknak is és a negyediknek is. Mindegyiknél van 10-12-14 gyerek, csak az ötödiknél van 3. Az ötödik fiának 8 évig nem született gyereke a házasságából. 8 év után született egy, aztán még egy és még egy. Aztán be volt fejezve, ott csak három gyerek van. Irén férjét Binétnek hívják, aki szintén egy nagyon nagy családból egyedül maradt meg.

Ő maradt meg egyedül. Ez az egy Binét megmaradt, és ebből lett egy ilyen óriási család mára, ez nagyon érdekes. Például van neki, nem szoktuk kérdezni, de olyan 50 unokája. És az 50 unokából már van neki dédunokája is, legalább 15-20. Ilyen nagy család lett abból az egy férfiből… Nagyon vallásosak persze. Amit a jóisten ad, azt el kell venni, mondták ők, és szülték a gyerekeket, egyiket a másik után. Mindig fájt a szívem azokért az asszonyokért, akik folyton csak szülnek.

És mindegyiknek nagyon nehéz megélhetése van. Meg nincs is megélhetése. Ez a család bigottan vallásos. Apámnak sem tetszett, hogy az én sógorom a gyerekeit így neveli. Nem szerette. Haragudott érte, mert ő egy modern vallásos ember volt.

Nem az én világom, úgyhogy amikor összejövünk, bár nem tagadnak minket meg, mert mégis mondják a gyerekek, hogy a nagynénim meg a nagybácsim, de sok közös beszélnivalónk nincs, mert az egy más világ, amiben ezek élnek.

A fiútestvérem is egy modern vallásos. Ő is Izraelben él. Nős volt. Az első felesége meghalt, a másodikkal most együtt él. Gyereke nem volt neki. Ő alkalmazva volt a Jeruzsálemi Egyetemen. Először sokáig dolgozott egy ilyen tudományos kertben, ahol tanulmányozták, hogy hogy lehet a Negevben [Negev sivatag] termelni. 

A homokból hogy lehet termőföldet csinálni, és mit lehet ott termelni. És aztán már nem bírta, mert az egy nagyon nehéz munka volt, és akkor átköltözött Jeruzsálembe, és ott az egyetemen kapott egy állást. Ott a Lacinak [a férjnek] egy unokatestvére, aki vegyészmérnök volt, ott volt egyetemi tanár, és az beprotekciózta oda, az ő osztályára, ott a vegyészeten szerzett neki egy állást. A testvérem onnan ment nyugdíjba.

1948-ban államosították a házunkat meg az üzletünket [lásd: államosítás Magyarországon], és aztán a falu ugye elvette ezt a nagy házat, mert a főutcán egy hatalmas nagy telek volt ez. Az egész család elmenekült jóformán onnan, a nagybátyáim is mind elmentek a saját házukba. Mindegyiknek volt nagyon szép háza. Mind a három testvérnek gyönyörű új háza volt. 

És az mind államosítva lett, mindent elvettek tőlünk. Csak most, miután vége lett a kommunizmusnak, most kaptak valami vacak telket. Pár ezer forintosat. Vidékit. Szóval jóvátétel gyanánt. Nevetséges. És akkor egyszer, mikor már lehetett menni Magyarországra, és autónk volt, leutaztunk megnézni, hogy mi van a régi házunk helyén, vagy megvan-e még a ház, vagy ki lakik benne.

Akartuk tudni. Lebontották, és egy nagy piacteret csináltak oda. Nem építettek rá a mai napig se semmit. Egy nagy-nagy piactér lett, most senki nem lakik ott. Illetve nincs hol lakni. A pincéket is lebontották. Szóval mindent lebontottak, pedig azok nagyon jó pincék voltak.

Olyan pincék voltak, hogy voltak benne ilyen cement hordók is, üveggel kibélelve. Olyan mint egy szoba. És az egy cement épület, szóval beton épület, de belülről ezek a szobák ki vannak üvegezve, úgy, mintha csempe lenne, de üveg, ilyen nagy üvegplatnikkal van kirakva a plafon is, illetve a föld, az oldalak, a plafon, minden.

Csak egy nyílás van rajta, amin a bort beengedték vagy kiszivattyúzták. És ott tárolták azt a rengeteg sok bort, mert őnekik bornagykereskedésük volt, export. Ide is szállítottak Ausztriába, Németországba még a háború előtt. Meg Svájcba meg híres nagy cégeknek. Az egész vidék nekik vásárolta a bort.

Mi [a férjével] pedig 1948-ban elindultunk Budapestre, ott laktunk albérletben egy rokonnál. Egy nagyon nagy lakás volt, úgyhogy nem volt gond, hogy egy cselédlányt is vittünk magunkkal, mert akkor már két gyerekem volt. Ott is maradt, mi disszidáltunk, ő ott maradt.

Abban a lakásban maradt, ahol mi laktunk. És onnan ment aztán férjhez később, sokkal később. Elhatároztuk, hogy kimegyünk Izraelbe, de elfogtak engemet az úton. Az egyik gyerek a kezemben, a férjem már átment a határon, a másik gyerek a kezében [Ez a gyerek az akkor kb. 11 hónapos Márta nevű gyermekük volt.], és engem elkaptak és visszahoztak Magyarországra, és akkor bezártak [Ez az első disszidálási kísérlet 1949/1950 körül lehetett.]

A gyereket [Edit] elvették tőlem. Akkor még az apám ott volt, akkor őnála volt. De mikor másodszor lebuktam, mikor leültem öt hónapot és kijöttem, és egy pár hónap múlva újra disszidáltam, akkor rokonok vették magukhoz a gyerekemet, az Editet.

És mikor aztán kiszabadultam másodszor, akkor azt mondtam, hogy ebből elég volt. Én nem bánom, lesz, ami lesz, itt maradok. És akkor elkezdtem dolgozni az Órajavító Szövetkezetben, ahova protekcióval fölvettek, annak dacára, hogy börtöntöltelék voltam. 

Politikai bűnös. És ott dolgoztam, és megkerestem a kenyeremet. Látták, hogy nagyon szenvedek a kézi munkával, mert szaktudásom nem volt, hát akkor áttettek a könyvelésbe, és megtanítottak könyvelni, és akkor eltartottam magamat addig, amíg nem kerültem ki Bécsbe.

Öt és fél évig voltunk egymástól elszakítva, és akkor megint adódott egy alkalom. Megláttam, hogy lehet disszidálni, és akkor azt mondtam, hogy hát engemet már nem érdekel, vagy felakasztanak, vagy csinálnak, amit akarnak. Én megpróbálom. 

Mert nem bírtam már ott élni. És akkor elindultunk harmadszor a gyerekemmel, és akkor sikerült átjutni Szombathelyen keresztül. Parasztkocsival jutottam át végül. Szombathelyen kiszálltam a vonatból, és ráültettek egy parasztkocsira, elindultunk, és a szalma közé be voltunk takarva, hogy ne lássa senki.

És a paraszt ott lakott, direkt a határon. Aztán a kertjének a vége az már Ausztria volt. Most is van ilyen. Csak akkor ugye jobban vigyáztak, de ő már tudta, hogy mikor van őrségváltás, és mikor nincs katonaság ott a határon, amikor engemet oda kivitt a kertbe, és azt mondta, hogy „Innen menj tovább egyenesen, ott a fény felé, és az már Ausztria. Ott már semmi bajod nem lesz”.

És éjszaka elindultam egy 8 éves gyerekkel [Ez tehát 1955 körül volt, Edit nevű gyermeke ekkor volt 8 éves.. – A szerk.], és egy kis táskával, amiben benne volt egy napi fehérnemű… És ott aztán már a férjem intézte és várt engemet. [A gyerek] tudta, hogy az az apja, mindig beszéltünk róla, meg sokszor telefonált.

A másik kislányom, az pedig 11 hónapos volt, amikor elszakadt tőlem, és 6 éves volt, amikor visszakaptam. Akit az én férjem kivitt Izraelbe, és az én testvéremnél volt. Egy anyának a gyerekéhez megvan a kapcsolata akkor is, ha 10 évig vagy 20 évig nem látja, de a gyereknek biztos, hogy furcsa volt, és sajnos lelkileg őt biztosan nagyon megviselte, mert ő egy – hogy mondjam csak? – pszichésen nehéz eset, szóval problémái vannak. Szóval őt [Mártát] megviselte ez az egész hercehurca, és sose fog meggyógyulni. Tragikus élete van. Méghozzá sajnos egy borzalmas házassága volt, és egy borzalmas válása volt, és a négy gyereket az apa magához vette, és nem adták neki a gyerekeket. 

És ez mind arra vezethető vissza, hogy az élete az első perctől kezdve nem sikerült. Mert egy 11 hónapos gyereket elszakítani az anyjától és aztán az apjától is… Akármilyen jó volt a testvérem hozzá, az mégiscsak más, mint a szülői ház. Szóval sokon mentünk keresztül, nagyon sokon.

És akkor hozattuk vissza [Mártát] Bécsbe, amikor mi már tudtuk, hogy nem fogunk tovább utazni, és már volt lakás. Bérlakás, de volt lakásunk is már. Normális életet éltünk. Már volt üzletem, már pénzt kerestem. És azóta is itt élünk Bécsb