Travel

Jiri Munk 
Prague 
Czech Republic 
Interviewer: Terezie Holmerova 
Date of interview: January 2006

I met Mr. Munk and his enchanting wife for the first time in one literary café in Prague, at their request. We quickly got organizational matters out of the way, and started speaking of all manner of things, so I had the opportunity to get to know their incredible élan and wide perspective in various areas of social and cultural goings-on. Despite the fact that Mr. Munk was always amenable, it wasn't always simple to agree on a meeting, as one time they were preparing to go to a concert, another time to an English, computer, or exercise class. When I was, however, finally sitting in their small, cozy apartment in the Prague neighborhood of Vokovice, and listening to his words, I realized how beautiful it is when a person in his position can say, and hopefully Mr. Munk says it to himself, that he didn't betray himself. Mr. Munk was never afraid to call evil by its true name, and never betrayed his beliefs, even at the price of comfort or material well-being. Today he gives off the impression of a very composed person, and I think it's due to the fact that he never lost face.

Family background

Unfortunately, I never knew my grandparents from either side. As far as our oldest ancestors go, most of them came from and lived in the Polabi region [the land along the Labe River between the towns of Jaromer and Lovosice; it literally means 'along the Labe']. The Munk lineage was from Privory, which is a small village near Vsetaty [a small town in Central Bohemia northeast of Prague]. Our great-great-grandfather, Ingac [pron. Ignatz] Munk was a poor merchant in Privory and his wife was Terezie Lustigova, whose parents were from Jirny [a small town on the eastern outskirts of Prague]. Most of our oldest relatives were probably door-to-door salesmen, only my grandfather, Eduard Munk, like many village Jews, had a pub, as he had a liquor sales permit. And because just the pub wouldn't have supported him, he also had a small farm. Grandpa married Paulina Glasnerova from Cernuce, which is also a small village in the Polabi region.

The Nachod family, my mother's relatives and ancestors, were most likely from Prague as far back as her grandparents. I'm assuming that they all still lived in the ghetto, because until about the year 1860 Jews weren't allowed to live anywhere else in Prague but the ghetto. The father of my grandfather on my mother's side was Simon Nachod, who had a smoke shop in the ghetto, at building Reg. No. 146. His wife, Franciska Neuern, also lived in the ghetto before they were married, in building Reg. No. 105 [in Czech towns and cities, buildings have evidentiary, or registry numbers that are unique in the municipality, as well as street numbers].

All I know about the parents of my grandmother on my mother's side is that my grandma's father was named Jakob Eisenschimmel and his wife was Aloisie. In one document I found that my grandfather on my mother's side, who was named Rudolf Nachod, also lived in Rychnov nad Kneznou [a town in Northeastern Bohemia at the foot of the Orlicke Mountains], where he worked as a lawyer. It stood there: Rudolf Nachod - lawyer in Rychnov. But my mother and her siblings were born in Brandys nad Labem [currently the town of Brandys nad Labem - Stara Boleslav in Central Bohemia, northeast of Prague], and from 1915 the entire family lived in Prague, like their ancestors. They lived in Smichov [the city ward of Prague 5] in a street that back then was named Presslova, at No. 15. Their apartment was located near the church of St. Wenceslaus in the center of Smichov. Unfortunately, we know almost nothing about my grandfather's wife, Hermina Eisenschimmelova.

My father, Adolf Munk, was born in Brandys nad Labem. He had two siblings, Aunt Bedriska and Uncle Josef. Auntie Bedriska Munkova married Mr. Vilem Vohryzek and Uncle Josef Munk married Mr. Vohryzek's sister, Marta Vohryzkova, which caused quite an interesting family situation. The Vohryzeks had two children, Hana and Helena. The older daughter, Hana, was very beautiful. It was even said that one adjunct from the farm, where she lived with her family, shot himself because of her. The Munks had only one son, who was named Jiri Munk, like me.

Uncle Josef Munk was a legionnaire in Russia during World War I. When after World War I land reforms were taking place, and large estates belonging to the nobility were being sold off, legionnaires had priority and thanks to this my uncle came by a large farm estate near Teplice [a town in the northeast of Bohemia], which was called Doubravice. The estate was in the border region, or the Sudetenland 1, where back then there lived mainly a German-speaking population. Originally it had belonged to some noblemen from Lothringen, which was foreign nobility. The nobles were forced to sell off their estates; of course it wasn't confiscated for nothing.

The estate in Doubravice was relatively large, it was actually this small chateau. Both families - the Vohryzeks and the Munks - bought it half and half, and so owned it together. At the time that they got the estate, about 150 hectares of land belonged to it, and later they most likely bought additional land. Especially the Vohryzeks belonged to the 'better' landowners back then, they used to ride in a carriage to Teplice and their daughters belonged to the so-called rural cavalry. The rural cavalry was this group of, as they would have said back then - Czech village kulaks. It was a big honor to get into the rural cavalry. They took part in all significant celebrations and had their own riding horses.

The farm in Doubravice employed dozens of people. There was also an adjunct, that was the estate owner's representative, who was learning his trade. And also 'deputats.' A deputat was actually a share of the harvest, and these deputats received part of their salary in kind. Auntie Bedriska loved her family very much, especially her husband. She was a very strong woman, as far a physique goes.

Apparently Uncle Pepa [Josef] wasn't very content in his marriage. His wife was a very energetic woman, outgoing, while my uncle was more of a domestic type, similar to our father. In the family they used to say that they were each completely different. Uncle Vilem liked to walk, or would make the rounds of his estate on a bicycle. They wore three-quarter length pants and like most farmers in those days, a hunter's hat. He had some problems with his thyroid gland, and due to this he had these unusual, bugged-out eyes.

All the relatives that we know of spoke Czech, probably including our grandfathers and grandmothers, even though back then during the time of Austro-Hungary, they of course had to know how to speak German as well.

When in 1938 the Germans annexed the Sudetenland 2, and expelled our relatives from there, the Vohryzeks then lived with us in Brandys and the Munks somewhere in Prague. I suspect that all our relatives that came to Prague from the Sudetenland were among the first to be selected for the transports, which didn't go to Terezin 3, but straight to Lodz 4 or to Estonia. Among them was Hana Vohryzkova, who was married to Hugo Stein. They both died in Lodz and were already declared dead in 1942.

The remainder of the Vohryzek family, Uncle Vilem, Aunt Bedriska and their younger daughter Helena left on a transport, at first to Terezin, and then to Auschwitz, where they died in 1944. The Munks, that is, Aunt Marta, her husband Josef and son Jiri Munk, left on a transport to Estonia, where they were declared dead in 1943. The first transports to leave Prague contained very rich and very poor Jews. Apparently the Jewish community, on the orders of the Germans, had to report the names of very rich and very poor Jews and they then had to leave together.

Unfortunately we never talked much about our ancestors with our parents. Just our mother reminisced about her youth in Brandys. It's interesting that some aunt there took care of her and her sister Elsa. But it's also possible that she was only a governess. My mother had two siblings, Elsa and Quido. She would occasionally recall that they were kept on a very short leash. Back then, the at that time future emperor, Archduke Karel [Archduke Karel Frantisek Josef Ludvik Hubert Georg Maria, later emperor and king Karel I. (1887 - 1922): last Austro-Hungarian emperor 1916 - 1918] used to stay at the chateau in Brandys, and had his own regiment of dragoons [dragoons: from the 16th Century, cavalry infantry, later a type of usually light cavalry]. My mother used to say that they were beautiful guys, and that her aunt refused to let her meet them.

Later Elsa, Quido and my mother lived in Prague, in Smichov, and there their grandmother Aloisie Eisenschimmelova looked after them, because their mother had died very early on. Their grandma lived in Zizkov [the city ward of Prague 3] and walked to their place in Smichov every day. They say she was very strict. Apparently she was the only one that still observed Jewish customs, because my sister says that she used to have separate dishes for meat and milk.

Uncle Quido didn't turn out, somehow. I don't know if he even graduated from high school, most likely not. He was always changing jobs and didn't manage to stay long in any of them. After the war he worked as a treasurer for the Social Democrats. But he wasn't incompetent; he was good at fixing everything. He married Bedriska Adamkova. She wasn't Jewish, so was probably the only Christian in our family tree. All her life Mrs. Bedriska used to reminisce about how apparently the writer Jirasek had been in love with her. [Jirasek, Alois (1851-1930): Czech writer and playwright] She had love letters from him stashed away. She likely met him in the amateur theater, where she and our uncle used to act. She was apparently a very beautiful actress. They were childless.

My mother's sister, Aunt Elsa, was a language teacher. She had a beautiful apartment in Prague, where she gave private language lessons. She taught German and French, and also knew English. I remember once as a child coming to her place for a visit, and being completely bedazzled, because a maidservant in a white cap came to open the door - like at some rich people's house, which we never were. Auntie Elsa at first married some Mr. Grund, but she then divorced him. Apparently he was a con man. In documents we then found out how many times he'd been married. Apparently he was really good-looking. Elsa then remarried, this time to Mr. Ederer. He was this kind, short, bald man, plus he was rich; he worked as a traveling salesman or something.

Our family wasn't very religious. I think that already Grandpa Eduard definitely wasn't, we certainly didn't observe any rules, we only went to synagogue during the High Holidays, and as a small boy and later also after the war I used to go to Jewish religion lessons. We didn't celebrate the High Holidays at home, we observed Christmas, like Christians.

My nanny, who I'll talk about later, was a very devout Catholic. Thanks to her I fell in love with Catholic services, in Brandys and Stara Boleslav; we used to go to Catholic churches together. I remember this one incident. In Stara Boleslav there's a famous church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and in 1938 there was a big clerical celebration taking place there. Because the church had a miraculous statue of the Virgin Mary, which was at that time being transported to Prague. Currently it's the pride of the Church of Our Lady Victorious in the Lesser Town in Prague [the city ward of Prague 1]. At the time, the primate Cardinal Kaspar came to Boleslav, he walked at the head of the procession, and crowds of people lined the way. My nanny pushed me through to the front and told Cardinal Kaspar to bless me. The cardinal blessed me and gave me a holy picture with his autograph! Sometimes it occurs to me that perhaps thanks to this I survived Terezin...

Growing up

I was the youngest in the family. The oldest was my sister Helena, then my brother Viktor and I was born last. I was actually an unwanted child. My mother once told me that she hadn't wanted another child, but my father talked her into it. He promised her that I'd get a nanny as soon as I was born, and my mother got a diamond broach from my father after I was born! I was born in the U Zahorskeho maternity hospital on Londynska Street in Prague, back then it was this upper-crust sanatorium, a private maternity hospital. And despite the fact that I was born in the most luxurious sanatorium, I got the flu right away, and almost died. They put me in an incubator, so I'm marked by it, at least according to psychoanalysis.

Already in the maternity hospital they put me in the care of my nanny, and this nanny subsequently took care of me constantly, she nursed me, and actually ceaselessly devoted herself to me up to the war. We used to call her Nanicka. She loved me very much. Eventually I was embarrassed by it, because I was big. In our family, feelings were never shown very much. We didn't kiss or hug each other. I don't remember ever getting a kiss or something from my mother. But Nanicka was the complete opposite. No one in my life ever loved me as much again. She didn't have a child of her own, and she loved children. All her life she'd been with various children, but never had one of her own. She loved me like her own child. She also fattened me up. Often she'd collect the skin from all the mugs of milk at breakfast, and she'd then strain them through a sieve into my cup of cocoa.

I know that my siblings used to laugh at me because I was fat. Back then it was considered to be a sign of good health, and so my nanny proudly showed me off everywhere. I actually didn't spend that much time with my family. I had a room where I lived with Nanicka, and for all vacations as well as at Christmas I went to her family's place, in this village near Hradec Kralove [a larger town in Eastern Bohemia], while my family spent their free time in Doubravice, or in the summer in the Krkonose Mountains [highest Czech mountains, on the northern border of Bohemia, with Poland].

My nanny was from a family of sixteen children. Her mother was German, her father Czech, a head teacher by profession. She herself was educated, she had a nursing diploma and for some time worked at U Zahorskeho in the sanatorium where I was born. She was a devout Catholic. But despite being a Catholic, she mostly worked as a nanny for Jewish families. She used to go to Italy with one very rich family, so she spoke a bit of Italian, and thanks to my mother also excellent German. Curiously enough, she didn't teach me any of that German. My father was probably against it. In Brandys there weren't any Jews that spoke German, there Jews spoke only Czech. My father also didn't want Nanicka to be with me constantly, so he used to buy her tickets to the movies on Saturdays and Sundays, he used to tell her that she had time off, for her to go 'see men' or something similar, but she didn't want to, they had to literally chase her out of the house.

They probably paid her well, because with the money she made she built herself a little house in that village near Hradec Kralove, which was named Brezhrad [today it's already a part of Hradec Kralove]. Then I used to go there during holidays. I've got very nice memories of my stays in Brezhrad. I really felt good in that large family, everyone paid attention to me and mainly my nanny's brothers were always playing with me. The tragedy is that in her old age before she died, when Nanicka was living in this house, a quarrel broke out between her relatives about who would inherit the house from her. On top of everything else, the poor thing had to live through all this before she died.

I spent my childhood in Brandys nad Labem. I've read that Brandys has a long Jewish history. The first references to a Jewish community in Brandys reach as far back as the 16th century. Apparently there were a lot of Jews in Brandys because the town was a center of the United Brotherhood, which had a better relationship with Jews than the Catholics. [United Brotherhood - Unitas Fratrum: a protestant church that was born from the major religious awakening in Bohemia (Hussitism). It was founded by Brother Gregory in Kunvald in northeastern Bohemia in the year 1457.] Jews also moved to small towns near Prague because they'd been expelled from Prague many times, and settled nearby, so they could eventually return.

There's still a synagogue standing in Brandys, which was originally in Renaissance style, but was reconstructed many times. In the 19th century, there was still a Jewish school in this synagogue. One of the people that attended it was Vojtech Rakous, a Czech-Jewish writer who was active in the assimilation movement and wrote about rural Jews in the Polabi region. [Rakous, Vojtech (1862-1935): real name Adalbert Östreicher, a Czech-Jewish writer] Besides the synagogue, there's also a very old Jewish cemetery in Brandys.

According to records, as late as the 19th century there were 250 people living in Brandys that identified themselves as being of the Jewish faith. After Jews were given equal status with all other citizens, in 1860 I think, they began to move to Prague, so in 1930 there were already only 60 people that identified themselves as Jews in terms of religion. However, there were also people there that didn't identify with the Jewish religion, but had Jewish origins, because on the basis of anti-Jewish laws, over 80 people then went into the transport.

During my childhood, Jews in Brandys were already very secularized, I don't remember someone there being Orthodox or conservative, someone celebrating Passover and so on, there wasn't even a rabbi there. But as far as I remember, most people attended synagogue for the High Holidays and a rabbi used to come, most likely from Prague. I remember that during Purim we children walked around the synagogue with candles and sang, that's this Jewish custom. I liked that synagogue very much. Inside it has vaulting like the sky, blue with gold stars. That's my only memory of the synagogue.

Jews in Brandys were mostly businessmen, who worked their way up economically during the First Republic 5. They were mainly in the textile business. They had around three textile stores there, plus a beverage factory and a leather processing workshop. My father was an exception, because he was a lawyer, and then there was also a doctor, Dr. Laufer.

The largest factory in Brandys was named Melicharka, and its owner, Mr. Umrath was of Jewish origin. The history of Melicharka began when an ordinary blacksmith and locksmith from Brandys - Mr. Melichar, at the end of the 19th century invented some amazing improvement in seeding machines. His idea greatly improved work, and because Mr. Melichar was poor, he manufactured it solely by hand. A rich Jew from Prague, Mr. Umrath, found out about his invention, got together with the poor blacksmith and in twenty years they managed to build up the largest farm machinery factory in Czechoslovakia, which exported into all of Europe. Mr. Umrath was a really rich man, but we never came into contact with him. Maybe he didn't even live in Brandys. There was a factory-owner's villa there, but most likely only Mr. Melichar lived there. But the other Jews in Brandys belonged, I think, to the middle class, none of them were neither too rich nor too poor.

There apparently was no organized Jewish community in Brandys, a rabbi from Prague used to travel there to teach religion. But there must have been some sort of miniature organization in Brandys, because someone had to pay the rabbi, but I don't know what sort of organization it was, nor who was its head. I only had religion lessons when I was attending 1st and 2nd Grade, then I was no longer allowed to continue. I liked attending the classes, because the rabbi would bring me candy. I remember that I used to go to religion class by myself. Either there weren't Jewish children of my age in Brandys, or they didn't go to religion class. I don't remember much from the religion lessons, I remember only that we read the Old Testament.

Before the war I was still small, so I didn't think about whether people looked at us, Jews, in some different fashion, worse. Neither did I feel that we somehow differed from the others, I was only aware that we were richer. In my class at school there were completely poor, often barefoot children, whom I occasionally gave my lunch. I didn't feel any signs of anti-Semitism from children, that actually didn't begin until later, when the Germans arrived. My father had a very good reputation in Brandys, because as a lawyer he helped the poor. Old-timers remember him to this day.

My father, Adolf Munk, came, as I've already said, from Brandys nad Labem. He was born in 1887. Back then it wasn't the custom for children from poorer Jewish families to attend high school and university, but my father managed to do it. I think that his siblings didn't even have high school diplomas. However, my father wasn't a very good student. Apparently he had problems in high school, and so they sent him to some Uncle Kohn, who was a rabbi in Rychnov nad Kneznou, to keep an eye on his studies. My father likely also lived with him.

Once it happened to me that a classmate of mine in architecture school, when she saw my name, asked me whether my father hadn't studied in Rychnov. She said that her father, who unfortunately had already died, had often reminisced about a very good friend of his, a sociable and excellent person, someone by the name of Munk. I think that my father was also in Rychnov for work experience at some local lawyer's, but we don't have any exact information about that. He then studied at the Faculty of Law in Prague. He even studied philosophy with Professor Masaryk 6. Somewhere I've got his subject index with a beautiful specimen of Masaryk's signature. But Father didn't have the best marks in law either.

My mother, Olga Nachodova, was born in 1897, and was ten years younger than our father. She was from Brandys nad Labem, but in her youth lived in Prague, in Smichov. As I've already mentioned, she had two siblings. Their mother died very early on, which is why their strict grandmother took care of them. So, they had an apartment in Prague, and on top of that also bought in Brandys what was later to be our house from some distant relative.

By coincidence my mother's father was also a lawyer, and probably because our father needed experience, he started working for his father-in-law. He then likely gave the practice to my father. This means that along with our mother, our father also got the practice and house as a dowry. Apparently our mother was very pretty when she was young. The wedding took place on 27th September 1923. Mother was 26 and Father was already 36, so before that he must have already had a fair amount of work experience. Apparently he'd also worked somewhere in Duchcov [a town in northwestern Bohemia]. Back then it was common that graduate lawyers worked as articled clerks for even several years before they started their own practice.

I don't think that my mother and father were suited to each other very much. My mother was never very satisfied with her life. She didn't like small town life and constantly yearned to escape from Brandys. Sometimes she'd take off on our father by taxi to Prague. Apparently she very much liked to go to cafés there.

Our father was the complete opposite. He longed for peace and quiet, more or less like me. I've inherited more of my father's personality than my mother's. Though our father had bad legs, he liked going for walks. He always took the dog, who was named Rek, and took the road through the fields in the direction of a village named Zapy. Occasionally he took me with him, or walked with our family doctor, Dr. Laufer. Back then there weren't any cars yet, and so they walked along the road and discussed the international situation. I don't exactly know what my father's political opinions were like, but someone told me that he was a social democrat.

Dr. Laufer was Father's closest friend, who he saw the most of all. The doctor had a very famous brother, who before the war was such a famous sports reporter [Laufer Josef (1891 - 1966): founder of Czech sports journalism and radio sports reportage], that the Germans left him alone during the whole war. While he was also from a mixed marriage, what helped him most of all was his famous name from before the war. He commented all the important soccer games on the radio. However, his brother, Father's closest friend and our family doctor, went with his entire family to Auschwitz.

Besides walks, Father liked carpentry and also painted. In the laundry room he had a completely equipped carpentry workshop. In his spare time he made all sorts of things, small items of furniture, chairs, tables. He obviously enjoyed it very much. It was a source of amusement for all our friends and relatives, because Father used to give them his finished products as gifts.

Father also painted. He'd shut himself up in the attic, where he had an easel, and through a window a view out over the Polabi landscape. There he'd paint mainly genre paintings. When I was a child, he drew soldiers and horses for me. He drew and painted beautifully. We also inherited some basic artistic talent from him, and my brother later also further devoted himself to it. My sister longed to be a fashion designer all her life, and even our mother drew nicely, but we didn't make use of it in any particular fashion.

My brother was a much bigger rascal than I was. I also think that he was more lively, while I wasn't very active. He did badly in school, I guess it wasn't enough fun for him. Maybe that's also why our father designated me to one day take over his law practice. I wouldn't say that my brother and I had a similar physique, he was 5 cm taller and skinnier than me. But apparently we looked alike, because later people used to get us mixed up. We didn't play together very much, there was, after all, an age difference between us. It wasn't until during the war that we played together more, when we were shut up in the house and weren't allowed out 7.

Once I paid the price for that playing. We were chasing each other around a round table in the dining room, and my brother somehow infuriated me, which didn't happen too often, because normally I'm a calm person. I fell down and dislocated my arm. Back then that was quite bad, because I had to go to the hospital because of it. The closest was the Na Karlove children's hospital in Prague [in the ward of Prague 2], which is perhaps still there. I remember that horrible trip with a dislocated arm by taxi to Prague, it hurt like hell. Dr. Laufer, who arranged it there, went with me. Somewhere inside me I still have that horrible experience when they were giving me anesthetic. Back then they used to put a mask on you face, and on it they'd pour chloroform. I was screaming, 'Doctor Laufi, help me!' After that it was all right, but that terrible trip has remained in me, and to this day anesthetic makes me anxious.

I remember several more important events from before the war, that I experienced personally. One was the visit of the Romanian king, Karol [Karol I of Romania: Romanian king (1881 - 1914)]. The delegation drove by right in front of our house, they had beautiful helmets with feathers on their heads. I also remember the last Sokol Slet (Rally) 8 before the war, I think it was in 1937 or 1938. In Brandys we had Yugoslavs as a visiting delegation, mainly Croats and Serbs. They then formed a procession and proceeded to Prague. I remember that all the girls liked the Yugoslavs.

My sister was very pretty. She was said to be one of the prettiest girls in Brandys. She turned a lot of boys' heads. I remember that back then before the war, young people used to go on dates to Stara Boleslav, where there was a confectionery named U Horacku. Once, I don't know on what occasion, I saw my sister there with some boy, and he bought me some ice cream so that I wouldn't tell when I got home. I think that my sister didn't take advantage of her assets. Our mother probably gave her a bit of a complex, because she used to say to her, 'Don't think that you're going to be some sort of beauty.' And she, despite being pretty, was all miserable because she had freckles.

Our house stood on the main avenue, which back then was named Masarykova, I think. It was an unusual house from about the middle of the 19th century, which from the street had two floors, and in the back only a ground floor. It was oriented along a north-south axis, so its front part was always very cold. Our father's offices were on the ground floor, and on the first floor there was an apartment that had about five rooms and a kitchen. It actually wasn't a very modern house for the times. I lived upstairs in a room with my nanny. We had windows that looked out over the garden.

My earliest childhood memory is connected to our dog waking me up. In the summer, when we had the windows open, he'd always jump into the house in the morning and lick my entire head and in this way wake me up. Since then I like dogs. Ours was a German shepherd, who was given to us by relatives from Doubravice. He was basically the same age as me, so we grew up together. He was always guarding me, and when other boys chased me while we were playing, he'd defend me.

I remember that by the house in the direction of the courtyard, there was also a veranda covered in purple clematis, which you could eat in the summer, and a cellar built into the hillside. Mother would occasionally send my brother or sister into the cellar for coal, and they were afraid to go in it. Across from our house, on the spot where today there are apartment blocks, was a large, beautiful garden with centuries-old trees, which they later chopped down because of the apartment construction.

On the first floor was a dining room with a large round table, around which we all used to sit and eat breakfast, lunch and supper together. We had to eat everything on our plate. Our father was from a poor family, so he made sure that we weren't spoiled. Often there were scenes, my brother for example couldn't stand cauliflower soup, it made him nauseous, and despite that he had to eat it all. There was no being picky. When you took a piece of meat, you got at least three times as many fixings, and had to eat it all. It wasn't until later, during the war, that we began to appreciate this upbringing, because we weren't the least bit spoiled.

Besides my nanny, two more women worked in our house. The cook, Mrs. Klouckova, was a very stout lady from a poor family. There was also some younger woman, most likely the cleaning lady. Our father also had another three employees in his law office. All of our father's employees recall how well he took care of them. They were more or less like members of our family.

Before I started going to school, I didn't come into contact with other children very much. It's only now that I realize that Nanicka and I used to go for daily walks, but I didn't associate much with other children. We'd make the rounds of all the shops, and because Nanicka knew all the salesladies, we found out what was new, all sorts of gossip. Then we used to go to the so-called Nobles' Garden by the chateau. Now it's devastated, but when I was young it was a beautiful garden with renaissance balustrades. There I'd play. Nanicka would sit somewhere on a bench and I'd run around and play by myself. Eventually Nanicka evidently began to realize that there was some sort of a problem, because she'd say to me, 'Jiricku [Georgie], go fight with someone!' or 'Jiricku, go climb a tree!' and I'd say, 'But...', I didn't want to, I guess it was already part of my nature, that I didn't much yearn for other children.

So I never attended any kindergarten, because I was with Nanicka. Then I went straight into elementary school. It was an all-boys school, as back then schools were divided into boys' and girls'. There were a lot of us in the class, around 25 children, maybe even more. Despite not being used to children, I don't remember it being any sort of a problem for me. The other children didn't pick on me. I know that a few times some kids wanted to fight, but all I had to say was, 'I've got a brother that's four years older, and he's big!' and from that time on they left me alone. My brother grew up very quickly, he was exceptionally tall for his age. Our father was also tall, he measured about 183 cm. I know that pre-war Jews were generally of smaller stature, and so when Jews gathered somewhere, our father was a half a head taller than they were. Our mother, on the other hand, was small and petite.

My experiences from school weren't bad, in general. Our teacher was the kind Mr. Karhan, who in the first grade called my father in for a meeting and told him that I've got perfect pitch and that I should take music. Unfortunately, and this is probably what I regret most in my life, I never had the opportunity to devote myself to music. I think that I'd have been much happier. In the second grade we then had some man and lady teacher, but I don't remember them at all, I've only seen them recently on a school photo.

My greatest impression was of this special smell the school had, which I'm not able to describe. It's a smell that gives me an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach, but on the other hand isn't completely unpleasant. It was some sort of mixture of chalk, sponges, blackboards and the children that were afraid, you could smell that as well.

In the beginning I didn't have any close friends at school. After school I'd go straight home and the nanny would devote herself to me again. She was probably afraid for me and so wanted to be constantly with me. But that didn't bother me. Then they found a friend from the second grade for me, who was named Homolac. His family had moved there from someplace in Moravia. His father began working in Brandys at the new Bata 9 branch office, which by the way is still standing, it's a modern, functionalist building on the way down to the bridge. When they moved to town, that little Homolac didn't have any friends in Brandys, and my father arranged me for him somehow, because he probably realized that it wasn't good for me to not have any friends.

So then I was friends with this Homolac kid. Most often we'd play at our place in the garden. This was because my parents wouldn't let me go away from the house by myself, and so he'd always come to our place. We had a ping-pong table in the garden, so we often played ping-pong. Even during the time when I'd already been thrown out of school, his parents allowed him to come to our place for some time, which was in those days slowly becoming dangerous.

There were no Jewish children in my class. At school there was only Honza Lustig, who was some distant relative of ours. He was a year younger, and was in Grade 1. I didn't talk to him much. Once in a while the Lustigs would come over for a visit, but that was all. There were two Lustig families in Brandys. One had a textile store, and the others had a beverage plant.

In Grade 1 and 2 I did well in mostly everything, it was only with handwriting that I had problems. But I got all A's. I know that in our class there was a huge difference between children of 'better' families and poor families. Already back then this social instinct grew up in me, because the children from poor families had to work, were poorly dressed, didn't have lunches and so on. Already in Grade 1, you could clearly see the class differences.

At the beginning Nanicka used to come meet me in front of the school, later I was embarrassed by it, so I'd go alone. It's interesting that before I started going to school, I was a downright obese child, but as soon as I started going to school, I lost weight and that's how I stayed. That of course doesn't include the time after my return from Terezin, back then I was even much skinnier, but otherwise I stayed basically the same, but just grew a little taller.

I've actually only got two grades of public school, Grades 1 and 2. By third grade I was already not allowed to go. Luckily they accepted me into Grade 1 prematurely, it was in 1938, when I wasn't six years old yet. That's because I was born in November, so theoretically I wasn't supposed to go until the next year. Otherwise I wouldn't even have the two grades. In the next school year, 1939/40, I was already ending, because then Jewish children weren't allowed to go to school any more. For Grade 3 they then hired a special teacher for me, who used to come to our house and teach me, but in time she grew too afraid.

After the war I went straight into third year of council school 10. I didn't know how to read and write properly, I was missing four grades. I didn't know grammar, math, the basics. Even by university I didn't know fractions and had to make up for it. So I didn't get much schooling during my childhood.

During the war

After the Germans arrived in Brandys, it was necessary for someone to be responsible for the Jewish community in the town and its surroundings. Of course, no one wanted to do it. Finally my father took it on, so he was then the president of the Jewish community during the war. As a result, the Gestapo used to come to our place frequently. I remember that once my father was standing at attention, and the Gestapo officers were swearing at him and slapping him around. And this was despite the fact that he was much taller than they were. Once our Rek tried to bite a Gestapo officer on the boot. He pulled out a pistol and wanted to shoot him, but then said that he can't shoot such a nice-looking dog. My father took care of administration and registration in the community, because Jews had to first register. The Gestapo was very strict in checking this. It was something similar like with the Prague Jewish community, which under the Gestapo's control had to organize transports.

Right the next day after the arrival of the Germans, a notice came from the bar association that our father wasn't allowed to practice any longer. It may have been the Czech bar association, but its members basically wanted to take advantage of the situation and eliminate Jewish competition, both doctors and lawyers. I can't even imagine how horrible it must have been for my father.

Step by step and gradually, anti-Jewish laws and measures began to take effect. Of course, as a child I didn't notice it as much. I do remember, however, that we weren't allowed to leave Brandys. Then they also forbade us from going to the park, and even to go out into the street outside of certain hours. We had to hand in all sorts of things - jewels, radios, cameras, sports equipment, toys, bicycles, silverware, art and so on, they put a hold on all our money in the banks. Of course, the worst was that we had to give away the animals. We had a cat, dog and even a tame jackdaw, who luckily someone finally shot.

As a child I didn't even mind so much that I wasn't allowed to go to school, I was only eight at the time, and took it from that kid's viewpoint. But I remember that the biggest scenes took place when Nanicka had to leave. She wanted to take me with her, and was offering Father that she'd hide me during the war, that she'd pretend I was her illegitimate child, that her whole family would help her, so that no one would find out about it. Father refused, saying that our family had to be together under all circumstances. At that time no one suspected what awaited us. I read somewhere that Dr. Laufer was considering emigration, but in the end stayed home. Only in that large Jewish factory, Melichar, there were Jews working in highly placed positions, who all emigrated in time.

At that time emigration wasn't a simple thing anymore. No country was accepting Jews, no one wanted to give them a residence visa. It's only now coming to light that the Americans weren't accepting Jews, even though they knew that they were in danger. They closed off America, closed off Canada. American Jews were against the immigration of European Jews, because they were afraid that they'd have to support them. Only in some African countries was there interest in Jewish farmers. For example Rhodesia, which was still an English colony back then, accepted Jews from Europe, as long as they made a living in agriculture. Similarly perhaps Canada, Australia and New Zealand accepted farmers in limited numbers. So our father and Uncle Vohryzek considered emigration, my uncle was after all an excellent agricultural expert, but it was probably too late and back then no one knew what was waiting for us.

We didn't get normal rations like other people. We didn't have milk, eggs, and meat, they gradually eliminated all our food coupons, so we received practically none. This extortionist used to come to our house, he had a briefcase and in it fake candy, I don't know what it was made from. Because back then during the war, there was no real candy. He'd always open the briefcase, where he had the candy in boxes, and sold them to us for a high price. Our father then used to say that that man used to even threaten him, that if he didn't buy the candy, he'd turn us in.

What's more, people weren't allowed to heat much, so we were always cold. We could have a maximum of 18 degrees in the house, crossing this limit meant the concentration camp. We had an American stove, and Father was always checking to make sure that the temperature didn't exceed 18 degrees. Especially during 1941 and 1942 there were terrible winters. We had a small courtyard in front of the garden, which we used to flood with water, and my brother and I would then go skating there. We had clip-on skates, which we then had to give away, the same as skis and all other sports equipment.

Our dog Rek wasn't allowed to go inside the house. Back then, when it was 20 below [Centigrade], we wanted to take him inside, so that he wouldn't freeze to death outside in the doghouse. But he refused! He had it deeply fixated that he wasn't allowed in the house. In the end we had to carry him in by force. But when he jumped into my room through the window, to lick me all over, he didn't look at it that way, that he was in the house. He'd jump out again through the window.

Of all us children, the war must have been the hardest on our sister, because she was at that age when a person should get the most from that young lady's world, back then she was 16. It must have been truly horrible for her. On the other hand, for a long time friends kept coming to visit her. The Laufers' son used to also come to our place, they used to call him Osi [Oskar]. They used to meet at our place with some other non-Jewish young people, and together played ping-pong, volleyball, they had a gramophone and perhaps even danced together... Only one of them then became a collaborator. These friends were all from families that were less affluent than we were. For a long time they continued to be unafraid of visiting us.

Our father made a fair amount of money, even despite the fact that he was basically a lawyer for the poor. People respected him, and said, 'That Doctor Munk, he's such a good person that you'd think he wasn't a Jew!' When someone didn't pay him, Father didn't hound him, and his secretary often had to take steps in his place. I found a pre-war tax return of his, and so I know that on average he made about 350,000 a year. This of course wasn't an immense amount, but for pre-war times it was a lot, even for lawyers in general. But our father never invested his money, he put it into insurance. That was then all lost. Father had money in the bank. He didn't buy a car, we had no other real estate.

On the other hand, Dr. Laufer, for example, who lived on the corner of the town square, gradually bought up all the houses in the street. Before he went to the concentration camp, he'd bought up almost the whole street. We actually did make one investment - together with Dr. Laufer's brother, a journalist, our father bought a parcel of land near Stara Boleslav in the direction of Novy Vestec. There are dense pine forests that start behind Stara Boleslav, and our parcel also had tall trees on it. But besides trees, there was only a small, unfinished shack. I remember that already as small children, and then before the war, we'd got there on Saturdays and Sundays. We lost this parcel after the war as well, because our mother sold it for a low price. Otherwise our father also had several fields as collateral, given to him by debtors when they didn't have money and couldn't pay their IOU's.

I think that we were a well-liked Jewish family - our father was a really good person, he never did anyone wrong, it never happened that he'd cheat someone. It was precisely during the war that it became apparent that there were no serious problems in relation to other people, on the contrary. Of course, some people coddled up to the Germans right away, but I think that the majority helped us, or at least sympathized with us. Helena's suitor, some Mr. Koliandr, wasn't at all afraid of helping us, and even helped us pack for the transport. He was truly courageous and finally he even got into Terezin in some fashion. Various people hid some things for us. But the bravest was the poorest one - some clerk from the savings bank, whose wife worked for our father, who used to come to our place up to the last minute, even despite the fact that he could have lost his job. He used to come in a cap on which was written 'City Savings Bank.'

Once, when the Hitlerjugend 11 was already in Brandys, but we were still allowed to go out on the street wearing a Jewish star 12, I met a gang of those boys in uniforms. It looked like they wanted to give me a beating, but I gave them the slip and hid somewhere. Another unpleasant experience took place at school. Some kid named Bocanek used to sit in the desk beside me. His father was a government official and before the war he used to bow before my father all the way to the ground, but later, already during the occupation in 1939, that boy's parents must have said something to him, and that Bocanek simply raised his hand one day in school, and said, 'Sir, I'm not going to sit next to this kid.' And when our teacher asked him why, he answered, 'He stinks.'

I also remember, that some time before when we went to the concentration camp, several people came to our place. I think that they were mainly women, who had gone over to the Germans. At a time when we were still normally living in the house, these women came and said, 'I'll take this...I'll take that...I'll take this...' They came in and divided it all up amongst themselves.

Before we went into the transport, our father, who had his carpentry workshop, made all sorts of hiding places for money, like in shoe brushes, clothes brushes, or heels of shoes. First he'd take it apart, hide the money, and then glue it all back together again. He put German marks in there. Father even made a mezzanine in the house, this hiding place, where we hung Hungarian salami, he also hid some other food there and then also an old World War I pistol. After World War I our father had been a reserve officer of the Czechoslovak Army.

When the Heydrichiade 13 took place, they were searching house by house. About, say, 20 soldiers came inside unexpectedly, and searched the house, they were looking for precisely those types of hiding places. I remember them knocking on the walls in the hallway, and I was saying to myself - OK, that's the end, they're going to find that pistol and shoot us all. But they didn't find anything.

Another experience is that during the war all of us children got scarlet fever, and if I remember correctly, that saved us. Because even before the transport they wanted to move us out of our house, but because Germans came to have a look and our father told them that we had scarlet fever, they ran away and didn't return again until we left for Terezin.

During the war, everyone had to go through a complicated process to prove that they weren't of Jewish origin. Jewish birth registers had been kept for ages, where all people of Jewish origin in a given region were recorded, and these registers became for the Nazis a fundamental source of information regarding the 'racial origin' of the population. The smarter Jews soon smelled danger, converted to Christianity and had their children recorded in Christian birth registers. It wasn't of any help to them, because the rule was you had to prove the non-existence of Jewish ancestors two generations back. Thus the efforts of some priests to give Jews false affidavits of belonging to the Christian faith were also useless.

Actually, thanks to the fact that our father caved in and took as thankless a job as was running the Jewish community during the war, we were saved. Because all Jews from Brandys, except for our family, went on the first transport from Brandys, CL. This transport stayed in Terezin only a short time, just a few months, and then they all went to Auschwitz and into the gas. I read that only a few people survived, who afterwards didn't return to Czechoslovakia and remained somewhere abroad.

As I've already said, in 1930 there were 60 people in Brandys that identified themselves as being of the Jewish faith, but another 20 people were designated for the CL transport, meaning also those that didn't identify with the Jewish faith, so in the end about 80 people in all left on that transport. People from all the villages around Brandys were also put on that transport. Zapy, Bysice and other villages fell under our father, as the community representative, but they had only a few Jews.

Our transport, CM, left shortly after the first CL transport, it was basically only a few days later, these transports followed closely one after the other. At first we went to Mlada Boleslav [a town in Central Bohemia, northeast of Prague], to the castle. Everyone went to Mlada Boleslav separately, so we went on an ordinary passenger train. We were wearing stars and had a few pieces of luggage with us. I remember that some people on the train were laughing at us. At the castle in Mlada Boleslav, they took our last few valuables and from there we left on a train, on which were only people being transported to Terezin.

At first we went to Bohusovice, because back then there wasn't a spur line from Bohusovice to Terezin, so from Bohusovice we went on foot with all our luggage to Terezin. It's about two or three kilometers. We were being led there by constables, and I remember that one constable was talking to my father during the trip there, and they were reminiscing about how they'd both been in the army in Terezin during World War I. The constables behaved very decently towards us. A number of constables were even executed back then, because they'd been passing information and helping the prisoners in Terezin.

In Terezin we lived in the so-called Hamburg barracks. Families were separated. Besides various potentates, who had though small, but their own apartments, all the others were divided up by age and sex. Children up to about the age of 13 lived together with their mothers, no matter whether they were boys or girls. Older boys lived with their fathers in different barracks. A lot of children, though they had families in Terezin, were placed into youth homes, which were called Kinderheime.

To this day, I regret not being in a Kinderheim, because there the children studied. Despite teaching being officially forbidden, the children's caretakers in the Kinderheime secretly organized it, so children were still able to learn all sorts of things. What's more, they were children of my age. I was completely alone in Terezin. I don't know why, but my mother kept me with her, so I was with only women.

Inside the barracks where we lived, there were three-tier bunk beds packed closely together, the aisles between them were so narrow that you could barely walk through them. When we arrived in Terezin, all the bunks were occupied, so we had to sleep on the floor between the bunks in those narrow aisles. I remember that we all had fleas there. That was completely normal, but worse were the bedbugs. When you fell asleep at night, they began dropping down and biting horribly. Getting rid of them was a problem, because when you squashed them, they gave off an awful stench. So we had to burn them with candles. Often at night people would light candles and burn bedbugs. There were also lice there, at the end of the war even ones infected with typhus.

Another experience of mine had to do with the fact that I was living among hundreds of women, and I was only eleven years old. There were still 'washrooms' there back from the army barracks days, which were basically troughs about ten meters long, with taps above them. They were huge washrooms, big enough for about a hundred people. Naked women of all possible age categories were washing or bathing there. They of course weren't embarrassed. I was an 11-year-old boy, and all around me were women - old, young, all together, it was a real shock for me.

Our father lived with my brother in the Hannover barracks, which were only a little ways off, so we could visit each other. But every little while it was forbidden, for example when someone escaped. The general rule was that when someone did something, we were then forbidden to leave the barracks as punishment, visits weren't allowed and so on.

I felt very lonely in Terezin. I don't remember there being another boy in the Hamburg barracks. Apparently somewhere right by the Hamburg barracks there was a children's home, where children were together, but my mother didn't put me in it. She either didn't know about it, or simply didn't want to. I actually don't even know why she kept me with her. And because all adults had to work, I wandered around Terezin by myself. Despite the fact that children got special food rations, I was always hungry and so I scrounged about for something to eat, like potato peels by the kitchen.

Occasionally I'd meet some other boy, but they all eventually left on the transports. I remember about three such friends, with whom I'd play soccer, always just two of us alone off somewhere, but basically I never got into any sort of larger collective. Only one time, when I used to go up to the attic, where some sculptor was secretly teaching children how to sculpt. He used to get food packages via Turkey, and gave it all to us. He also soon left on a transport.

In the beginning my mother did cleaning. It must have been horrible for her, because she cleaned toilets. She was this 'lady' from a good family, where they had maids, and now she had to wash toilets, and on top of that she had a fanatic boss, a Jewess, who tormented her. She made her do the same tasks twice over, and basically picked on her.

Luckily my mother later got somewhere else. Behind Terezin they'd built some wooden shacks, where they used to peel mica, which was material for the German war industry. Mica was used in the construction of airplanes. Likely our mother's work saved us, together with the work that our father ended up doing. Because transports were leaving Terezin ceaselessly. Apparently Father knew some people in the leadership, but I don't know anything else about it. Maybe thanks to that our father became a judge in Terezin. Because Terezin had a Jewish court, which took care of various offences that took place there. The Germans left the Jews a certain amount of self-government, even though more serious things were of course investigated by the Gestapo.

Our father was mainly responsible for inheritances. There were hundreds of people dying in Terezin daily, and the only things that they left behind were for example perhaps only a suitcase with a pair of glasses inside, or a couple of other personal items. Our father's job was to find any possible relatives and potential inheritors, otherwise the 'property' forfeited to the ghetto, or the leadership. Besides investigating petty thefts, this was actually our father's main job.

In Terezin there were also Jewish police, called the 'Ghettowache,' which was responsible for keeping order inside the ghetto. They were young guys in uniforms. Before the end of the war, the Germans sent them all into the gas, because they were afraid of the danger of some sort of rebellion or revolution from their ranks. Apparently our father's job protected us from transport for some time. But in the fall of 1944 the last transports left, and with them also my father and brother. That time nothing could save them anymore, at that time the ghetto leadership also left on the transports, and the rest of our family was likely saved by our mother, who peeled mica for the German war industry.

I remember the famous children's opera, Brundibar 14. This work was composed before the war by the modernist composer Hans Krasa [Krasa, Hans (1899-1944): a Jewish composer from Prague, murdered by the Nazis in Auschwitz], and the text for it was written by Adolf Hoffmeister [Hoffmeister, Adolf (1902-1973): Czech painter, illustrator, caricaturist, poet, playwright and author]. In Terezin someone took it up and presented it. Children from all of Terezin used to come to see this optimistic performance, where good triumphs over evil. It was amazing for us. But the children playing in it were constantly changing, because always before another performance was to take place, a transport would in the meantime have gone to Auschwitz. Only a few of the actors survived, but some of the survivors are still alive.

Sports festivals were also held in Terezin. They were organized by the famous Fredy Hirsch 15, himself an athlete, who worked in Jewish physical education before the war. He devoted himself to children immensely, and tried to give them some self-realization, so various games and contests were held. We even had 'uniforms' - shorts and some sort of t-shirts, each barracks had a different such 'uniform.' There were even these little Terezin games held. But mainly we exercised and played on a small soccer field. Fredy then left voluntarily with children for Auschwitz, and when the children were supposed to go into the gas, he committed suicide, although he could have saved himself.

We also played soccer in Terezin. Several adult men's teams were put together, one of the teams was composed of the 'Ghettowache,' another say the firemen and so on, actually it was this miniature soccer league. They'd play in the courtyard of one of the barracks, and we children used to go watch the games. Later the Germans forbade it.

When the last transports left Terezin, there was suddenly a big labor shortage. Up to then the mandatory working age had been 15, but now they lowered this limit, so I also had to start working. Mainly in 1945, I did so-called 'ordonantz,' which was a messenger-boy between the ghetto leadership and its residents, or between the ghetto leadership and the German command. I used to be afraid, because I occasionally had to take some document or report to the SS headquarters. My hands would shake when I had to go among the SS-men. True, most of them were more indifferent than anything else, but there were also sadists, who used to for example drive around Terezin on a bike and beat people. Most of them were executed after the war, but some of them managed to escape. But the SS didn't show their faces much in the ghetto itself, because order was kept by constables. But when we did by chance come across a member of the SS, we always went and hid somewhere, because we were afraid of them.

I also remember the celebrated visit by the International Red Cross. Back then all of Terezin was being cleaned up, fixed up and various props were being built. A coffee shop was even set up. Worthless money began to be issued, so-called 'Ghettogeld,' with which you could however not buy anything. A store was opened, where you couldn't buy anything, but where various mustard substitutes and other 'groceries' were put on display. I've even kept a 'savings book,' where I was ostensibly saving money, because as a regular employee I was 'getting paid.' That was of course all only because of that commission.

They set up a children's playground in the park, and I heard that when the Red Cross commission arrived in Terezin, some children were playing on the new playground, and the commander at the time, Rahm, began to distribute to them chocolate, oranges and sardines in front of the commission. Everything was recorded on film, there's a film that exists about it from the well- known German pre-war director Gerron [Gerron, Kurt (1897-1944): real name Kurt Gerson, a Jewish actor and director. During World War II jailed in the Terezin ghetto, where he was forced to direct the propaganda film Theresienstadt. He was murdered in Auschwitz]. The children had to say, 'Uncle Rahm, sardines again? Why are you giving us sardines again?' It's all completely unbelievable.

Basically neither the Allies nor the entire commission wanted to see what was being hidden behind this facade. The Swiss man that was head of the commission has to this day not admitted that a mistake had been made somewhere. I read his statement not long ago. He's constantly defending his actions back then. The German Red Cross was entirely under the influence of the Nazis.

But there were more such unusual things that happened. For example, completely unbelievable is the fact that in 1945, thousands of Allied airplanes were flying over Auschwitz. Back then the Germans' anti-aircraft defenses had already been destroyed, so Allied planes could fly very low. They must have seen the concentration camps, known about the gas chambers. It would have been enough to destroy them, and thus they would have saved a few hundred thousand people. But the air force generals forbade such a strike, that they weren't military targets. There are documents that prove this. It goes against the grain of normal reasoning.

What's more, it's becoming clear that many American Jews didn't feel any particular empathy for European Jews. They only saw the masses of poor Jews, for example from Poland, and were afraid that they'd immigrate to America, where they'd have to support them. From various documents, it's obvious that American Jews didn't particularly press their government to take some steps in granting asylum to European Jews. That's not even talked about very much these days. Similarly, there's a question mark hanging above the Pope, why he didn't say very much, even though the Church is now trying to claim that back then some sort of intervention would have caused Jews even further harm.

About 90% of transports from Terezin aimed for Auschwitz. At night they would bring you a centimeter-wide strip of carbon paper, with our name, transport number and that you were supposed to report. Later the expedition of transports was moved to the Hamburg barracks, where we were no longer living at that time. Everyone that had been summoned had to gather in the courtyard of these barracks. They could have only one piece of luggage with them. They walked through the barracks to the other side, where there was a locomotive and freight wagons, that's where they embarked on the transport.

None of us knew where the transports were actually headed. On the ramp stood the German ghetto commander, Rahm, and had in his hand the last list of people, who were to be dismissed from the transport for various reasons. Most often they were those that in some fashion worked for the Germans. Each prisoner designated for transport had to have a card with his number and the transport number hanging from his neck. A person stopped being a person, and became just a number. I remember that already during the trip to Terezin, we had numbers, I was CM390. In the transports to Auschwitz, a person got a new number. Twice my mother and I stood by the open wagons, showing our numbers to Rahm for the last time, and twice he sent us away. Most likely he had information that my mother was working with mica.

My mother, however, had terrible problems with her work with the mica. She wasn't able to meet the quotas. They even wanted to throw her out, but apparently fate intervened. It was very unhealthy work. Large chunks of mica had to be split by hand into tiny pieces. But in the end it saved us from the transports.

Our father wasn't so lucky. Already before the war, our father had had heart problems. He was taking some medicines for it. I don't know exactly what disease he had, but in Terezin he caught a chill on top of it, and evidently had a kidney infection, because he used to have to wrap his back with rabbit furs. So our father went on the transport in 1944 a sick man. Despite being only 57 at the time, he looked quite old and that apparently was the deciding factor during selection.

My brother survived thanks to a coincidence, which is tied to one previous incident. My brother had a bar mitzvah in 1941, which oddly enough we celebrated, though otherwise we didn't go in for Jewish celebrations much. My father had some old Swiss wristwatch hidden away somewhere that was of a good brand, and gave it to him as a gift on this occasion.

Then when in 1944, at the age of 16, skinny but tall for his age, my brother was standing on the ramp in Auschwitz in front of the selection, some SS-man noticed his watch and asked him, 'What kind of watch is that?' My brother answered something back, and the SS-man said to him, 'OK, give it to me!' My brother gave him the watch without hesitation, because you then had to give everything away anyways. But the SS-man then also asked how old my brother was, and when he answered that he was 16, he gave him this advice, 'During the selection, say that you're already 18.' And my brother has always been convinced that this incident saved his life, because if he would have said that he was 16, he would probably have gone straight into the gas.

My brother then lived through horrible things. Our father evidently went straight into the gas in Auschwitz, but my brother passed through Auschwitz and got into another concentration camp, by the name of Kaufering, I don't know for sure. [Editor's note: by the Dachau concentration camp, the Nazis set up two huge underground factories - Kaufering and Mühldorf, where they then transferred a major part of arms manufacture; working here in inhuman conditions were mainly Jews from Poland, Hungary and the Baltic states.]

At the end of the war my brother ended up in a death transport. They loaded him and other half-dead prisoners onto a train, locked them in, didn't give them anything to eat or drink, and for several days they traveled somewhere, so that half the people in the wagon died during the trip. What's more, they were attacked by Allied planes, who thought that it was a military transport. They shot the locomotive to pieces, so the train remained standing on a track somewhere in a forest.

That was already at the end of the war, sometime in 1945. Viky said that he was almost dead. Some friend of his managed to pull him off the train, where there were only dead bodies left, somewhere into the forest, and there the Americans found them. But the Americans weren't familiar with what kind of state they were in, so they gave them normal meals, and many people died because they suddenly ate too much. After the war my brother had serious health problems, among other things tuberculosis as well, and for a long time had to be treated in a sanatorium.

At the end of the war, in 1945, men from mixed marriages came to Terezin; up till then they had been protected. They were like apparitions, because they were cleanly dressed, fed, and had even brought food with them. Up until then they had lived in relatively normal conditions, as their Aryan wives had supported them in some fashion. One beautiful lady, it was said that she was the lover of the ghetto leader, was designated as their boss. This lady grew very fond of me, you could even say fell in love with me, and because she didn't have any children of her own, treated me like her own son. I worked as a messenger-boy between this directress and several hundred new arrivals from mixed families.

They protested mightily that they were supposed to obey 'some woman.' Evidently they had lived a more or less normal life up to that time, and when they arrived in this new environment, where they had to be obedient, adhere to some program and live within some limits, they began to rebel and show their disagreement. It was quite unpleasant, even though as the messenger-boy they spoiled me, gave me everything that they'd brought with them, so it was a fairly nice way to end the war.

This lady was named Taussigova. I had this early erotic experience, because she used to often hug and kiss me like her own child. I was almost 13 years old. After the war she very much yearned to see me, but I was embarrassed and never saw her again. I don't think that she had any children of her own after the war either.

Post-war

Right at the end of the war, it might have been the last month, the Germans finally came to an agreement and handed over supervision of Terezin to the Swedish Red Cross. Swedish soldiers arrived, who were supposed to protect us, and posters with 'Under the protection of the International Red Cross' were pasted up all around Terezin. Sometime before, or maybe not until after, half-dead prisoners from the death transports, who'd before that lived through hell in the worst concentration camps, were withdrawn back to Terezin. Those that had survived were now transported to Terezin. Most of them were infected with typhus and because everyone in Terezin was afraid of the infection spreading, a little concentration camp was set up for them, surrounded by barbed wire, and there they took care of them.

I remember the horror of those wretched people, when they wanted to delouse them in the showers. They all thought that they were going into the gas, and so they had to chase them in there with sticks, so that they could even delouse them. After liberation a large group of Czech doctors arrived in Terezin, who took care of these people. Then shortly after the war, a quarantine was declared. Because of typhus no one could go in or out of Terezin.

At the end of the war there were streams of Germans, who were running away from the Russians, flowing on the road running by Terezin, which was now under the protection of the Red Cross. Occasionally they'd shoot from their cars into Terezin with machine guns, or threw a grenade into it, so even at the end of the war Terezin was occasionally quite dangerous. But soon after them the Russians arrived. I don't think a person could feel that much of joy again. It was an indescribable feeling, when the Russians arrived in Terezin on their tanks. The first thing they did was that they stopped the tanks and pulled down all the fences between the road and Terezin. But then they saw another fence that separated Terezin from where the prisoners from the extermination camps and death transports were being treated, and because they didn't know anything about the quarantine or these prisoners' situation, they let them out.

Try and imagine what it's like, explaining to a Russian general why some prisoners are still locked up. It was a huge amount of work to round those poor wretches up again, and get them back into closed quarters. What's more, before that the Russians had apparently stolen a large amount of chocolate somewhere, and so they stuffed us all with chocolate, including those prisoners that weren't supposed to eat yet.

At the end of the war my mother and I were alone in Terezin; we didn't have any relatives there, because my sister, who had met Mr. Kovanic in Terezin and married him, had in the meantime left for Switzerland on a transport that was supposed to have been in exchange for German prisoners of war. One day we found out that someone was looking for a list of people, we among them, who were supposed to report to a designated location. We were very surprised, because at that time there was still a strict quarantine.

When we got there, there was a bus standing there that scouts from Brandys had arrived on. I don't know how those scouts actually found out about it, whether the radio in Brandys had announced it, but in any event they had done the math, that about 60 or 80 people had left Brandys during the war, and so that one bus should be enough to drive us all back to Brandys in two trips.

Those scouts were in Terezin for about two days, and finally they managed to find out that the two of us, along with some lady from a village not far from Brandys, were the only ones left. So in the end three of us drove away from Terezin with those scouts in an empty bus. So we arrived in Brandys earlier, before the end of the quarantine, which they for some reason allowed us to violate. From that time on I was an enthusiastic scout.

When we arrived in Brandys, Mother went to have a look inside our house, and found someone else living there. Alone, without our father, our mother wasn't able to deal with anything and so let those people keep on living there. On the ground floor there was supposed to have been some Protectorate constable, and later for a long time there was a music school in our house.

So we had no place to live, no money, nothing. Luckily some Mrs. Zahalkova took us in. She was likely from a mixed family, she had some Jewish ancestors. Her husband had been in a concentration camp due to his being a Communist, and he hadn't returned yet. And because our father had taken care of this lady during the war, after they'd imprisoned her husband, Mrs. Zahalkova now let us live with her in a small villa right in Brandys.

At that time, Soviet soldiers were encamped in Brandys. Back then we were all very naive. We had no idea that there were already certain differences between the Allies, in the beginning we were big fans of theirs. There was this incident that happened back then: One of the Soviet soldiers had borrowed a bicycle somewhere and didn't return it, basically he stole it, and when the owner went to complain to an officer, the officer shot the soldier on the spot.

Also at that time some Soviet soldiers met my mother and Mrs. Zahalkova, and were invited to Mrs. Zahalkova's place for a visit. Mrs. Zahalkova had a 13-year-old daughter, and I remember that both mothers were afraid that the soldiers could do something to us, and so they locked us up. They were afraid of them, but at the same time were afraid to refuse them. Of course, some wristwatch went missing. So after that impressions of the Russians after the war were more ambivalent, even though of course that first impression from the liberation stayed with us all.

We had no news of my sister, my brother, nor of my father. For a long time after the war, Mother believed that Father would return, even when he had already been declared dead. She was completely lost without him. A person can't imagine what sort of situation she found herself in. My mother didn't have any higher education, not even a high school diploma. She only had mercantile school and some business courses, and was completely helpless when it came to the practical things in life. She had been used to our father doing everything. There were probably more women like that back then.

My sister and brother returned home still in 1945, but several months later than Mother and I. For a long time we had no news of my brother, and we had no clue whether he was even alive. Back then many people didn't know anything about the fate of their loved ones, and finding anything out was very complicated. The Red Cross helped a bit, but otherwise people had to primarily help themselves. Because my brother was in terrible shape, right after the war was over the Americans sent him to some sanatorium, where he was treated for tuberculosis. After he returned to Czechoslovakia he continued his treatment in a local sanatorium.

Of our relatives, besides our father, neither did his siblings and their families survive, meaning the Vohryzeks with their children, and Uncle Josef, Father's brother, with his wife and son. Our mother's sister, Aunt Elsa, who was childless, didn't survive either. Also most of our more distant relatives didn't return. We had relatives in Kadan, Cesky Brod and Kutna Hora [Kadan: northwestern Bohemia, Cesky Brod, Kutna Hora: eastern Bohemia]. Only those that had been in mixed marriages survived, among which was our mother's brother, Uncle Quido. He married a lady of Aryan origin, which is why he didn't go to Terezin until the end of the winter in 1945. A similar situation also saved our distant relative Viktor Munk from Kutna Hora. Some cousin of our father's had managed in time to get married to some Aryan in France, and thus avoided the war. After her marriage she was named Besson and was a teacher at a lyceum in Dijon. Father's cousin Pavel Munk managed to emigrate to America in time.

After the war we were utterly poor, we didn't even have anything to wear. Back then lists of war damages were being put together, and who for example knew how to bribe also got some reparations, but our mother didn't know how to arrange things like this, so we didn't get a thing. She only got 300 crowns for me, she herself used to get 600. After the war I was the poorest in my class.

Our mother ended up selling our house to some butcher. She sold it for about 160,000 crowns, but right after that, about a half year later, the currency reform took place 16 and money completely lost value, so we were left with nothing. We simply don't and never have had luck with things like that. And despite the fact that they tried to talk my mother out of selling the house, in the end she did it anyway, because it was a constant source of worries, the tenants always wanted us to fix something, and the entire rental income then went towards these repairs.

It's been about five years since we went there to have a look. Some descendants of the butcher that bought the house from our mother long ago, called to tell us that they'd found rolled-up old photographic negatives in a rain gutter, unfortunately they were so damaged that they were unusable. My nephew Jirka wanted to see our house, and so after a long time we again went there to have a look. But it was a very sad visit for me. Those people had gutted and redone the entire interior of the house. And even without this fact I don't like going to Brandys, because the entire town is a very sad sight for me. Perhaps the situation will improve now, but the prefab apartment blocks across from our house will likely never be torn down.

In Prague, on Truhlarska Street [city ward of Prague 1], lived some relatives of the Lustigs, the Pavelkas, who were so kind as to take us in after the war, and so we moved into their not very large apartment in Prague. Mr. Pavelka, an engineer, wasn't a Jew himself, but had married a Jewess by the name of Vilka, and apparently she was a distant relative of ours. They had a daughter, Emina, who was about two years older than I. I was 13 back then, and she was 15 or 16. She slept in this little servant's room, and they'd always make a bed for me on the floor beside her. I remember that under my head, instead of a bolster, I had Palacky's 'History of the Czech Nation', but not much of it penetrated into my head. [Palacky, Frantisek (1798-1896): Czech historian, promoter of political and cultural life, founder of modern Czech historiography. Work: History of the Czech Nation in Bohemia and Moravia (Geschichte von Böhmen), 1836-76 (5 volumes]]

If it hadn't been for Uncle Pavelka, I probably wouldn't even have started attending school. Right away, still in May of 1945, Uncle took me to the nearest school on Sanytrova Street, to be more exact, at the corner of Sanytrova and Dusni, right across from the Church of Simon and Judith. Today this school is right beside the Intercontinental Hotel. I began going there right away, in May, so I only attended six week of the first school year.

At first I had some problems, because I was missing four or five years of studies, and I basically started right off attending second year of council school, but due to the fact that I was evidently open to new ideas and attended school with the poorest children in all of Prague, who didn't study at all, in the end I used to get straight A's on my report card. This was because my classmates were children from Frantisek, that was a neighborhood close to today's Convent of St. Agnes, where the scum of Prague lived - thieves, prostitutes, pimps. The writer Geza Vcelicka wrote about them, today that name probably doesn't mean anything to anyone anymore. [Vcelicka, Geza (1901-1966): real name Antonin Eduard Vcelicka, Czech journalist, poet and writer] Compared to them, I was truly a model student, the principal even took me on as his helper, so I would for example announce things on the intercom, or go help teachers, who back then after the war were just beginning to study at university, to write down lectures and so on.

My classmates were incorrigible scoundrels of the worst sort, sometimes I couldn't believe my eyes. For example they'd even make fun of President Benes 17. Nothing was sacred to them. They were armed from the revolution. They were 13-year-old boys, but had pistols and grenades. Once when the police came in the middle of class, they collected a whole basket of these weapons. It's interesting that no one dared try anything with me, evidently they knew about what had happened to the Jews during the war, and that's probably why they respected me. Otherwise, though, they were always fighting amongst themselves, they behaved like animals.

But a boy by the name of Erich Wildau was also in my class. We hung out together, and soon we became best friends. His father was a Jew. Still before the war he had left Erich's mother and moved away to Argentina, where during the war he became a rich man, he owned a textile factory. Erich's mother, who wasn't of Jewish origin, proclaimed that the father of Erich and his two siblings was some Aryan tailor, so as to protect her children from Nazi repression. So thanks to this, Erich Wildau spent the whole war at home in Prague. There were more such cases, when in an effort to save her children a mother proclaimed that their father was someone else. In the end Erich's mother married the tailor and they had some more children together. Later Erich's father brought all his children over to live with him, so in 1948 my best friend moved to Argentina.

Erich Wildau brought me into a scout troop 18 that he'd already belonged to before we became friends. So I experienced my nicest years after the war among scouts, up until the Scout movement was forbidden. Already in 1945, Erich and I went together to a scout camp in Pobezovice, near Domazlice, in the Czech Forest [southeastern Bohemia]. We lived in a former Hitlerjugend camp. It was a relatively large center, with room for about 200 scouts. It wasn't a completely ordinary camp, because we also performed guard duty. This is because at that time in the border regions there were still Germans that hadn't yet been expelled, and we watched to make sure that they handed in their entire harvest, as it was right after harvest time. They drove me to some German farm and I kept watch by the scales. The Germans gradually brought in grain, and I kept records, checked the scales and so on.

Pobezovice was located in the part of the country that was jointly occupied by the American and British Army after the war. The Americans and Brits, who were going out with local German girls, were told various horror stories by them about how Czechs were raping and misusing German girls after the war, and thanks to this the Americans despised us Czechs. It even happened once that when a group of scouts went to a village, the Americans gave them a beating. All of us at that scout camp were suddenly aghast, that the Americans actually didn't like us.

In the morning at roll call, we'd always hoist a Czech and Soviet flag, and the Czech and Soviet anthems would be played. One day at roll call, when we'd just hoisted the Soviet flag and were listening to the Soviet anthem, an American patrol came to our camp. It was a group of American soldiers. First they walked up to the flagpole, cut down the Soviet flag and one of them stuffed it in his pocket. Then they went over to the record player, picked up the record, went over to our leader, whacked him over the head with it, and left without saying a word. We stood and stared, dumbfounded.

On the other hand, once we were at some meeting in a forest school in Rybniky, not far from our camp [a forest school was actually a form of scouting college], and General Patton also came to this meeting with his officers, who were actually former American scouts, and they, on the contrary were very friendly towards us. [Patton, George Smith Jr. (1885- 1945): General of the US Army. The 3rd American Army, which he commanded during World War II, liberated the west and southwest of Bohemia, including the town of Pilsen.] They sat with us around the campfire and sang, they even put their small plane at our disposal, so we were able to fly around up above the countryside, and they also lent us a car and driver. The American command, as opposed to normal soldiers, probably knew what the real story was as far as the Czech nation was concerned. Overall, you could say that where the Germans hadn't been expelled 19, there the Americans had an anti-Czech attitude, while there where there were Czech girls, like in Domazlice, there the Americans liked us.

During the time we were at the camp in Pobezovice, there were armed members of the SS on the run, so-called 'wehr-wolves,' wandering in the forests, and this is why when we'd go to German farms and dwellings, older armed scouts who were called rovers had to guard us. The region around Pobezovice was all German, we were the only Czechs in the entire area. I remember that we used to walk in processions, at the front of the procession we'd be carrying a Czechoslovak flag, and we'd be singing loudly. The Germans would come out of their houses to see what was going on. They had various hats on their heads, and when someone didn't take off his hat, our rovers would run over and beat him up, slap him around, because he hadn't taken off his hat before our flag. Already back then I didn't like that very much. It was right before their expulsion.

But otherwise I really found myself in the scouting movement. After the war I felt like I didn't belong anywhere, I was suddenly practically without relatives, without anything. I think that basically all the survivors felt uprooted and yearned to fit in somewhere. They had no property, families, relatives, jobs, they didn't have those things that normally make up a person's collective and supports him. Later some people found this support in the Communist Party, I chose the Scouts. In scouting I found a new way of self-realization as well as a replacement collective. I accepted the ideals of scouting as my own. Unfortunately it all ended after 1948, when the scouting movement was forbidden.

After the 1945 summer holidays, I again went to council school. That was already the third grade of council school. I still don't know how I could have bridged that huge lack of knowledge caused by the war. This lack of knowledge actually didn't make itself apparent until high school, because the standards at that council school were so low, that I was a one-eyed king in the land of the blind. Third year of council school wasn't very hard work for me, and only thanks to the fact that I got straight A's on my report card did I get into high school, because with straight A's I was able to transfer over without doing entrance exams. I definitely wouldn't have passed the exams, because high school professors didn't make any allowances for the fact that I hadn't been able to attend school during the war.

So I started attending the Old Town high school in Prague. Back then high schools were going through a chaotic transformation period, they were changing their nature, and were always moving. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. Just during the time I was studying we merged with about four other high schools. At first we were a boys-only high school, then we merged with a girls' high school, subsequently the girls' section was separated off again, and in the end it was a mixed high school again.

The high school was on Dusni Street [city ward of Prague 1], today there's a business academy there. Once again, my 'uncle' registered me there. My mother maybe even didn't know where I was going. She never even came to the high school to ask how I was doing. All she had to do was sign the class record book. That's why I was already completely independent in high school, and due to our financial situation, I did brigade work during summer holidays to make money.

In the beginning high school was a very tough time for me. I floundered in grammar, I floundered in math. In those days high school was a relatively elite matter, only around ten percent of the population got in, as opposed to today, where almost everyone goes to high school. Of course, my high school wasn't among the best, I could have never attended such high-quality and renowned high schools such as the one in Truhlarska or Neruda High School were, already from before the war. This one was more of an average Prague high school.

Already in 'kvarta' [fourth of eight years], when I arrived, the high school was divided into two branches. The first branch was classical, where they taught Latin and French, and the other was technical, where they on the contrary studied descriptive geometry and English. I would of course have gravitated more the Latin branch, but that wasn't possible, because students in fourth year of the Latin branch already had three years of Latin behind them, and also knew a bit of French. It was a branch that concerned itself with only the humanities, while I had to attend the technical one, which then also had a great influence on my choice of university.

One of my classmates was a Jewish boy, Petr Rossler, who had also gone through concentrations camps during the war. He had left on the first transports to Lodz, and he and his brother had survived Auschwitz. He'd lost his parents, and because after the war orphans had the possibility of moving away, both brothers moved to Australia, probably in 1948. This was because after the war there was a relatively high interest in Jewish orphans. Jewish families, mainly in Australia or Canada, were offering to take them in. Petr and his brother succeeded in moving away, despite their having an uncle here. Both brothers established themselves in Australia, and founded families. My classmate became a chemist and his brother a famous architect. Not long ago they received some property of their uncle's in restitutions. Rossler was my only Jewish friend in our class.

There was probably only one real anti-Semite in our school, our chemistry teacher. I found out from my classmates that he'd been a well-known collaborator. He had beaten students when they didn't want to sing the German anthem, 'Deutschland, Deutschland.' Many collaborators later became Communist agents. This person did it like this as well, because he joined the Party 20 very early on, and in 1948 he even became the school principal, when he took the position of the old Masaryk-style principal, who had to retire. This new principal and chemistry teacher didn't like me, so I was always failing chemistry. It was very sad for us students to watch how many people from the teachers' ranks gradually joined the Communists, even though earlier they had supported the National Socialists [Nazis].

Back then it wouldn't have occurred to me that I'd one day study architecture. I was interested in astronomy. Because we had a physics teacher who, though he wasn't a Jew, was very interested in what Jews had suffered through during the war, and felt sincerely sorry for us. He used to lend me books about astronomy, which was in fashion back then.

Thanks to my brother, who read many works of international literature, I was also from the age of 15 immersed in classical literature. I remember that once, still before the year 1948, my brother brought home a box full of the collected works of Flaubert [Flaubert, Gustave (1821-1880): French realistic novelist], which he'd bought from some private bookseller. I read that whole box, there were about twenty or thirty books. I basically read everything my brother brought home.

My brother liked reading the 'cursed poets' - Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine. I got to them when I was around 16 years of age. I also very much liked to read the works of the ancient philosophers, mainly Epiktetos [Epiktetos (ca. 55-ca. 135): Roman stoic philosopher, originally a slave] and the other stoics. Evidently I was in this stoic mood back then, maybe it was due to puberty. All in all I read a really huge amount of books - all of Russian, French and even German classic literature.

Even after 1948, I still used to visit the so-called Academic Library. It was a library meant primarily for university students, but high school students were also allowed to go there. It was located in a building in Klarov [city ward of Prague 1], across from today's Straka Academy [the seat of the Czech government], in a building that back then also contained a public swimming pool. In this library there were long lists fastened to chains, that listed books that one could borrow and take home. It's symptomatic that already in 1948 these lists had some items crossed out. Someone had gone to the trouble to go through the thousands of pages of those lists and blacked out with ink many works, for example by Karel Capek 21, Balzac [Balzac, Honore de (1799-1850): French novelist] and other novelists, indicating that they could no longer be lent out. Some pages were even stuck together. But there was this kind, old man working in the library at the time, who lent me all books, even those that were blacked out in the lists. And I really read everything, for example I read all of Goethe [Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (1749-1832): German poet, writer and scientist]. I even tried to write poems and stories, but in the end I threw it all out. I don't think that anyone in our family had developed healthy artistic self-confidence, you could see that primarily in my brother.

After the war most Jews no longer professed the Jewish religion, many even changed their names. They claimed that the reason was their German names, but in reality they more likely probably wanted to forget that they were Jews. Despite being a typical assimilated Jewish family - our father was a Czech patriot - we never hid our Jewishness. Already during council school, and later also during high school, I began taking religion lessons from the famous Rabbi Sicher. He was an educated man, he lectured at Charles University, evidently Hebraism or Jewish history. I used to go alone, because no one applied for Jewish religion, while I still had a mark from Jewish, or Israeli religion on my report card. Because after the war, religion was still mandatory for some time.

I used to like going to see the rabbi, because he was able to talk beautifully about the Old Testament. I learned Hebrew, but unfortunately I've forgotten it all. Always at the end of the year the rabbi gave me some book, where he had written 'For excellent studies.' When I had a break between subjects at school, I also used to stay for Catholic religion, because there they also took the Old Testament. Always when my classmates didn't know anything, the catechism teacher held me up as an example for the others, he'd say, 'Look at Munk, how he knows the Old Testament!' That cracked the guys up, of course.

One day, sometime after 1948, this young man came to see me, and introduced himself as a member of an organization that was organizing emigration to Israel. Even before the creation of the independent Israeli state 22, pilots for the Israeli army had been training in Czechoslovakia. Then when Israel was created and the Arab states immediately attacked it, the only thing that saved them, and the Israeli generals themselves claimed this, were pilots and planes from Czechoslovakia. So this man, most likely from the Israeli secret service, came to see me and was trying to convince me, even though I was only 16 at the time, to go help out in Israel, that they'd train me in Czechoslovakia and then I'd be able to work in Israel as a pilot. But it didn't really intrigue me, our family was never inclined towards Zionism 23. As far as I know, there were never any Zionists in Brandys.

During the time of the February putsch in 1948 24, I was 16 years old. I perceived these events like most other scouts - I had an aversion to Communism. It's interesting, that at one scout camp we held this little election in our troop, and only one of us showed himself to be a convinced Communist. We were always arguing with him, and because he was unwavering, in the end we always threw him in the water. In my opinion I was closest to social democracy and social reformism. I was from the beginning convinced that Communism is wrong, that it's an unrealizable fantasy, and that no ideology that contains the idea of violence can bring anything good.

In the summer of 1948, the last All-Sokol Slet [Rally] was held in Prague. Back then Edvard Benes was still president, and all Sokols came to Prague to support him. I remember that a ceremonial Sokol procession walked through Parizska Street, in which the individual districts walked one behind the other. The Pilsen district carried American flags, and actually all of Parizska Street was bedecked with American and British flags. Crowds of people stood on the sidewalks, and together with the procession cried out various slogans, like for example, 'Let the whole world hear, Benes must go back to the castle!'

When they walked by the tribune where the Communist big-shots stood, prepared to greet and wave to the ceremonial procession, all participants in the procession fell silent and did a 'left face' so that they turned away from the tribune. So the Communist lords waved and waved, but the entire procession was looking the other way. Then at the end of Parizska Street, there were StB 25 buses parked, they were arresting people from the procession and driving them away. I thought it better to disappear.

We had beautiful Scout clubhouses in the pillars of Cechuv Bridge in Prague [city ward of Prague 1]. These pillars stood right by the Vltava under Letna hill, today there's a road there that leads along the riverbank in the direction of Straka Academy. Shortly after the putsch the scouting movement was disbanded, our leaders jailed, one of them was even executed. Our clubhouse was used alternately by a boys' and girls' troop, and so we came into frequent contact with the girls, so my first loves are tied to the clubhouse and a scouting environment.

One day the StB also came to our clubhouse, they beat us, threw all our things outside and closed the clubhouse. I had a good friend in the Scouts, a Croat, by the name of Ante Peresin. Sometime after 1948 they drove all Yugoslavs out of the country, as a result of political changes related to the Soviet-Yugoslav rift. [Editor's note: On 28th July 1948, the participants of the Informbiro expelled the Communist Party of Yugoslavia from their association. The Informbiro resolution was the culmination of tensions between Stalin and Tito, whose roots reached back to the period during World War II, when Tito's partisans succeeded in liberating Yugoslavia without the direct intervention of the Soviet Army. Tito thus always behaved towards Stalin in a sovereign and self-confident fashion. Neither did the internal development of Yugoslavia proceed according to Stalin's expectations - Tito defended himself against the espionage activities of Soviet "advisors," who finally had to be recalled from the country. From that time on, the intensity of the process of divergence between the two countries strengthened.] One day the StB came for my friend and his family, and they were driven to the border at night. One day I came to visit him, but the apartment was empty.

So, our troop fell apart. Occasionally former scouts would get together and go to various cultural events, debated about philosophy and so on. Each Sunday we had a meeting at St. Jacob's Church in Prague, where they had beautiful organ concerts during services. Thanks to this I had a black mark in my political profile - they contained information that I was a Jew and at the same time attended a Catholic church. The punch line is that I later found the main initiator of our cultural get-togethers in a list of StB agents. Undoubtedly he was reporting on us, but because we never got around to any sort of subversive activity, none of us were jailed.

We were one of the few Jewish families where there wasn't even one Communist. We held on through the entire Communist era, even though it of course had a strong influence on our careers. It basically never occurred to us to join the Party. After the war, some Jews not only denied their Jewishness and changed their names, but also denied their rich, bourgeois ancestors. It was quite sad. Some Jews emigrated, and those that stayed mostly joined the Party.

A yearning for a collective that will accept you unconditionally, induced many Jews to identify with the Communist ideology. Others found themselves in Zionism, and others, like me, looked for new support in the Scout movement. I identified with the ideals of scouting, even though many experienced people made fun of their ideals. I took their moral code completely seriously. I think that my membership in the Scouts had a bad influence on my political profile still for a long time after.

While I was studying there, my high school was attended by predominantly children from bourgeois families. Although we all had to join the Youth Association 26, only a few students joined the Communists. An exception was a boy whose father was an StB officer. This boy behaved like an utter cynic, he made fun of everything. In adulthood he worked as a Communist agent abroad, and when he returned after the revolution in 1989 27, he changed his name three times, and even had plastic surgery done on his face. I don't remember any other Communist from the ranks of students.

During final exams the situation was worse. Present in the graduation committee there were also representatives of the Party and various Party organizations, who could recommend applicants for acceptance to various universities. Each high school got so-called guide numbers, which was the number of students that could be recommended for acceptance at individual universities, but they were very low quotas. I knew that it was of no use to apply for philosophy, as the only thing that awaited one there was the study of Marxism-Leninism, so finally I applied for medicine, where however on the other hand knowledge of Latin was necessary.

In the end I was wholly resigned to the fact that no one would recommend me for any university. The graduation committee didn't fail to remind me of my bourgeois roots, and in general one could say that my profile was a bad one for the times. Everywhere I had remarks that I was indifferent, that I didn't participate in all sorts of events and so on. Nevertheless, in the graduation committee there was some Communist who had himself experienced a concentration camp, and he took my side, he mentioned that I'd been in a concentration camp during childhood, and took the stand that I should get some sort of opportunity.

By coincidence, no one had applied for AAAD [Academy of Arts, Architecture and Design in Prague], the school had a quota of about two people that it could recommend, and so I was allowed to take entrance exams for AAAD. They were difficult, three-day exams, which included drawing in the field, in the studio, I had to design some sort of fountain, but mainly prior works had to be presented to the committee. I'd never drawn, even though in high school I had all A's in drawing, and because my brother, on the other hand, was always drawing, I took a stack of his drawings, and without telling him took them with me to the exam and submitted them to the committee. Surprisingly, I ended up well, of eighty applicants they were taking fifteen, and I was the fifteenth. Back then there wasn't as much favoritism and corruption during the acceptance process as later.

I had barely started attending AAAD when the rector, Smetana, called me in, that he'd found in my application documents that I had applied for medicine, and so that I actually hadn't even wanted to get into AAAD, and that he'd just gotten an order from the Party's Central Committee that he has to accept the son of some Communist bigwig, and so whether I wouldn't mind if he arranged for me to study architecture at technical school [technical school or CTU: Czech Technical University: created in 1803 as the first polytechnic school in Central Europe]. Back then I didn't care one way or the other, so in the end I went straight into technical school, which surprisingly I also graduated from.

I naively assumed that the Communists can't do anything to architecture. Unfortunately I didn't know that in the Soviet Union architecture had been already long ago been deformed by Socialist Realism. The ideologist Zhdanov promoted this monumental return to old historical forms, while I liked pre- war functionalism. [Zhdanov, Andrei Alexandrovich (1896-1948): Soviet state and Party official. From the year 1944 he especially devoted himself to ideological questions, issues of Marxist-Leninist philosophy and literary theory.]

Actually, during my studies I experienced the worst era, when everything had to be done exactly like it was in the Soviet Union. There were unbelievable things happening back then. We weren't allowed to design wide windows, because in the USSR they were narrow. Our professors - the best architects of that time, who before the war had designed famous functionalist villas in Baba [city ward of Prague 6] and other noted buildings, were now continually going to Moscow and bowing down before the bizarre architectural creations there. Architecture had been completely violated. This is why no great architect arose from our generation, because we were deformed, just like the times. Shortly after I graduated, in 1957, the situation began relaxing to the point that the students that came after us could already study relatively normally.

During the time of my studies, the main ideological watchdog at our school was a young man of Jewish origin, the son of a very well-known rich merchant family, who had emigrated during the war. After the war his parents had stayed abroad, and the son returned home as a Communist. At a public Party meeting he disowned his parents and his name, and from that time he used a new name to show that he had nothing in common with them. He kept very strict watch so that all the students were correctly ideologically focused. He was the terror of all the professors in the Faculty of Architecture. Gradually the scrutiny decreased. In 1968 this person was again signing his name with his original surname hyphenated with his new name.

After the revolution I met him at the Jewish community as a devout Orthodox Jew, who went there regularly and now signed with only his original name, after his parents. I reminded him of who I was with the words, 'We know each other from the faculty, back then there you were...' And he quickly replied, 'Yeah, yeah, the stupid things we did in our youth!' That's this peculiar instance of Jewish fate...

At the faculty, anti-Semitism showed itself mainly from the direction of the cadre [political] department. Often I was accused of not involving myself in politics enough. Once the cadre officer even summoned me, some laborer from Kolbenka [CDK], he began talking about how he didn't like Jews, and it ended with the words, 'And we'll drive all you Jews into concentration camps again anyways. That's where you belong!' [CKD, Ceskomoravska Kolben Danek: one of the famous industrial firms of pre-war Czechoslovakia. After the war the company was revitalized and quickly nationalized. Among its most important activities were manufacturing of locomotives in Vysocany and streetcars in Smichov. The company was gradually becoming one of the largest manufacturers of streetcars in the world, and employed up to 50,000 workers. After the revolution in 1989 and with the economic collapse of the COMECON, CKD lost its largest customers, and after a series of changes, sell-offs and bankruptcies the company essentially disappeared from the marketplace.]

I didn't feel any anti-Semitism from the professors. I blended in with the others, because I don't look all that Jewish. Sometimes I had to deal with awkward situations, when someone was talking about Jews in front of me in a not exactly nice way, I didn't know whether I should speak up and say I was Jewish, or ignore the situation with decorous silence. I was also the only one in our entire class of that year that the cadre department didn't allow to even go on a study trip to Poland.

After finishing my studies at the Faculty of Architecture, I got into my first real conflict with the Communist regime. After graduating from whichever faculty, the graduate got these so-called placements. They were vouchers for concrete positions in certain companies. Because what work conditions were like in various places was general knowledge, there was always a big battle for these placements. Because of this, it would happen that already a year before graduation, all relatives were on red alert and were looking for connections to get influence and to get a good position for their candidate. I didn't have any relatives, so I left it all up to fate. I really didn't care where I ended up.

One connection that I did have was a friend of my brother-in-law, by the name of Erich Kohn. He was a pre-war Communist, during the war he'd been in Terezin, and during the time I was finishing my studies, he had a relatively important position, he was the director of some research institute. My mother forced my brother-in-law, who had worked with Mr. Kohn in Terezin and where they had become very good friends, to go ask him for help. Apparently that Kohn refused with the words, 'Forgive me, but I, as a Jew, can't afford to help another Jew.' That was the only connection that I could perhaps have had in my life, but didn't have.

It was during the difficult times after the Slansky trials 28, which Mr. Kohn survived, and as a fanatic Communist was trying to be as careful as possible. Due to the fact that we weren't a Communist family, we couldn't have been directly affected by these trials, because they were only related to Communists, but at the same time, we of course felt that the anti- Semitism was also aimed at us. We said to ourselves that it's not without consequence, because back then the entire Communist leadership, including Slansky, was behaving truly atrociously. Deep down we, non-Communists, maybe even wished these trials on them a little, and said to ourselves, just let them go ahead and slaughter each other.

I got a placement in Jablonec [a town in the north of Bohemia] at a regional hygiene station. When I arrived there, I was informed that they didn't need an architect there. So right away I had them confirm that they didn't need me, because back then that was a big advantage. When you got rid of the placement, you were basically free and could pick a company where you wanted to start working. Back then there was a labor shortage, especially university graduates.

All overjoyed, I returned to the faculty and boasted to my classmates, who'd all had to make use of some sort of connections to find decent work. One of my colleagues, who had a brother higher up in the faculty management, arranged it so that they took that placement away from me, despite the fact that my name was on it, so theoretically someone else could use it. I guess God punished him, because he died of cancer at the age of 30, he had a brain tumor.

They gave me another placement, this time for Agroprojekt Liberec. There they once again informed me that they didn't need an architect, and that my task would be agitating for and starting up agricultural cooperatives, later the JZD 29. I said to myself that I didn't study in order to start up agricultural cooperatives, and that even the Communist Party can't want that an architect into whom they invested money should go found JZD's. I simply didn't start there, which was a crime back then. Some of my friends had done something similar, their company parted ways with them, but no one paid any further attention to it. But my director had me charged.

Despite the fact that I was given only a suspended sentence, they diligently recorded my offence in my cadre records. Due to this, I then couldn't find any work for two years, because they refused me everywhere, as soon as they had a look into my cadre file. On the other hand, I was applying for jobs regularly, so they couldn't put me in jail for being a parasite. It wasn't until after 1990 that I was legally rehabilitated.

So I stumbled around like this for about two years, and was always with one foot in jail. I was constantly answering various ads with work offers, but they refused me everywhere as soon as they saw my cadre profile. I was in danger of having to serve time, because I had a suspended sentence and wasn't working, which was an offence. So rather than that I went to work in Cheb [a town in western Bohemia], as a manual laborer on the renovations of the historical center of town, but there was still a question mark hanging over my head.

Back then Cheb was in the closely guarded border zone, and I was moving about freely there. Someone informed on me to the StB, that I was trying to cross the border. Because the StB offices were located right on the town square and I walked by them every day, I stopped by one day, and asked them, 'I hear you're looking for me?' They were surprised, because they'd received a report that I'd crossed the border long ago. It was a farce.

Besides work in Cheb, during this period I in some fashion got to some interesting work for the architect Zazvorka [Zazvorka, Jan Sr. (1884-1963): Czech architect], who was a very prominent architect, who'd designed for example the Vitkov Memorial and Smichov Railway Station in Prague. He was perhaps the only architect who during these difficult times had his own private studio. He had connections, though he wasn't a Communist, because after World War I, as general of the Legion, he'd been the district commissioner in Kladno [a town in central Bohemia, west of Prague], and during the time of the labor hunger protests there, he refused to obey an order to shoot at the workers. At the time he was demoted, but later the Communists tried to make it up to him by letting him have a private studio.

Back then, companies were classified according to cadre profile into groups 'A,' 'B' and 'C,' where A were the 'best' companies and C the 'worst.' In 1959 I finally found a job in one C company, thanks to the fact that their cadre officer had mercy on me and took me on despite my poor cadre history, saying that it can't be in the Party's interest for a young person who wants to work to not work. It was a cooperative. Cooperatives belonged to the lowest cadre group, C. 'A' were normal project institutes, I had no chance there, B were smaller, town, not state institutes, and on the lowest level were cooperative project companies. These companies worked for villages, for village consumer cooperatives, or Jednotas 30. Our work was setting up and fixing up various small, ugly shops, pubs and shopping centers. Back then we had very limited possibilities, only what socialist construction manufacture allowed us. It didn't really have much to do with architecture.

In 1960 there was a big amnesty of political prisoners. Many people who'd gotten 20, 40 years in jail for absolutely nothing were now rehabilitated, they got some small financial compensation, and many of them were sent to our company to work, so that they'd have them all under control. They were a quite pleasant group of people. I worked in this company until 1965, when they founded a new company, whose purpose was to renew the retail network in Prague's historical center. This was because after 1948, all stores in the center of Prague were nationalized and gradually closed. When a person for example walked the Royal Road [city ward of Prague 1], all stores had their blinds drawn, nothing was open anywhere. In 1965 we were given the task of reopening these stores. It was pleasant work, because we were designing the renovation of entire historical streets, including store and restaurant interiors. Unfortunately, it all stopped after the occupation in 1968 31.

Nevertheless, I held on in this new company until 1971, when I returned again to my original company. There I 'soldiered on' until retirement. So except for a couple of exceptions, I never made it to really 'big' architecture. Many architects preferred to leave and go work in research institutes, because it was better to design nothing than to design 'panelaky' [prefab apartment blocks].

I would have liked to have devoted myself to architecture, even at school I was interested in the renovation of historical buildings, and that's also why I went to work as a manual laborer during the reconstruction of the center of Cheb. I wanted to get into the so-called State Institute for Renovation of Historical Towns and Objects, nicknamed 'debrisproject,' because there they worked on the renovation of historical buildings, and it would have certainly been nice work, but I couldn't get in there, because it was a state institute in the A group.

In the beginning my colleagues and I participated in various architectural contests, and had a few successes, for example in the contest for the Old Town Hall in 1962, but we soon learned that to succeed you needed the right connections.

After the war, my brother at first attended council school with me, because he was also missing five years, and then began attending a graphics school under Petrin [a popular hill in the center of Prague]. Back then it was a renowned school, where many talented young people, like for example the artist Vladimir Boudnik had studied. [Boudnik, Vladimir (1924-1968): Czech painter and graphic artist] However, my brother didn't finish this school. Because he was of a much more revolutionary nature than I, he got to the forefront of a conflict with the principal of the graphics school. Their entire class had revolted against him for some reason, but everyone, with the exception of my brother, then took back their position. They then threw my brother out of the school, and he never studied any other school after that, and worked as a laborer all his life.

First he worked as a proofreader in a graphic factory in Hradistek near Stechovice, where they manufactured various decals. This work at least had something to do with art, my brother was even in charge of an art course for the other workers. Before retirement, though, he was working in the Amati Kraslice factory, where he only packaged trumpets and other musical instruments, though he still did art as an amateur.

In 1959 I met my wife. After the war, many Jews who had returned from the concentration camps married non-Jewish girls. For one, there weren't enough Jewish girls, and also Jews apparently didn't want to have anything to do with their origin any more. My wife and I were an exception. Initially we didn't know that we had a common past. We had both been in Terezin at the same time, but hadn't known of each other. My wife had been in a 'Kinderheim.' When we met, sometime around 1959, and found out that we both had a similar history, it made us very close. People who hadn't experienced what Jews had during the war were after all somewhat distant, because they couldn't understand how we felt. I had never talked about my experiences anywhere. We tried to suppress our feelings and forget about them, and as a couple it was simpler.

My wife comes from Letna [city ward of Prague 7]. Though her father was a dentist, her ancestors' family tradition was connected with book publishing. Her grandfather was the first publisher of Schweik 32 and founded the Synek publishing house, which before the war had been known for publishing quality books. My wife's mother died of cancer when my wife was still a baby, and her father then found a new wife. Shortly thereafter they registered my wife as a Catholic in the assumption that it would help her in life, but unfortunately during the war entirely different points of view were decisive.

My wife was one of two children. Her brother, Jiri Synek, later known under the pseudonym Frantisek Listopad [Listopad, Frantisek (b. 1921): real name Jiri Synek, Czech poet and writer], who today lives in Lisbon, had a very interesting fate during the war. Back then he was about 18 or twenty years old, and was involved in some underground organization, which is why he hid out with various people in Prague during the entire course of the war. It's unbelievable that no one discovered him, and he must undoubtedly have been very brave. He used to tell stories about how for example he had to steal a rubber stamp in some government office, so he could then use it to stamp some documents. After the war he got an award for courage from President Benes.

He was the only Communist in our family, but a Communist of a different type than were those that during the Communist era bowed down before the regime. Before the putsch in 1948, my wife's brother had gone to France on a business trip, where he then published some political magazine. When after the putsch the Communists summoned him back to Czechoslovakia, he refused to return and stayed abroad.

My wife then had many troubles due to him, they used to take her in to the StB, because her brother occasionally broadcast on Radio Free Europe 33, which in the 1950s was no joke. It was all carefully noted in their cadre files. Because from the regime's point of view, a Communist who emigrated was much worse than a non-Communist. My wife's brother devoted himself mainly to literature, he's a well-known poet, writer and playwright. He currently lives in Portugal, and is very respected there as a cultural authority. He even represented Portugal in negotiations regarding the Czech Republic joining the European Union. He's received many decorations and awards in Portugal as well as the Czech Republic, most recently for example an award from President Havel 34 as well as the Czech foreign minister for promoting Czech culture in Portugal.

My wife graduated from journalism. At first she worked as a journalist in some magazine, later she worked in Barrandov [a well-known film studio in Prague] as a dramaturgist. During the 1950s, very strict background checks took place in many companies, the last of these took place I think in 1957 or 1958. Many employees in companies in cadre groups A and B lost their jobs. I remember that back then they fired many assistants from our faculty. At that time they fired my wife from Barrandov. She was always getting into trouble because of her brother, and thanks to this often didn't even have money for bread.

Luckily she started working in film animation for the group 'Bratri v triku,' and she stayed there until retirement. For a long time there was a shortage of scripts for animated films and thanks to this in 1965 we began to write scripts for animated films together. My wife began with it, but I soon joined her, because I found it fun. Cartoons about two doggies - Staflik and Spageta [Stepladder and Spaghetti], became widely popular.

In 1999 the Albatros publishing house approached us with the idea of realizing Staflik and Spageta in book form. [The Albatros publishing house was founded in 1949. It was the only publishing house in the former Czechoslovak Socialist Republic that specialized in publishing children's literature.] We wrote two books, the first sold out a press run of 20,000, and was also translated into other languages. The second came out recently, so it's still too early to evaluate it. Staflik and Spageta were shot as a cartoon from 1968. The original name was 'A Dog's Life,' and of course after the Russian occupation this was a problem. Some censor noticed it, so in the end we had to think of a new name. The cartoon sold into about 40 countries. Thanks to the fact that the cartoon was without any spoken text, there was no need for dubbing. This is why when we wrote books we had to make many things up completely anew.

We made up that the dogs live in a town named Psinice [Dogtown]. There's a funny story connected to this. Because some lady from the publishing house came and told us that Psinice by Jicin [the town of Jicin lies northeast of Prague in the Bohemian Paradise tourism region] really does exist, that they had a cottage there. We said to ourselves that this has got to mean trouble, because we were making fun of this town of Psinice in our books. Recently we were invited to Psinice, and it turned out to be exactly the opposite. A big celebration was held on a local soccer field, with majorettes, firemen, village residents and even the mayor. They named Staflik and Spageta honorary citizens of Psinice, and long afterwards we were still signing our books under a tent on the field.

Our other scripts didn't become as famous. These were for example Edudant a Francimor according to K. Polacek, Pucalkovic Amina based on the book by J. Plachta, or Pozor, bonbon! about two beavers, which was an attempt at a cartoon detective story, and others.

The 1960s were probably the nicest time of my life. In 1965 our daughter Hana was born, we bought our current apartment in Vokovice [city ward of Prague 6] and what's more there was even an obvious thaw happening in the political arena. It was a beautiful feeling, because it seemed that everything was aiming towards something better. This tendency was most evident in culture. Excellent plays, movies and books began coming to Czechoslovakia.

Back then my wife was friends with Josef Skvorecky and other important cultural personages. [Skvorecky, Josef (b. 1924): Czech prose writer, essayist and translator] Among them were for example the writer J. Jedlicka, the poet J. Zabrana, the painter M. Medek, the philosopher I. Svitak and others. My wife was always very socially active. I don't know how she met so many important people, but most likely they had studied together, and later she met many people through her work in film.

I was also politically active in those years. In 1968 some other non-Party members and I founded a so-called KAN, Club of Involved Non-Party Members, within the Architects' Association. Back then there were artists' unions in all fields, including writers, artists, musicians, etc., which then served as a platform for the creation of various reformist groups, like KAN for example.

These clubs weren't isolated, and in 1968 communicated with each other about political matters, and basically to a certain extent co-created politics. For example, our club invited to its founding meeting the philosopher, poet and politician Ivan Svitak, who was a very noted person back then, as he was very active, wrote newspaper articles, participated in various similar meetings. [Svitak, Ivan (1925-1994): Czech philosopher and political scientist] At the same time we also had delegates from other unions as guests. This founding meeting took place in July 1968. To this day I remember his speech about the direction of reforms back then, which ended with him saying that either the situation will stay the same for some time more, or that the Russians will occupy us. Back then all of my architect colleagues laughed at him, but in a few weeks, or perhaps even days, his prediction came true 35.

In the last weeks before the occupation, there was almost complete freedom of the press, so we could read about everything what was happening back then in the papers. We also listened to foreign radio stations. So we knew about the trip by Dubcek 36 and other politicians to Moscow, we knew about the negotiations in Cierna nad Tisou [29th July - 1st August 1968: the members of the leaderships of the Czechoslovak and Soviet Communist parties met in Cierna nad Tisou (in a railway car)].

Along with other people around me I was of the opinion that it wasn't wise for reforms to charge ahead at such a tempo, and that it wouldn't at all be a problem for them to be more careful and take place more gradually, so that we wouldn't provoke the Russians and wouldn't expose ourselves needlessly to danger. But back then there were already forces at the forefront that drove the reform process forward at an extreme pace.

Today we know that even in the Soviet Central Committee there were for a long time disagreements regarding whether military intervention should take place. But of course it's difficult to speculate whether an eventual slower or more careful direction would have prevented tragedy. The fact is that we were drunk on freedom and without inhibitions.

Right on the day of the occupation, 21st August, I was alone in our apartment in Vokovice, because my wife was with our daughter, who was three at the time, on a recreational trip organized by the journalists' union at the Roztez chateau by Kutna Hora. During the night I heard planes flying overhead, I heard tanks driving in from the airport, those small ones that can fit into airplanes. I said to myself, those have got to be some sort of maneuvers again, it didn't at all occur to me what was really going on.

Back then we had a car, a Renault, so in the morning I normally got in the car and drove to work, which was in Stupartska Street [city ward of Prague 1]. I was driving along the main road in our neighborhood, Vokovice. Back then cars could normally park on that street, and I noticed that that day all the parked cars were completely demolished. Because the tanks that had driven through had flattened them. Not a soul to be seen, the street was completely empty, I was driving along the street all by myself. People had left their cars at home, because they were afraid. The streetcars weren't running, I was driving along an empty street, I only saw some pedestrians once in a while, and said to myself how terrible it was that the transit system was once again not working.

At the end of the street some man stopped me and asked me if I could drive him to work. So he got in the car and began telling me how terrible it was, what had happened, but I still didn't make the connection. When we arrived at the Prasny [Powder] Bridge [a bridge that spans a valley, leading towards the Prague Castle], suddenly two columns of tanks surrounded us on both sides, because one column was heading uphill, and the other was heading the opposite way, downhill. I'd gotten in between them. It was a strange feeling, they were these huge colossi, roaring, and their tracks were lumbering right beside my little car, which in that instance seemed like a child's toy. It was only at this point that I realized what had happened.

When we were driving along Chotkova Street, we passed machine gun emplacements. Chotkova Street is a serpentine that leads downhill, and as I was driving by the machine guns, their muzzles aimed at me and followed my position the entire way. They followed me constantly. Luckily in the end they didn't stop me. When I got to work, everyone was amazed, and told me that I was crazy to have come by car.

But right the next day I again took the car, because I didn't know what was happening with my wife. I decided to drive to see her. Prague was again completely empty, I didn't meet a single car besides Soviet columns and tanks. The situation by Kutna Hora was the same. About three times I was stopped by Russians with machine guns. At the time we were all wearing a tricolor [ribbon] on our shirts, which they tore off me along with my shirt the first time, as soon as I stepped out of the car. They then began to search the car, they were probably looking for valuables or some propaganda materials.

Each time they also went to look in the trunk, and they always flew into a rage, because there was a motor in the trunk, which was unfamiliar to them, and they couldn't understand it, maybe they saw it as some sort of anti- state activity. They then ran to the front, where they didn't find a motor, and were completely beside themselves from it. I was afraid that they'd shoot me because my motor was in the back.

Kutna Hora and its surroundings were occupied by the Polish. They also occupied the chateau where my wife was on the journalist's holiday. There were also some important people there at the time, like for example Jiri Dienstbier [Dienstbier, Jiri (b 1937): Czech journalist, politician and diplomat]. The Polish officers were apologizing to everyone for what had happened, that it wasn't their fault, that they had to. I picked up my wife and daughter and we drove back to Prague.

On the way back it was already all organized. The local residents were showing us the way so that we'd avoid check stops. The Russians, on the other hand, were being directed up blind alleys, into forests or fields, we saw tanks that had ended up in mud in a field and couldn't get out. Soviet soldiers were then going from door to door and begging for water, but the locals refused to give them even water. Everywhere people took down road signs, village name signs, street signs, direction signs were sometimes turned in the opposite direction, so that the Russians wouldn't be able to orient themselves. They then wandered with maps in places that they didn't know, and until local collaborators helped them were completely confused.

We knew that with the existence of atomic weapons and a bipolar world, what's more after the experiences in Hungary 37, that we had practically no chance that the West, concretely America, would help us. We found out that the Soviets had informed the Americans in time about the planned intervention in Czechoslovakia, and also about the fact that they were depending on the validity of agreements regarding spheres of influence and thus also the division of Europe, and thus that America wouldn't help Czechoslovakia.

Sometime at the beginning of September, we had a trip to England with the Architects' Association that had already been planned in advance. So about ten days after the occupation, we left by train via Paris to London. The train was full of emigrants, because back then no one needed exit visas. During departure everyone was saying goodbye to us, that we won't be returning. Of course we too were considering emigration. Every day we debated whether we should or shouldn't stay in England, in the end we decided that we'd return. Most of our friends emigrated. We said to ourselves that we can't let ourselves be pushed out just like that. I'd never been a member of the Communist Party, and said to myself that no one can force me to do something that I don't want to do.

What's more, we didn't like the fact that some emigrants were misusing the situation, where everyone abroad was very accommodating and catered to their every wish. They were mainly young people, students for example. I met two students who had moved in with some highly placed older man, and were misusing his assistance. Some Czech girls were working there in strip bars and once we even saw an ad for the highlight of some bar - a strip show by a student of the Philosophical Faculty of Charles University in Prague. There were more of such things, and we were embarrassed by them.

Plus we thought that it would be possible to salvage something in Czechoslovakia, and weren't capable of imagining what a hard line would take effect after the beginnings of the Normalization 38. At the time we were the guests of the Architects' Association in Britain. We were received by Robert Matthew, who was the director of the largest architectural firm in England. He asked us if we'd like to stay in England, that he could give us jobs if need be. He was a very influential man, who owned many properties, and gave us, architects, a palace in Saint James Park at our disposal, including servants. We then went to Edinburgh and finally back to Prague. When we returned, I thought that the nation won't let itself be broken that quickly, but the opposite was true.

During the entire time of the Normalization, my wife worked as a dramaturgist for animated films. It was pleasant work, given the possibilities in those days. Animated films kept up their good level of quality, because the Communists couldn't pervert them as much as normal movies. This field became home to some well-known artists who couldn't work anywhere else, because they were uncomfortable for the regime. For example, my wife brought the artist Vladimir Jiranek [Jiranek, Vladimir (b. 1938): Czech illustrator, cartoonist and humorist] into animated films, who had discredited himself by drawing political caricatures in 1968 and so didn't have many ways of making a living, or the excellent artist J. Salamoun [Salamoun, Jiri (b. 1935): Czech graphic artist].

During the Normalization period we were personal friends with some of the leading figures of the dissident movement, but to be honest, the dissident movement repelled me, because 90% of them were former Communists. I couldn't ignore the fact that in the 1950s these people had gotten ahead on the basis of their party membership, at a time when many innocent people had been executed or sentenced to many years in prison, and didn't 'wake up' until the 1970s, at a point when not that much could happen to them. But that doesn't mean that we didn't participate at all. We had friends among dissidents, we attended various secret meetings and in 1987 my wife signed the Several Sentences petition. Before the revolution in 1989, we also smuggled in secret materials from Switzerland for noted dissidents.

We lived through thirty years of Normalization in this sort of subdued fashion. No one hoped any longer that he'd live to see some fundamental changes in the regime, and so many people emigrated. It wasn't that difficult any more, but we didn't consider it. Our ties to the Czech environment and mainly to Prague were too strong.

In our company, the political purges that followed after 1968 affected only a handful of Communists. Most of my colleagues were against the regime, and were no longer afraid to openly show it, even though there were informers everywhere. Those that yearned for a career and property joined the Party in place of those that were thrown out. Those that didn't have anything, like us - we had no car, cottage or villa, only an apartment in a prefab apartment block - and didn't want to get ahead, could live in relative peace. I think that freedom is a question of internal convictions, which no one can take away from you.

So during the time of the Normalization we devoted ourselves to the writing of scripts for cartoons. As far as my work as an architect goes, I was only working on smaller construction and renovation projects in the countryside or on interiors. A housing shortage, for 20 years nothing had been built, forced the government in the 1960s to build prefab housing developments, which have so negatively impacted our cities. The construction industry gained a disproportionate amount of political power, and determined what and how architects should design. It was a caricature of the Utopian visions of the architect Corbusier [Corbusier, Le (1887-1965): Swiss architect] from the 1930s. Most architects were forced to design these absurd 'rabbit hutches.' So I was glad that I was able to avoid this.

Despite the rigid normalization, the possibilities in cultural life were relatively broad, even though many of our artists were taboo. My wife, as I've already said, made possible as a dramaturgist for Animated Film for a number of them to work under other people's names, and similarly this took place in other places as well. Even though it was common knowledge, the regime no longer had enough strength to prevent it. During these times we assiduously attended excellent concerts, small and large theaters, and exhibitions, both officially permitted and not. Translations of international literature were published, quality foreign films were also shown. Occasionally we even got abroad, and we devoted ourselves to sports a great deal. We often spent weekends at the tennis club, where we had an excellent circle of friends.

Due to her political profile, our daughter had a problem getting into any university, so in the end she had to settle for the Faculty of Education, though she claimed that she'd never teach. On top of that she had to pick a field that people were the least interested in, which was understandably enough Russian, which she began studying in combination with art education. After the revolution she switched Russian for educational psychology, and this she then studied along with art education until the end of her studies.

After she finished school she wanted to make a living as a fine and graphic artist. She designed book covers, business cards, and finally also made it into the film industry. At first she worked on a graduate experimental film and animated pictures by the painter J. Dubuffet [Dubuffet, Jean Philippe Arthur (1901-1985): French painter]. Later she wrote a script for a film about the Jewish artist Robert Guttmann, for which she received funding from a committee that subsidizes various film projects. [Guttmann, Robert (1880-1942): well-known Prague painter and Zionist. Died in the Lodz ghetto]

She also wrote a film script about my brother, but unfortunately not enough financial resources have been raised yet to shoot it, so currently my daughter is actually unemployed. She lives in Prague, in Vinohrady [city ward of Prague 2], in an attic apartment. This apartment was my last project.

At the time of the revolution in 1989 I was 58, and was working as an expert on commercial buildings in our head office. Due to the fact that I had been imprisoned during the war, I already had the right to retire in 1989, because every person that was unjustly imprisoned during the war could retire a year earlier for every year he'd been imprisoned. I wanted to keep working, but things quickly changed. The Communists in the existing management privatized the company, or to be more exact converted it into their personal property. This process lasted roughly up to the spring of 1991, when all employees were let go and the company stayed in these people's hands, and is basically operating like this to this day.

They were mainly representatives of a new generation of Communists, who had graduated from universities in the 1980s, and managed to join the Party before the revolution, but didn't look at their party membership from an ideological perspective, but from a solely pragmatic one. They were simply aware of the fact that you can't find decent work without party membership, and it didn't cause them any problem to address this little matter.

After our company de facto fell apart, I was forced to retire, and because back then there were no limits on retirees regarding making extra money, I worked another five years as a small businessman as a member of the Chamber of Architects. But I didn't like this work at all. Everywhere I went I ran into huge corruption. Without bribery it was practically impossible to get a decent contract. A person easily found out that when he's alone, he's got no chance of survival in a corrupt environment, because all advantages are gradually collected by the large companies, who make use of what are officially called commissions, but I call it corruption.

They way it works is that when someone 'finds you a job,' they ask for maybe 10 or 20 percent of the profits. Corruption flourished in government offices, but for example even the conservationists approved projects mostly just in exchange for bribes. A person saw how state property was being stolen. In 1995 I said to myself that I don't have the stomach for it, and that I don't have the need for it either, and really retired.

Besides this, after the revolution I had to deal with the restitution of our property for the entire family. It was terrible torture, which ruffled my nerves and ruined ten years of my life. I found it especially hard to take because I despise property and have never wanted to own anything, but I felt a responsibility towards my family, mainly towards my daughter, to ensure that justice be done.

After the war my mother had carefully recorded all the things that we had lost, and added up their value to be about three and a half million prewar crowns. After the war we eked out an existence, and besides our house nothing at all was returned to us. This was because the government had collected all records of property that Czech Jews had had taken away from them, so that they'd have evidence in hand that would be usable within the scope of international negotiations with Germany. As Sudeten Germans on the other hand were asking for the return of property lost in the expulsion, both governments negotiated until they agreed that both opposing property claims would be dismissed and no one would get anything.

However, the Germans were of course compensated by their government. On top of that, the question of property that had stayed in the country was addressed. So just in Prague, a third of the buildings, be they residential or industrial, that were owned by Jews before the war, fell to the state, because their owners hadn't survived the war. Thus many Jews had a theoretical right to inherit property from their deceased relatives. We didn't have particularly rich relatives, only the Vohryzeks had a farming estate in Doubravice, for which our father had lent them some money, and the rest were smaller houses in various locations in Bohemia.

After the war the property left by deceased Jews was supposed to be returned on the basis of normal inheritance law, but it was more complex, because most of this property had been confiscated by the Germans during the war. After the war, our officials then again confiscated the property as being German. It was necessary to prove that the Germans had actually taken the property from the Jews, which was a problem, especially in the border regions. What's more, it was also necessary to prove that the testators had identified themselves to be of Czech nationality from the year 1926, otherwise it wasn't possible to regain the property back into private hands and it stayed in the ownership of the state as property that had been confiscated from Germans.

The de-confiscation lasted several years, they delayed it until 1948, when the majority of restitutions were halted, however not officially. All inheritors were forced to give up their claims. We ourselves rather gave up our claims voluntarily. After 1989 they didn't want to return anything to us either. I won't even bother to describe the ten-year long history with the estate in Doubravice and the other smaller properties, it would be downright shameful.

One example will speak for all - we were supposed to get a building after our relatives on the town square in Kadan. In the 1990s it was bought by some former officer of the StB. When we went to Kadan to claim this building, a lawyer at the local government office told us that everyone was afraid of that person, and sold him the building with the caveat that if we claim it, he'll return it to us. But he then recommended to us that we shouldn't come to Kadan again, because something could happen to us there.

At the land registry office a clerk even told us that there was a time limit after which this restituted building wasn't allowed to be sold, but that those people had torn pages out of the register and pre-dated the transfer in such a way so that the whole transaction took place before this date. It was exactly one day before the time limit expired. The clerk admitted that the new owner of our building had torn the pages in question out of the register, but at the same time alerted us to the fact that she won't be a witness for us, because she's afraid of that person.

The problem made it all the way into court, and it was a farce, because the judge, a Communist from before the revolution, had obviously colluded with that person, and made downright fun of us. He talked about how our relatives had probably joined the Germans during the war, because there are no records of the Germans confiscating our building. Before the war the building had belonged to one of our father's cousins, but the judge said that we have to obtain records of our relation back to our great- grandfather, and if we won't have them, that he won't even discuss it with us.

So we managed to find records reaching back to 1780. At the next session I submitted these records and the judge said that he didn't need them. It was the worst humiliation of my life. In that kind of situation a person is completely defenseless. We appealed to the Supreme Court, but it found that everything had been in order. I'm talking about these details because many other Czech Jews had similar difficulties with restitutions. It's unbelievable that such thinks took place after the Velvet Revolution.

As far as claims in other countries go, our experiences weren't much better. We experienced unbelievable things - reluctance to help, reluctance to give up anything whatsoever. We got many letters from foreign insurance companies, where they wrote blatant nonsense, just so that they wouldn't have to pay out anything to us. On top of that we had the bad luck to have incompetent lawyers. Finally American law firms forced these foreign insurance companies to pay out at least part of the claims, under threat of court proceedings. The whole thing was embarrassing and absurd.

Another struggle has to do with benefits for political prisoners. The disgrace was that the Union of Political Prisoners was downright anti- Semitic, because it claimed that we're not any sort of political prisoners, and shouldn't therefore get any benefits that political prisoners had, because we weren't defending our country, nor were we undertaking any political activity.

Still in the times of socialism, we had some benefits, but they were dubious and only symbolic. There was the so-called No. 255, which was an ordinance, on the basis of which political prisoners could gain benefits, as long as they presented a document from the Ministry of National Defense confirming their imprisonment during the war. 'Benefits' from this ordinance rested in the fact that for each year in a concentration camp we could retire a year earlier and then for each year of imprisonment we were supposed to get a hundred crowns of additional pension, which was ludicrous. The only benefit that we currently have is that we have free bus and train travel in the republic.

After the revolution in 1989 my wife and I both began to actively participate in the Jewish community in Prague, and helped renew its activities. To make use of my profession, shortly after the revolution I became a member of the construction committee. Besides this I'm also a board member of the Matana joint-stock company, which administers Jewish property that was returned to the community in the restitutions.

Because my whole life I read primarily belles-lettres and in philosophy I once long ago ended at the Antiquities, I have recently begun to devote myself to that which I never managed to find the time for, which is modern philosophy and Eastern teachings, primarily Zen Buddhism. On top of this, my wife and I recently completed a second book about Staflik and Spageta, which has already been published.

We didn't have a car, and in this we're also an exception. To have a car, or even in other respects to live better than others, during the Communist era usually meant the necessity of a Party career, or as the case may be other cooperation with the regime, and we weren't willing to do this.

We also try, in the realm of our capabilities, to keep in good physical and mental shape for as long as possible, so as not to be a burden on anyone. We exercise, swim, play tennis, improve our English and work on a PC. In this respect the Jewish community helps us by putting on various courses and so on.

In this country, where our ancestors lived for many centuries and successfully assimilated themselves, we experienced all horrors and revolutions of the turbulent 20th century. Most of the few Jews that survived left his country in several waves of emigration, and are scattered all over the world, from Israel to the USA. Despite unfavorable political and economic conditions we stayed, and tried to continue the life of our ancestors, especially their moral values, which are also contained in the Old Testament.

The appalling experiences of imprisoned Jewish children, the loss of a family base and all relatives, the post-war Communist regime that was unfavorable for Jews, left permanent scars on us, and were also transmitted to our children. We're trying to pass on these difficulties to convey experiences to further generations, so they won't experience anything similar again. We recently returned from a small town in Italy near Bologna, where on Holocaust Day we were telling local children about our experiences. My wife is one of the last living children that wrote poems in Terezin, which were preserved, and are contained together with drawings in the book 'Butterflies Don't Live Here,' which was translated into all major world languages. Many of these poems were set to music all over the world, made into dramas, or are part of Holocaust memorials.

Glossary

Életrajz

Vágó Istvánné egy óbudai lakótelepi lakásban él, amely az 1970-es évek módosabb divatja szerint van berendezve, mára azonban már kissé lelakott. Egészségi állapota – rosszul hall és rosszul lát – rányomja bélyegét kedélyére. A lakásból jóformán ki sem mozdul.

Személyesen csak apai nagypapámat ismertem, mert volt nálunk, Debrecenben pár hónapig, amikor másodikos vagy harmadikos elemista voltam. Silber Jichak Izsáknak hívták. 1859-ben született, egy galíciai kis faluban, nem jut eszembe a neve. 1933-ban halt meg, és nem sokkal előtte, 1929-ben vagy 1930-ban volt nálunk, Debrecenben pár hónapig.

Nagyapám nyolcéves korában árván maradt. És akkor egy rebbe vette magához, ott nevelkedett, és ő is rebbe lett Majdánkán, ami a Felvidéken van, Huszttól nem messze, olyan húsz kilométerre [Majdánka – kisközség volt Máramaros vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3100, 1910-ben 2600 rutén és német lakossal. Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került. – A szerk.]. Olyan kis helység, hogy csak egy utcából áll. Több falunak volt a rabbija. Mesélték, hogy lóháton közlekedett [Egy másik rokon szerint sakter volt. Valószínűleg mind a rabbi, mind a rituális vágó tisztét ellátta a környék apró településein. – A szerk.].

A feleségét Sara Leának hívták. (Engem is így hívnak héberül. Az igazolványomba Lea Sarolta van írva.) Amikor 1914-ben édesapámat vitték ki a frontra, írt, hogy szeretne találkozni, legalább az édesapjával, hogy elköszönjön. Sátoraljaújhelyig jöhetett csak, a nagyszülők Majdánkáról jöttek. A nagymamának akkor még volt egy pólyás babája, Rifkele, de ő is mindenképpen menni akart, hogy elbúcsúzzon a fiától. A vonaton nem volt hely, és akkor jött valami ismerős, és nagy nehezen a mozdony mögötti kocsira szorított neki helyet. Így mentek Sátoraljaújhelyre elbúcsúzni a katonafiúktól. És ahogy mentek, a nagyapa azt mondta, hogy átmegy a második vagy harmadik kocsiba imádkozni, mert ott voltak hozzá elegen [lásd: minján]. Nagymama mondta, hogy addig megszoptatja a kicsit. És akkor történt egy vonatszerencsétlenség, nem tudom, hogy kisiklott vagy összeütközött egy másikkal, és nagymama, szegény, meghalt. A nagyapa megmaradt. A kisgyerek valahová kigurult, és úgy vették észre, hogy sírt. Így Rifkele is megmaradt. A nagypapa újra megházasodott, és abból a házasságból is lett két kislány meg egy fiú. Úgyhogy összesen tíz gyereke volt. A második felesége is nagyon jó anya volt. Aztán amikor 1941-ben a magyarok bementek a Felvidékre, őket mind elvitték Kamenyec-Podolszkba [lásd: Kamenyec-Podolszkij-i vérengzés]. Rifkelét, a másik házasságból származó két kislányt meg a mostohamamát.

Legközelebb olyan tizenkét éves koromban találkoztam a család felvidéki részével, amikor valami esküvőn voltam Huszton. Aztán egyszer voltam Majdánkán is, 1939-ben, amikor a Felvidéket visszacsatolták [lásd: első bécsi döntés, Kárpátalja]. Olyan nemigen volt, hogy fogta magát a család, és elment meglátogatni a nagypapát. Amikor nálunk volt, Debrecenben, volt vele egy kalandom. Nagyon vallásos volt, és minden délután ment a templomba a műhe náhe imához [Minhá vagy minhe – a minden nap elmondandó délutáni ima, melyet a hagyomány szerint Izsák ősatya szerkesztett. Megfelel a jeruzsálemi Szentélyben bemutatott délutáni áldozatnak; lásd még: imádkozás. – A szerk.]. Apukám mindig hazajött, hogy elkísérje a templomba. Egyik délután csak én voltam otthon a lánnyal, már nagyon türelmetlen volt, és mondtam, hogy elkísérem. Én még akkor nem jártam el egyedül, az iskolába is kísértek. Fogta a kezem, és mentünk. Elég messze volt, inkább egy kis imaház. Emlékszem, mindig kérdezte tőlem jiddisül, nem tévedtünk-e el, mert nagyon hosszúnak tűnt az út. Szerencsésen odaértünk, és nemsokára jött apukám. Egészen odavolt, hogy én elindultam nagyapával a templomba. Még arra emlékszem, hogy a testvéreim már gimnáziumba jártak, és titkolni kellett, nehogy nagyapa megtudja, hogy nem jesivába járnak, hanem gimnáziumba. Amíg nagyapám ott volt, addig magántanulók voltak. Emlékszem, jöttek fiatal tanárok, akik otthon addig tanították őket.

Amikor 1939 nyarán Majdánkán voltam a testvéremmel, Jóskával, tizenhat éves voltam, és egyik nap apukám legfiatalabb húgával sétáltunk. Jött szembe velünk egy ruszin nő, és tökéletes jiddis beszéddel mondta nekem, hogy pont úgy nézek ki, mint Sura Laje, a nagyanyám, aki már szegény régen meghalt a vonatbalesetben. Ez a ruszin nő volt a gyerekkel, és megtanult jiddisül a családban. Reggel meg este ő imádkozott velük.

Apukám testvérei közül négyről tudok. Alter bácsi, a legidősebb Sátoraljaújhelyen lakott, és órakereskedő volt. Volt nyolc gyereke volt, abból már öt házas, és mindegyiknél volt egypár gyerek. Senki nem maradt meg. Egy másik nagybátyám, Jankel Munkácson lakott. Ott hat gyerek volt. Megszöktek, átjöttek Debrecenbe. Apukám kérdezte, hogy tudtál jönni az erdőn keresztül a gyerekekkel? Azt mondta, úgy érezte, hogy a nagyapa fogja a kezét, és ő vezeti éjjel az erdőn keresztül. Így menekültek meg 1941-ben. De 1944-ben elvitték az egész családot, és nem is jöttek vissza.

Az édesapám testvérei közül csak ketten maradtak életben. Cvi bácsi, aki az esküvő után, 1934-ben kiment Palesztinába, és Ezra bácsi, aki a három gyerekkel és a feleségével Romániából ment ki rögtön 1945-ben, a háború után. Romániából ugyanis nem deportáltak. Cvi bácsi a háború után írt nekem, szerette volna, ha kimegyek. Azt írta, hogy ne menjek itt férjhez, menjünk ki a testvéremmel. „Ne felejtsd el, kinek a lánya vagy” – írta. Az egyik Izraelben élő unokatestvéremmel az 1960-as években találkoztam, mert itt járt Magyarországon valami üzleti ügyben a Tungsramnál. A nagybácsikkal nem találkoztam.

Nem tudom, hogy apukám meddig élt a szülői házban, Majdánkán, csak azt, hogy amikor tizenhat éves volt, akkor Máramarosszigeten tanult a jesivában. Bentlakó volt. Hogy ezért fizetni kellett vagy nem, azt nem tudom. Lehet, hogy az apja azt akarta, hogy rabbi legyen, de aztán órákkal foglalkozott, mint a többi testvér is. Ezt nem tudtam kideríteni, hogyan jött nála és a többi testvérnél is az órásság. A legidősebb testvére Sátoraljaújhelyen lakott, és apukám ott volt nála, az üzletben. Annak a [sátoralja]újhelyi bácsinak a gyerekei mind az üzletben dolgoztak. A legidősebb lány könyvelt, a legkisebb meg szortírozta az apró alkatrészeket. A három fiú is ezzel foglalkozott. Volt, amelyik utazott. Apukám a bátyjától tanulta a kereskedést. Innen, Sátoraljaújhelyről ment leánynézőbe Żurawnóba, ez akkor Lengyelországban volt, Lemberg mellett [A kérdéses időben, 1914 körül Lemberg még az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchiához tartozott (Galícia székhelye volt),  csak 1921 és 1939 között volt lengyel város. Ma Lemberg is és Żurawno is Ukrajnában található. – A szerk.]. A sadhen ismerte anyukám családját. Mondta, hogy menjünk be ide, ha már erre járunk. Amikor meglátta anyukámat, már nem ment tovább. 1914-ben, a háború előtt két héttel volt az esküvőjük, és utána Sátoraljaújhelyen éltek. Ott született a két bátyám, én is ott születtem. Két éves voltam, amikor Debrecenbe költöztünk.

Anyai nagyszüleimmel egyszer találkoztam. Az a nagyapa is rebbe volt. Még nem jártam iskolába, öt éves lehettem, és látogatóba mentünk néhány hétre. Anyukám négy kisgyerekkel, még a legidősebb sem volt tíz éves. Az utazásra emlékszem, mert az egyik húga elébünk jött a határra, hogy segítsen. Ott egy szállodában kivettek egy szobát, és amíg ők elmentek valami hivatalos papírt elintézni, addig mi, négyen ott maradtunk. Ezt még sokáig felemlegették nekünk. Amíg nem voltak ott, az egyik fiú a korláton lovagolt, a másik a csengőt rángatta, a harmadik kiborította a kancsó vizet, szóval olyan felfordulást csináltak, hogy jött a tulajdonos, hogy miért hagytak ott bennünket. Itt talán egy éjszakát voltunk. Másnap valami kompon mentünk át a vízen, azt hiszem, a Dnyeszter volt.

Żurawnóból arra emlékszem, hogy egy nagy ház volt, tornáccal, oszlopokkal, volt kert gyümölcsfákkal. Arra nem emlékszem, hogy nézett ki a lakás, vagy hol aludtunk, még arra sem, hol ettünk. Inkább csak arra, ahol játszottunk. A nagyapa mindig egy ilyen olvasóállvány előtt állt, és tanult vagy imádkozott. Mellette volt valami kis kályha, azon kávé, és időnként ivott belőle. Úgy emlékszem rá, hogy egész nap ott állt, imádkozott vagy tanult. A nagymamára nem emlékszem. Amikor ott voltunk, mindig hívott, hogy menjek oda hozzá. Sokat feküdt, biztos már idős volt, és hívott, hogy menjek oda az ágyba hozzá, de nem akartam. Jól éreztük magunkat ott, mert volt sok unokatestvér. Emlékszem, hogy idegen zsidó gyerekek csúfoltak bennünket, hogy „magyarem, magyarem”. Nem bántottak bennünket, csak kiabáltak. Ott tanultam meg, hogy prosebányi hlebá [Proszę Pani, chlebka (lengyel)], kérek szépen kenyeret. Fagylaltos is járt, és nagyapától kértünk grossent, hogy vegyünk. Ezekre emlékszem. A szomszéd faluban lakott valami rokon, oda is elmentünk látogatóba. Ott megszerettek, én is jól éreztem magam, és mondták, hogy maradjak ott, majd másnap hazavisznek. De ahogy elment anyukám a többi gyerekkel, elkezdtem sírni, és még éjfélkor is sírtam. Úgyhogy éjjel be kellett fogni a szekérbe, és vissza kellett vinni anyukámhoz, mert nem tudtak megnyugtatni. Még arra emlékszem, hogy ott volt a Dnyeszter, az a nagy folyó, és attól mindig úgy óvtak bennünket, mert mi, gyerekek úgy vonzódtunk a vízhez. Féltek, nehogy valamelyik gyerek beleessen. Itt láttam először kemencét, ahol sütötték a kenyeret. Ott álltunk és néztük, hogy vetik be a kenyeret meg a sóletot. Az a nő, aki sütött, mindig panaszkodott anyukámnak, hogy fél, hogy megüt bennünket a lapáttal. Ez az egy alkalom volt, hogy Żurawnóban voltam. Utána már soha nem láttam a nagyszüleimet. Később, amikor az 1970-es években, Aachenben voltunk, találkoztam egy żurawnói unokatestvéremmel, aki akkor már Aachenben élt. Ő mesélte, hogy amikor jött a nyár, mindenhonnan jöttek a rokon gyerekek, az egyik Németországból, és németül beszélt, a másik Csehországból, és csehül beszélt, mi magyarul. Egymással jiddisül beszéltünk.

Anyukám ezen kívül még kétszer ment Żurawnóba, egyedül. A żurawnói nagyszülők soha nem látogattak Debrecenbe. Anyám testvérei voltak látogatóban, főleg a lányok. De inkább leveleztek. Anyukám minden testvérével levelezett, mert arra emlékszem, hogy jiddisül írtak nyitott levelezőlapon, és semmi probléma nem volt. Hozta a postás, nem számított, hogy nem magyarul van. És a fényképek is azért készültek, hogy küldjenek egymásnak. Az utazás költséges volt, mindenütt sok gyerek volt. Volt olyan testvére, akivel huszonöt évig nem találkozott, de levelezni leveleztek, meg fényképet küldtek egymásnak. Két testvéréről tudok, az egyik Tobe, aki Teplitz-Schönauba ment férjhez [Teplitz-Schönau – Teplitz híres fürdőhely volt Csehországban, 1890-ben 17 500 német lakossal. 1895-ben egyesítették Schönauval (2700 lakos). Pamutszövés és festés, üveg-, gép-, ékszer-, paszománt-, gumi-, kötöttáru-készítés, cukorgyártás és vegyipar. Lakosainak száma 1921-ben – ekkor már Csehszlovákia – 28 800 fő volt. – A szerk.]. Elvitték őket, és nem jöttek vissza. A másik Lipcsébe ment férjhez. Őket már korábban visszavitték Lengyelországba, az egész családot, és onnan deportálták őket. Anyukám szülei szerencsére már a deportálás előtt meghaltak.

Szóval a szüleim 1914-ben összeházasodtak [1914-ben volt az egyházi esküvőjük Żurawnóban, és 1916-ban, Sátoraljaújhelyen a polgári esküvő. – A szerk.], és akkor apukámat behívták katonának. Négy évig volt katona. Addig az anyukám felváltva volt Majdánkán az apósánál és Sátoraljaújhelyen a sógoránál. A háború után még 1925-ig Sátoraljaújhelyen laktunk, de külön, nem a nagybácsinál. Érdekes, hogy soha nem néztem meg a házat, ahol Sátoraljaújhelyen laktunk, pedig később nyaranta sokszor voltunk a nagybácsinál. A családban egyedül ő számított jómódúnak, saját háza volt kerttel. A többi testvérnek nem volt. De vigyázott is a pénzre. Ha egy vevőnek sürgősen kellett valami alkatrész, akkor általában Svájcból rendelte, és még a testvérének is utánvéttel küldte. Akkoriban meglepő volt, hogy egy testvérnek utánvéttel küldje azt a huszonöt pengős alkatrészt. Szóval nagy háza volt, négy szoba. Volt egy nagy üveges veranda, arra azért emlékszem, mert a tetejét el lehetett húzni, amikor a sátoros ünnep volt. Nem kellett külön sátrat építeni, hanem a tetejét valahogy fel lehetett húzni, befedték náddal, és az volt a sátor. Ez a nagybácsi nagyon vallásos volt.

A nyaralás kölcsönös volt, az ő gyerekei is jöttek hozzánk, és mi is mentünk. Legtöbbet én mentem. Olyan is volt egyszer, hogy a hegyen kivettek egy parasztházat, és az ő gyerekei és mi együtt nyaraltunk. Talán 1939-ben voltam ott utoljára, addig majdnem minden évben.

Anyukám közben szépen megtanult magyarul, de érezni lehetett rajta, hogy nem anyanyelve. Különben jiddisül beszélt. Valamikor még én is jól tudtam, mert apukámmal magyarul beszéltünk, anyukámmal meg jiddisül. Már Debrecenben laktunk, anyukám már beszélt magyarul, de nem értett mindent, és egyszer bejött egy kofa, és kérdezte tőle, hogy ténsasszony, maguké ez a ház? És anyukám nem tudta, mi az, hogy ténsasszony. Később már jól beszélt magyarul, csak olyan furcsán, mint a Brachfeld Siegfried [(Berlin, 1917 – Budapest, 1978) – újságíró, konferanszié. 1939-ben letartóztatta a Gestapo, majd 1942-ben Budapestre szállították. Munkaszolgálat után szovjet hadifogságba került. 1949–1965 között a Magyar Rádió német nyelvű bemondója, riportere volt. Később az Országos Rendező Iroda főrendezője, majd a „Budapester Rundschau” újságírója-szerkesztője volt. – A szerk.]. De ment mindenhova, intézni a hivatalos dolgokat, bátor nő volt, nem olyan, mint én. Nem tudom, mennyi iskolát végzett ott Lengyelországban, biztos elvégezte a kötelezőt.

1919-ben megszületett Kálmán bátyám, 1921-ben pedig Jóska. Én 1923-ban születtem. 1925-ben Debrecenbe költöztünk, és apukám egy saját üzletet nyitott. A Dégenfeld tér 4-ben laktunk. A ház első része egyemeletes volt, ott lakott a tulajdonos, és volt még két kis lakás meg egy keresztépület. A keresztépületben lakott a Feldheim házaspár, akiknek volt egy nagyfia, akinek üzlete volt. Ők is zsidók voltak. A bácsi szabó volt, a néni nagyon jól sütött-főzött, és úgy szerettek engem, mintha az unokájuk lettem volna. Ahogy felkeltem, mindjárt átmentem, és kiabáltam, hogy Feldheim néni, tessék kinyitni az ajtót. Jóformán egész nap ott voltam nála. Akkoriban jelent meg a rádió, és a fia vett egy rádiót. Fejhallgató volt hozzá, amit szét lehetett szedni, az egyiket ő hallgatta, a másikat meg odaadta másvalakinek [Az első kristálydetektoros rádiók fejhallgatóval voltak hallgathatók. A külső hangszórós készülékek 1925-ben, a hálózati táplálású rádiók 1926-ban, a dinamikus hangszórók 1930-ban jelentek meg. – A szerk.]. Az a lakás azért emlékezetes számomra, mert a ház tulajdonosának két lánya volt, és a kisebbik olyan idős lehetett, mint én. Három és négy év körül lehettem, és nem engedték, hogy a kislány játsszon velem. Egyszer a fiúk a hajderben [héder] voltak, a szüleim az üzletben, én a lánnyal voltam otthon, a tulajdonosék kisebbik lánya valahogy leszökött hozzám játszani, mert az udvaron volt egy kis homok nekem. Egyszer csak nyílt a kapu, a kislány szaladt az anyjához, és mondta, hogy játszottam a zsidóval. Én ezt nem tudom elfelejteni, engem már hároméves koromban lezsidóztak. Az anyja olyan patáliát csapott, hogy a nevelőnőt is elcsapta, mert engedte a gyereket velem játszani.

A szüleim próbáltak másik lakást keresni. Volt egy olyan negyed, ahol a templom volt, meg sok zsidó lakott, és amikor megmondták, hogy négy gyerek van, meg hogy zsidók, nem adták ki. Elmentek a Kossuth utcába, az egy előkelő negyed volt, és az egyik kétemeletes házra ki volt írva, hogy lakás kiadó. Bementek, és kiderült, hogy a ház a városi tiszti főorvos méltóságos úré [lásd: megszólítások, címzések a két világháború között Magyarországon], doktor Láng Sándoré. Egy földszinti háromszobás lakás volt, két előszobával, fürdőszoba, nagyon tetszett nekik, és félve mondták, hogy négy gyerek van, és még hozzá, hogy zsidók. Erre a tulajdonos azt mondta, hogy nem baj, majd játszanak a gyerekeimmel. Mert neki is volt három fia meg egy nagylánya, de az már nem játszott velünk. Ott laktunk tízéves koromig, ott nagyon jól éreztük magunkat. De a legidősebb fia, olyan kamasz lehetett, egyszer húsvétkor egy darab kenyeret dobott be az előszobába, mert nyitva volt az ajtó. Tudta, hogy olyankor nem eszünk kenyeret [lásd: Pészah]. Ezt nem tudom elfelejteni. Aztán lakott a házban egy újságíró is, Marsalkónak hívták [Marschalkó Lajos (1903–1968) – író, újságíró (Mátray Lajos néven is), „a Fehér Újság című fajvédő orgánumnál kezdte pályafutását. 1945 előtt a szélsőjobboldali sajtó egyik reprezentánsa, aki a német nemzetiszocializmus feltétlen híve volt. A háború végén nyugatra menekült a felelősségre vonás elől; 1947-ben a magyar hatóságok mint háborús bűnöst kikérték a Szövetséges Ellenőrző Bizottságtól, de sikerült elkerülnie a kiadatást. … 1968-ban Málnási Ödön így búcsúztatta: »azon a rögös életúton járt, amelyet előtte Istóczy Győző, Bartha Miklós, Prohászka Ottokár, Méhely Lajos, Milotay István, Kolosváry-Borcsa Mihály és Bosnyák Zoltán törtek fel járható magyar úttá«” (Részlet Kunstár Csaba írásából, Élet és Irodalom,  2005. július 1. (49. évf. 26. szám). – A szerk.], annak is volt egy körülbelül olyan idős lánya, mint én, és ő is megtiltotta, hogy játsszon velem. Ezért nem szerettem soha Debrecent.

A Kossuth utcában laktunk, amikor az első elemit kezdtem az ortodox zsidó elemiben. Tízéves koromig laktunk ott, és akkor költöztünk a Piac utcába, amikor a polgárit [lásd: polgári iskola] kezdtem. Azért kellett költözni, mert a gazdasági világválság [lásd: 1929-es gazdasági világválság] alatt tönkrement a bolt. Ezt már csak utólag tudom. Anyukám mesélte, az volt a fő probléma, hogy hitelbe adott sok vevőnek, és nemhogy törlesztették a tartozást, hanem még vásárolni is máshova mentek, merthogy nem tudtak fizetni. Emlékszem, hogy kakukkos órák voltak a falon, szép asztali órák, vekkerek, szóval egy szép üzlet volt. Kivettek a Piac utca 77-ben egy olyan lakást, aminek két bejárata volt. Az első nagy szobában rendezték be az üzletet. Volt a szülőknek egy hálószoba, egy szoba a három fiúnak, és volt az ebédlő, ott volt egy rekamié, én ott aludtam. Volt egy cselédszoba is, mindig volt egy kis parasztlány. Mert ugye anyukám az üzletben volt, amikor még megvolt a nagy üzlet. És az is nagy strapa volt neki, hogy délben mindig hazajött, hogy ebédet adjon nekünk. Mert ő főzött, azt nem bízta a lányra.

A bevásárlás nem volt nagy ügy. Abban az időben sok dolgot házhoz hoztak. Emlékszem, hogy Derecskéről hoztak be csütörtökön levágva libát vagy csirkét, mert kóser háztartás volt. Egy kis zsidó asszony hozta valamelyik közeli faluból. De hoztak be tojást, tejfölt, túrót is. A cselédnek az volt a dolga, hogy kitakarított, mosogatott, megpucolta a zöldséget. Amíg kicsik voltunk, velünk is foglalkozott. Jó dolguk volt ám, mert sokáig laktak nálunk. Csak akkor mentek el, ha férjhez mentek, vagy beteg lett valamelyik szülő. Három-négy évig voltak nálunk. Annak idején volt a cselédpiac. Volt egy ilyen nagy szoba valahol, nyáron meg az udvar, és ott álltak a lányok a könyvükkel [Azaz a cselédkönyvvel. – A szerk.]. Sose anyukám ment oda új lányt keresni, hanem az, aki elment. Az bizalmat keltett egy másik lányban, hogy a régi ment keresni. Amíg kislány voltam, mentem vele.

Apukám reggel imádkozott, aztán ment az üzletbe. A régi üzletben voltak alkalmazottak: volt könyvelő, volt a pultnál valaki, és voltak utazók [A Révai Nagylexikon a következőképpen határozza meg a „kereskedelmi utazót”: „az a kereskedelmi meghatalmazott, akit főnöke a telep helyén kívül kötendő és lebonyolítandó ügyletek elintézésével bíz meg. … e minőségében a vételár felvételére, a főnök künn levő követeléseinek beszedésére, fizetési határidők engedélyezésére is fel van jogosítva.” Nem tévesztendő össze az „utazó ügynökkel”, aki megbízójának nem alkalmazottja, és aki működését önállóan, sokszor több cég érdekében fejti ki. – A szerk.]. De a Piac utcában már nem. Itt már ő utazott egy héten három napot, és anyukám volt az üzletben. Az egy könnyebbség volt, hogy az üzlet a lakásban volt, nem kellett elmenni.

Esténként olvastak. Járt nekünk a „Magyar Nemzet”, az „Esti Kurír” [„Esti Kurír” – délután megjelenő liberális napilap volt, amelyet 1923-ban indított Rassay Károly mint főszerkesztő és Boros László mint szerkesztő. (Rassay Károly nevéhez fűződik a Független Kisgazda, Földműves és Polgári Párt /1921/, majd a Nemzeti Szabadelvű Párt /1928, 1935-től Polgári Szabadságpárt a neve/ megalapítása.) – A szerk.] és a „Tolnai Világlapja” [lásd: Tolnai Simon]. Édesanyám nemigen olvasott újságot. Belenézett, de inkább csak német regényeket olvasott, ha olvasott. De az is érdekes volt, hogy apukám ha éjjel nem tudott aludni, akkor meggyújtotta a kislámpát, láttam, mert üvegajtók voltak, és azt hittem, hogy a Talmudot olvassa. Később kiderült, mert a háború után megmaradt pár könyv, hogy jiddis regényeket olvasott. Például a „Párizs rejtelmei”-t Eugène Sue-től [Sue (1804–1857) 1842–43-ban, újságban, folytatásokban megjelent regénye, az első tárcaregény. – A szerk.]. Szombat délutánonként velem is olvasott. Nem tudom, jól mondom-e, Kame-reme, fent héberül volt a könyvben, és alul a jiddis fordítás [Valószínűleg a Cene rene. Lásd a szócikket. – A szerk.]. Érdekes történetek voltak benne.

A szüleimnek nem nagyon volt baráti köre. Volt egy család, Süskindék, velük sokat összejártunk. Süskind bácsi bőrkereskedő volt, apukám barátja. Anyukám meg az ő felesége a legjobb barátnők voltak. A lányuk pedig az én barátnőm volt, körülbelül olyan idős, mint én. Úgy voltunk, hogy amit ő csinált, azt én is csináltam, vagy fordítva. Ő kezdett tanulni valami ismerősnél zongorázni. Na, akkor én is tanulok. Zongoránk nem volt, ott gyakoroltunk. Aztán két vagy három év múlva abbahagytam.

Kálmánt, a legidősebb testvéremet apukámék a Statescu elemibe [?] íratták, mert ott volt utána gimnázium. Ez olyan neológszerű iskola volt. Erre hívatta a Strasser főrabbi [Strasser Salamon volt Debrecen ortodox főrabbija a két világháború között. Strasser Salamon az Ortodox Országos Iroda rabbitanácsának elnöke volt. Egyik alapítója volt az 1922 őszén megnyílt debreceni jesivának. – A szerk.] apukámat, hogy micsoda dolog az, hogy oda íratta be a fiát. Akkor már két éve járt, erre kivette, és beíratta az ortodox elemibe. Amikor én következtem, engem már egyenesen oda íratott be. A fiúk azért az elemi után gimnáziumba mentek, délelőtt jártak a gimnáziumba, délután Talmud-Tórára. Ráadásul nem is abba a hitközségi Talmud-Tórába jártak, hanem páran felfogadták reb Motét, aki Hadházról járt be. Délelőtt gimnázium, délután Talmud-Tóra, és este tanultak. Erre föl, amikor a Kálmán bár micvója volt, amikor a templomban sütemény van, meg isznak is valamit, a főrabbi nem fogadta el a süteményt, és azt mondta, hogy nem iszok a gimnazistával. Ez nagy sértés volt. Szegény apám azt akarta, hogy Istennek is tanuljanak, de azért művelődjenek is. Kálmán és Jóska tiszta jeles volt, én olyan közepes tanuló, és az öcsém se volt nagyon szorgalmas. Ha valamit nem tudtam, akkor mindig megvártam Kálmánt, hogy segítsen. És soha nem szidott, hogy miért várom meg, és még velem kell töltenie az időt. Jó gyerek volt, sose bántott meg. Volt is tekintélye előttünk, nyelveket tanult, tudott vagy hat nyelvet. Nagyon jó tanuló volt.

Kálmánt érettségi után már nem vették föl egyetemre [Lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon. Törvényben is szabályozottan egyébként 1939-ben állították vissza a felsőoktatási intézményekben a numerus clausust, a 6%-os arányt csak a műegyetemen emelve fel 12%-ra (1939: IV. tc. „A zsidók közéleti és gazdasági térfoglalásának korlátozásáról”, 7.§). – A szerk.], segített az üzletben, de nem sokáig, mert behívták katonának. Azért Kálmán érettségi után megtanulta az órásmesterséget. Azt hiszem, mesterlevele is volt, de lehet, hogy arra már nem került sor. Jóska is megtanulta érettségi után. Ő később abból élt meg, hogy órákat javított, még Amerikában is azt csinálta.

Kálmán előbb katona, aztán munkaszolgálatos volt. 1942-ben kivitték a Don-kanyarhoz, aztán 1943. május huszonhatodikán kaptunk értesítést a Vöröskereszttől, hogy 1943. januárban Guberevka [Gubarovka? Község Ukrajnában, Harkovi körzetében. – A szerk.] községnél eltűnt.

Jóskát is elvitték munkaszolgálatra. Ő Pestre került, ott volt sokáig, mert javította a tisztek óráit. Aztán megszökött, és bujkált, így élte túl.

Elemiben nem voltak barátnőim, csak az iskolában. Egyedül nem mehettem senkihez. Már később, a polgáriban volt egy kislány, a rasekol, a hitközségi elnök kislánya. Megadtuk a tiszteletet a kislánynak is. Messze laktak, de a szobalány átjött értem, hogy mennék át Jutkához játszani. Akkor ettől úgy meg voltam tisztelve, meg voltam hatva, hogy lám, engem hívnak ide, ehhez az előkelő családhoz. De apukám mondta, hogy örüljenek, hogy átmész hozzájuk, nem neked kell örülni, hogy hívnak. Ő sose jött át hozzánk. A másik barátnőm egy idő múlva kimaradt, mert az édesanyja egyedül maradt, és el kellett mennie dolgozni, hogy pénzt keressen. A harmadik, akivel össze is jártunk, nem volt zsidó. Volt néhány nem zsidó lány, akit az iskolából kicsaptak, és csak a zsidó polgáriba vették fel őket. És ott összebarátkoztunk.

Később, a kereskedelmiben [lásd: kereskedelmi iskolák] hatan voltunk zsidó lányok. Volt az „A” meg a „B” osztály. Az „A” osztályba azok jártak, akik írtak szombaton, a „B” osztályba meg mi jártunk, akiknek megengedték, hogy ne írjanak szombaton. Úgy restelltem, hogy szombaton a lány vitte a táskát [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma]. Mindig mondtam, hogy menjen a járda másik szélén. Az utca végén aztán el is vettem tőle, és mondtam, hogy menjen haza. Ott, a kereskedelmiben soha semmi bántódás nem ért bennünket. Se a tanárok, se az osztály részéről. Olyan harminc-negyven fő körüli osztály volt, és olyan jóban voltunk, mintha nem lett volna valláskülönbség köztünk.

A kereskedelmit két év után otthagytam, mert volt ott egy hadiüzem, ahol zsávoly nadrágot varrtak, és aki vitte a saját varrógépét, azt felvették. Ugyanis az a hír járta, hogy aki dolgozik, azt nem viszik el [1939–40 körül hagyhatta abba a kereskedelmi iskolát. Ekkor már érvényben volt a második zsidótörvény is, és számos hátrányos megkülönböztetés érte a zsidóságot, de ekkoriban még föl sem merült a deportálás. A hadiüzemben a honvédelmi munkára igénybevett (visszatartott) személyzetet katonai vezetés alá helyezhették (az alkalmazottak a munkahelyen katonai büntető bíráskodás, a munkával kapcsolatos kötelességek tekintetében pedig katonai fegyelem alatt álltak). Az 1939: II. tc. (honvédelmi törvény) 107. § alkalmazásával a honvédelmi miniszter már békében, az előkészítő intézkedések alatt hadiüzemmé nyilvánított gazdasági egységeket. – A szerk.].

Azon kívül, hogy tanultam, sokat olvastam. Nagyon szerettem olvasni. Amikor a Kossuth utcában laktunk, ott volt a Csokonai Színház, és általában minden vasárnap elmentünk egy operettre. Nem a családdal, hanem a lánnyal. Meg kézimunkázni nagyon szerettem. Sokat hallgattuk a rádiót, akkoriban olyan énekesnők voltak, mint Toti del Monte, Galli-Curci [Toti dal Monte (1893–1975) – ünnepelt olasz szopránénekesnő volt; Amelita Galli-Curci (1916–1963) olasz származású amerikai énekesnő volt. – A szerk.].

Háztartási munkában nem vettem részt. Amikor kezdtem nagyobb lenni, szegény apukám mindig mondta, hogy legalább pénteken menjek be a konyhába, hogy tanuljak valamit. De szegény anyukám, mintha érezte volna, mi lesz, azt mondta, ne bántson, addig van jó dolga, míg itthon van. De sütni nagyon szerettem. A polgáriban volt egy tanfolyam délután, jött egy cukrász, és megtanított sütni bennünket. Dobostorta, teasütemény. Nem volt kötelező, csak aki jelentkezett. Azt szerettem csinálni. Egyszer, tizenhat éves koromban elhívott az egyik barátnőm, hogy csináljak meg egy süteményt, amit nagyon jól tudtam csinálni, mert a nővéréhez jött valaki lánynézőbe. Abban az időben cukrász szerettem volna lenni.

1944. március tizenkilencedikén, azt hiszem, Purim ünnepe lehetett, éppen egy műkedvelő előadás volt a polgáriban, a nagyteremben, ahol a színpad volt. A József és testvérei történetét adták elő. Szünetben az emberek kimentek, és akkor valaki jött a hírrel, hogy bejöttek a németek [lásd: Magyarország német megszállása]. Abban a pillanatban olyan pánik tört ki, mindenki ment haza, abbamaradt az előadás.

Az üzlet akkor még megvolt. Nem vették el, mert a lakásban volt, egy angro, egy nagykereskedés. Ottmaradt a berendezés, minden. Csak aztán kezdték elhordani az árut a vevők. Szívességet tettek azzal, hogy elviszik, elteszik, és majd visszaadják. Segíteni akartak. Később nem adták vissza. Egyetlen ember volt, aki egy ezüst gyertyatartót visszahozott. A többiek mind azt mondták, hogy az oroszok elvittek mindent. Akkoriban már csak édesanyám, apukám, az öcsém, Miki és én voltunk otthon. Miki akkor érettségizett volna a gimnáziumban, de már nem engedték. Én akkor már a hadiüzemben dolgoztam.

Május ötödikén kellett menni a gettóba, addig otthon laktunk, a Piac utcában. Kihirdették, hogy be kell menni, és akkor mindenki bement. Nem jöttek értünk, menni kellett. Csillagos ház Debrecenben nem volt. Akinek volt erre lehetősége, az elbújt. Az egyik vevőnk egy vallásos katolikus volt, nagyon jóban voltak apámmal, mert mindig vitatkoztak a vallással kapcsolatban. Ez az illető épített egy kis házat a város külterületén, és azt mondta, hogy ő majd elbujtat minket, mert úgy van a ház építve, hogy van rá lehetőség. Szép lassan elhordott mindent, hogy ne legyen feltűnő, ruhaneműt, és ami szükséges, és abban maradtunk, hogy majd odamegyünk. De volt neki egy fia, akit éppen felszenteltek papnak, és akkor jött haza. És ő nem engedte meg. Ez a férfi sírva jött, hogy a fia nem engedi, hogy odavigyen valakit a házba. Úgyhogy hordta vissza a holminkat. Engem külön is meg akart megmenteni valaki. Egy órás, illetve nem órás volt, hanem hobbiból mindenféle szerkezetet csinált. Még a gettóba is bejött, hozta a papírokat, hogy kivisz, csak én nem akartam menni, mert nem akartam hagyni a szüleimet. Otthagyta a papírt, ha meggondolom magam. Stefán Ilona névre szólt a papír, eredeti papír volt, erdélyi menekült lettem volna.

A gettóba húszkilós csomagot vihetett mindenki, abban benne volt téli ruha, nyári ruha, ennivaló. A gettó a Básti utcában volt, ott, ahol egy nagy ortodox templom volt, és mellette egy kis templom. Mi egy emeletes házba kerültünk. Kaptunk egy szobát öten, a szüleim, én az öcsémmel és Bella. Bella zsidó lány volt, Szatmáron [Szatmárnémetiben] lakott, és amikor visszacsatolták [lásd: második bécsi döntés], akkor jött Debrecenbe szolgálónak, hogy pénzt keressen. Olyan volt, mint egy családtag. Mindenki csodálkozott abban az időben, mert nem volt gyakori a zsidó cselédlány. És jött velünk a gettóba. A gettóból nem lehetett kijárni, rendőrök voltak a kapunál. Kellett igazolás, ha valaki bejött látogatóba. Akkoriban volt bombázás Debrecenben, és a fiatalokat összeszedték, és teherautóval elvittek minket romot takarítani. Ott voltunk egész nap, és nem emlékszem, hogy adtak-e volna valami ennivalót. Csak dolgoztunk. Nem emlékszem, hányszor vittek bennünket. Külön vitték a férfiakat és külön a lányokat, és este hazahoztak bennünket.

A gettó június elsejéig állt, akkor elhajtottak mindenkit a téglagyárba. És akkor apukám azt mondta, hogy nem megyünk. Felmentünk a padlásra mi, öten meg egy házaspár és még két fiatalember. Amikor már mindenkit elvittek a téglagyárba, akkor a kapuk zárva voltak, és a rendőrök ugyanúgy ott álltak a kapunál, hogy nem lehetett kimenni, bemenni. Mi ott feküdtünk a poros földön, és vártunk a csodára, hogy majd valami történik. Nem mozdultunk ki. Még az volt a szerencse, hogy volt bent víz, és a cserepeknél ki lehetett látni, valaki mindig őrködött, hogy jönnek-e. Mert amikor a téglagyárból elvitték az embereket, akkor nagyon sok holmi ottmaradt, teherautóval hozták, és a nagytemplomban rakták le. Láttunk mindent. Egyszer csak hallottuk, hogy mondták lent, hogy ide nem fér több, holnap a padlásra fogják felvinni. Nem volt mit tenni, le kellett jönni. Amikor lementünk, a rendőrök elfogtak. A rendőrök végig rendesek voltak. Azt mondták, miért nem tartottunk ki még egy kicsit, már nem sokáig fog tartani. Bekísértek a rendőrségre, ott voltunk egypár napig, külön a férfiak és külön a nők. Cigányasszonyok és ilyen züllött nők között voltunk, de nem volt semmi probléma. Onnan személyvonattal hoztak fel bennünket Pestre, és a Mosonyi utcába vittek [A VIII. kerületi Mosonyi utcában, a rendőrkapitányság épületében működött a kisegítő toloncház, a letartóztatott, internált emberek ideiglenes őrzésére kijelölt épület. – A szerk.]. Ott még ujjlenyomatot is vettek tőlünk. Ott is külön voltunk, én anyukámmal és Bellával, apukám Mikivel.

A Mosonyi utcában nem sokáig voltunk. Akkor már mindenki nyugtatott bennünket, hogy már nincs több deportálás, már nem visznek ki az országból. Onnan vittek bennünket Sárvárra [Sárvárott volt az ország egyik legnagyobb internálótábora, ahonnan 1500 zsidót deportáltak Auschwitzba. A deportálást itt a németek hajtották végre. Randolph Braham ellentmondásosan említi meg a deportálás időpontját: „A magyar Holocaust” (Budapest, Gondolat/Wilmington, Blackburn International Inc., é. n. /1988/) című mű 77. oldalán 1944 augusztusát említi, a 157. oldalon írottak szerint 1944. július 24-én zajlott a deportálás. – A szerk.]. Ott nagyon sok ember volt. A cukorgyárban volt kialakítva egy nagyon nagy terem, oda vittek mindenkit, aki hamis papírokkal élt vagy bujkált. Mire Sárvárra értünk, már alig volt valamink, mert ahol csak megfordultunk, mindenütt megdézsmálták a holminkat. Elvették a hátizsákot, megnézték, hogy mi van benne, és mindig elvettek belőle valamit, ami tetszett nekik. Már csak egy szál kartonruhám volt. A cukorgyárba be lehetett jönni látogatóba. Volt ott egy idős házaspár, akinek a lányát egy mérnök behozta látogatóba. És az a mérnök mondta nekem, hogy magát minden további nélkül ki tudom vinni. Karon fog és kisétálunk. Mondtam, hogy én nem sétálok sehova, mert nem hagyom a családomat. És nem bántam meg, hogy nem hagytam ott őket. Augusztus negyedikén, péntek reggel jöttek a németek, és percek alatt kizavarták az embereket. A vonat bejött egészen a cukorgyárba, és hajtották be az embereket a vagonba. Ott szlováktól kezdve mindenféle náció volt. Miki is ott ismerkedett meg valami fiatal huszti kislánnyal, gondolom, valami szerelem alakult ki köztük, mert mikor hazajött, szegény annyi levelet írt, hogy ő nem tudja elképzelni, hogy Miki nem jött vissza.

Augusztus negyedikén elindult a vagon Auschwitz felé. Enni nem adtak. Hetedikén érkeztünk Auschwitzba. Kiszálltunk, és csíkos ruhások álltak ott, lengyelek voltak, mert ők már előbb ott voltak, minden posztot ők foglaltak el. Minden csomagot, ami még volt, bent kellett hagyni a vagonban. Azt mondták, hogy a kisgyerekeket adják oda az időseknek, hogy majd azok vigyáznak rájuk. A németek mosolygós pofával mondták, hogy az időseket meg a gyerekeket viszik egy külön lágerbe, és ott majd kapnak kalácsot meg kávét, mert azokat nem tudják munkára vinni. A piszkos munkát a lengyelek és a szlovákok végezték, a németek csak ellenőrizték, hogy rendben megy-e minden. Az anyukám is jött velem, ötvenegy éves volt, jól nézett ki, meg Bella is. Apukám és Miki külön mentek. Mindenkinek le kellett vetkőzni, minden meztelenül történt. Jött egy német, és ellenőrizte, hogy ki terhes, mert az ruhában nem látszott. Azokat különválasztotta. Anyukámnak visszeres volt a lába a sok állástól, és őt is oda terelték. Mentem utána, de engem visszalökött. Csak azt bánom mindig, hogy nem mentem utána. Ezt nem is meséltem senkinek, ez nagyon szörnyű volt. Őket külön elvitték. Többet nem is láttam őt.

Sorakozni kellett. A lengyelek lenyírták a hajat, teljesen szőrtelenítettek mindenkit, utána odalöktek mindenkinek egy szál ruhát. Semmi fehérnemű nem volt. Akkor találkoztam még apukával és Mikivel, a földön ültek csíkos ruhában, és kérdezték, hogy anyuka hol van. Ez volt az utolsó, amikor láttam őket.

Minket Bellával a C lágerbe vittek. Ott találkoztam nyírbátoriakkal, az egyik az unokatestvérem felesége volt, és odavettek, hogy meglegyen az ötös sor. Fontos volt, hogy meglegyen a sor, mert ha valaki bolyongott, hogy hova tud állni, amikor fel kellett sorakozni az appelra, azt mindig püfölték hátulról, hogy álljon be valahova. Az ott lévő szlovák lányok azzal fogadtak bennünket, hogy ők már három éve ott vannak, mi még akkor moziba jártunk, táncoltunk, jó dolgunk volt [1942 tavaszán érkeztek meg Auschwitzba az első zsidó nők, 16–30 év közötti lányok és asszonyok Kelet-Szlovákiából. – A szerk.]. Az első kenyéradagomat odaadtam nekik, hogy szerezzenek egy bugyit. A végén nem bugyi, hanem férfi gatya lett belőle, de még az is jó volt.

Időnként fertőtlenítőbe vitték az embereket, olyankor nem lehetett kimenni a barakkból. Akik már ott voltak két vagy három hónapja, mindig előre tudták, hogy melyik barakkot mikor viszik fertőtleníteni. Akkor hátul megszöktek, és átmentek egy másik barakkba. Ilyen fertőtlenítésen egyszer sem estem keresztül, azt mondták, nagyon kellemetlen.

Egyszer nagyon rosszul éreztem magam, és ki akartam menni, a kápó nem engedett ki, mert blocksperre [zárlat] van, nem lehet kimenni. Vagy háromszor odamentem, hogy engedjen már ki. A végén azt mondta, jó, de vigyed ezt a vödröt, és úgy menjél a waschraumba. Ott lehetett mosdani, és ott voltak a vécék. Jöttem már visszafele, amikor összetalálkoztam egy német katonával. Biztos azt hitte, hogy megszöktem a csoportból, akiket vittek transzportba. Kiabált, és akkor fölemeltem a vödröt, és mondtam neki, hogy „Block ein und zwanzig”. Akkor továbbengedett, mert azt hitte, valami szolgálatban vagyok.

Ősszel válogatást csináltak, munkára. Meztelenül ültünk egy padon reggelig. Reggel aztán kaptunk ruhát, én egy kis kartonruhát meg egy felöltőt, ami nem volt bélelve. Adtak fehérneműt, egy-egy darabot, cipőt, de harisnyát nem. Kivittek minket az állomásra, és vittek vonattal Németországba. Akkor is vagonban, de valahogy kényelmesebben. Ez olyan október vagy november lehetett. Drezdához közel egy kisvárosba, Chemnitzbe vittek, ahol egy hatalmas gyár volt [Chemnitzben (majd ezt a várost hívták 1953–1990 között Karl-Marx-Stadtnak) a flossenburgi koncentrációs tábornak volt egy altábora; 500 női fogoly dolgozott itt az Astra Műveknek. – A szerk.]. Volt egy láger, és onnan vittek be a gyárba. Itt csak nők voltak. Voltak ott franciák meg mindenféle nemzetiségű foglyok. Mindig sötétben vittek, sötétben hoztak. Nem volt közel a gyár, és gyalog mentünk, pedig nagyon hideg tél volt akkor. Harisnyánk se volt, enni is alig kaptunk, és mégsem voltunk betegek. Fekete pelerines felügyelőnők és géppuskával katonák kísértek. Rengetegen vigyáztak ránk. Volt egy szadista aufseherin, a főfelügyelőnő, az német volt, de a konyhán dolgozók és a kápók lengyelek voltak [A kápók a lágerekben kisegítő rendőri, fegyelmező és munkairányító feladatokat ellátó, több-kevesebb kedvezményben részesülő foglyok voltak. – A szerk.]. Ők már fejkendőt is kaptak, és rendesebben fel voltak öltözve. A lányokat nem egyszerre vitték be a gyárba, hanem fokozatosan, amikor szükség volt ránk. A lágerben háromemeletes ágyon aludtunk, egy héten egyszer volt zuhany, de azzal is szórakozott valaki. Beszappanoztuk magunkat, akkor elzárták a vizet. Aztán megint kinyitották.

Eleinte nem vittek be a gyárba. Kivittek a földre krumplit szedni. Volt valami gép, amivel a krumplit felszedték, és mi nagy kosarakba raktuk, azt kellett vinni a teherautóhoz, és ráborítani.

A gyárban a gépből kijött alkatrészeket egy nagy satuba fogtuk, és a szélét meg a sarkokat le kellett reszelni. De szépen kellett csinálni, nem csak úgy nagyjából. Napi tizenkét vagy még több órát állva, mert leülni nem lehetett. Egy német mester hozta a munkát, egy másik vitte el, de azoknak nem volt szabad beszélni velünk. Aki hozta a munkát, mindig mondta, hogy nur langsam, csak lassan. Ennyi volt, amit ott suttogott nekem. Aztán volt, amikor köszörülni kellett. Akkor adtak szemüveget meg bőrkötényt. Aztán ilyen nagy ágyúcsövek szélét kellett lereszelni. Ketten emeltük, de nagyon nehéz volt.

Amikor jöttek a repülők, és szólt a sziréna, akkor a németek lementek a pincébe, minket fennhagytak. Amikor már vége felé járt a háború, március, április körül, akkor már minket is levittek a pincébe.

Az utolsó két hónapban már só sem volt, egy tál csalánlevest kaptunk ebédre. Reggel kávé, és mikor este hazavittek bennünket, akkor kaptunk kenyeret. Azért is harc volt, hogy állunk sorba, ki kapja a végét, mert az egy nagyobb darab volt. A kenyér be volt kenve valamivel. Vasárnap nem dolgoztunk a gyárban. Az erdőben orosz foglyok fűrészelték a fát, és mi vittük ki nekik az ebédet gyalog. Nem lehetett beszélni az orosz katonákkal, és egyszer az egyik orosz katona egy pici kis tükördarabot dobott elém, a fűbe. Nem mertem elvenni, mert ha meglátják nálam azt a tükröt, akkor borzasztó büntetés jár. Még ugyanezen a napon történt, hogy amikor az ennivalóért mentünk be a konyhába, az egyik lány, aki a konyhán dolgozott, a zsebembe dugott valamit, a végén kiderült, hogy húst. De én úgy féltem, hogy nem mertem elővenni. Ha megtalálják, abból is nagy baj lesz. Ha előveszem, akkor a lányok előtt se ehetem, mert akkor mindjárt riadalom támad, hogy adjak belőle, és akkor észreveszik. Úgyhogy én sose örültem, ha kaptam valamit, mert nagyon félős voltam. Volt olyan, hogy valaki feltett az ágyamra egy nyers krumplit. Az olyan csemege volt! És amikor megláttam, hogy ott van egy krumpli, hát nem is tudtam, hogy mit kezdjek vele. Féltem a veréstől. Semmitől nem féltem úgy, mint a veréstől. De nem vertek meg soha. Nekem nagy segítséget jelentett, hogy tudtam jiddisül, ezért én jól megvoltam a lengyel lányokkal. Nekem mindig a kanna aljáról merítettek. Mert felül nagyon híg volt az a leves. A gyárban a rottenführer [tizedes] osztotta a levest, és úgy csinálta, hogy mindig maradjon, aztán a végén mondták, hogy még lehet jönni. Összeverekedtek, hogy ki tud odamenni, hogy kapjon még egy kis ételt. Ennek a rottenführernek volt egy másik szórakozása is: a ruhánkra és a kabátunkra hátul ráfestett egy nagy K és L betűt, koncentrációs láger. Amikor jöttem hazafele, mindig körbeálltak, hogy mit jelent a ruhámon ez a KL betű.

Egy nap, valamikor áprilisban délután fél négy körül visszavittek minket a lágerba, aztán elindultak velünk gyalog. Valami zöldséget feldaraboltak, és annyit adtak, ami a tenyerünkbe fért, azt ettük útközben. Theresienstadt volt a cél. Az a hír járta, hogy oda gyűjtik be a lágerekből a zsidókat, és majd ott elgázosítják őket. Végül odaértünk Theresienstadtba, és ott szabadultunk május nyolcadikán.

Theresienstadt olyan kis városrészszerű volt, és azon belül volt egy kaszárnya. Minket oda vittek, mert nem kevertek azokkal, akiket Ausztriából hoztak. Azok előkelőek voltak, egész más sorsuk volt, mint nekünk, úgyhogy úgy lenézték azokat, akik kopaszon meg lágerruhában jöttek. Ott voltunk bent a kaszárnyában, amikor kiütött a tífusz is. Azt hiszem, ez már a felszabadulás után volt. Én is beteg lettem. Minden nap jött az orvos, körbejárta a szobákat, és ilyenkor ott kellett állni az ágy mellett. Aki állt az ágy mellett, ahhoz nem szólt, de aki nem tudott felkelni, azt levitték az udvarra matracostul, és onnan vitték kórházba.

Olyan beteg voltam, hogy nem tudtam megállni, nem tudtam enni. Bella erővel felállított, fogtak két oldalról, hogy kibírjam, míg az orvos bejön a szobába, hogy van-e beteg vagy nincs. Bellának nem volt semmi baja.

Amikor megtörtént a felszabadulás, akkor volt az úgynevezett szabadrablás. Senki nem maradt otthon, csak a betegek. Én nem mentem zabrálni, de Bella elment. Csak másnap jöttek haza, és hoztak egy disznót. Amikor nekem is adtak belőle, a látványától is rosszul lettem, úgyhogy elcseréltem pudingporra meg sajtra [lásd: étkezési törvények]. Boldogan vették a disznóhúst.

Júniusban még ott voltam Theresienstadtban. Nem akartam hazajönni, mert úgy érzetem, hogy nincs itthon senki. Nem igyekeztem sehova, gondoltam, ha majd lesz ilyen transzport, amelyiket Svédországba visznek, azzal elmegyek. Azt is terveztük ott négyen, hogy majd megyünk Izraelbe [Izrael Állam 1948-ban alakult meg, 1920–1948 között Palesztina brit mandátumról van szó. – A szerk.]. Amikor volt pár évvel ezelőtt ez a holokauszt-ünnepség, az előadó, Feldmayer mondta, hogy minden nemzet küldött az ott lévő emberekért, csak mi vártunk hiába, mert a magyaroktól senki nem jött, hogy segítsen hazatérni. Egyik nap ott sétáltam a parkban, és találkoztam egy debreceni orvossal, aki az édesanyját kereste, és kérdezte, hogy van-e itt debreceni. Mondtam, hogy debreceni vagyok. Kérdezte, hogy hívnak. Amikor megmondtam, akkor mondta, hogy Jóska már otthon van. Mikor meghallottam, hogy a testvérem itthon van, akkor már igyekeztem, hogy haza tudjak jönni. Jegyet kellett kérni, mert jöttek vonatok. És akkor elindultunk Bellával a vonat tetején. Mentünk egy darabig, akkor jöttek az oroszok, kifogták a mozdonyt, elvitték. És ott állt a vonat, nem tudott haladni. Akkor hoztak egy másik mozdonyt, alig mentünk, megint elvitték. Végül megérkeztünk Pozsonyba, ott kaptunk pár fillért. Arra emlékszem, hogy cseresznyét árultak, ilyen újságpapírból tekert stanicliba tettek egy marék cseresznyét. Az olyan nagy dolog volt, hogy azt vettem a pénzen. És utána megérkeztünk Pestre. Nem tudom, melyik pályaudvarra, egyáltalán nem voltam ismerős Pesten. Megérkeztünk, leszálltunk, és akkor egy nő odaszaladt hozzánk, és hozott hat zsemlét. Mind a hármunknak adott két-két zsemlét. Aztán eltűnt. Egy szót se szólt. Mentünk, mentünk, és egyszer csak, ez is egy csoda, megláttam az utcán Szuri sógorát [Szuri a bátyjának, Silber Józsefnek volt a felesége. – A szerk.]. Bellával minket elvitt a Madách utcába, és Fricike, Szuri testvére rögtön bedugott a kádba, és az összes ruhámat bedobta a szemétbe. Nem tudom, meddig voltunk nála, mert vonat nem járt, úgy volt, hogyha majd jön valami megbízható autó, akkor azzal megyünk Debrecenbe. Ők sóval meg dohánnyal foglalkoztak, azt szállítottak.

A Bethlen utcában lehetett jelentkezni, ott volt a DEGOB [Magyarországi Zsidó Deportáltakat Gondozó Országos Bizottság]. Fricike felöltöztetett, a fejemre tett egy necchálót, és elmentünk a Bethlen utcába jelentkezni. Ott ült egy férfi, és azt mondta, maga ugyan nem Theresienstadtból jött. Mert olyan jól voltam felöltözve. Mondjon valamit, hogy ráismerjek, hogy tényleg ott volt. Hát, mondtam, annyit tudok mondani, hogy amikor elindult a vonat, akkor kisiklott, de nem történt semmi baj. Tényleg, mondta, és adott egy igazolványt és ezerötszáz pengőt. A következő hónapban még ezer pengőt kaptam. Az igazolványban magyar és orosz nyelven az állt, hogy: „Silber Lili (született 1923 évben Sátoraljaújhelyen) debreceni lakos részére, akit Magyarországról elhurcoltak, és a theresienstadti táborból a dicsőséges Hadsereg szabadított fel. Nevezett lakóhelyére, Debrecenbe kíván visszatérni. Kérjük a katonai és polgári hatóságokat, hogy útjában őt támogatni szíveskedjenek.”

Oda akartam adni a családnak azt az ezerötszáz pengőt, de nem fogadták el, azt mondták, költsem, amire akarom. Tudja mire költöttem? Cukrászsüteményt ettem minden nap. Nagyon le voltam fogyva, és volt ott egy jó cukrászda. Ritka jószívű család volt a sógornőmé. Akkor élt még a papája, mamája és a testvérei. Azt mondta a papája, hogy öltöztessenek fel, vegyenek meg mindent nekem, ami kell. Anyagot vettek, hogy majd Debrecenben megvarratom. Aztán még júliusban lett teherautó, nem tudom, mit szállított, és azzal hazamentünk Debrecenbe. Hajnalban értünk oda, a kapu nyitva volt, bementem Bellával az udvarra. Már világos volt, láttam, hogy nyitva van az ablak, és bemásztam. Nem volt türelmem, hogy az ajtóhoz menjek, és csengessek vagy kopogjak. Ott volt Jóska meg a sógornőm. Nagyon rendesek voltak hozzám.

Amikor már egy kicsit berendezkedtem, akkor úgy volt, hogy egyik héten ő főzött, és én takarítottam, a másik héten én főztem, és ő takarított. Bella is ott élt, de aztán még 1945-ben elment valahogy Münchenbe, ott megismerkedett a későbbi férjével, és azzal kiment Amerikába. Később, 1963-ban találkoztam vele. Négy fia volt. Amikor elbúcsúztunk, akkor mondta, hogy a négy fiút úgy fogja nevelni, ahogy apukám nevelte a fiúkat. Úgy sajnálom, hogy megszakadt a kapcsolat.

Lakott a házban egy nyomozó, akinek zsidó felesége volt, és mondta, hogyha megtalálok valamit, ami a miénk volt, akkor ő eljön velem. De nem érdekelt. Amikor az ember hazajön, és nem találja a családját, akkor nem fog ruhaneműt keresni. Nem érdekelt. A varrógépért sem mentem el a gyárba. Pedig szóltak, hogy ott van a varrógép, mindenki elhozhatja.

El akartam menni dolgozni, de Jóska és a sógornőm nem engedtek. Szuri és Jóska még a háború előtt ismerkedett meg egy esküvőn, Szatmárnémetiben. Szuri unokatestvére elvette Alter bácsikám legidősebb lányát, Margitot, vagyis az én unokatestvéremet, és ott voltunk az esküvőn. Attól kezdve kezdtek járni. Szuri igazi neve Steinmetz Sári volt. 1944-ben együtt voltunk egy hónapot Pesten, hogy találkozhasson Jóskával, aki ott volt munkaszolgálaton, mielőtt meg nem szökött. Szuri úgy úszta meg, hogy a Felvidéken, Bruszturán [Kisközség volt Máramaros vm.-ben, 1910-ben 1700 rutén és német lakossal. Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került. – A szerk.] laktak, ahol az apjának fakitermelése volt, és a ruszin munkásai elbujtatták a családot egy bunkerban. Amikor véget ért a háború, Szuri rögtön Debrecenbe jött, és összetalálkoztak Jóskával. Még 1945 őszén megesküdtek.

Még 1945-ben Fricike hívott vissza. Náluk már jóformán az egész család kivándorolt, csak ők voltak itthon, gyerekük sem volt, kért, hogy menjek föl, legyek pár hónapig náluk. Az unokatestvérem szólt, hogy van egy biztos autó, ő vezette, és jön egy orosz tiszt, aki németül is tud. Elöl ültünk hárman, és csak a kézitáskám volt nálam, a koffer hátul. Abban volt minden ruhám, fehérneműm, cipőm. Már Pestszentlőrincnél jártunk, amikor orosz katonák igazoltattak. Lezavartak minket a kocsiról, és még azt se hagyták, hogy a koffert levegyem. Onnan gyalog jöttünk be a Király utcáig. Az orosz tiszt ott maradt a kocsival.

Megint ott álltam egy szál ruhában. Fricike mondta, hogy ne búsuljak, csináltat nekem új ruhát, vesz cipőt. És tényleg mindent vett nekem. Ott voltam náluk 1946 tavaszáig, akkor hazajöttem. Ő se engedett csinálni semmit. Annyit csináltam, hogy velük szemben volt egy pék, pénteken elvittem a sóletet a pékhez, aztán érte mentem. Fricike mindig felkelt hajnalban, megfőzött, hogy egész nap velem legyen. Vitt mindenfelé meg cukrászdába, az volt a lényeg. Minden délután vett nekem egy tejszínhabos sarokházat, úgyhogy meg is lett a hatása. Amikor hazajöttem, a sógornőm majd elájult, hogy lehet egy fiatal lányt így meghizlalni. Fogyókúráztam, hogy visszanyerjem a normális súlyomat. Nagyon jól éreztem magam Fricikénél. Egész nap jöttünk-mentünk, volt baráti köre. Én akartam menni dolgozni, valami üzletbe kiszolgálni, de nem engedtek. Pedig nem meséltem nekik a lágeréletről, de amikor megérkeztem, látták, hogy nézek ki.

Aztán visszamentem Debrecenbe. Ott azt csináltam, hogy amiért sorba kellett állni, azért én mentem. Tüzelőért, utalványokért vagy tíz deka vajért. És akkor volt ez a Joint, osztottak konzerveket, ezekért mindig én mentem. Ott elég sokat kellett állni. Eltelt az idő.

Jóska eleinte próbálta az üzletet folytatni. A háború előtt megtanulta az órajavítást. Aztán alakult egy gombüzem, és őt választották meg főnöknek. Abból éltünk. Amíg a forint be nem jött [1946; lásd: a forint bevezetése], ami pénzt kapott, másnapra már nem ért semmit. Amikor megkapta az első fizetését forintban, adott nekem tíz forintot. Az nagy pénz volt. A sógornőm is kiment tíz forinttal a piacra, ezért tudott venni egy pár csirkét, zöldséget, gyümölcsöt, tojást.

1948-ig laktam velük, amíg férjhez nem mentem.

A férjemmel a strandon ismerkedtem meg [Férj neve: Vágó István. Weiszről magyarosított – lásd: névmagyarosítás – a háború után. – A szerk.]. Akkoriban jártam a strandra a barátnőimmel. Ott láttam, hogy a napozóban mindig négy-öt lány vette körül. Az ember ilyen fiúval nem foglalkozik. Nem is tudtam, hogy zsidó fiú. Azt mondták, hogy rendőrnyomozó, nem tudom, miért fogták rá. Az egyik barátnőmnek valahogy lecsúszott az ujjáról a gyűrű, és a fiúk megpróbálták megkeresni. Akkor mutatták be nekem. Attól kezdve mindig csatlakozott hozzám, de én nem akartam foglalkozni vele. Már volt udvarlóm, akit a háború előtt ismertem meg, tizenhat éves koromban, és vártam, hogy hátha hazajön. De ő csak próbált kísérgetni. Ha villamoson mentünk, ő akarta fizetni a jegyet. Én meg nem akartam engedni, azt mondtam, hogy gyalog megyek. Akkor gyalog kísért, és azt mondta, végre megismert egy rendes lányt, szeretne velem járni. Na, így kezdődött. Aztán beleestem. De még felmentem Pestre Friciékhez, hogy megpróbálok szakítani. Nem tudom, miért tartózkodtam, mert tetszett nekem, szerettem is, de féltem hozzámenni. Már annyi minden ért engem, ne kelljen nekem csalódni. Feljött utánam Pestre, hogy menjek haza, esküdjünk meg. Azt mondtam, hogy még meggondolom. Feljött még kétszer, és akkor hazajöttem. Azt mondta, hogy a szülei szemében milyen nagyot nőttem, hogy hagytam kéretni magam. 1948. áprilisban esküdtünk.

Ő úgy úszta meg a holokausztot, hogy munkaszolgálatos volt Törökbálinton. Ott megismerkedett egy keresztény lánnyal, Juditnak hívták, és az pártfogásába vette. Amikor vitték volna őket ki az országból, akkor megszökött, és bujkált. Ennek a lánynak a nagynénje apáca volt egy kolostorban itt, Pesten, és vele elintézte, hogy beviszi a kolostorba, ahol majd bujtatják. Sikerült is. A főnöknő nem tudta, hogy bevittek egy fiút. Csak hárman tudták, hogy ott van. Aztán karácsonykor felszabadult. Próbáltuk ezt a lányt megkeresni a háború után, de nem találtuk. Az apácák is eltűntek.

A férjem derecskei [Derecske – nagyközség volt Bihar vm.-ben (járási szolgabírói hivatal, járásbíróság), 1891-ben 8300, 1910-ben 9300, 1920-ban 9900, az 1930-as években mintegy 10 000 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.]. Az édesapja, Weisz József férfiszabó volt. Túlélte a háborút, mert valamilyen címen internálták. Az internálótáborból Ausztriába vitték, és onnan hazajött. Az édesanyját és a húgát, akinek ilyen járógép volt az egyik lábán, elvitték Nagyváradra, onnan pedig Auschwitzba. A kislányt rögtön elválasztották az édesanyjától, és mesélték, hogy ebbe belebetegedett. Egyikük sem jött vissza.

A férjem Debrecenben járt a kereskedelmibe, és eleinte a nagyszüleinél lakott. A nagyapjának, Kis Áronnak az állomás mellett volt kocsmája. A férjem sokat mesélt, szerette nagyon a nagyszüleit, de amikor ott lakott, olyan rendetlen volt, hogy szegény nagymama már nem győzött utána takarítani, és akkor került be az internátusba. Mesélte a nagyapjáról, hogy a nyakkendő volt a mániája. Ha jó kedve volt, mert ment az üzlet, akkor mindig vett egy nyakkendőt magának. A kereskedelmi elvégzése után a férjem, amíg el nem vitték munkaszolgálatba, Derecskén dolgozott, az apja szabóműhelyében.

Amikor a férjem visszajött Debrecenbe, először egy textilüzletben volt kiszolgáló. Ezt körülbelül 1950-ig csinálta. Akkor alakult a Medicor, ez az orvosi műszergyár Debrecenben. Az épület még rom volt, és részt vett az újjáépítésében. Először az volt a munkája, hogy fogfogókat csiszolt. Ezt a csiszolást körülbelül két évig csinálta két műszakban, és akkor kezdték felfedezni. Elküldték iskolába, előbb statisztikus volt, aztán diszpécser, fődiszpécser. Akkor még nagyon családias volt az a gyár, én is sokszor bementem, és az igazgató kérdezte, hogy én miért nem megyek oda dolgozni. Én szerettem volna, de az apósom harcolt, hogy ne menjek. Akkor már megvolt az első fiam, és azt mondta, hogy nem fogsz annyit keresni, amennyi rámenne arra, hogy valaki vigyázzon a gyerekre. Majd inkább ő segít engem, de úgy, hogy Manci néni, a második felesége ne tudja. Amikor mentem a piacra, mindig adott száz forintot. Akkor az nagy pénz volt. Ennek a Manci néninek sose volt gyereke, és azt hiszem, nem szeretett engem.

Amikor összeházasodtunk, először az állomáshoz közel, egy nagyon ócska lakásban laktunk. Nem lehetett felfűteni. Egy nagy szoba volt, egy konyha, előszoba, a fürdőszoba még le volt rombolva. Csak éppen a vécé működött. Ezt béreltük, és a házigazda olyan volt, hogy mindenbe úgy belekötött. Ha a pelenkát az udvarban kiteregettük, akkor ne így széltében, hanem hosszában, hogyha valaki bejön a kapun, akkor ne lássa a pelenkát. Pedig ők is zsidók voltak. De ettől függetlenül is lakást kellett nézni, mert télire nem lehetett egy gyerekkel ott maradni. És akkor az Arany János utcában béreltünk egy olyan lakást, aminek csak az utcai emeletes frontja maradt meg, a nagy hosszú udvar végig le volt bombázva. Amikor eladó lett a ház, az apósom megvette, emlékszem, huszonnégyezer forintért. Nekik Derecskén volt házuk, azt eladták. Így tulajdonképpen ők jöttek oda hozzánk. A mienk volt a földszinten egy háromszobás lakás, az övék meg az emeleten. Én úgy vágytam a családra, a szüleim nagyon hiányoztak, és azt hittem, hogy majd pótolja nekem, hogy együtt leszünk. Az apósom, szegény, nagyon rendes volt. Nem veszekedtünk soha, de épp ez volt a baj, azért mentem idegileg tönkre, mert sokat tűrtem. Nem bántott ő, csak mindenbe beleszólt. Amikor hazajött a férjem, akkor „Adjál Pistának ebédet”, vagy „Add neki oda az újságot”. Engem ez úgy felbosszantott, de nem szóltam egy szót se. Aztán tizennégy évig laktunk együtt.

Debrecenben főleg 1956-ig volt baráti társaságunk. A férjem unokatestvére meg Jóska volt osztálytársai. Ezek kizárólag zsidók voltak, aztán 1956-ban sokan elmentek [lásd: 1956-os forradalom; disszidálás]. A Medicorban megismerkedtem két asszonnyal, az egyik nagyon vallásos katolikus volt, a másik nem annyira, meg volt még egy harmadik is, és nagyon jóban lettünk. Különösen a legvallásosabbal, szinte testvéri viszony alakult ki köztünk. A Nagyerdőben laktak, kertes házban, és ha a férjem elutazott, akkor nyári jó időben meghívott bennünket. Ilyenkor ott voltam egész nap a gyerekekkel. Nem tudom, hogy helyesen tettem vagy nem, de ha bemutattak valakinek, akkor én mindig megmondtam, hogy zsidó vallású vagyok. Nem akartam olyan helyzetbe kerülni, hogy esetleg előttem mondanak valamit, vagy később derüljön ki. Én ugye megjártam gyerekkoromban párszor, hogy lezsidóztak. Nem akartam ezt átélni. De aztán soha nem esett szó erről. Néha családilag is összejártunk, de az ritkább volt. Inkább csak az asszonyok. Ennek a barátnőmnek volt egy ismerőse, akinek a férje valami magas rangú katonatiszt volt, és nem jött vissza. Nyíregyházáról ideköltözött Debrecenbe, és angolórákat adott, abból élt. Egyszer csak mondta a barátnőm, hogy Micu néninek nagyon tetszik a fiam, szívesen tanítaná. Akkor kezdett angolul tanulni, nem tudom, hányadik elemibe járt éppen.

Közben a férjem állandóan tanult. Elvégezte a technikumot, aztán mérnöki diplomát szerzett. Fokozatosan ment felfelé, tudott üzleteket kötni, szerencséje is volt, és 1963-ban vagy 1964-ben igazgató lett. A pártba is belépett, azt hiszem, 1956 után. De lehet, hogy már előtte is párttag volt. Erről nem volt otthon szó, mert én mindig azt mondtam, hogy ne lépjen be. Azt tudom, hogy hívták, de nem tudom a dátumot. Azt biztosan tudom, hogy 1956 után belépett.

1956-ban, november negyedike után hallgattam a Szabad Európát, mert üzentek. Hát akkor mentek el Jóskáék. Ez nagy csapás volt a számomra. Sose felejtem el, este eljött, gondolom, el akart köszönni, de nem volt annyi lelkiereje, hogy elköszönjön tőlem. Kikísértem a kapuig, és sokáig néztem utána. Utána jártam akkor idegorvoshoz, de senkinek nem mondtam meg, mert azt mondták volna, hogy bolond vagyok. Nem tudtam elviselni, hogy elhagytak, mert csak ketten maradtunk a családból, és nagyon jó testvérek voltunk. Csak utólag tudtam meg, hogy például amikor bútort vett nekünk az üres lakásba, akkor kölcsönkért, és abból vett.

Amerikában Jóska előbb alkalmazott volt valahol, majd az 1960-as években saját óra- és ékszerjavító üzletet nyitott Manhattanben. Ezt csinálták az 1990-es évek közepéig, és jól megéltek belőle. Szuri bejárt az üzletbe segíteni, elsősorban gyöngyfűzéssel foglakozott. Szuri 2003-ban halt meg Izraelben, ott is van eltemetve. Az egyik unokájának az esküvőjére utaztak Jeruzsálembe, és már a hosszú repülőutat nehezen viselte. Megérkezése után a testvérénél szálltak meg, Tel-Avivban. Éjszaka rosszul lett, kórházba kellett szállítani, ahol pár napon belül meghalt.

1972-ben a férjemet felhelyezték ide, a Röntgen utcai Medicorba kereskedelmi igazgatónak. Perutól kezdve Mongóliáig, a fél világot beutazta. Németül beszélt. Mindvégig a Medicorban volt, onnan ment nyugdíjba.

1973-ban költöztünk fel Debrecenből, ebbe az óbudai lakótelepi lakásba. Debrecenben volt egy lakás, azt ott leadtuk, és a cég révén kaptuk ezt a szövetkezeti lakást. Amikor feljöttünk Pestre, azt mondta a férjem, hogy azért nem kell dicsekedni vele, hogy zsidó vagy. Ezért aztán a munkahelyen nem mondtam, amikor bemutatkoztam. De biztos tudták, mert azt hamar megtudják a kolléganők. A férjem unokatestvérének a felesége nagyon beteges volt, és ő mesélte, hogy amikor kórházba kellett mennie, bemutatkozott, és mindjárt megmondta, hogy ő zsidó. Mert olyan nem volt, hogy a kórházban ez a téma ne került volna napirendre. Szóval itt, Pesten már nem mondtam. De érdekes, amikor szegény férjemet temették, és jöttünk haza a fiúkkal, akiknek kalap volt a fejükön, a szomszédasszony, szegény már meghalt, azt mondta: „Sejtettem, hogy zsidók vagytok, mert kalap van rajtatok.” Hát január közepén, a hidegben persze hogy kalapban voltak. Ez a szomszédasszony dunapataji volt, és mivel a vőlegénye Pesten volt, még mint fiatal lány jött fel szolgálónak. Amikor helyet keresett, csak azt nézte, hogy zsidó ne legyen. De nagyon jóban voltunk.

1974-ben én is elmentem dolgozni. Ötvenegy éves voltam, a nagyobbik fiú már nem volt itthon, gondoltam, egy kis pénzt kellene keresni. A férjem találkozott valamelyik Medicor-részleg igazgatójával, és mondta, hogy szeretnék valami munkát. Én valami bedolgozásra gondoltam, amit itthon csinálhatok. De nem volt, és ilyen könyvelésfélét csináltam. Tizenhét évet dolgoztam, hatvannyolc éves koromig. Jól éreztem magam, emberek között voltam, és legalább megismertem egy kicsit az életet.

Itt, Pesten nem volt társaságunk, Néhány emberrel a gyárból kifolyólag összejöttünk. Meghívtak, mi is meghívtuk, de olyan szoros kapcsolat nem alakult ki. Én nem is nagyon értem rá, hogy külön barátnővel barátkozzak, mert a család ellátása nagyon lekötött, vásárolni, főzni, mosni, mindent egyedül. Nem volt semmi segítségem

Néha kirándultunk a Budai hegyekbe. A férjem nagyon szeretett kirándulni. Lent hagytuk a kocsit, és gyalog mentünk. Ő nem a turistautakat szerette, hanem be, a sűrűbe. Itt, Pesten eleinte jártunk színházba meg moziba. De a férjem tévét se nagyon nézett, ő csak a híreket meg a háborús filmeket szerette. Ő menni szeretett. Olvasni is keveset olvasott. Én nagyon sokat olvastam, már gyerekkoromban elolvastam a Verne könyveket meg a May Károly könyveket.

1977-ben a férjemet kihelyezték a Medicor duplingeni kereskedelmi kirendeltségéhez vezetőnek. Ez München mellett van. Négy évig voltunk kint. Én hivatalosan nem vállalhattam munkát, de segítettem a férjemnek, én csináltam a vámelszámolást. Engem sokat segített a jiddis nyelvtudásom. A gyerekek már önállóak voltak, nem jöttek. A kisebbik egyetemre járt, és mikor elvégezte az egyetemet, akkor egy évre kijött. Ott megtanult jól németül. Állást nem vállalhatott, és azt csinálta, hogy télen hósöprést vállalt házaknál, és ezért kapott pénzt. Aztán úgy megszerették bent a cégnél, hogy a könyvelő nem hivatalosan adott neki valami munkát, és kapott érte pár márkát.

Mielőtt kimentünk, volt egy Trabantunk, amit a hatvanas évek közepén vettünk. Németországban volt egy szolgálati kocsi, és amikor 1981-ben hazajöttünk, vettünk egy használt Volkswagen Passatot. Én nem vezettem, csak a férjem. Amikor a férjem nyugdíjba ment, akkor vettünk egy Marutit. A férjem mozgékony ember volt, feladott hirdetéseket, hogy ügynökséget vállal. Sok választ kapott, de én lebeszéltem, hogy télen, havas utakon, csúszós időben menjen az autóval.

Volt egy nyaralónk Miskolc-Tapolcán. Azt még a férjem édesapja vette, és oda jártunk le a gyerekekkel, amikor kisebbek voltak. Levegőváltozás. Főleg én voltam ott velük, a férjem csak akkor, amikor szabadságon volt, vagy hétvégeken. Ez egy rendes téglaépület volt, de kívül nem volt bevakolva. Aztán lassanként fejlesztettük. Két szoba, konyha, fürdőszoba, a fűtés olajkályhával. Aztán amikor szegény férjem 1996-ban meghalt, a fiúk eladták. Nem nagyon voltak oda érte.

Mindkét fiam a Miskolci Műszaki Egyetemet végezte el, és a szakmájában helyezkedett el. Mindketten megnősültek, és van egy-egy gyerekük.

A férjem nem volt vallásos, de nekem nem tiltotta. Debrecenben még jártam templomba. Messze volt a templom, de gyalog mentem. Jam Kipurkor [Jom Kipur] megvárt, de a másik utcában, hogy ne egyedül menjek a sötétben haza. Amikor volt ilyen maszkir [mázkir], kezdetben még rá tudtam beszélni, hogy menjél már el a templomba, szegény apád úgy örülne neki. Akkor elment a templomba, és amikor az apósom hazajött, megcsókolt, és megköszönte nekem, hogy rábeszéltem. De a férjem nem járt templomba, nem akarta, hogy észrevegyék a munkahelyén. Akkor, azt hiszem, ő már ilyen párttag lehetett. De nem is volt ő vallásos. Amikor kezdett udvarolni, már akkor voltak dolgok, amik nem tetszettek. Bementünk egy étterembe vacsorázni, és végignéztem, hogy ő evett. Én nem ettem semmit, mert nem volt kóser. Amíg Debrecenben laktunk, és kóser konyhát vittem, mindig mentem vágatni. De ő máshol mindent megevett. Itt, Óbudán már nem volt kóser konyha, csak ha Jóskáék hazalátogattak, akkor elmentem a Visegrádi utcai kóser hentesüzletbe. De sertéshúst soha életemben nem ettem.

Az ünnepeket családi körben csak én tartottam. A gyerekek annyiban, hogy leültek a vacsorához. Én gyújtottam gyertyát [lásd: gyertyagyújtás]. Mostanában, amióta a szemem rossz, nem gyújtok, mert mindig félek, nehogy valami tüzet csináljak.
 

Életrajz

Anyám édesapját Kohn Mórnak hívták, és textilkereskedő volt, saját textilüzlettel. Anyai nagymamám, Heitler Netti mindig beteg volt, én már úgy ismertem meg, mint ágyban fekvő beteget, akinek a betegségéről a mai napig semmit nem tudok. Hét éves voltam, amikor 1923-ban meghalt. A nagypapa ehhez képest még talán hét évet élhetett, tehát 1930 körül halt meg. Nagyon idős volt, minimum nyolcvan éves, úgyhogy valamikor 1850 körül születhetett. Egyikük születési helyét sem ismerem. Hódmezővásárhelyen éltek, de minthogy gondozásra szorultak, apám valamikor az 1920-as években átköltöztette őket Szentesre, és mind a ketten ott haltak meg. Nem jártam a nagyszüleim eredeti lakóhelyén, és nem tudom, hogy milyen körülmények között éltek. Annyi biztos, hogy neológok voltak. A nagyünnepeket hellyel-közzel betartották, talán kóser konyhát is vezettek. Három lányuk volt, anyám, Olga néni és Mariska néni. 1887-ben született meg anyám, Kohn Erzsébet, aki az anyakönyvi kivonatában Örzsike néven szerepelt, a zsidó neve pedig Eszter volt. A testvérei idősebbek voltak nála, nem tudom pontosan, talán négy-öt évvel, és mind háztartásbeliek voltak. Anyámról tudom, hogy ő a négy polgári elvégzése után Temesváron járt még iskolába, akkor léteztek még olyan felsőbb leányiskolák, ahol a háztartás és a közösségi élet tudnivalóit sajátították el a tanulók. Ez egy két-három éves iskola volt, amit anyám el is végzett [lásd: leányiskolák]. A két lánytestvére végzettségéről nem tudok semmit.

Olga néni Hódmezővásárhelyen élt, nagyon rossz családi körülmények között. Szegények voltak, emellett nagyot is hallott, és a férje meghalt, úgyhogy ő nem volt alkalmas arra, hogy a nagyszüleimet ápolja. Olga néni férje – Mayer Hermannak hívták – ügynök volt. A családban, ha őket emlegették, mindig szóba jött, hogy milyen nehéz körülmények között élnek. Két gyerekük volt, Rózsi és Lili. Lili színésznőnek készült, de nem csinált karriert, és bár később valahol filmekben is szerepelt, mindig csak kisebb szerepekben. Később, ha jól tudom, öngyilkos lett Berlinben. Mindez még gyerekkoromban történt, úgyhogy énhozzám ezeknek a híreknek csak a zöngéi jutottak el. Rózsi Bácskában, Jugoszláviában élt. Egy Havas nevű, igen gazdag topolyai vállalkozóhoz ment feleségül, aki özvegyember volt és egy fiúgyermek apja [Topolya – nagyközség volt Bács-Bodrog vm.-ben, 1891-ben 10 800, 1910-ben 12 500 lakossal (járási szolgabírói hivatal, járásbíróság). Trianon után a Szerb-Horvát-Szlovén Királysághoz került. – A szerk.]. Rózsi sokkal fiatalabb volt, mint a férje, és őrá volt bízva a gyerek nevelése. Nagyon jó körülmények között éltek Jugoszláviában.

Mariska néni Szabadkán élt, ami a háború utáni években Jugoszláviához tartozott. Volt egy Faragó nevű férje, aki zsidó volt és akitől – ez annak idején nagy szenzáció volt – elvált. A férj foglalkozását nem tudom, de született két fiuk, Faragó Pista és Faragó Bandi, és egy lányuk, Faragó Ella, akik mikor a mamájukat később elvette Tordai Izsó, egy ügyvéd, még nagyon kis gyerekek voltak, és így Tordai Izsó bácsi vezényletével nevelődtek fel. Ella újságíró volt, Jugoszláviában, többek között Szabadkán, Zomborban és azt hiszem, Újvidéken írt újságokba. Sok éven keresztül vezetett egy lelki klinika jellegű rovatot Hella néven – Havas Emilnek hívták a férjét – és írói körökben forgolódott egész életében.

Az apai dédapám mestersége cipész volt. Gunst Izraelnek hívták, Albertirsán született [A dédapa idejében ez még Irsa község volt, Pest-Pilis-Solt vm.-ben, majd csak 1950-ben egyesítették Alberti községgel, és ekkor jött létre Albertirsa. – A szerk.], és ott is dolgozott. Tizenegy gyermeke lett, az első jó néhány gyermek még Irsán született, majd dédapám, ki tudja, milyen oknál fogva, átköltözött Szentesre, és attól kezdve ott volt a műhelye és kereskedése. Nemcsak méretre készített, hanem raktárra is, és árusított. Közben felnevelte a tizenegy gyermeket, akik között óriási korkülönbség volt, tehát egyesek már felnőttek voltak, és kikerültek a házból, mire az utolsó gyerek is megszületett. Az érdekesség az, hogy tízen voltak fiúk és csak egyetlen lány. A nagyapám csak pár testvérével tartotta a kapcsolatot, valószínűleg velük sem szorosan, úgyhogy a legtöbbjükről semmit sem tudunk.

A legfiatalabb gyermek, Berti híres lett, viszonylagos híresség persze. Kossuth Lajos, akit a szabadságharc leverése után száműztek, élete utolsó részében Olaszországban, Torino mellett élt, és készült megírni az emlékiratait [Kossuth 1849 augusztusában lemondott kormányzóelnöki tisztéről, és Törökországba emigrált. 1865-től 1894-ig, haláláig élt Torinóban. – A szerk.]. Ehhez szüksége volt egy titkárra, aki a nyersanyagokat előkeríti, és fordítani is tud. Kossuth a pesti összeköttetésein keresztül kérte, hogy kerítsenek neki egy belevaló fiatalembert. A jogász végzettségű és akkor valamelyik pesti lapnál külső munkatársként dolgozó Berti bácsit kérték fel, aki kiment hozzá, és három évig volt Kossuth titkára, ez alatt készültek el az emlékiratok [1879–1883 között volt Gunst Bertalan Kossuth Lajos titkára. – A szerk.]. A szentesi gimnáziumban – mert abba a bizonyos gimnáziumba járt, amibe később apám, majd még később én is – az évkönyvekben meg is van említve mint régi híres tanítvány: Gunst Bertalan, Kossuth Lajos titkára. Berti bácsi akkor nősülendő fiatalemberként Londonban lakott, és elvett egy budapesti lányt feleségül, mégis olyan mértékben ragaszkodott a szentesi mivoltához, hogy Szentesen volt az esküvőjük, és ezt a városban számon is tartották. A családunk általában ennyire ragaszkodik a gyökereihez.

Nagyapám egy másik testvére Henrik bácsi volt. Nagyon érdekes ennek a Henrik bácsinak a története. Gunst Joachim, majd Henrik – vagy ahogy később hívta magát: Henri Horn – festőművész lett, és külföldön élt. Élete kisebb részét Olaszországban, nagy részét Franciaországban töltötte mint festőművész. Egyfajta bohém ember lett, akinek három felesége volt  Az első és második feleségétől született egy-egy gyereke, a harmadiktól, akit ötvenéves korában vett el feleségül, pedig négy. Ez utóbbi hölgy huszonvalahány éves volt, szóval óriási korkülönbség volt közöttük. E házasságból négy gyermek született. Az első három 1900 és 1904 között, az utolsó 1915-ben, tehát Henri hatvanhat éves korában. A fiút Pierre-nek hívják, ők már teljesen elfranciásodtak természetesen, és a Pierre velem egykorú. Egyszer egy párizsi telefonkönyvben felfedeztük. Én tudtam, hogy a Henrik bácsi a Horn nevet vette fel, és ezen a néven futott mint festőművész. Valamit kerestem a postán a telefonkönyvből, és megláttam ezt a nevet: Gunst-Horn. Csak ez lehet, a Gunst is meg a Horn is stimmelt. Később aztán felvettem vele a kapcsolatot, és akkor kiderült, hogy ennek a Pierre-nek is van több gyermeke, és az egyik, Olivier, aki 1947-ben született, Közép-Franciaországban valahol római katolikus püspök lett. Ennyit egy magyar zsidó család sorsáról. Szerintem ez egy nagyon jó kis történet.

Apai nagypapámat Gunst Lipótnak hívták. Amennyire én láttam a születési anyakönyvi kivonatát, ott Leopold néven volt anyakönyvezve, de a Lipót név szerepelt például az üzleten lévő feliraton. A nagymamám pedig Paszternák Emília volt, aki közeli rokonságban állt Joe Pasternakkal, a híres filmessel Hollywoodban [Joe Pasternak (Paszternák Jakab) (Szilágysomlyó, 1901 – USA, 1990) – az amerikai film egyik legsikeresebb producere. 1921-ben vándorolt ki Amerikába. Legendás karrierje a Paramountnál kezdődött, és az Universalnál folytatódott. 1928-tól a Deutschen Universal produkciós igazgatója volt. 1936-ban tért vissza az Egyesült Államokba. Az 1942–1966 között a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayernél működött. – A szerk.]. Őt sosem láttuk, nem is leveleztek, de a családi kapcsolat elég közismert volt. A nagymamám 1849-ben született, a nagyapám pedig Irsán született, 1844-ben.

Szentesen körülbelül öt-hatszáz zsidó lakott, és mind közepesen vallásosak voltak. Tőlünk nyolcvan kilométerre volt Makó, ott sokkal intenzívebb zsidó élet folyt. Makón volt ortodox és neológ templom is, és ott több ezer zsidó élt [Makón egyébként mintegy háromszor annyi zsidó élt az 1920-as években, mint Szentesen, Szentesen kb. 650-en voltak, Makón 1900–2000 főt számlált a hitközség. – A szerk.]. Ehhez képest a szentesi zsidó közösség jóval kisebb jelentőséggel bírt. A város maga körülbelül ugyanakkora volt, mint Makó, és a környéke is hasonló volt [Makón 1920-ban 37 100, 1930-ban 35 800 fő élt, Szentesen pedig 32–33 000 fő. – A szerk.]. De a szentesi zsidóság elég asszimilált életet élt. Egy nagyon szép zsinagógája volt, ami egyébként most a városi könyvtár. Működött zsidó hitközség, aminek az apám volt az alelnöke, majd elnöke. Természetesen működött Hevra Kadisa, ami a temetési ügyeket intézte (a temető gyönyörű szép volt), és Malbis Arumim Egyesület, ami a szegények javára jótékonysági tevékenységet végzett [A malbis arumim feladata a szegény családok gyermekeinek ruhával való ellátása, tüzelő biztosítása a téli időszakra és egyéb más karitatív tevékenységek. – A szerk.], és volt zsidó Nőegylet, aminek az anyám is volt a vezetője. Bár a hitközségben mindenki mindenkivel jóban volt, a belső választások idején nagy csaták folytak, mert ekkor dőlt el, hogy ki lesz az elnök, aki azután a saját embereiből alakíthatta meg az adókivető bizottságot, s ez a pártfogoltjaira mindig kevesebb adót vetett ki. A hitközségi adót annak idején közadók módjára szedték be, tehát kötelező volt fizetni. Főleg emiatt voltak harcok, és emiatt volt két párt a hitközségben.

Azt tudom, hogy az első világháború előtt folyamatosan volt rabbi Szentesen. A két világháború között már hol volt, hol nem volt. Az a rabbi, aki akkor tevékenykedett Szentesen, amikor én születtem, azután elment a városból, és akkor jó ideig nem volt rabbi. Például amikor én bár micvó voltam tizenhárom éves koromban, azaz 1929-ben, akkor Szentesen már évek óta nem szolgált rabbi, és a szüleim kérésére ugyanez a rabbi jött le Pestről, ahol állása volt, Szentesre, hogy a bár micvómat vezesse. De utána még évekig nem volt a városunkban rabbi, majd éveken át egy Kohn Zoltán nevű rabbinövendéket pátyolgatott, szponzorált a szentesi hitközség, aki azt később rútul cserbenhagyta. Amikor rabbi lett, tett az egészre, és sosem láttuk többé. És utána megint évekig kutattak rabbi után, és egy Würdiger József nevű rabbink lett, aki később Berendre magyarosította a nevét, és még a gettósítás idején is megőrizte a hivatalát. Tanító mindig volt, és ő volt egyben mindig a hitközségi titkár is. És volt mellette samesz. Nem volt azonban kóser mészárszék. Az Ungár bácsi járt a házakhoz, ő volt a sakter és a samesz is egy személyben. Volt olyan is, hogy hozzá vitték az állatokat.

Apámék hatan voltak testvérek. A legidősebb Ernő, majd Helén néni, aztán jött Maca néni – Matild volt a keresztneve –, aztán jött Regina. Apám következett, végül László, aki fiatalon, tizenhat évesen halt meg 1899-ben, az ő emlékére neveztek el engem Lászlónak. Apám 1880-ban született, Szentesen, a gimnáziumot is ott végezte el. Akkor még a szentesi gimnázium a debreceni református gimnáziumnak volt az algimnáziuma, és csak hat osztályos volt [lásd: gimnázium és egyéb középiskolák]. Aki hetedik, nyolcadik osztályba is akart járni, annak Debrecenbe kellett mennie befejezni a tanulmányait. Apám nem ment, hat gimnáziummal beérte. Hogy miért nem fejezte be a tanulmányait, annak valamikor tudtam is az okát, de most nem jut eszembe.

A lánytestvérei mind művelt hölgyek voltak, de hogy mit tanultak, milyen iskolákat végeztek, nem tudom. Helén néni Kolozsvárra ment férjhez. Azt hiszem, meghalt az első férje, és később újból megházasodott. A második férje, Weisz József férfiszabó volt Kolozsvárott. Maca néni Hódmezővásárhelyen volt férjnél, a férje vezetékneve Schenk volt, a keresztnevét nem tudom. Helén néni révén, aki akkor már Kolozsvárott élt, Maca néninek a válása után szereztek ott egy másik férjet, akinek a neve Roth volt. Annyira jó házasság lett, hogy a férfi még Maca néni akkor már meglévő három gyermekét, Istvánt, Margitot és Györgyöt is adoptálta. Regina Szentesen ment férjhez, és ott szülte a gyermekeket, majd a legutolsó gyerek, Gyuri születésekor meghalt, és ekkor ott maradt négy gyermekkel a papa. A nagyszüleim a kisgyereket magukhoz vették, hogy levegyék a terhet az özvegyen maradt férfiről. Ernő nagybátyám bányamérnök lett, Rózsaszentmártonba került, és az ottani szénbányában dolgozott mérnökként, majd végül az egész bánya igazgatója lett [Rózsaszentmárton – nagyközség volt Heves vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1100, 1920-ban 1700 lakossal. – A szerk.]. Ott halt meg betegségben, még a háború előtt. Mivel apám öccse, László meghalt, így Szentesen csak apám maradt, és ő vette át nagyapámtól az üzlet vezetését.

A nagypapa először szatócs volt Szentesen, majd egyre fejlesztve, a végén vas- és műszaki kiskereskedő lett belőle. Tehát a fűszer, az ostornyél és ilyesmik, amiket kezdetben árult, szépen eltünedeztek onnan, és maradt a vas-edény áru, kibővítve a műszaki cikkekkel, tehát kocsialkatrészekkel, asztalosszerszámokkal, asztalos- és kovácsműhelyekhez tartozó felszerelésekkel. Később, mikor a bicikli elterjedt, akkor a kerékpár is jól menő cikk lett. És volt persze zománcedény, daráló, kés, olló, minden ilyesmi. Az üzlet a Postával szemben, a Fő tértől a negyedik házban volt. Nem ott nyitotta meg az első kereskedését, hanem valahol a Kisérben, ami Szentes egy külső városrésze [Mint később szó lesz róla, 1943-ban ünnepelték a vaskereskedés fennállásának 75. évfordulóját, tehát a nagyapa 1868-ban, 24 éves korában nyitotta meg az üzletet. – A szerk.]. Aztán, gondolom, fokozatosan került oda, ahol már én is születtem, és ahol ez az üzlet is volt. Amire én már emlékszem, az egy nyolcvan-száz négyzetméteres helyiség volt. Számos raktár volt a földszinten és nagy pinceraktár a föld alatt, összességében lehetett olyan kétszázötven négyzetméter. Mikor nagypapa kezdett megöregedni, apám átvette tőle a boltot, úgyhogy én főleg erre az időszakra emlékszem. Ekkor mintegy négy alkalmazottjuk lehetett. Apám nagyon szorgalmas ember volt. Minden este hétkor zártuk az üzletet. Annak idején úgy volt, hogy reggel héttől tizenkettőig, majd kettőtől hétig volt nyitva tartás, a kettő között pedig, tizenkettőtől kettőig déli szünetet tartottak, úgyhogy apám elfoglaltsága is e szerint alakult. Szombaton is nyitva volt a bolt [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma], és egy időben vasárnap is – először délig, azután később héttől tíz óráig [Az üzleti zárórát először az 1913. évi XXXVI. törvénycikk rendelkezései szabályozták, ezek értelmében a kötelező záróra általában este 8 órától reggel 6 óráig tartott, s ez a rendelkezés természetesen a családtagok által működtetett üzletekre is vonatkozott. A törvényhatóságok és rendezett tanácsú városok a törvény korlátai között eltérően is szabályozhatták az üzleti zárórát. A szabályok megszegése kihágásnak minősült. – A szerk.]. A környékről nem szereztünk be soha árut. Már a nagypapám vezetése alatt is apám utazott beszerzésre. Szállítóink voltak például a Weiss Manfréd gyár, de számos más cégtől is vásároltunk, az akkori legnagyobb kereskedőktől Budapesten. Szentesen egyetlen hasonló méretű konkurencia létezett, a Horváthék, míg a külső városrészekben voltak kisebb hasonló kereskedések, de ezek már inkább vegyeskereskedés jellegűek voltak, és többnyire a nagyapám üzletéből kikerült, önállósult segédek vezették őket. Egy se volt közülük zsidó, a konkurencia, a Horváthék sem azok voltak. Ilyen jellegű zsidó üzlet, mint a miénk, nem volt több Szentesen.

Volt egy nagy-nagy beírókönyv, amibe felírták a hitelbe vásárlásokat. Voltak olyan vevők – Szentes mezőgazdasági vidék volt, a legtöbben tanyai, környéki falubeli gazdálkodók voltak –, akiknek ősszel volt jövedelmük, úgyhogy sokan csak egyszer fizettek egy évben, a nyári betakarítás után, amikor a búzából meg egyéb terményekből pénzhez jutottak. Szentes megyeszékhely volt, ahol nagy hivatali és iskolai élet is folyt [Szentesen egy állami polgári leányiskola volt és egy főgimnázium, amelyből később reálgimnázium lett. Lásd: polgári iskola; gimnázium és egyéb középiskolák. – A szerk.], így voltak olyan vevők is, hivatalnokok például, akik havonta kaptak fizetést, és ilyenkor fizettek. De azt lehet mondani, hogy a vevőknek legalább az ötven százaléka hitelbe vásárolt, s a legtöbb fizetett is később, a megbeszélt időben. Nagyon ritkán fordult elő, hogy követelni vagy pereskedni kellett volna. Becsületes népek voltak a vásárlóink. Nem volt aláírva, hogy milyen árut vittek el, egyszerűen csak be lett diktálva. És amikor fizetni jött ősszel a gazda, elhitte, hogy mi nem írtunk be mást, mi meg elhittük, hogy fizetni fog. Ezek ilyen patriarchális idők voltak akkor, még a két világháború között is ez volt a jellemző.

Apám úgy került össze anyámmal, hogy Maca nénihez, aki [akkoriban] Hódmezővásárhelyen volt férjnél, az apám mint fiatalember átjárt. Ott ismerte meg akkor anyámat. Lehet, hogy „összehozás” is szerepet játszott a dologban [lásd: házasságközvetítő, sádhen], ezt persze nem tudom. Volt egy nővérem, aki még az én születésem előtt meghalt, két és fél éves korában, skarlátban. Évának hívták, 1912-ben született.

Mikor kitört az első világháború, apám ugyan már harmincnégy éves volt, de így is rögtön behívták. Arra is emlékszem, hogy a lugosi – Lugos [Krassó-Szörény vm.] ma Romániához tartozik – ezredhez került. A lugosi ezredet vitték aztán ki Szerbiába, apám az egész háborút ott töltötte Dalmáciában és a környékén, egészen a végleges visszavonulásig. Négy évig folyamatosan távol volt, bár időnként szabadságra engedték. Én nem otthon „készültem”, hanem Belgrádban. Apám szabadságot kapott, de nagyon rövidet, és mivel előre tudták, hogy mikor, anyám leutazhatott Belgrádba, és ott egy laktanyának a tiszti szállásán – apám mint zászlós tiszt vonult be, és a végén századosként szerelt le – találkozhattak, együtt töltöttek egy pár napot, és ott „készültem” 1916 februárjában.

Nagyanyámnak, Paszternák Emíliának két nővére is volt Szentesen férjnél. A Betti néni és a Lina néni. Mikor én megszülettem, az unokatestvéremet, Gyurit küldték el, hogy gyűjtse össze a családot. Otthon születtem gyertyafény mellett, mert este kilenckor megszűnt a villanyszolgáltatás, és én hajnali háromnegyed egykor jöttem világra. Bábaasszony volt az anyám mellett, és hívták a Lőwy doktor bácsit is, hogy segítsen, ő egy idős orvos volt, hiszen a fiatal orvosok mind a háborúban voltak. Kérték Gyurit arra is, hogy keltse fel a Betti nénit, hogy jöjjön oda hozzánk. Betti néninek műfogsora volt, és a nagy zűrzavarban otthon felejtette, úgy jött oda engem ünnepelni. Ez húsz éven át beszédtéma volt nálunk.

Mikor körül lettem metélve, apám nem volt még otthon, táviratoztak neki, hamar haza is jött. A tisztikar, amelynek tagja volt, éppen valahol Dalmáciában állomásozott, és egy nagy hercegi vagy fejedelmi kastélyban volt elszállásolva. Mikor megtudták, hogy én megszülettem, elhappoltak egy gyönyörű szép albumot, ami a fejedelmi családnak a tagjait ábrázolta, és ezt küldték nekem ajándékba a tiszttársak. Ekkor még nem lett eldöntve, hogy engem hogy fognak hívni, apám tehát a születésem után annyira hamar jött haza, hogy még nevet sem kaptam [Rendes körülmények között a körülmetélésre az újszülött fiú nyolcnapos korában kerül sor, és ekkor kap nevet is a gyerek. Egyébként a hagyomány szerint az anya joga a név megválasztása. Lásd még: névadás. – A szerk.].

Együtt laktunk a nagyszüleimmel. A lakás az üzlettel együtt egy saroképületben volt. A sarokrészben az üzlet és a raktárak álltak, az ötszobás lakás pedig a Petőfi utcai frontra nézett. Az egyik unokatestvéremet, Regina nagynéném legkisebb gyermekét a nagyszüleim nevelték, az övé volt az egyik szoba az ötből, apáméké három, a nagyszüleimé pedig egy, ami óriási volt, közvetlenül az üzlet mellett nyílt. Polgári módon laktunk, ma úgy mondanám. Szép bútoraink voltak, és festmények a falon. A festmények és a bútorok is mind eltűntek 1944-ben. Arra emlékszem, hogy voltak Koszta József képeink is. Az akkor nagy érték volt [Koszta József  (1861--1949), az ún. alföldi iskola jelentős alakja. Nagybányán, Szolnokon, majd Szentes környéki tanyáján élt. -- A szerk.].

Akkor lett saját szobám, amikor Gyuri tizenkilenc-húsz éves korában elkerült otthonról – a numerus clausus miatt Olaszországban sikerült csak a doktorátust elvégeznie, orvos lett végül [lásd: egyetemi tanulmányok és a numerus clausus]. Amíg nem volt külön szobám, a szüleimmel aludtam együtt.

Sok könyvünk volt otthon. Volt egy nagy könyvszekrény az akkor divatos könyvekkel, mint a korabeli magyar klasszikusok, Jókai, Mikszáth, Gárdonyi. Csak magyar, francia vagy német nyelvű könyvekre emlékszem, egy héber nyelvű sem volt köztük. Az „Újság”-ra fizettünk elő, ami akkor liberálisnak mondható lap volt. Aztán előfizetői voltunk a „Múlt és Jövő”-nek. Engem kiskoromban előfizettek a „Remény”-re. Járt nekünk a „Színházi Élet” – azt anyám olvasta –, valamint az „Új Idők” [„Újság” – „Az Újság” c. liberális szellemű politikai napilap utóda. „Az Újság” 1903-ban indult, főszerkesztője (1919-ig) Gajári Ödön volt. A Tanácsköztársaság alatt, 1919 májusában betiltották, és csak ősszel indult újra. 1925-ben a belügyminiszter ismét betiltotta „Az Újság”-ot, és néhány hét szünet után ekkor indult újra „Újság” címmel. A munkatársak között volt Mikszáth Kálmán, Herczeg Ferenc, Kozma Andor, később Móricz Zsigmond is. 1944 márciusában szűnt meg. „Színházi Élet” – 1912 és 1938 között megjelent népszerű képes hetilap volt sok színes tudósítással a korabeli színházi és filmvilág életéről. Rendszeresen közölte egy-egy bemutatott színdarab szövegét is. Incze Sándor alapította és szerkesztette Harsányi Zsolttal közösen. „Új Idők” – képes szépirodalmi hetilap volt, a művelt középosztály lapja. Alapító főszerkesztője Herczeg Ferenc volt, munkatársai között a kor divatos írói szerepeltek. A lap közölt folytatásos regényeket, volt családi és gyermekrovata is. – A szerk.]. Apámnak járt még a „Magyar Vaskereskedő” és az Országos Magyar Kereskedelmi Egyesület szakmai lapja is [Az egyesületről a Révai Nagylexikonban az alábbiak olvashatók: Országos Magyar Kereskedelmi Egyesülés (O. M. K. E.) – „1904-ben alakult Sándor Pál országgyűlési képviselő kezdeményezésére, azzal a céllal, hogy az ország összes kereskedőit egyesítse, azok érdekeit minden téren megvédje, a kereskedelemnek a törvényhozásra s a közéletre befolyást biztosítson, a kereskedelmi osztály tevékenysége elleni támadásokat visszautasítsa s általában a kereskedelemellenes irányzatot visszaszorítsa. Működési köre a kereskedelem minden ágazatára kiterjed.” – A szerk.].

Az első időkben, mikor még nagy volt a család, és az unokatestvéremmel, valamint a nagyszüleimmel összesen hatan éltünk együtt, akkor volt egy szakácsnőnk és egy szobalányunk is, ez a személyzet később egy főre csökkent. A szakácsnő, azt hiszem, hogy a nagyanyám felügyelete alatt főzte a kóser kosztot. Anyám a háztartásban dolgozott, és amikor ott éppen nem volt dolga, akkor az üzletben segített, beült a pénztárba. Ahogy a nagymamám öregedett, anyámnak fokozatosan kellett átvennie tőle a háztartást. De ez biztos, hogy nem ment simán; amit előttem ugyan nagymértékben titkoltak, de mindenesetre nagy torzsalkodások folyhattak a háztartás vezetése körül. A piacra, amely csak néhány háznyira volt tőlünk a főtéren, anyám járt. Garabollyal a karján ment, sokszor két garabollyal. Ez szentesi műszó, a karra akasztható [ovális] kosarat hívják így. Más vidéken nem nagyon hallottam ezt a szót. Néha ment vele a cselédlány, amikor látszott, hogy sok lesz neki egyedül. Mikor több állatot kellett levágni, akkor kijött hozzánk a sakter, amikor csak egyet kellett, akkor mi mentünk hozzá.

Anyámék elég kiterjedt társasági életet éltek. Sok közeli és távolabbi barátjuk volt. Apám hitközségi, anyám nőegyleti elnök volt, szóval benne voltak a társaság sűrűjében. Egy héten kétszer-háromszor vacsora után, nyolc-fél kilenc körül jöttek a vendégek, vagy a szüleim mentek valahova. A baráti kör száz százalékig zsidó volt, még a háziorvosunk, a városi főorvos is kitért zsidó volt.

Mivel apám többnyire hitközségi funkcionárius volt, minden péntek este és szombaton is járt templomba. Ilyenkor anyám volt a boltban, nagyobb koromban már én. Apám azt mondta, hogy tud imádkozni. Volt tálesze, de soha nem láttam őt, mondjuk, teffilinben [lásd: tfilin]. Diákként nekem is részt kellett vennem a reggeli istentiszteleten. Nehezen jött össze még a tíz fő is [lásd: minján], ezért mi, akik diákok, tehát tizenhárom éven felüliek voltunk, mindig be voltunk osztva egy-egy szombat reggeli imánál. Hét közben is kellett menni, és ilyenkor fel kellett csatolni a teffilint. Az az érzésem, hogy apám jóval vallásosabb lett volna, de anyám volt a spiritus rectora annak, hogy egyre inkább a vallástalanság felé tolódtunk el.

A nagy zsidó ünnepeken, Ros Hásánákor vagy hosszúnapkor [lásd: Jom Kipur] zárva volt az üzlet. Lehet, hogy Pészahkor vagy Sávuotkor is, erre nem emlékszem határozottan. De a három nagy ünnepnapon zárva voltunk, és biztos, hogy mentünk templomba. Jom Kipurkor félnapos böjtökkel kezdtem, tehát először kora estétől másnap ebédig kellett böjtölnöm. Ez lehetett olyan nyolcéves koromban, két-három évig tartott ez a félböjt, és attól kezdve egész napos böjtöt kellett tartanom [A gyerekeknek a bár micvójuk / bát micvájuk után kell a felnőttekhez hasonlóan egész nap böjtölniük, addig fél napot böjtölnek. – A szerk.]. Ez még akkor is így volt, amikor már leszoktunk a kóser háztartásról. Egyszer, mikor Jom Kipur másnapján, az ünnep végeztével mentünk haza este a templomból, az egész család sietős léptekre késztette a nagyapámat, mert mindenki éhes volt. Azt hiszem, utána rögtön beteg is lett, úgyhogy azt mondták, hogy emiatt halt meg.

Mindig közösen étkeztünk. A péntek esti vacsoránál égett a két gyertya [lásd: gyertyagyújtás]. Sólet biztosan volt, töltött halat [lásd: halételek] sosem ettünk, mert anyám nem szerette, úgyhogy az akkor sem volt, amikor még közös háztartásban éltünk a nagyszülőkkel. És arra is emlékszem, hogy Gyurinak, az unokatestvéremnek volt egy idősebb nővére, aki a férjével együtt egy üvegkereskedést vezetett Szentesen. A férje valahonnan a Nyírségből került Szentesre, ennélfogva vallásosabb volt még húsz-harminc százalékkal, mint a többiek, és fontosabb is volt számukra, hogy a zsidó élettel kapcsolatos szokásokat betartsák. Náluk például a péntek esti vacsora mindig ünnepélyesebb volt. Erre mindig meghívták a szentesi zsidó tanítót, aki viszont Hajdúdorogról származott, ahol szintén erőteljes zsidó élet volt. Amikor már nagyobb voltam, én is minden péntek este náluk vacsoráztam.

Nálunk nem volt sátor Szukotkor, de Szentesen egyes helyeken állítottak. Nekünk a vaskereskedés miatt kikövezett udvarunk volt, ahová a nagykapun keresztül a nagy stráfkocsik, szállítókocsik beálltak, és ahol meg is tudtak fordulni. Ott rakták le a vasúton érkezett árukat. Úgyhogy nálunk nem is volt alkalmas a hely, hogy sátrat állítsunk fel. A felmenőim, ha annyira vallásosak lettek volna, akkor lehet, hogy ki tudtak volna találni valami megoldást arra, hogy a kocsik ne jöjjenek be, hanem kint az utcán álljanak meg, és úgy rakodjanak. De nem így történt.

Hanukagyertyákat mindig gyújtottunk annak idején gyerekkoromban. Emlékszem, Hanukakor kisebb édességet vagy más apróságot ajándékoztunk egymásnak. Említettem az orvosunkat, aki kitért zsidó volt. Erdélyből jött félzsidó felesége volt, és két gyereke, egy fiú meg egy lány. A velem egykorú fiával sokat voltam együtt, amikor gimnáziumba jártunk, bár nem tartozott a legjobb barátaim közé. Ők nagy karácsonyt tartottak, és később, tizenvalahány éves koromban úgy alakult, hogy karácsony esti vacsora után, mi, hármasban a szüleimmel átmentünk hozzájuk, és ott töltöttük az estét. Ekkor apám nekem is vett ajándékokat, merthogy náluk a két gyerek kapott, és nem akarta, hogy hátrányban érezzem magam. Emlékszem olyan karácsonyra is, hogy anyámmal együtt már készültünk a vacsorára, apám egy kis csengővel jött be, és úgy hozta az ajándékot, mint egy Jézuska. Derültünk, nevettünk, szóval nem vettük mi a karácsonyt komolyan, nekünk nem volt ez ünnep. A vonatot nagyon szerettem, általában olyan jellegű ajándékokat kaptam, ami vonattal függött össze: kisvonatot, sínhálózatot, nagyobb vonatot, beleülni való mozdonyt. És aztán építőjátékokat, Matadort – ez egy fa építőjáték, amit össze lehetett rakni, mint a legót. És volt később a Märklin, amelyik fém összerakó volt [Märklin – a 19. század vége óta Göppingenben gyártott és világszerte elterjedt fém konstrukciós játék, amelynek perforált elemeit csavarral lehetett összekötni. Nevét az üzem alapítójáról Eugen Märklinről kapta. A cég vezető szerepet játszott a játékvasutak, illetőleg vonatmodellek előállításában is. – A szerk.]. Könyveket is kaptam.

Purimi játék [purimspiel] nem volt, de purimbál igen, amelyet mindig a zsidó nőegylet rendezett, és ezek nagy bálok voltak. És volt a slahmónesz [lásd: Purim], amikor a hat-nyolc legjobb barátunknak süteményeket és kuglófokat küldtünk, és mi is kaptunk tőlük. Széder is volt, de lényegében az is megszűnt a nagyszüleim halálával. Viszont a már említett nyírségi eredetű Grünstein Jenőnél rendeztek széderestéket [Grünstein Jenő felesége Galla László apai nagynénjének a lánya volt. – A szerk.]. Mindig a szüleim nélkül mentem, de szívesen jártam oda.

Gyerekkoromból emlékszem egy óriási nagy négyszögletes ebédlőasztalra, ami a nagyszüleim szobájában volt. Széder idején a család minden tagja összegyűlt, azaz a nagyszüleim, a szüleim, a Gyuri és én, illetve az esetleg éppen ott tartózkodó valamilyen testvér, rokon – a nagyapámék tizenegyen voltak testvérek, tehát mindig volt nálunk valamilyen vendég –, úgyhogy ezek nagy széderesték voltak. Amennyire emlékszem, minimum nyolcan ültünk az asztalnál, és a nagyapám mondta a Hagadát. A Hagadában benne voltak a tennivalók, és emlékszem, mindent végigcsináltunk. Amíg a nagyszülők éltek, addig volt takarítás Pészahkor [lásd: homecolás], és volt külön étkészlet is.

Amíg együtt éltünk az apai nagyszüleimmel, kóser háztartást vittünk, abban a pillanatban, amikor apai nagyanyám meghalt, ő halt meg később, anyám vezényletével letértünk a kóser kosztról. Ez nem azt jelenti, hogy disznózsírral kezdtünk főzni, de nem tartottuk be teljesen a tejes–zsíros elkülönítési szabályokat [lásd: étkezési törvények]. Szóval az egész család, amennyire tudom, könnyen átlépett a zsidó vallás szabályain. Vallásosság a felfogásban volt: a tisztességben, a mások iránti tiszteletben, szeretetben, jótékonyságban, empátiában. Ezek a kiváló erkölcsi tulajdonságok, amiket viszont mindenütt észleltem a saját családomban, mutatták szerintem a vallásosságot, és nem az, hogy ismeretlen imákat mormolunk, vagy betartunk mindenféle előírást.

Semmilyen termelővel vagy boltossal vagy azokkal, akik Szabadkán vagy Kolozsvárott laktak, soha nem beszéltünk másként, mint magyarul. Annak ellenére, hogy ez utóbbiak elcsatolt vidékek voltak [lásd: trianoni békeszerződés], ott is mindenki magyar volt, velük is így beszéltünk. Apám németül is jól beszélt. Anyukám is tudott németül, de franciául, sőt olaszul is. Anyám nagyon szerette a nyelveket. Olaszul például már olyan jó ötvenéves korában tanult, mert olasz nyelvtanfolyamot szerveztek Szentesen. Akkoriban Mussolinivel nagyon jóban voltunk, úgyhogy az olasz nagyon kultivált nyelvvé vált.

Óvodába nem jártam, otthon neveltek. Szentesen volt zsidó elemi, oda jártam én is négy évig. Az elemi négy osztályos volt, és egy teremben tanult mind a négy évfolyam, mert olyan kevés gyerek volt csak, összesen harminc körüli lehetett a tanulók száma. Ugyanaz volt a tananyag, mint a többi iskolákban, ezt onnan is tudom, hogy a városi tanulmányi versenyeken részt tudtunk venni, és a zsidó iskola jobb tanulói mindig kitűnően végeztek.

Elemi után jött az állami gimnázium, ami nyolc osztályos volt. Tanultam nyolc évig latinul, hét évig németül és négy évig franciául [Azaz reálgimnáziumba járt. Lásd: gimnázium és egyéb középiskolák. – A szerk.]. Később vettem még angol magánórákat is. Kötelező hittan is volt. Volt egy külön tanterem, amire az volt kiírva, hogy „görögpótló tanterem”, még abból az időből, mikor görögül is kellett tanulni, és ott tartották a zsidó hittanórát. Volt külön katolikus hittanterem is, a reformátusok pedig az osztályban tanultak. A katolikusok voltak többen, bár Szentes eléggé református város volt [1920-ban a város lakóinak 47,6%-a volt református és 47,4%-a katolikus. Az összes többi felekezetre mindössze 5% jutott. – A szerk.]. A reformátusok voltak a jobb módúak, a középosztálybeliek. Evangélikusok is voltak páran, nekik a saját papjukhoz kellett hittanórára menniük. Abszurditásnak tartom, hogy a nélkül tanultuk a héber imákat, hogy héberül kellett volna tanulnunk. Senki sem akarta, a tanító sem, hogy értsük, hogy a „há-lájlá-háze” mit jelent. Kellett viszont héberül olvasnunk, sőt kívülről is megtanulnunk szövegeket. A legnagyobb értelmetlenség volt, de kötelező volt.

A gimnáziumban az első időkben A és B osztály volt. A mi osztályunkban hárman, a B osztályban, azt hiszem, ketten voltak zsidók, és hatodikban már az összevont osztályban is csak hárman voltunk olyan zsidó tanulók, akik érettségit tettünk. Semmi antiszemitizmust nem tapasztaltam, egyszer sem. Több ellentét, villongás volt a reformátusok és katolikusok között, mint a zsidók és nem zsidók között. A három zsidó közül Schiffer Pista kunszentmártoni volt, úgyhogy ővele csak a gimnáziumban találkoztam, soha azon kívül. A másik zsidó fiú, Polgár Imre az első elemitől kezdve jó barátom volt. Az elemiben mindig együtt ültünk, ő aztán a B osztályba került, de fenntartottuk a jó barátságot. Később orvos lett. Szegény, munkaszolgálatból szovjet hadifogságba került [Becslések szerint 20 000 és 30 000 fő között mozgott azoknak a zsidó munkaszolgálatosoknak a száma, akik szovjet hadifogságba estek. Lásd: zsidók szovjet hadifogságban. – A szerk.]. Már itt, Magyarország kellős közepén, Baján halt meg valamilyen járványban. Nem ő volt a legjobb barátom, de nagyon jóban voltunk. Többnyire nem zsidókkal barátkoztam, hiszen túl kevesen voltunk. Polgár Imre éppúgy a jó barátaim közé tartozott, mint az a félzsidó gyerek, az orvosunknak a fia, és még több nem zsidó fiú is. Nem volt téma, hogy ki zsidó, ki nem.

Az iskolán kívül tanultam gyorsírást, azután jártam külön vívásra is. Mindig szerettem sportolni, futballoztam, teniszeztem, pingpongoztam, még pingpongversenyt is nyertem, mikor olyan hetedikes-nyolcadikos gimnazista voltam. Sakkoztam is. Kirándulni nem jártunk, mert Szentesen semmi olyan nem volt, amit meg lehetett volna nézni, de strandra és uszodába gyakran mentünk. Volt Szentesen egy kis tizenöt méteres uszoda, kabinokkal körülvéve, a gőzfürdőnek egy melléküzemága volt, itt tanultam meg úszni – gőzfürdőbe nem mentem sosem, oda idősek jártak csak. 1932-ben, amikor tizenhat éves voltam, épült egy gyönyörű nagy uszoda, nagy parkkal körülvéve, attól kezdve nagy strandélet zajlott, és én annak mindennapos résztvevője voltam. Nyaranként ott folyt a társadalmi életünk.

Gyerekkoromban a cionizmus biztos, hogy nem volt téma Szentesen. Volt egy fogtechnikus, aki talán vidékről hozhatott magának egy vallásos segédet, és azt hiszem, hogy őtőle hallottam először azt a szót, hogy cionista. De hogy ennek mi a lényege, mivel is foglalkoznak, arról egy rendkívül vallásos zsidó fiatalembertől hallottam, aki a vasútnál volt mérnök. Nem szentesi volt, hanem huszonöt-harminc éves korában került oda, tehát hozta a vallásosságát. A vallás és a cionista ideológia is inkább kívülről szivároghattak be Szentesre [lásd: cionizmus; cionizmus 1938 és 1940 között Magyarországon].

Kiskoromtól kezdve jártam Pestre. Éltek ott távoli rokonaink, de nem miattuk mentünk csak, hanem apám járt fel árut beszerezni. Volt, hogy anyám és apám közösen utaztak, de csak akkor, ha módjuk volt otthagyni az üzletet. Én inkább csak anyámmal voltam Pesten. Az Astoria Szállóban laktunk mindig, és nagyon szerettem ott liftezni, úgyhogy az idegeire mentem a liftboyoknak, mert állandóan le és fel közlekedtem. Az Astoriával szemben egy szabadtéri mozi volt, a Márkus Park mozi, és a magas emeletekről remekül lehetett látni a filmeket a túloldalon, ha sikerült elérni, hogy azon a fronton és az ötödik emeleten lakjunk. A villamosokat is nagyon szerettem nézni. Általában nagyon szerettem Budapestet már akkor is, és mindig csodálkoztam azon a nagy forgalmon. Szentesen kevesen jártak-keltek az utcán, mindenki végezte a dolgát ott, ahol volt, és csak akkor ment a postára vagy vásárolni valahova, ha nagyon muszáj volt, nem volt ez az állandó nyüzsgés. Budapesten mindig csodálkoztam, hogy miért kell ennyi embernek állandóan az utcán lennie, ide-oda járnia, miért nem otthon ülnek, és teszik a dolgukat.

Nagyon sovány gyerek voltam, ezért anyám vitt ide-oda, hogy megtudja, hogy mi van velem. Nem volt semmi baj, csak úgy látszik, kevesebb étel is elég volt. Hogy hízzak, anyám elvitt egyszer Tátraházára, ami akkor Csehszlovákiához tartozott [A trianoni döntést követően került az egykori Szepes vm.-ben lévő, Késmárkhoz tartozó nyaralótelep és fürdő Csehszlovákiához. 670 méternyire van a tenger felett. – A szerk.]. Másmilyen nyaralásra nem emlékszem, de a szüleim sem igen jártak nyaralni. Az üzlet miatt nem tudtak elszabadulni, hiszen nem lehetett bezárni. Különösen nyáron, amikor a mezőgazdasági munkák miatt mindennap kellett valami, hol a locsolókanna ment tönkre Kovácséknál, hol Szabóék szekerének a kereke ment ki.

Nyaralni ugyan nem mentek a szüleim, de voltunk Szabadkán és Kolozsvárott, ezt a néhány napot nyilván mégis ki tudták venni, valahogy megoldották a helyettesítést. Szabadkai nagybátyámnak, az ügyvédnek volt Palicson – ez egy szép nyaralóhely Szabadka közelében – egy villája, voltam ott is [Palics – Szabadkához tartozó fürdő volt Bács-Bodrog vármegyében, egy 696 hektár területű tó partján. Trianon után a Szerb–Horvát–Szlovén Királysághoz került. – A szerk.]. A nagyszüleim olyan tízegynéhány éves koromban haltak meg, addig azért – habár a nagypapa már öreg volt, de – két-három-négy napra vagy éppen karácsonykor otthon lehetett őt hagyni. A karácsonyokat és a szilvesztereket is sokszor töltöttük Kolozsvárott, erről nagyon kellemes élményeim vannak. A nagybátyám, Helén néni férje férfiszabó volt. A lakásuk és a műhelyük a Fő téren volt egy bérházban, a műhely maga legalább három-négy helyiségből állt, segédek, inasok is voltak. A lakás közvetlenül a műhely mellett volt. Ráadásul a kolozsvári Magyar Színháznak is ő volt a szabója, így rendkívül jó viszonyban volt az ottani színészekkel. Egyszer egy esti szilveszteri előadás után kicsit már pityókásan odajöttek, és tartottak az ott lévő vendégseregnek, a nagybátyám baráti körének egy újabb előadást. Én fönt maradhattam éjfélig, esetleg éjfél utánig, és végignézhettem ezt a műsort. Remek kabarét rendeztek ott azon a szilveszter estén. Ezt nem felejtem el sosem.

1934-ben érettségiztem. Utána fel sem merült, hogy egyetemre menjek. Főleg azért, mert nem tudtam, hogy mi akarok lenni, csak annyit tudtam, hogy nem akarok vidéki vaskereskedő lenni, mint az apám. Egy ideig mégis erre kényszerültem. Apám, azt hiszem, hogy méla belenyugvással fogadta ezt a döntésemet. Azt szerette volna, ha az üzlet a végtelenségig megy, és fejlődik tovább. Apámat, aki a szakma egyik országosan legelismertebb személyisége volt, a Weiss Manfréd gyár tizenöt éven keresztül kapacitálta, hogy jöjjön fel Pestre, és legyen a gyár vaskereskedelmének a vezetője. Anyám is állandóan ezt forszírozta, és a végén, mikor a bajok jöttek, szemrehányást is tett magának, hogyha mi most Pesten laknánk, akkor nem történt volna apámmal az, ami történt. De apám semmi áron nem akarta otthagyni az üzletet, szerette, amit csinált, és örült volna, ha én viszem tovább a boltot.

Érettségi után egy kolozsvári unokabátyámhoz kerültem gyakornoknak, akinek akkor jól menő szállítmányozási vállalata volt, és nála dolgoztam nem túl hosszú ideig. Aztán felküldtek Pestre egy érettségi utáni tanfolyamra, ami nyolc hónapig tartott, és ahol – mai kifejezéssel – a kereskedelem menedzsmentjét tanították. Érettségi után körülbelül két évvel kerültem haza, vissza Szentesre, és attól kezdve, 1936-tól 1947-ig a boltban dolgoztam.

1936-ban húsz éves voltam, ez a legszebb fiúkor. Sokat jártam társaságba, de akkoriban már inkább csak zsidó körökben fordultam meg. Korábban, amikor középiskolás voltam, és együtt éltünk a keresztény fiúkkal, akkor természetesen velük töltöttem el sok időt. Akkoriban a legjobb barátom egy keresztény fiú volt, akivel nyolc évig jártam együtt iskolába. Aztán ő elment a Ludovikára, a katonai akadémiára, és katonatiszt lett belőle, úgyhogy ővele attól kezdve csak akkor találkoztam, ha szabadságra hazajött, akkor viszont mindig. Tartottuk a barátságot annak ellenére, hogy soha egy sor levelet nem váltottunk, de ha együtt voltunk, akkor éppen olyan jó barátok voltunk, mint annak előtte. Aztán jött a háború, és meg is halt, szegény, valahol Győr mellett [1989 novemberében a szentesi városi tanács emlékművet állított a város azon polgárainak emlékére, akik a második világháborúban vesztették életüket. Itt az áll, hogy Csalah János Imre – lásd a 15. képet – 1944-ben halt meg. – A szerk.].

A másik nagyon jó barátom, akivel egészen haláláig tartottam a barátságot, az a zsidó tanító volt, aki mint már említettem, ott volt a péntek estéken meg szédereken az unokanővéreméknél. A tanító, Klein – később Fábián – Miklós bátyja rabbi volt. Akkor vált a legjobb barátommá, amikor én Szentesre visszakerültem 1936-ban. Nálam hét évvel volt idősebb. Amikor ő húszéves korában Szentesre került, én tizenhárom éves voltam, és rendetlenkedtem a templomban, ő pedig odajött leszidni, mindennek elmondott, és végül kikergetett. De a köztünk lévő korkülönbségnek később már nem volt jelentősége, és attól kezdve ő lett a legjobb, egyetlen igazi barátom, minden gondunkat megosztottuk egymással. Munkaszolgálatosok is együtt voltunk. Szentesen nősült. Két gyerekük van, mindkettő pedagógus. Gyuri és Judit házasok, mindenki pedagógus a családban. Fábián Miklós a megyei tanács oktatási osztályán dolgozott mint vezetőhelyettes. S amikor a megyeszékhely Szentesről Hódmezővásárhelyre került [1883 és 1950 között Szentes volt Csongrád vármegye székhelye. -- A szerk.], akkor oda mentek lakni ők is, később pedig, az újabb megyeszékhely-változással  [1961] Szegedre költöztek. Az ő életpályája az volt, hogy a megyei tanács oktatási osztályán dolgozott, és ott halt meg Szegeden, 1995-ben.

Amikor Hitler 1933-ban uralomra került, ennek hatását a hétköznapokban még nem lehetett érezni. Természetesen hallottunk mindenfélét az újságokból és a rádióban, de valahogy nem gondoltuk komolynak. 1938-ban jött az első zsidótörvény, ami már befolyásolta az életünket [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon]. De nem sejtettük, ami később bekövetkezett. 1939-ig a normális kerékvágásban ment az élet, de akkor kitört a háború, és sok minden megváltozott, függetlenül a zsidó, nem zsidó volttól. 1940-ben én már munkaszolgálatos voltam, először három, majd két hónapig. Az 1940-es munkaszolgálatomat a nem sokkal azelőtt visszacsatolt Kárpátalján [lásd: Kárpátalja; Kárpátalja elfoglalása], Técsőn töltöttem három hónapig. Itt érdekes módon bőven akadtak olyan keresztények is, akiket politikailag megbízhatatlannak minősítettek [Munkaszolgálatra nemcsak zsidókat, hanem kommunistákat, szociáldemokratákat, illetőleg más szempontból politikailag megbízhatatlannak minősített embereket is beosztottak (vörös karszalagos muszosok, büntető muszosok). – A szerk.]. Técsőn tavasszal, április-május körül voltam, október-novemberben pedig Békés megyében, a román határ környékén lévő Okányba vezényeltek két hónapra, utána pedig leszereltek.

1941-ben otthon voltam, működött a vaskereskedés. Még később is megvolt, 1943-ban volt az üzlet fennállásának hetvenötödik évfordulója, ekkor apám csináltatott egy aranyszínű emblémát, amit a levélpapírokra raktunk fel, illetve a számlák sarkára is ráragasztottuk. Az emblémán az állt, hogy „Gunst Sándor vaskereskedés, 75 év”, és koszorú vette körül. Akkor fel sem merült bennünk, hogy egyszer abba kell majd hagynunk az egészet.

1942 elejétől folyamatosan munkaszolgálatos voltam. Egy rendkívül kellemetlen századparancsnokunk volt, de a beosztottai sokkal együtt érzőbben viselkedtek velünk. Senki nem halt meg a századból, amellyel végigjártuk Erdélyt, az Alföldet, a Dunántúlt. Baján ért bennünket a Szálasi hatalomátvétel 1945. október tizenötödikén [lásd: nyilas hatalomátvétel].

Egészen addig voltam munkaszolgálatos 1944-ben, amíg Hegyeshalomnál át nem adtak minket a németeknek, akkor azonban már nem munkaszolgálatosként, hanem deportáltként. Onnan egy kis ausztriai kerülővel Harkára vittek, később pedig Mauthausenba, ahol összesen talán két hetet voltunk. Harkán tankcsapdákat ástunk a határon az orosz tankoknak. Közel öt hónapot töltöttünk ott, 1945. március huszonnyolcadikán vittek tovább minket. Günskirchenben szabadultam fel 1945 májusában. Ezután Welsbe kerültünk, egy gyűjtőtáborba. Ekkor a Nemzetközi Vöröskereszt különböző rádiókon keresztül sugározta azoknak a nevét, akik valamilyen táborba kerültek. Ezt hallották meg valakik Szentesen, és lélekszakadva mentek anyámnak mondani, hogy élek. Welsben állandóan terjengtek a hírek, hogy most már megyünk haza. Megjelent ott egy Hiller nevű úr, aki agitált, hogy ne haza menjünk, hanem Izraelbe [akkor: Palesztina] vagy más nyugati országba. Engem érdekelt, hogy mi van otthon, mi van anyámmal és apámmal, úgyhogy nem is gondoltam ilyesmire. Augusztus elsején területcsere következtében az USA helyett szovjet fennhatóság alá kerültünk, s a hó közepén nyílt lehetőségem a hazatérésre, úgyhogy rögtön el is indultam, jórészt gyalog. Mint kiderült, a hely, ahol anyám deportálva volt, és Harka, ahol én voltam, összesen negyven kilométerre voltak egymástól, csak fogalmunk se volt egymás hollétéről.

Apámat nem sokkal a németek 1944. március tizenkilencediki bejövetele [lásd: Magyarország német megszállása] után elvitték. Akkoriban ő volt a hitközség elnöke, és más notabilitásokkal együtt őt is begyűjtötték a szentesi rendőrségre. Még sikerült benyújtania a fellebbezését az internálás miatt, hiszen természetesen ártatlannak tartotta magát, és tudta, hogy őt csak azért vitték be, mert könnyű volt rátalálni a hitközségen keresztül. Gondolni lehet, hogy mi lett annak a fellebbezésnek a sorsa, a következő héten már vitték is őt Auschwitzba, pontosabban Szentesről először Pestre, majd onnan Sárvárra és végül Auschwitzba került, ott pusztították el [Randolph L. Braham név szerint is megemlíti Gunst Sándort: állítása szerint a szentesi hitközség néhány más prominens tagjával együtt először Topolyára hurcolták, és az elsők között deportálták Auschwitzba. Lásd: Randolph L. Braham: A magyar Holocaust, Budapest, Gondolat, é. n. (1988). Közben, mint az interjúból kiderült, még megjárta Budapestet és Sárvárt is.– A szerk.]. Nagyon nehéz elkülöníteni, hogy miről mikor hallottam először. De azt hiszem, akkor nemigen tudtunk Auschwitzról. Apám írt levelezőlapokat még Pestről és Sárvárról is, amelyeket az anyám nemcsak magával vitt a gettóba és a deportálásba, de sikerült megőriznie és hazahoznia is őket.

Szentesen is volt gettó, és polémia folyt, hogy hol jelöljék ki a határait – erre természetesen nem volt sok idő. Beavatkozott a Turul Szövetség is, ami az egyetemisták akkori, jobboldali szövetsége volt. Az egyik tagja – egy szentesi református papnak az egyetemista fia – a társaival együtt azt javasolta, hogy a gettót a vasútállomás közelében állítsák fel, mert várható, hogy azt majd bombázni fogják az angolok vagy amerikaiak, és akkor legalább a zsidók is elpusztulnak. Így is lett, bár azután a gettó nem került annyira közel a vasútállomáshoz, mint az a javaslatban állt [Braham szerint a gettónak 530 lakója volt, köztük csaknem 500 volt a helybeli, a többiek pedig – Braham szerint – szeghalmiak voltak. Ez tévedés, mert Szeghalom Békés vm.-ben volt, nyilvánvalóan a Szegvár községben élő zsidókat telepítették a szentesi gettóba. A szegvári zsidók a szentesi hitközséghez tartoztak. A gettó lakóit a szegedi bevagonírozási központba vitték. – A szerk.]. Szentesen négy-ötszáz olyan zsidó lehetett, akik nem voltak munkaszolgálatban, de az itteni gettóba kerültek a szegvári zsidók is, akik nem voltak sokan, száz alatt lehetett a számuk. A gettó kiépítéséhez a lakosságtól vettek igénybe családi házakat, ahol azután hatan-nyolcan laktak egy szobában. Anyám is ide került 1944 májusában. A munkásszázadunk, amelyik különböző helyeken fordult meg az évek során, éppen Szentesen időzött, amikor a gettósítás megtörtént, sőt a hatóságok a mi századunkból is küldtek húsz embert a gettó körüli palánk megépítéséhez. Tudom, hogy a századparancsnok figyelt arra, amikor kijelölte azt a húszat, hogy szentesi vagy Szentes környéki ne kerüljön közéjük, mert el akarta kerülni, hogy segítsék az ottani zsidókat, vagy egyszerűen csak kapcsolatba lépjenek velük.

Akkor nem tudtam találkozni anyámmal, akit azután Szegedre vittek, ugyanis a szegedi gettóban gyűjtötték össze a környék zsidóságát, és onnan is deportálták őket később. A századunk pont akkor tartózkodott Szegeden, amikor anyámat vonatra rakták, és én éppen német katonai felügyelet alatt a rókusi pályaudvaron dolgoztam, amikor őt a vagonba terelték. Véletlenül két rendkívül rendes német altiszt volt a vezető, Maschke tizedes és Till őrvezető, akik nagyon kellemes emberek voltak, főleg Maschke, aki postatisztviselő volt Németországban, utálta az egész háborút és hitlerájt, és ennélfogva rendkívül jó kapcsolatban voltunk velük. Mikor láttam, hogy zsidókat vezetnek el, akkor közelebb mentem – egészen odamenni nem lehetett –, és megpillantottam anyámat a sorban, amint vitték fel a vagonba. Ekkor mondtam Maschkénak, hogy ott viszik anyámat, és kérdeztem, hogy nem lehetne-e valahogyan kapcsolatba kerülni vele. Maschke elment ahhoz a csendőrszázadoshoz, aki ezt az egészet vezette, s megbeszélte vele, hogyha anyám már be lesz vagonírozva, és a vagonajtó is csukva lesz, akkor én az egyik csendőr kíséretében odamehetek annak a kocsinak az oldalához, amelyikben anyám van, és beszélgethetünk húsz percet. És ez így is lett. Szegény anyám, még ő akart nekem ennivalót adni abból, ami neki volt, pedig akkor, hogy úgy mondjam, hozzá képest dúskáltam a földi javakban.

Anyámat Ausztriába vitték, a Treff Koffer und Lederwaren Fabrikban dolgozott sok más szentesivel együtt. Ez a gyár Tribus-Winkelben volt [Bécstől kb. 20 km-re, délre. – A szerk.]. Azt hiszem, Strasshofban osztották szét őket a különböző cégek között [Szegedről három transzportban vitték el a zsidókat, kettőt – más források szerint egyet – irányítottak Strasshofba. – A szerk.]. Ez egy rabszolgavásár volt – „Húsz embert kérek, ötvenet kérek…” –, és anyám a barátaival együtt, jó társaságban került ebbe a gyárba, ahol egy rendkívül rendes ember volt a főnök, aki nagyon jól bánt velük. Ráadásul egy föloszlatott német vidéki színtársulat összes tagját is ebbe a gyárba vezényelték dolgozni, és ők aztán igen bohém, az egész hitlerájjal nem sokat foglalkozó emberek voltak. Persze számukra jobbak voltak a körülmények, nem nyolcan aludtak emeletes ágyakon, hanem csak ketten vagy hárman a szobákban, de ugyanazt a munkát végezték, és jó kapcsolatba kerültek a sorstársaikkal. A gyár közel volt a magyar határhoz, az ott dolgozó deportáltak 1945. április negyedike után néhány nappal szabadultak fel, és rögtön elindultak hazafelé, kalandos körülmények között. Anyám valamilyen fémmel telerakott tehervagon tetején jött haza.

Mikor 1945 augusztusában hazakerültem Szentesre, a nagy boltunk teljesen üres volt, csak az egyik pultra volt rátéve tíz-tizenöt darab zsák, mellettük ült anyám, és „árusította” őket. Valamilyen összeköttetése folytán egy zsidó terménykereskedőtől kapta az üres zsákokat bizományba. Én akkor minden tőke nélkül kezdtem el kereskedni, ami általában nem sikerülhet. Teljesen hiányos és szegényes volt a készlet, annak ellenére, hogy még két ágrólszakadt szentesi ismerősömet is bevontam, és hárman nagy nehezen összeadtunk annyi pénzt, hogy úgy látszott, mintha lenne az üzletben valami áru, például zománcedény. Ha valaki bejött ötféle áruért, akkor egyfélét kapott belőle, és ki vásárol ott, ahol nem kapja meg mindazt, amit szeretne? Egészen 1946. augusztus elsejéig tartott az a szörnyű infláció. Minden, ami aznap reggel még például százmillió pengőbe került, délutánra már háromszázmillió volt. Úgyhogy a pénzért, ami befolyt, nem tudtunk több árut venni – szóval teljesen tönkrementünk [lásd: feketézés, cserekereskedelem; a forint bevezetése]. Jöttek hozzánk a városházáról a tisztviselők, akik azelőtt is apámnál vásároltak, odadobták a pultra azt a fizetést, amit délután kettőkor megkaptak, és kérték, hogy adjak érte valamit. Megszámoltam nagy nehezen a pénzt, levettem egy lábast, amivel boldogan távoztak. Másnap, mikor lábast rendeltem kiderült, hogy ugyanannyi pénzért már csak feleakkora lábast lehetett kapni [lásd: millpengős korszak]. De a legfontosabb szempont talán mégiscsak az volt, hogy nem szerettem ezt a munkát. 1947 végén azután abba is hagytam az egészet.

A háború végén sokan elmenekültek, így nemcsak zsidó lakások maradtak gazdátlanul. Volt az Elhagyott Javak Kormánybiztossága, aminek a raktáraiba becipelték mindazt, amit össze lehetett szedni, mert nem lopták el a helyi lakosok. Úgyhogy anyám is kapott valahonnan egy fekhelyet és egy szekrényt, amikor pedig hazajöttem, akkor kaptunk még egy ágyat és egy asztalt. Ott állt ez az ötszobás lakás üresen, teljesen kifosztva.

A házunk saját ház volt, és mikor már tudtam, hogy Pestre fogok jönni, akkor el akartam adni. Annál nagyobb marha, aki 1947-ben, mikor már az államosítások szele fújdogált, házat vett volna, nemigen akadt, de mégis sikerült kettőt találni, akik megosztva megvették [Lásd: államosítás Magyarországon]. De természetesen nevetségesen alacsony árért adtam el, mert sürgős volt, hiszen kellett a pénz, hogy Pesten valami bútorunk legyen. A házunk eladása után felköltöztünk Budapestre. Volt itt apámnak egy unokatestvére, aki özvegyasszony volt, és az ő nagy lakása is üresen állt, úgyhogy két szobát tőle kibéreltünk, és berendeztük a saját bútorainkkal. Ott laktunk anyámmal együtt egészen addig, míg meg nem nősültem, anyám még azután is ott maradt.

Anyám hatvanegy éves kora ellenére minden szempontból olyan friss volt, mintha negyven éves lett volna, és nem szerette a semmittevést. Mivel ráadásul apám unokanővére, akinél ezt a két szobát béreltük, elég nehezen elviselhető hölgy volt, anyám tőle is szabadulni óhajtott, ezért egy ismerősünk révén pénztárosi állást vállalt a Ruházati Bolt nevű állami vállalatnál. Nagyon szép időket töltött ott, és legalább tíz év munka után onnan is ment nyugdíjba. Még valahol oklevelek is vannak, amikben megdicsérték, hogy milyen jó dolgozó volt.

Volt egy unokanővérem, Mariska nénémnek a lánya, Ella, akit Szabadkáról – ami annak idején, 1944-ben Magyarországhoz tartozott, és onnan is deportálták a zsidókat – vittek el. A vasútállomáson, lépésben haladva a vagon felé, látott egy kis őrházat a külső vágányoknál, és egy óvatlan pillanatban kilépett a sorból, és bement ebbe az üres kis házba. Ott húzta meg magát, és csak akkor jött onnan elő, mikor már mindenkit elvittek. Elment a vasúti pénztároshoz, aki ismerte őt, hiszen újságíróként nagy közismertségnek örvendett. Nem volt pénze, de adott neki jegyet hitelbe a pénztárosnő, így tudott a legközelebbi gyorsvonattal felutazni Pestre, ahol voltak olyan ismerősei, akiknek a révén el tudott helyezkedni. Balázs Béla például az ismerősei közé tartozott, ő is segítette Ellát, aki hamis papírokkal bujkált, és végül mindent megúszott [Balázs Bélát 1931-ben meghívták a moszkvai filmakadémiára tanárnak. 1945-ben tért haza. – A szerk.]. Volt régről egy keresztény jó barátja, Kende Ferenc, akinek könyv- és lapterjesztő irodája volt, ő szintén felkarolta [Kende Ferenc (Nagybecskerek, 1886 – Budapest, 1974): lapszerkesztő, kiadó, könyvterjesztő. Terjesztője volt a Szociáldemokrata Párt sajtótermékeinek, majd ő lett a Huszadik Század kiadóhivatalának az első embere. A Tanácsköztársaság bukása után Bécsbe emigrált. 1926-ban visszatért Szabadkára, ekkor hozta létre a Literária könyv- és lapterjesztő vállalatot, amelynek nagy szerepe volt a vajdasági magyar irodalom életében. A magyar kiadványok mellett megszervezte a bécsi, a berlini és a belgrádi lapok árusítását a Vajdaságban. 1941-ig az újvidéki Reggeli Újság kiadónak az élén állott, majd visszatért Budapestre (www.hetnap.co.yu, B. Z.). – A szerk.].

Anyám, akivel együtt éltem, mesélt Ellának levélben szentesi nehézségeinkről, és akkor Kende Ferenc révén kerültem fel Pestre. Ügynöki megbízást adott nekem és különböző lapokat, mint például a „Hüvelyk Matyi” című gyereklapot [1947–49 között megjelent színes havi meselap. – A szerk.] vagy az Anyag- és Árhivatalnak a hivatalos közlönyét kellett terjesztenem Budapest, valamint Fejér megye kijelölt helyein. Fizetést nem kaptam, jutalékért dolgoztam. Jártam a vidéket vonattal, gyalog, szekéren, keserves munka volt. Ebből éltem hónapokig, és utána már csak azt néztem, hogyan is tudnék ettől az állástól minél hamarabb megszabadulni.

Ez végül is a vas-nagykereskedelem államosítása révén sikerült [lásd: államosítás Magyarországon]. Volt egy ismerősöm, egy szentesi malomtulajdonosnak a fia. Ő a brünni egyetemen végzett mérnökként, mivel Magyarországon a numerus clausus miatt nem vették fel annak idején. Amikor az államosítások történtek, baloldali elkötelezettségének köszönhetően rögtön magas beosztást kapott, és a VASÉRT [Vastömegcikk Értékesítő Vállalat] néven alakult nagykereskedelmi vállalatnak a vezérigazgatója lett. Mikor elmentem ennek a vállalatnak a személyzeti osztályára [lásd: „személyzetis”], és mondtam, hogy ott szeretnék dolgozni, hiszen ez a szakképzettségem, és sokéves gyakorlatom is van, akkor két lábbal rúgtak ki. Ezután elmentem ehhez az úrhoz, aki rögtön intézkedett, így vettek fel a céghez 1947-ben. Amennyire nem szerettem a kiskereskedést, annyira szerettem az országos vaskereskedelmi ügyekkel foglalkozni. Cégvezetői rangom lett, az árubeszerzés feladatai hárultak rám. 1948 tavaszán pedig az egyik államosított vas-nagykereskedelmi cég főnöke lettem, amíg be nem olvasztották a VASÉRT-be.

1948-ban magyarosítottam a vezetéknevemet [lásd: névmagyarosítás]. Akkor költöztem Szentesről Budapestre, már a Vasértnél volt az állásom, és senki nem értette a telefonban a nevemet. Voltam én Kunszt és mindenféle hasonló családnév, de Gunst nem. Ekkor elhatároztam, hogy megváltoztatom, hogy innentől kezdve mindenki egyértelműen tudja használni. Akkoriban kötelezően három nevet kellett beadni, és a Belügyminisztérium választott közülük. A Gallán kívül nem adtam be semmi mást, ugyanis előzőleg töprengtem mindenféle verzión, és azután úgy határoztam, hogy nekem csak olyan név jó, ami mindenütt könnyen ejthető. Ezek után behívott egy tisztviselő a Belügyminisztériumba, és azon vitatkozott velem, hogy bár a Galla egy helységnév, ugyanakkor szláv eredetű szó is. Mire én azt válaszoltam neki, lehet, hogy szláv eredetű, de magyaros hangzású, és én feltétlenül ezt szeretném. Végül belement, és elfogadta.

1952-ben, az utcán véletlenül találkoztam az Országos Tervhivatal egy akkor szerveződő főosztályának a vezetőjével, akinek a felesége Szentesről származott, és a szüleink jó barátságban voltak egymással. Őt is jól ismertem, valamikor a háború előtt az esküvőjükön tanúskodtam. Találkozásunkkor elmeséltük egymásnak addigi életutunkat. Én akkor már – munkám mellett – harmadéves esti tagozatos hallgató voltam a közgazdasági egyetemen, és éppen megfeleltem az ismerősöm elképzelésének, nekem is tetszett a perspektíva. Így 1953 elején a Tervhivatal beruházási főosztályára kerültem, és tizenöt évig ott dolgoztam. Előadóként kezdtem, és osztályvezető-helyettesként, tanácsosként végeztem.

1968-ban tervhivatali tanácsosként mentem át a Nehézipari Minisztériumba [A Nehézipari Minisztériumot (NIM) 1953-ban állították föl a bánya- és energiaügyi minisztérium, valamint a vegyipari minisztérium összevonásával. 1981-ben szűnt meg. – A szerk.], mert az akkori főosztályvezetőmet oda hívták, és mivel a jobb kezének tartott, így az volt a feltétele, hogy én is vele menjek. Nem haladtam előre a ranglétrán – ez valószínűleg abból következett, hogy 1956-tól kezdve nem voltam párttag, és általában az egyenértékű emberek közül inkább azt választották a magasabb funkciókra, aki éppen párttag volt. De én ezt nem bántam, mert így nem kellett olyan irányítási dolgokkal foglalkoznom, ami a tényleges szakmai munkától vette volna el az időmet. Például nem nekem kellett embereket felvennem vagy éppen menesztenem, úgyhogy nagyon meg voltam elégedve ezzel a helyzettel. 1955-ben elvégeztem az egyetemet, s attól kezdve a hivatali munkám mellett egyrészt oktatási munkával foglalkoztam, másrészt rengeteg publikációm jelent meg. 1979-ig dolgoztam a minisztériumban, és hatvankét éves koromban mentem nyugdíjba. Ezt követően még tizenhat évig dolgoztam oktatóként, szakértőként. Közben 1971–72-ben két évet töltöttem Tanzániában. Egy nem sokkal azelőtt megalakult állami jellegű, minisztériumi szintű trösztnél voltam kiküldetésben, amelyik az ottani ipart irányította, tehát részben hasonló feladatokat látott el, mint itt az Országos Tervhivatal. Amikor Tanzániába mentem, a gyerekeket és a feleségemet is magammal vittem.

Mikor 1945-ben hazakerültem Szentesre, a történtek után én eléggé baloldali érzelmű lettem, úgyhogy még rögtön Szentesen beléptem a Magyar Kommunista Pártba [MKP]. Senki figyelésében, homályos pártügyekben vagy hasonlóban nem vettem részt soha, és senki nem is kért meg vagy célzott volna arra, hogy ilyesmit végezzek. A legjobb tudásom szerint tettem a dolgomat a vas-nagykereskedelemben is később. Egészen 1956-ig tagja voltam a pártnak, amikor az addigi, illetve az újonnan szerzett tapasztalataim miatt nem léptem be újra. Azóta sem vagyok párttag.

1956-ban nem vettem részt a forradalom eseményeiben [lásd: 1956-os forradalom], hanem „kenyérért álltam sorban”. Október huszonnegyedikén, de lehet, hogy huszonötödikén be akartam menni dolgozni, de nem járt a villamos. Én Budán laktam, és akkor még állt a Kossuth híd, amelyik a Parlament déli részénél húzódott, így ezen keresztül, kerülőutakon és fegyverropogások közepette mentem be nagy nehezen a Nádor utcai Tervhivatalba [Budapest ostroma során  a visszavonuló német csapatok minden dunai átkelőt fölrobbantottak. Amíg az újjáépítés  be nem fejeződött, pontonhidak szolgálták az összeköttetést, és 1946-ban épült a Parlament és a Batthyány tér között Mistéth Endre tervezésében egy félállandó jellegű szerkezet is acélból és fából, de fölhasználtak fémroncsokat is. Kossuth híd volt a neve. Tízéves időtartamra tervezték, 1957-ben forgalmon kívül helyezték, és 1960-ben bontották el. – A szerk.]. Persze nem volt igazán mit csinálnunk, mert nem tudtuk, hogy most mi lesz a következő feladat. Huszonötödikén délelőtt, amikor a Kossuth téren volt a lövöldözés [1956. október 25-én a parlament előtt a fegyveres erők tüzet nyitottak a tüntetőkre, és mintegy 100 embert megöltek, és 300-at megsebesítettek. – A szerk.], az elnök ennek a hírére vagy talán a fegyverropogás miatt bezáratta a hivatal kapuit, és én bent ragadtam. Mivel nem szeretem, ha be vagyok zárva valahová, így folyamatosan a kapu környékén ólálkodtam, és amint valakit beengedtek az ajtón, én rögtön kislisszoltam. De a fő tevékenységem az események alatt arra irányult, hogy meglegyen az ennivalónk, és fennmaradjon a normális életünk. Mint ahogy 1945-ben sem jutott eszembe, hogy nem jövök vissza Magyarországra, éppúgy 1956-ban sem jutott eszembe disszidálni [lásd: disszidálás]. Én ide való vagyok, ide tartozom. Ha véletlenül kinézek a villamosból, és látok egy házat, akkor tudom, hogy az a Teréz körút sarka, ismerem a bennszülöttek nyelvét, szokásait, itt tudok létezni és tenni a dolgomat. Én legalábbis így érzem. Apám úgy érezte, hogy neki Szentesen kell kereskedőnek lennie, és nem költözött fel Budapestre, el is vitték – lehet, hogy Budapesten túlélte volna. Ő Szenteshez tartozott, a vaskereskedéshez, én pedig ide tartozom, Pesthez.

1948-ban nősültem meg először. Csak állami esküvőnk volt a második kerületi tanácsnál. Az első feleségemet Erdős Évának hívják. Négy évvel volt fiatalabb nálam, és szintén zsidó származású volt. Veszprémben született, és szakképzettsége szerint női fodrász volt, de amikor megismerkedtünk, akkor éppen a Kossuth Könyvkiadó kiadványainak terjesztésével foglalkozott. A negyedik kerületi, ma ötödik kerületi pártbizottságon volt egy standja, ahol a politikai jellegű könyvek kiadásával foglalkozó kiadó könyveit kínálta részletre vagy készpénzért. Ott ismerkedtünk meg egymással. Nekem akkor albérleti lakásom volt, őneki meg egy garzonlakása, úgyhogy én költöztem hozzá. Anyukám maradt az albérletben, egészen addig, amíg hat év múlva újra össze nem költöztünk. 1950-ben született G. fiam, és én akkor kezdtem egyetemre járni. Sokat vívódtam azon, hogyan lesz ez összeegyeztethető a házassággal és a gyerekkel. Nem is nagyon jött össze, mert 1953-ban már el is váltunk. Éva azóta sem ment férjhez. Úgy egyeztünk meg, hogy háromévenként a másikunknál lesz a gyerek. Az első három évben, amikor én Évától egy albérletbe költöztem, nem is tudtam volna magamhoz venni, de számítottam arra, hogy majd változnak a viszonyok. A következő három év során sem sikerült, azt hiszem, tizenegy vagy tizenkét éves volt G., amikor hozzám került, és aztán soha többé nem is lakott a mamájánál. Miután elköltöztem, hetenként kétszer, szerdán és szombaton, ha esett, ha fújt, én mentem G.-ért az óvodába, én tanultam vele. Nyaralni mindig együtt mentünk G.-vel. Bár amikor hozzám került, akkor megszűnt, hogy Éva kétszer egy héten találkozott volna vele, de azért rendszeres volt köztük a kapcsolat.

G. közepes tanuló volt egészen addig, míg tizenhárom-tizennégy éves korában el nem határozta, hogy szállodás lesz, és attól kezdve a pályája ívelt felfelé, és mindenhol nagyon jól megállta a helyét. A nyolc általános elvégzése után a vendéglátó-ipari technikumba került, ami négy évig tartott, ott is érettségizett le. Ezután egy évet töltött a Béke Szálló konyháján, ahol is külön szakácsképesítést szerzett, majd utána a Kereskedelmi és Vendéglátóipari Főiskolára felvételizett, amely három éves volt, és azt is elvégezte. Végül még a közgazdasági egyetem kétéves pótképzésén is részt vett, a doktorátus megszerzése után pedig közgazdász lett. Két évet töltöttem Tanzániában, ebből G. is több mint egy évet kint volt; kapott a vendéglátó főiskolán egy év halasztást, és dolgozott is, nagyon kiváló eredménnyel, egy angol–tanzán vegyes szállodalánc szállodáiban.

G. tudta, hogy zsidó, de nem lett körülmetélve. A zsidósága, hogy úgy mondjam, mindig benne volt a levegőben, főleg az első években, hiszen 1950-ben született, nem sokkal 1945, azaz a háború befejezése után, de sohasem fordult elő, hogy erről „tanfolyamot” tartottam volna neki. Gyerekkorában karácsonyt ünnepeltünk. Zsidó templomba nem jártam, és hitéletet sem éltem. Lehet, hogy a Hanukáról beszéltünk neki, de biztos, hogy hanukagyertyát otthon nem gyújtottunk. A fiam tehát nem vallásos szellemben nevelkedett, de zsidónak tartja magát – talán sokkal inkább is, mint én –, és zsidó felesége lett.

1956-ban egy nyaraláson ismerkedtem meg a második feleségemmel, Kovács Ágnessel. A Tervhivatalnak Révfülöpön volt az üdülője, és az ő első férje is a Tervhivatalban dolgozott. Én nem ismertem jól a férjét, mert más területen dolgozott. 1958-ban volt az esküvőnk. A második feleségem 1928-ban született, Budapesten. Mindkét ágon zsidó szülőktől származott, de egyáltalán nem lett zsidónak nevelve. Én mindig kifogtam magamnak azokat a nőket, akik nem kaptak igazi vallásos nevelést, mert a magam részéről is elsősorban a tudásszomjat, az olvasást, az írásnak a tiszteletét, szeretetét, a tisztességet és a becsületességet tartom azoknak az erényeknek, amitől én zsidó vagyok, nem pedig azt, hogy a ma nistanut [má nistáná; lásd: széder] én vagy a gyerekeim olvassák fel. Ágnes a háború alatt bujkált, valamilyen zárdában bújtatta el őt a mamája. Nem végzett semmilyen egyetemet, de nagyon tehetséges újságíró lett, és különböző lapoknál dolgozott, illetve a Magyar Kereskedelmi Kamara Hungaropress nevű sajtószolgálatánál is volt munkája. Tökéletes angol–német nyelvtudással rendelkezett, és mivel a Magyar Kereskedelmi Kamara a Külkereskedelmi Minisztériumnak volt egy szerve, így gyakran ő volt a külföldön rendezett vásárok magyar pavilonjának sajtófőnöke.

A feleségem a Kovács nevet túlságosan szimplának tartotta, hiszen nagyon sok embert hívnak így, ezért hivatalosan felvette a Galla-Kovács nevet. Galla kötőjel Kovács, és így is szerepelt a papírjaiban. Én ezt annak idején elleneztem, és mondtam neki, hogy ebből még egyszer baj lesz, ha gyerekünk születik, hiszen akkor az anyját majd Galla-Kovácsnak, őt pedig Gallának fogják nevezni. Ha valakinek nincs törvényes apja, akkor az anyja vezetéknevét kapja, és ez akkoriban nem volt annyira elfogadott dolog, mint mostanában. Be is következett, amitől tartottam, és M., aki 1959-ben született, az összes hivatalos helyen Kovács Ágnesként tüntette fel az anyját, mert nem érezte társadalmilag elfogadhatónak, hogy azt higgyék róla, hogy nincs törvényes apja.

Amikor újranősültem, a Tervhivataltól kaptam a Wesselényi utcában egy kétszobás udvari lakást, annak idején ugyanis a hivataloknál, nagyobb cégeknél lehetőség és szokás is volt bérlakásokat kiutalni az elismert dolgozóiknak. A kisebbik fiam már ide született. És mivel anyámmal együtt megelégeltük azt, hogy ő albérletben lakjon, így odaköltözött mihozzánk. Tehát egészen 1962-ig együtt éltünk, az anyám, a feleségem, a kisebbik fiam és én, ekkor sikerült az akkori anyósom segítségével egy háromszobás lakásra cserélni ezt a kétszoba-hallt, és innentől kezdve egészen az újabb válásomig a Damjanich utcában laktunk.

M. [a kisebbik fiú] mindig botladozott. Először a volt zsidó gimnáziumba, a Radnótiba járt, ahonnan – tekintve, hogy mi a hetedik kerületben laktunk – azon a címen küldték el, hogy nem a tizennegyedik kerületbe tartozik, ahol az iskola volt. Persze ha jó tanuló lett volna, vagy könnyebben ki lehetett volna jönni vele, akkor maradhatott volna. Ágnesnek hittantanára volt Benoschofszky [Benoschofszky Imre országos főrabbi], és onnantól kezdve ők felszínes, de jó viszonyban voltak. Miután megházasodtunk, közelebb kerültünk Benoschofszkyékhoz, olyannyira, hogy minden széder- és szilveszterestét náluk töltöttünk. Az ő révükön M. egy évre a zsidó gimnáziumba került, ahonnan ezúttal azzal az ürüggyel rúgta őt ki az igazgató és vele egyetértve az osztályfőnöke, hogy a fiam bolond, és bolondokházába kellene őt csukatni. M.-et megvizsgálták a szakorvosok, és abban maradtak, hogy bár jó pár furcsasága van, de nincs semmiféle konkrét mentális betegsége. A fiam humorista lett, ahol is végül nagyszerűen tudta kamatoztatni ezeket a bizonyos „furcsaságait”.

1974 körül újra el kellett válnom. Akkor halt meg anyám is. A harmadik feleségem egy keresztény hölgy lett, akit T. I.-nek hívtak, és akinél nem voltam elég éber, így nem jöttem rá időben, hogy alkoholista. A házasságunk ezért aztán korán fel is bomlott, 1976-tól 1979-ig tartott. Ez a feleségem 1934-ben született. Könyvtárosnak tanult, és egyetemet végzett. Fogalmam nincs, hogy mi lett vele. A negyedik feleségemmel, Ács Zsuzsával 1952-ben véletlenül egy helyen üdültünk, és az út során ismerkedtünk meg egymással. A kapcsolatunk 1981-ben vált szorosabbá, amikor a köztünk lévő tizennyolc év korkülönbségnek már nem volt akkora jelentősége. Papíron 1988-ban házasodtunk össze, de nem hivatalosan 1982 óta vagyunk együtt. Nagyon boldogan élünk, és nagy család vesz minket körül, mert Zsuzsának is van egy lánya, és az ő révén két unokánk. Hetente háromszor uszodába járunk, és ha tehetjük, akkor utazunk nyaralni és telelni is. Ma már csak honi üdülőhelyekre. Itthon sokat olvasunk, összejárunk a barátainkkal.

Izrael keletkezését, fennmaradását és fejlődését minden idegszálammal pártolom, pártoltam, és ezután is pártolni fogom. Rendkívül fontosnak tartom az egész világ – tehát nem csak a világ zsidói – szempontjából, hogy ez az ország létezzék és virágozzék. És mindent ennek a gondolatnak a jegyében értékelek. Jó barátaim éltek Izraelben, az ő gyermekeik, unokáik még mindig ott élnek. Egy olyan közeli munkaszolgálatos bajtársam vándorolt ki és alapított ott családot, akivel sülve-főve együtt voltunk éveken keresztül. Nagyon jó barátságban voltunk, levelezés útján tartottuk a kapcsolatot, és többször jártak nálunk Magyarországon. Én azonban sosem jártam Izraelben, pedig ők is, sőt talán mások is hívtak bennünket, és persze lehetett volna menni hívás nélkül is. Úgy alakult, hogy mostanában már nem utazunk, de amikor lehetett, akkor sokat mentünk mindenfelé. Sokszor voltunk Erdélyben és Délvidéken a rokonságnál, de Angliában, Olaszországban, Németországban, Csehszlovákiában, Ausztriában, Franciaországban és Spanyolországban is sokfelé jártunk. Gyakorlatilag megismertük egész Európát, és Kanadában, valamint az USA-ban is megfordultunk.

A rendszerváltás már különösebben nem hatott rám. Elég idős korban ért, így a dolgokhoz való viszonyulásom, vallástalanságom már nem változott. Természetesen odafigyelek az antiszemitizmus megnyilvánulásaira, és érzem, hogy ami azelőtt csak lappangott, az 1989 óta a felszínre tört, és próbál minél nagyobb teret meghódítani magának, de azért bizakodó vagyok.
 

Aristide Streja
Bucureşti
România
Reporter: Anca Ciuciu
Data interviului: Aprilie 2004

Aristide Streja este un pensionar activ, care la 82 de ani încă lucrează pentru comunitatea evreiască ca ghid  şi custode al muzeului Memorialul Martirilor Evrei ”Moses Rosen”. De profesie architect, fost şef de atelier la Institutul de Proiectare pentru Construcţii Tipizate, a proiectat şi construit numeroase clădiri publice şi industriale. A scris împreună cu Lucian Schwartz lucrarea “Sinagogi din România”(1996), o carte mărturie a stării în care se găsesc astăzi multe din sinagogile comunităţilor evreieşti din ţară. Lucrează în Sinagoga Mare, o clădire declarată monument istoric de Academia Română, construită în 1846 şi în care, în anul 1980 a fost inclusă expoziţia Memorialul Martirilor Evrei „Moses Rosen”, o amintire a Holocaustului evreilor din România şi a vechiului cartier evreiesc care exista odată aici. În urmă cu şaptezeci de ani Aristide Streja se juca cu alţi copii evrei în curtea interioară în timp ce părinţii ascultau slujba religiosă, a făcut aici bar mitzvah, iar astăzi din  biroul existent în anexele sinagogii, se preocupă de lucrările destinate menţinerii şi restaurării acesteia.

Familia mea
Copilăria mea
Viața religioasă
Al Doilea Război Mondial
Viața de după Război
Glosar

Familia mea

Bunicii paterni au murit înainte de a mă naşte eu şi înainte de a veni tatăl meu în Bucureşti. Au trăit şi au murit amândoi în Nămoloasa [comună în sudul Moldovei, în judeţul Galaţi] înainte cu mult de primul război mondial, lăsând o familie de câteva persoane. Pe bunicul îl chema Haim Maier Wechsler. Pe bunica o chema Feighe. Tatăl meu, care era cel mai mare, a trebuit să întreţină încă două surori. Nu ştiu în ce condiţii au murit, nu m-am interesat când eram copil şi când am  ajuns destul de mare erau nişte lucruri care nu s-au vehiculat.

Blimette Benjamin [născută Wechsler], sora tatălui meu s-a căsătorit cu Aron Benjamin. Blimette a avut trei copii: Mauriciu, Carol şi o fată, Bori. A emigrat în Israel, devreme, prin 1955. Blimette cu Carol au locuit în chibuţul Nir Itzhac, pe strada Doar HaNeghev.. Blimette a murit prin anii 1970, nu mai ştiu cum s-a întâmplat cu restul familiei. Noi am avut legătură cu Blimette, ne-a spus [în scrisori]cum trăia în chibuţ.

Despre Betti Lupu [născută Wechsler], sora tatălui, foarte multe lucruri nu ştiu să spun. Avea o educaţie de gospodină, nu avea o meserie anume, decât că era croitoreasă, învăţase să facă croitorie şi se ocupa de confecţii, reparaţii de lingerie, şi croitorie de damă. Soţul ei, Lupu, era bolnăvicios şi lucra împreună cu ea, avea un atelier de croitorie, casnic, nu o afacere. Principala susţinătoare a familiei era ea, care muncea foarte mult ca gospodină şi ca lingereasa. Au trăit în Bucureşti, nu ştiu să spun pe ce stradă. Erau nişte persoane religioase. Betti a avut trei copii, Adolf Lupu, doctor internist care în timp ce îndeplinea stagiul militar ca  medic ofiţer a fost ucis, împuşcat, de un ofiţer legionar 1 [în timpul celui de-al doilea război mondial] şi două fete, Fanchette Recu [născută Lupu], căsătorită cu Mişu Recu cu care a avut 2 fiice, şi Evelina [născută Lupu], căsătorită fără copii, care a emigrat în Israel. Betti a fost afectată [de moartea fiului]. A murit soţul întâi şi ea după aceea. N-a fost foarte multă vreme, pentru că după al doilea război mondial familia aceasta dispăruse.

Haim Maier Wechsler, tatăl meu, s-a născut în 1883 la Nămoloasa, şi-a schimbat numele înainte de 1910, în Iulius Wechsler. Tatăl meu s-a însurat la Ploieşti în anul 1912. Fratele şi sora mea, s-au născut înainte de război [Notă: 1916 este anul intrării României în primul război mondial]. Tatăl meu a venit în Bucureşti în jurul anului 1900. Părinţii lui fiind decedaţi, el s-a ocupat cu mici afaceri comerciale şi a putut  să  contribuie la întreţinerea  surorilor sale.

Pe bunicii din partea mamei, familia Letzler, îi cunosc mai bine. Pe bunica o chema Eva Letzler şi pe bunicul îl chema Maier Letzler. S-au născut pe la mijlocul secolului XIX. Bunica mea a murit relativ tânără. Bunicul meu s-a recăsătorit – nu oficial, dar la evrei dacă stai mai mult timp cu o femeie eşti ca şi căsătorit –, a trăit cu o altă femeie pe care o chema tot Eva. Apoi s-a căsătorit şi oficial la starea civilă. El fiind rabin şi şoihăt, cunoscut în lumea evreiască din Ploieşti, nu avea voie să se căsătorească chiar imediat cu altcineva. Am cunoscut-o foarte puţin pe bunica mea [prima soţie a bunicului]. Era subţire, era o femeie foarte draguţă şi crescută moral, foarte liniştită. Era femeie casnică, crescută foarte strict în religia iudaică. Sora mea, care era mai mare ca mine, şi fratele meu, învăţau la şcoala şi nu aveau teme de discuţii cu ea decât de îngrijirea copiilor [atunci când venea în vizită]. A fost bolnavă, a murit, nu ştiu exact când, aproximativ la sfârşitul anilor 1920. Nu ştiu nici de rudele bunicii.

Bunicul era foarte religios, avea un şil pe care îl păstorea la Ploieşti. Bunicul meu aveau o educaţie evreiască sută în sută şi bunica bineînţeles că avea tot o astfel de educaţie. Nu cred că ei aveau şcoala organizată de stat sau într-un fel oarecare, ei au învăţat la ieşiva, se învăţa şi ivrit, dar se învăţa şi româneşte. În casă foloseau limba română şi idiş. Nu cred că cunoşteau alte limbi. Bunicul, era îmbrăcat ca un rabin, cum să spun, în negru, cu caftan lung, cu baston, mergea cu baston. Eu l-am cunoscut, a venit pe la noi de sărbători şi sigur că mama mea a avut şi o educaţie religioasă. Copiii mamei, cum sunt eu şi fratele şi sora mea, nu erau foarte religioşi, când venea bunicul meu la noi îi făcea observaţii mamei că de ce îi lasă pe copiii ei să nu fie respectuoşi. Sora mea era mai liberală în cugetare, aproape comunistă, nu foarte religioasă, nu prea mergea la sinagogă şi când venea bunicul meu la noi îi spunea mamei mele: “Cum o laşi să nu meargă la sinagogă sâmbăta? Cum iţi creşti tu fiica cu asemenea gânduri?“. Bunicul Maier Lezler a murit înainte de al doilea război mondial, aproximativ în anii 1930. Rudele lui, dacă le-a avut, nu ştiu unde erau răspândite.

Am fost o dată la Ploieşti cu mama mea ca să văd casa bunicilor, era o casă parter, destul de derăpănată, dar probabil ca pe acea vreme nu era, şi avea alături o sală mai mare unde era şil. Şilul este numai un loc transformat dintr-o locuinţă sau o încăpere mică în care se aduna un minian de bărbaţi. Sinagogă se  numeşte un lăcaş care este construit special în care se poate face o adunare minian de bărbaţi şi o adunare de femei.

Bunicii materni au avut patru copii. Cel mai mic a murit, fiind bolnav. Numele nu-mi aduc aminte decât la cei trei care au trăit. Se numeau: Simon Letzler, băiatul cel mare, Pene Letzler, băiatul mai mic-copilul intermediar şi Estera Letzler, mama.

Simon Lezler, fratele mamei, s-a născut cam în 1885, la Ploieşti. A făcut studii juridice în Bucureşti, el fiind din Ploieşti, a fost angajat la o societate petroliferă americană şi a plecat în America chiar în anul precedent izbucnirii [primului] războiului mondial în România, adică în 1915. La început a fost vânzător de ziare şi pe urmă s-a angajat funcţionar tot la o societate petroliferă, având experienţă. S-a căsătorit cu o evreică de acolo şi au trăit relativ bine. Are patru copii, o fată, Ana Lezler, care a fost măritată, dar a divorţat şi care nu are copii, şi trei băieţi, Edy, Alfred şi Hary Letzler. Eu i-am cunoscut pe copiii lui. Unul din copiii lui, Ana Letzler a venit în România de câteva ori. Fraţii ei au copii şi nepoţi şi fiecare a avut o meserie intelectuală acolo, unul din ei a fost avocat. Aşa se continuă familia în America, în zona New York.

Pene Letzler, fratele mamei, s-a născut prin 1890, la Ploieşti. A mers la facultate în Bucureşti şi s-a făcut avocat. A fost un avocat de renume în Ploieşti şi făcut şi politică românească, fiind ajutor de prefect de Prahova. A fost locotenent în primul război mondial. Ca să fii avocat evreu în perioada 1930, când au început curentele antisemite în România, era foarte greu. A locuit în Ploieşti, a fost căsătorit cu o doamnă pe care o chema Mili Letzler, nici foarte bogată nici foarte cultivată dar au fost în dragoste. Era evreică. Era foarte greu ca un fiu de rabin să se căsătorescă  cu o femeie care nu este evreică, mai ales într-un oraş din provincie din România. Au avut o singură fată, Dora Letzler, care a studiat şi ea avocatura. Familia Lezler avea o situaţie financiară foarte bună, erau destul de bogaţi, locuiau în casă proprietate personală, ceea ce, era foarte mult atunci, iar casa era pe o stradă principală din Ploieşti. Era o casă de tip boieresc [Notă: Boierii sunt nobilimea românească, proprietari de moşii de regulă, cu case construite în general în stil autohton], cu parter si etaj, cu gard metalic, cu încă un pavilion special pentru femei de serviciu şi loc pentru maşină, cu maşină şi cu un loc pentru creşterea porumbeilor. În timpul războiului al doilea mondial, a fost dat afară din barou, nu a mai putut să practice şi bineînţeles politică nu a mai făcut, avea dosar prost, mizerabil, fiindcă era burghez sută în sută şi situaţia lui devenise foarte proastă din punct de vedere social. Era destul de bogat şi putea să trăiască. Fata lui s-a măritat cu un director de minister şi a venit în Bucureşti, a fost magistrată. A ieşit din magistratură în timpul periodei comuniste, pentru că a avut origine proastă [burgheză], şi pe urmă a fost casnică. L-a adus şi pe tatăl ei în Bucureşti, au vândut proprietatea lor de acolo [din Ploieşti] şi au luat mulţi bani, cu care au putut să trăiască şi să cumpere o altă proprietate în Bucureşti, în bulevardul Lacul Tei. El a murit de o boală de cancer de piele prin anii 1970 şi pe urmă a murit şi fata lui, prin anii 1980, tot având o boală, care atuncea nu s-a putut trata, degenerativă, de colagen. Simon şi Pene erau nişte evrei destul de moderni, nu erau religioşi, ţineau sărbătorile mai mult acasă şi cred că foarte rar mergeau la sinagogă. Nu erau religioşi în sens mistic, ţineau sărbătorile, ştiau că sunt evrei.

Estera Wechsler [născută Letzler], mama mea, s-a născut în 1888, la Ploieşti. A învăţat la pension şi cunoştea germana şi franceza şi idiş, bineînţeles, de acasă. Nu  mi-a povestit din copilărie decât faptul că ea a învăţat, că profesoarele au apreciat-o foarte mult, în special pentru talentul ei la pictură şi desen. Din păcate, sau poate din fericire, nu se poate şti, mama mea s-a căsătorit cu un negustor din Bucureşti şi a venit după bărbatul ei. A întrerupt studiile, ar fi vrut să meargă la Belle Arte [în Bucureşti], profesorii i-au spus să meargă mai departe la facultate. Bunicii mei aveau o educaţie religioasă, habotnică, şi ideile foarte religioase sunt ca fetele să se mărite, dacă e posibil cu un rabin, care ar fi sumum [maxim] ce ar putea să râvnească o fată. Asta a fost destinul mamei mele.

Mama a făcut multe picturi, am şi eu acasă acuma picturi făcute de mama mea. Mama mea a făcut foarte multe lucruri, atunci când noi eram copii, legate acest talent decorativ, ţesea covoare persane, după modele. Fratele meu, care era mai mare îi făcea, îi transpunea nişte modele decorative, pe care le găsea prin reviste, pe un canevas mare cu pătraţele şi mama mea se uita pe modelul care era mic şi pe canevasul pe care era desenat modelul şi ţesea covoare. Ţesea feţe de pernă decorative, una din ele am dat-o la un nepot de al meu şi una din pernele astea o mai am şi acuma la mine. Mama mea avea o cultură destul de importantă, ştia limbi străine, citea literatură şi în limbi străine şi în limba română. Şi tatăl meu a avut intenţia ca să ne dea  la şcoală, dar mama mea a ţinut cu dinţii chiar în sărăcia în care eram, ca noi să învăţam şcoala, şi liceu şi facultate.

Părinţii s-au cunoscut printr-un intermediar, adică probabil că cineva din Ploieşti, văzând că bunicul meu are o fată de măritat, s-a gândit cum să o mărite mai bine. Şi prin intermediar l-a cunoscut pe tatăl meu şi s-au purtat discuţii dacă este cazul să se căsătorească sau nu, dacă îi convine situaţia. Tatăl meu fiind, având o situaţie de negustor, pentru că majoritatea evreilor erau meseriaşi, croitori, cizmari şi aşa mai departe, situaţia de negustor era o situaţie bună pentru un evreu. Şi atuncea mama mea, care era mai educată, pentru era absolventă de pension şi pentru că cunoştea limbi străine şi pentru că s-a ocupat cu pictura şi aşa mai departe, adică mai instruită, a acceptat ca să îl ia de bărbat pe un om  care are o situaţie socială. Fiind o femeie foarte frumoasă a avut copii frumoşi, afară de mine. A acceptat această partidă cu tatăl meu în condiţiile în care amândoi au fost, au considerat că fac o căsătorie fericită, bună şi chiar aşa a şi fost.

Copilăria mea

Stăteam la curte, mai era încă o casă alături cu altcineva. Tatăl meu era comerciant fără salariaţi, el muncea şi, slavă Domnului, era în stare să întreţină aceasta gospodărie. Pe vremea aceea gospodăria era foarte laborioasă. Mama mea, afară că avea grijă de copii, spăla, nu erau maşini de spălat. O zi obişnuită pentru mama era foarte dificilă. Spălatul atuncea era în lighean, pe fiecare copil trebuia să-l spele în lighean, că nu erau băi să poţi să-i speli. Destul că exista alimentare cu apă şi canalizare de la reţele publice.. Asta era un progres  foarte mare. Era apă curgătoare [curentă] în bucătărie şi se spăla în bucătărie. Iarna era foarte dificil. În bucătărie se făcea cald cu lemne în sobă metalică. Aveam lemne în curte. Pe urmă mama trebuia să pregătească o activitate gospodărească foarte laborioasă. Pentru iarnă se pregăteau butoaie mari de murături, cu patlăgele verzi, cu gogoşari, cu varză, toate trebuind a fi aprovizionate şi preparate.. Mai ajuta şi tatăl meu. Era ca o gospodărie de la ţară acuma, dar asta era la oraş. Munca de femeie era foarte grea. Sigur că şi pentru bărbaţi era foarte greu, pentru că ei aveau sarcina să câştige bani şi să mai facă încă unele treburi acasă. Problema banilor într-o epocă capitalistă de început era foarte dificilă. Nu se muncea opt ore, se muncea 12-14 ore pe zi, adică era o viaţă foarte grea, mai ales pentru comercianţii mărunţi.

Tatăl meu vara era foarte ocupat fiindcă mergea la bâlciuri, unde am participat şi eu. Se făceau nişte târguri, nişte bâlciuri în diferite oraşe din Muntenia. Se organizau aceste târguri cu ocazii speciale, dar la intervale proprii acelor orăşele. Erau târguri comerciale, nu era ca azi să fie cinematograf sau orchestre. [Notă: Există şi astăzi astfel de târguri tradiţionale legate de anumite sărbători, unde diferiţi negustori şi meşteşugari îşi vând produsele.] Se vindeau mâncăruri, mititei. Fiecare oraş organiza într-o perioadă, putea să fie şi concomitent în două oraşe. Se făceau nişte barăci construite din lemn, acoperite cu pânza multe dintre ele, cu pământ pe jos şi unde se şi trăia, adică era o cortină şi în spatele ei era un pat, laviţe de culcat. Şi bineînţeles că closetele erau undeva departe, uscate şi publice, apa era de la fântână, adică viaţa era la marginea oraşelelor, pe un câmp organizat, aceste barăci una lânga alta şi cu teşghele din lemn şi se vindeau mărfuri. Tatăl meu vindea mărfuri de lingerie. De multe ori mergeam cu tatăl meu la bâlciuri, ca să-l ajut la vânzare, când aveam vacanţă, vara.

Părinţii mei au avut trei copii: Ştefania, Sebastian şi Aristide Wechsler. Ştefania Rubinger [născută Wechsler], sora mea s-a născut în 1914, la Bucureşti. E foarte greu de povestit epopeea surorii mele. În timpul celui de al doilea război mondial era căsătorită. S-a căsătorit cu un pictor, Rubinger, un bărbat de o frumuseţe extraordinară, înalt, spătos, un om de o cultură vastă şi talentat. Sora mea a învăţat la pension, dar bărbatul ei avea cultură artistică. Are lucrări în Israel, în Germania, în România. El a fost pictor scenograf în Bucureşti, la toate marile teatre din Bucureşti, la Opera de stat, la Teatrul Tineretului, la Teatrul Naţional şi a lucrat foarte mult timp şi la Teatrul Evreiesc de stat 2. S-au cunoscut întâmplător. El nu era bogat, nici ea nu era, erau doi relativ săraci, dar care s-au căsătorit din dragoste. Au locuit în Bucureşti şi prin 1970, au emigrat în Germania. Atunci Germania accepta să emigreze cei de limbă germană, de origine germană. El era născut la Cernăuţi, era de limbă germană, iar sora mea ştia germana. Ea a avut pensie în Germania, bărbatul ei a avut pensie mare, pentru că a lucrat foarte mult şi i s-a recunoscut activitatea. Au emigrat în oraşul Düsseldorf, au locuit acolo şi în continuare locuieşte sora mea, pentru că cumnatul meu a murit acum doi ani de zile [în 2002]. A murit călcat de un automobil pe trecerea de pietoni la vârsta de 92 de ani. Sora mea are şi ea acuma circa 90 de ani. Au doi copii extraordinari: Irina Rubinger şi Adrian Rubinger. Irina este mai mare şi s-a născut în timpul celui de al doilea război mondial. Adrian s-a născut mai târziu, el are vreo 52-53 de ani acuma, în Bucureşti. Au crescut amândoi în Bucureşti. Acum locuiesc la Paris. Când au emigrat spre Germania, au trecut prin Franţa şi au rămas acolo.

Irina Rubinger, era studentă la Biologie, a terminat biologia la Paris, a intrat în cercetare, a intrat în învăţamântul superior, a ajuns până mai demult conferenţiar la  o Universitate de Medicină din Paris. S-a căsătorit cu un actor român, Iulian Negulescu şi au avut o fată, Ilinca. Pe urmă a divorţat. Ilinca a urmat la Sorbona Literatura franceză, şi a încercat să studieze şi să activeze în arta dramatică teatrală. Acum lucrează în cinematografie. S-a căsătorit la Paris cu Julien Cohen. De curând a născut  o fetiţă care are acum câteva luni.

Adrian Rubinger, când a ajuns la Paris era student la arhitectură, adică dădea examen la arhitectură, la École des Beaux Arts. Acolo străinii aveau “numerus clausus”, adică dacă erai străin era un număr redus de locuri, era concurs, unul dintre cele mai grele concursuri de intrare la o înaltă şcoală, şi el a reuşit să intre la acest concurs la Paris în anul 1968. El a terminat Facultatea de Arhitectură la Paris şi pe urmă a plecat în Israel, a dat şi acolo nişte examene şi are o diplomă de arhitect şi din Israel. Nu ştiu exact perioadele când a fost el student şi când a absolvit ambele facultăţi. În Israel a cunoscut-o pe nevasta lui, Ester, o israeliancă, fiică de evrei români. Au venit la Paris, unde ea a terminat facultatea de psihologie, dar a predat mai mult ivrit la comunitatea evreilor de acolo şi la francezi care voiau să înveţe ivrit. Au două fete, Miriam şi Sara [Rubinger]. Miriam are douăzeci şi doi de ani, este două facultăţi,  studii iudaice şi psihologie. Sara, care este la liceu, împlineşte 16 ani. Ei sunt foarte religioşi. Ţin vinerea seară, sâmbată nu lucrează nimic, nu răspund la telefon, vineri şi sâmbătă, sunt acasă, fac rugăciuni, se duc la templu. Cu mine au păstrat nişte legături, suntem în dragoste. Cu toţi copiii ei şi cu ea şi cu nepoata, am fost la ei şi acum doi ani. De câte ori voiajăm la copiii noştri treceam prin Paris şi prin Düsseldorf, ca să ne vedem rudele noastre bune, frate şi soră, nepot şi nepoate. Cu toţi aceştia suntem în legătură afectivă şi ne iubim foarte mult. Şi Adrian este un  nepot care se comportă ca şi când ar fi fiul nostru.

Sebastian Sebastian, fratele meu, s-a născut în 1915, la Bucureşti. [A schimbat numele din Wechsler după al doilea război mondial.] A studiat întâi la Facultatea de Drept şi Filozofie, apoi a fost student la Facultatea de Arhitectură, pe care a absolvit-o în 1945. A absolvit studiile de Drept şi Filozofie şi a trecut la la Facultatea de Arhitectură, pentru că în 1940 de fapt evreii au fost excluşi din barou şi s-a văzut că nu poate fi o carieră bună.. Pe urmă a fost dat afară din Facultatea de Arhitectură [din cauza Statutului Evreiesc], dar după război şi-a continuat studiile tot la Arhitectură şi a devenit arhitect înaintea mea. Logodnica lui, Lola Gotfried, venea dintr-o familie înstărită, bunicul lor avea un magazin de încălţăminte pe Calea Victoriei. Înainte, magazinele de lux de pe Calea Victoriei, vindeau pantofi pe care era imprimat numele magazinului. Şi era un magazin cunoscut în Bucureşti, era un magazin de lux şi bunicul era foarte bogat. Bunicul a construit un bloc pe C.A.Rosetti, nr.36. Există astăzi acest bloc şi atunci când s-a făcut era foarte modern, avea încălzire, cu sobe de teracotă. Avea trei copii şi când el a  murit le-a lăsat în proprietate aceste apartamente. Cumnata mea are şi acum proprietate aceste apartamente, i s-a recunoscut, dar degeaba este proprietară, fiindcă locuieşte cineva acolo şi nu se poate face nimic. Fratele meu şi cumnata mea au emigrat în Franţa prin 1960 şi s-au stabilit la Paris. Fratele meu a lucrat ca arhitect angajat la Paris, n-a avut atelier propriu. Mai târziu datorită soţiei lui care era foarte întreprinzătoare au avut un magazin de gablonţuri şi ceasuri pe o stradă centrală în Paris. Mulţi ani a trăit din acest comerţ, mai mult decât din arhitectură.

Eu, Aristide Streja [Notă: numele schimbat din Wechsler după al doilea război mondial], m-am născut în Bucureşti în 19 decembrie 1922, într-o casă de pe Cheiul Dâmboviţei, Splaiul Unirii [Notă: era o zonă destul de aproape de centru, cu o populaţie evreiască destul de numeroasă].Părinţii m-au îngrijit şi educat. Am avut frate şi soră mai mari decât mine, cu şapte şi şase ani, decât mine. În primul meu an de viaţă, ei erau în clasele primare. Ei se jucau, şi ei erau copii când eu eram foarte mic, mama mea avea grija de toţi trei. Eu mă jucam atunci cu cercul, era una din distracţiile favorite, nu eram încă la şcoală. Când am avut 4-5 ani am avut scarlatină şi atunci mama trebuia să aibă grijă de mine în mod special, să mă izoleze, să nu se îmbolnăvească ceilalţi copii, era problemă foarte grea. Nu am fost la grădiniţă, că pe vremea  aceea, nu mergeau oamenii la grădiniţă. Am fost la şcoală pe Splaiul Independenţei, vis-à-vis era o fabrică de tăbăcărie, Fabrica Mociorniţa. Era şcoală de stat şi am făcut patru ani acolo. Nu mai am prieteni, sau nu am avut prieteni de la această şcoală, nu ştiu, eram prea mic. Am învăţat relativ bine. La şcoala primară nu-mi plăcea  nimic special, poate matematica. În rest mă jucam pe străzile alaturate, pe strada Aurora, şi aveam nişte prieteni care erau vecini. Fraţii mei aveau o oarecare grijă de mine, dar nu mă jucam cu ei, mai mult aveau grijă de mine ca să învăţ. Îi obligau părinţii să aibă grijă de mine şi nu prea le plăcea pentru că pierdeau timpul cu mine, dar mă iubeau, n-am avut conflicte cu ei.

Pe urmă am mers la liceu, la liceul Matei Basarab, pentru că fratele meu mersese la liceul acesta. [Notă: Liceul Matei Basarab este unul dintre cele mai vechi şi prestigioase licee din Bucureşti, situat în vecinătatea Sinagogii mari şi a cartierului evreiesc. Mulţi evrei din familiile de seamă au urmat acest liceu.] Şi la liceul Matei Basarab, am învăţat dintr-a întaia până într-a şasea, când m-a dat afară de la liceu în 1939-1940, din cauză că eram evreu. Am avut profesori foarte buni în liceu. Era directorul liceului, Stoenescu, care era profesor de matematică, am avut un profesor la istorie, Ion Tatoiu, care era autor de manuale şcolare. Un profesor excelent, venea în clasă, se aşeza pe bancă, şi povestea o istorie, ca un roman, ca o poveste. Când eram, mai mari, am avut un profesor la limba română Perpessicius, care era critic literar. [Notă: (1891-1971): critic, istoric literar şi poet; conduce revista “Universul literar” între 1925 şi 1927 şi deţine între 1934 şi 1938 cronica literară la “Radio Bucureşti”. Din 1929 până în 1951, fără întrerupere, este profesor de limba română la liceul Matei Basarab din Bucureşti.] La latină l-am avut profesor, pe Chiriac, avea şi el manuale de latină. Eu eram un elev destul de bun la latină şi luam note mari, mi-aduc aminte o dată m-a prins că n-am învăţat şi am luat nota 1, dar în general luam note mari. Nu am luat lecţii particulare. Am învăţat în liceu franceză şi italiană. La italiană am avut o profesoară tânără, Constanţa, şi învăţam de plăcere.

Liceul Matei Basarab, era recunoscut ca un liceu foarte bun. Liceul era de stat, dar la liceele de stat se plătea taxa. La şcolile primare nu se plătea taxa, era obligatoriu [să frecventezi] şi fără taxa, aşa era atunci, dar la liceu se plătea taxa. La liceele paticulare se plătea taxa şi mai mare. Era, de exemplu, un liceu particular [evreiesc], Libros se numea, unde se plătea taxa şi mai mare. Liceele evreieşti erau Cultura 3. Cred că şi la liceele evreieşti se plătea taxă, până când nu s-a mai plătit taxa, în timpul celui de-al doilea razboi mondial, când au fost daţi afară.

Când eram eu în liceu şi se înfiinţase străjeria, Marele Străjer era Carol II. Străjeria a fost înfiinţată de Carol al II lea . Noi eram adunaţi în curte în careu, era un fel de paramilitărie. Din anii 1930 au început manifestările antisemite în România şi s-a simţit chestiunea asta şi în liceu, că noi eram acolo consideraţi mai paria. În cadrul organizării străjeriei, toţi elevii erau străjeri şi evreii încadraţi ca străjeri, dar cum să spun, din punct de vedere moral puţin ostracizaţi şi în cadrul şcolii şi chiar de către unii elevi mai mari sau mai mici sau chiar colegi de-ai mei. Profesorii nu au avut atitudini antisemite. Deşi profesorii de latină (Chiriac) şi istorie (Ion Totoiu) aveau concepţii naţionaliste, exprimate în manualele ai căror manuale erau, elevii evrei silitori, printre care mă număram şi eu, aveau note mari la aceste discipline.

Noi nu aveam bani să plătim, o duceam de pe azi pe mâine şi mama trebuia să mă amâne, mă dădea afară de la cursuri dacă nu plăteam. Şi mama se ducea tot mereu la secretariat.“Vă rog foarte mult, uite, băiatul meu învaţă destul de bine, vă rog să mă amânaţi că nu pot să plătesc“. Ca să obţină o amânare, era destul de greu, condiţia noastră era destul de joasă. Purtam hainele de şcoală 2-3 ani până mi se făceau mici. Nu am lipsit, nu am fost dat afară din cauza taxelor, am plătit întotdeauna taxele, mai târziu decât trebuia, pentru că m-a amânat. Nu am rămas dator, dar am fost dat afară numai din cauza că au fost daţi afară toţi evreii din licee. Am terminat ultimii ani de liceu, la şcoala evreiască [Cultura B], unde am avut nişte profesori nemaipomenit de buni. L-am avut pe [Mihail] Sebastian [Notă : (1907-1945) romancier, critic literar, dramaturg, eseist. Are studii de doctorat în ştiinţe economice şi drept public la Paris. Este redactor la Revista Fundaţiilor Regale între 1936 şi până 1940 când este dat afară din cauză că era evreu. Din 1941 este profesor la liceul evreiesc Cultura B.], la limba şi literatura română, l-am avut pe Sanielevici.

Viața religioasă

În copilărie, acasă, mama mea, ca fiică de rabin sigur că ţinea toate sărbătorile. Mergea de multe ori la sinagogă şi tatăl meu era de asemenea foarte religios. În fiecare sărbătoare se ţineau tradiţiile evreieşti. De Paşte se mânca pască, se postea de Yom Kippur. Venea în vizită tatăl mamei mele din Ploieşti, care ţinea casher. Pe cât posibil ţineam casher pentru că mama mea se ducea [la haham] şi tăia păsările pe strada Mămulari. Ea cumpăra păsări vii şi se ducea cu păsările la tăiat. Nu-mi dau seama cât de strict se ţinea, dar se ţinea. Numai acuma nu mai există, se taie la abator şi rabinul se duce şi vede cum se taie.

Tatăl meu a fost un om religios, se ducea la sinagogă şi vineri, sâmbata şi în alte zile. Mergea la templu, la Sinagoga Mare, avea un loc, plătea pentru treaba asta. Pe mine mă ducea la templu, mergeam la sinagogă cu tatăl meu. Dar eu mergeam numai la sărbători. Stăteam foarte mult acolo, pentru că mai jucam şi cu alţi copii în curte, o curte destul de mare. Veneau la templu, întotdeauna a fost şi a rămas, zic eu, şi asta le spun şi altor copii care vin aicea, un centru comunitar. De exemplu, de Paşte sau de Yom Kippur, rugăciunile durează 3-4 ore dimineaţă şi se continuă şi după amiază încă trei ore şi durează foarte mult. Atunci dura mai mult şi se făceau pauze şi lumea ieşea în curte, şi în curte se discutau fel de fel de lucruri, printre care şi se aranjau căsătorii. Îi făcea cunoştinţă cu fata lui cutare, cu băiatul lui cutare, se discutau tot felul de lucruri. Se discutau şi în sinagogă, nu de Yom Kippur sau de Paşte, dar în alte zile, se discutau şi lucruri care nu erau neapărat religioase. Ca şi astăzi, se discutau tot felul de probleme interesând comunitatea evreiască din vremea respectivă, probleme sociale, filantropice, sioniste, donaţii pentru Keren Kayemet 4. Comunităţile evreieşti erau organizate în jurul sinagogilor, care aveau proprii comitete, preşedinţi, rabini,etc.

Hamişa Asar era sărbătoarea preferată, pentru că se mâncau fructe exotice, care erau în Palestina. Se mâncau curmale dulci, mană şi o serie întreagă de fructe afară de portocale şi lucruri din astea, nişte caise presate, pistel se numea pe vremea aceea. Erau scumpe şi se găseau, pentru că atunci, pe vremea aceea, societatea era capitalistă. Tradiţia ne dădea câte puţin şi ţineam această tradiţie.

La Sinagoga Mare am spus Bar Mitzvah. Eu nu am învăţat ebraică decât atunci când m-am pregătit pentru Bar Mitzvah şi de atunci până acum eu n-am mai învăţat ebraica. Dar ştiu ceva litere ebraice şi trei–patru cuvinte, dar nu ştiu astăzi să urmăresc, mai ales că se citeşte foarte repede. Mă duc astăzi la sinagogă vineri seară şi nu pot să urmăresc foarte bine, decât unele pasaje, ma interesează comentariile la pericopa saptămânii.

Ca prieteni pot să spun aşa, din ce ţin minte, pe Schwartzman, care era băiatul dirijorului corului de la Templul din Bucuresti. Era un muzician cunoscut în Bucureşti şi băiatul lui învăţa cu mine la liceu. Grimberg Bercu, el a fost suprabotezat Boris, cu care am mers pe urmă la facultate. L-aveam prieten din liceu, am făcut şi muncă obligatorie cu el. Am avut şi prieteni români, unul Vasilescu, dar când ne-am despărţit, adică când am plecat din şcoală, el a rămas în continuare să înveţe încă doi ani. După aia, noi nu ne-am mai întâlnit. Pe urmă am avut încă un prieten care era cu un an mai mic decât mine, tot la Matei Basarab învăţa, Aurel Zlota. Cred că din clasa  întâia de liceu, chiar mai devreme, din şcoala primară eram prieten cu el şi am fost prieten cu el până acum doi-trei ani, când el a murit. A fost cel mai bun prieten al meu de 60-70 de ani. Am mers împreună şi cu soţia mea când îi făceam curte, i-am făcut cunoştinţă  cu soţia lui. N-am fost un intermediar propriu-zis, dar l-am sfătuit să se căsătorească. Am fost ca fraţii, în timpul liceului, ne-au mutat în strada Udricani şi el stătea vis-à-vis de noi. Am avut prieteni pe doi fraţi de pe strada Udricani, unde am stat. Era un restaurant, o cârciumă, prin 1939-1940, şi ei locuiau la etaj, restaurantul era la parter, aşa cum se făcea atunci, adică parterul era comerţ şi sus locuiau ei. Jucam table cu ei câteodată. Dar cu Aurel Zlota, mergeam să dansăm cu fetele, era cu totul altceva.

Mergeam la cinema, ne plăcea foarte mult. Duminica mergeam la cinema. Erau două filme. În liceu am avut o aventură. Elevii de liceu atuncea nu aveau voie să meargă la spectacol, nici la cinema, n-aveam voie să mergem la spectacole care nu erau agreate de şcoală. Trebuia să mergem în uniformă, aveam numere, putea să ne reclame. La cinema era întuneric, nu se vedea. Un prieten avea o cunoştinţă, actor la Teatrul Tănăse şi ne-a băgat înăuntru prin intrarea actorilor. Noi n-aveam voie să mergem pentru că era un teatru de revistă cu femei, nu goale, dar nici îmbrăcate. De la intrarea actorilor, se mergea pe scenă, se dădea cortina la o parte şi erau trepte şi ne-a băgat acolo, pe urmă ne-a aşezat în primul rând. Când am intrat pe scenă era o actriţă dezbrăcată, adică numai în chiloţi, am rămas cu gura căscată şi nu numai căscată, ne-a cuprins şi frica că dacă ne descoperă cineva, ne dă afară din şcoală. M-am uitat înapoi şi am văzut în spatele meu  că toată sala şi balconul ne vedea, m-am ridicat repede şi m-am dus în ultimul rând sub balcon, cel puţin să nu mă vadă. Şi aşa am văzut spectacolul cu frica în sân.

Singurul lucru care puteam să merg atuncea era că mergeam cu bicicleta. Am învăţat să înot, mergeam la ştranduri, când eram mai mare. La Hipodromul din Bucureşti deobicei mergeam cu cumnata mea. Venea lume bună în general la cursele de cai, oameni care erau foarte bine situaţi, pentru că erau proprietari de cai, dar veneau şi oameni care făceau pariuri din pături sociale mai medii. Era un preţ de intrare acolo şi jocul la cursele de cai era destul de complicat, pentru că trebuia să studiezi posibilităţile de succes ale unui cal oarecare, erau programe pe care trebuia să le cumperi, erau o serie intreagă de condiţii în care oamenii trebuiau să studieze puţin ce se întâmplă la cursele de cai. Nu era ca un loz de loterie pe care îl cumperi, înseamnă că nu putea să vină orice neştiutor.

Al Doilea Război Mondial

Părinţii au avut de suferit foarte mult în perioada Holocaustului [din cauza legii anti-evreieşti].Tatăl meu avea un magazinaş, o afacere pe strada Şelari. S-a făcut românizarea, el a fost dat afară, s-a numit un administrator. N-a mai avut voie să facă comerţ şi n-a mai avut nici un mijloc de trai. Pot să spun că îi datorez mult, a fost nemaipomenit de inventiv, că nu avea nici o meserie. El a fost comerciant toată viaţa şi i s-a luat posibilitatea de a face comerţ. Cum am putut să trăim într-acea vreme nu pot să spun. Toată lumea era şomeră. În timpul rebeliunii , în 1941, am avut un prieten care a fost arestat. Unde locuiam, era o curte şi de jur împrejur erau apartamente. Noi am avut relaţii foarte bune cu vecinii. Când a fost rebeliunea legionară vecinii nu s-au dus să reclame că suntem evrei. Nu ştiu câţi din vecini au rămas, am avut alţi vecini. Noi am fost daţi afară [de militari] din casa de pe strada Legislator şi am plătit chirie într-un pod din strada Labirint. Am avut o casă într-un pod, aveam două camere, o bucătărie mai jos. Erau persecutaţi evreii, medicii evrei au fost daţi afară din instituţii, de peste tot. N-aveau voie să consulte decât evrei şi aşa mai departe.

[Notă: Tatăl era prea în vârstă ca să mai fie recrutat, iar fratele nu a făcut în acelaşi loc muncă obligatorie] Am fost cu munca obligatorie în trei-patru locuri: la Poligonul Cotroceni, la Institutul Central de Statistică, la dezăpezirea liniilor din Gara de Nord şi pe Calea Griviţei. La Poligonul Cotroceni se făcea un poligon de tragere pentru armată, se săpau nişte şanţuri şi se aduna tot pământul pe un deal. Adică noi săpam şanţurile, transportam cu roaba până la deal sus şi umpleam acest deal, bătătoream acest deal, pentru ca să oprească gloanţele. Se trăgea în sanţuri lungi de vreo doua sute de metri şi gloanţele trebuiau să se oprească în acest deal. Toată ziua, de dimineaţa până seara săpam acolo, căram cu roaba. Îmi aduc aminte şi că ploua, eram în noroi şi asta făceam luni de zile. Cred că un an de zile am stat la şanţurile astea. Şi toată ziua eram între şanţuri în pământ şi în  noroaie. Când veneam acasă, seara, era o plăcere să mergi în oraş, nu în noroi, să nu mai stai între şanţuri, să vezi nişte case.

În detaşamentele astea de muncă obligatorie aveam un locotenent de treabă, stătea sus şi supraveghea toate şirurile astea care mergeau sus. Supraveghea toate şanţurile astea în care se săpa ca lumea să lucreze, să nu stea degeaba, el era ca un supraveghetor general al întregului şantier. Fiecare şanţ avea un plutonier, care făcea apelul dimineaţa, trebuia să fii la o anumită oră, şapte dimineaţa, până la şapte seara, se lucrau doisprezece ore, seara se făcea apelul de terminare şi plecai acasă. Locotenentul stătea sus şi se uita peste tot, cum merg roabele, cum se săpa. Supraveghea toate şanţurile astea în care se săpau ca lumea să lucreze, să nu stea degeaba.  Eram obligaţi să facem o anume normă şi la un moment dat colonelul, care era pe tot detaşamentul ne-a adunat, ne-a pus să stăm jos şi ne-a spus că cei care nu-şi fac norma respectivă vor fi împuşcaţi. Aşa că să avem grijă să facem această normă. Eram la roabă şi la săpat.

Am fost şi cu prieteni, cu Grimberg Boris, care a murit şi cu care am fost la facultate. El era în tineretul comunist, atunci eu nu eram şi îmi aduc aminte că el îmi dădea ştiri, asculta la radio, deşi n-aveam voie să ascultăm la radio, Moscova sau Londra. Aflam de la el care era situaţia frontului, asta ne interesa foarte mult, pentru că dacă învingea Germania, noi eram nenorociţi, vai de capul nostru. Când a fost victoria ruşilor pe frontul de est, la Stalingrad, eram fericiţi.

La Institutul Central de Statistică, la secţia de desen-dactilografie, am făcut acolo munca obligatorie, neplătită. M-a întreţinut tatăl meu, nu ştiu din ce şi de acolo am fost repartizat  în iarna lui 1943-1944 la Gara de Nord, ca să lucrez la dezăpezirea liniilor din Gara de Nord. Toată iarna am lucrat acolo, înfofolit nemaipomenit.Trebuia să stau toata ziua să curăţ zăpada în aer liber, în geruri cumplite, în zăpada, în umezeală. După aceea în 1944, când a fost bombardat Bucureştiul, în special, pe liniile din Gara de Nord, pe Calea Griviţei în sus, noi am fost trimişi ca să dăm la o parte cărămizile. Au fost bombardate nişte case şi am fost trimişi acolo sa dezgropăm averile celor care au fost dărâmaţi. Fiecare voia să-şi salveze o mobilă, o plapumă, era o nenorocire. Noi dezgropam, încărcam cărămizile şi molozul în camioane, ca să eliberam străzile. Erau atacurile cu avioane, bombardamente şi când suna alarma, fugeam din Griviţei, în centrul capitalei, ca să ne băgam într-un subsol şi să ne apăram şi pe urmă mergeam înapoi după ce trecea alarma. Asta am făcut până când au intrat trupele sovietice.

Înainte de 23 august [1944], în 22 august, n-am ştiut ce se întâmplă şi ne-am prezentat. Era adunarea pentru ăştia care mergeau pe Griviţei, cu un locotenent. Locotenentul aduna o grupă întreagă. Noi am venit să ne repartizeze dar locotenentul asta n-a venit. Am plecat acasă, în 23 s-a anunţat la radio. După 23 august că au intrat trupele sovietice în Bucureşti. Am fost foarte bucuros, că am scăpat de nenorocirea asta. Pentru noi, trupele sovietice ne-au eliberat, eram entuziasmaţi şi entuziasmaţi de comunism. Din cauza asta am şi făcut cerere de intrare în partid. Dar în partid, n-am intrat în 1944, am intrat în 1947, sau 1948. În acelaşi timp eu am terminat liceul, la şcoala evreiască. Am luat bacalaureatul, am intrat la facultate, tot la facultate evreiască, Colegiul pentru studenţi evrei, la Arhitectură. [Notă: Colegiul pentru studenţi evrei a funcţionat între 1941 şi 1943, cu aprobări oficiale. Aici au putut continua studiile atât studenţii cât şi profesorii evrei daţi afară din facultăţi.] Profesorul nostru de proiect de arhitectură era  Hary Stern, arhitectul Stern, căruia îi datorez foarte mult, că m-a învăţat foarte multe lucruri.

Viața de după Război

După război ne-am întors înapoi în strada Legislator. Nu a locuit altcineva în casă, era comandamentul militar. N-am găsit modificări, dar a trebuit să zugrăvim, să ne acomodam. Am început toată familia să ne revigoram. Tatăl meu, datorită talentului lui a început să facă ceva afaceri acolo, tot în Şelari. În 1945, fratele meu mai mare a ieşit arhitect, eu eram student la Facultatea de arhitectură şi el împreună cu tatăl meu, a reuşit să facă o casă în centrul capitalei, pe strada Gabroveni, în Bucureşti. Era un teren pe care el îl avea în proprietate din 1937, dar în timpul legionarilor această proprietate nu era recunoscută, nu putea să facă nimic cu ea. A revendicat aceasta proprietate în 1945 şi a înscris terenul în cartea funciară. Era un teren foarte mic, s-a gândit să facă o casă. După război oamenii au început să facă afaceri acolo în străzile Lipscani şi Gabroveni erau tot felul de afaceri la negru, ei aveau nevoie de un birou mic, pentru că mărfurile nu erau acolo. Ce voiau să vândă sau să cumpere, ei făceau o tranzacţie şi aduceau marfa. Şi el a făcut birouri de 2/3, nişte birouri de 5-6 metri pătraţi, nişte cuşti. A pus o firmă:“Vindem birouri în această clădire“ . Nu s-a construit nimic, era numai firma şi şantierul care era deschis şi s-a adus o căruţă de pietriş acolo. În 1945 i s-a dat autorizaţie de construcţie, cu această autorizaţie de construcţie şi cu planul care i-a făcut fratele meu, i s-a cumpărat trei birouri, atâta i s-a cumpărat. Cu banii a cumpărat fier şi cărămida şi a început să construiască. Fratele meu supraveghea, am fost chemat şi eu acolo să supraveghez. Când a văzut lumea că începe să se construiască, au venit şi alţii şi i-au dat bani. A dat drumul mai departe la construcţie şi uite aşa, aşa s-a construit această casă. A venit un decret de naţionalizare a acestei case [în 1948] şi el a rămas pierdut, n-a mai avut nimic, nici un fel de venit. Eu şi fratele meu  am început să-l întreţinem pe tatăl meu, pe părinţii mei.

Aveam un prieten, soţia mea era verişoară cu el, şi acel prieten, a zis: " Noi nu aveam foarte multe fete în cercul nostru. Hai să facem cunoştinţă cu nişte fete! ".Verişoara lui avea şi ea nişte prietene şi toate stăteau în [zona] Dudeşti pe o alee. Şi ne-am dus să facem cunoştinţă şi eu am vrut să ne mai întâlnim cu verişoara lui şi cu el şi cu încă nişte fete. Aşa am făcut eu cunoştinţă cu soţia mea, în 1944, în timpul războiului. După război, am mers cu ea şi cu alte fete şi cu alţi băieţi, prieteni de ai mei, în excursii pe munte, în [Munţii] Bucegi. Eu între timp, am întreţinut relaţiile cu ea, am devenit arhitect şi în 1947 am fost angajat. S-a întâmplat, că tatăl ei a vrut să plece în Israel, a avut paşaport, şi din cauza unei rude, care a fost falsificator de timbre, el a fost arestat două-trei zile. Paşaportul tatălui l-a rupt, pentru că i-a fost frică. Şi din cauza asta, părinţii, n-au mai apucat să plece şi n-au vrut s-o lase să plece singură. A întârziat şi între timp ne-am îndrăgostit, iar în 1949 ne-am căsătorit. Când m-am căsătorit cu soţia mea, ne-am mutat pe strada Nicolae Golescu 20.

Chely Streja, [născută Weisbuch], soţia mea, s-a născut în anul 1927, la Brăila într-o familie evreiască, dar era mică de tot când a venit în Bucureşti, nu ştiu dacă avea doi-trei ani. Mama ei a fost născută la Tizmeniţa [Tysmenitsa], în Polonia, actualmente în Ucraina. Tatăl a fost născut, cred, la Roman. Amândoi erau religioşi, se duceau la templu, ţineau sărbătorile. În casă vorbeau româneşte, dar mama ştia şi poloneză şi cunoşteau idiş, soţia mea a învăţat ceva idiş, din faptul că se vorbea în casă.  A învăţat întâi la o şcoală românească, a fost dată afară de la şcoala românească şi a făcut liceul la o şcoală evreiască, cea mai mare parte, a făcut pe urmă, şcoala comercială. Era calificată în contabilitate. Am vrut ca să urmeze Academia Comercială, dar ea n-a mai apucat şi a intrat în producţie. Adică după război, ea a fost angajată, avea liceul terminat, şi ea a intrat în CSP (Comisia de Stat a Planificării).

A avut o serie de sarcini foarte interesante, la un moment dat nu ştiu cine şi-a dat demisia, sau a ieşit la pensie de la grădiniţă. Şi ea a fost directoare de grădiniţă şi a fost foarte iubită de copii. Pe urmă, ea a lucrat acolo la contabilitate, vreo 15 ani, dar a dat-o afară că avea rude în străinătate şi pentru că nu era membră de partid. Se pusese problema în Marea Adunare Naţională să nu fie un procent de unguri, de nu ştiu ce, mai mare decât de români, în raport cu populaţia. Şi ea, nefiind membru de partid şi nefiind româncă şi având şi rude în străinătate, şi în America şi în Israel au dat-o afară. [Nota: Cei care aveau rude în străinătate puteau avea probleme la serviciu în orice moment]. Ea s-a angajat, a avut mai multe oferte. S-a angajat la Centrala de Industrie Textilă,era o centrală cu mai multe fabrici, la contabilitate. Pe urmă s-a desfiinţat Centrala şi fabricile depindeau direct de minister şi a fost repartizată la o fabrică de pe Dudeşti. Noi stăteam în centru şi fabrica asta era destul de departe, mergea foarte mult cu tramvaiul pe vremea aia. Acolo a lucrat în continuare la contabilitate, asta este cariera soţiei mele.

Fiul meu s-a născut în Bucureşti. Noi nu i-am dat o educaţie specială religiosă. La noi în familie nu erau nişte manifestări religioase deosebite, de altfel în perioada zisă comunistă, când se făcea o propagandă nemaipomenită împotriva credinţelor religioase, el a învăţat la şcoală de stat unde, bine înţeles educaţia era anti-religioasă. Profesorii erau foarte buni şi a fost o generaţie de elevi nemaipomenit de bună. Unii dintre ei au emigrat şi au făcut cariere profesionale excepţionale. Fiul meu a avut o educaţie foarte bună familială, şcolară, universitară, sportivă. A făcut înot de performanţă cu un antrenor german, care l-a şi educat într-un spirit sportiv. A fost în echipa României de juniori la concursuri internaţionale din Cehoslovacia.

După ce a terminat facultatea, s-a căsătorit în 1977. S-a căsătorit religios la o sinagogă mică, Credinţa, din Bucureşti. A făcut stagiul militar la Ploieşti. După cinci ani de zile după ce au făcut cerere, autorităţile comuniste s-au îndurat de ei şi le au aprobat emigrarea. Au emigrat legal şi în străinătate au muncit nemaipomenit de mult, pentru că erau proaspăt emigranţi, nu au avut avere, nu au fost sprijiniţi cu bani în străinătate. Reuşesc să traiască acceptabil de 22 ani în străinătate şi au două fiice cărora le dau o educaţie generală şi evreiască foarte bună.

Vreau să spun că interesul pentru religie nu l-a avut în toată perioada de cincizeci de ani, cât a fost perioada comunistă, prin structura mea, din cauză că am fost educat în această perioadă deşi am avut aşa influenţe religioase mistice din partea părinţilor. Eu nu i-am dat băiatului meu o educaţie religioasă, mistică, deşi soţia mea este mai credincioasă. Eu nu sunt credincios, eu sunt numai religios. Noi am ţinut sărbătorile evreieşti în casă şi Paşte şi Yom Kippur şi post, toate sărbătorile importante evreieşti le-am ţinut. Soţia mea ştia mai multe, a ştiut întotdeauna mai multe. Aceşti cincizeci de ani  de comunism noi am ţinut sărbătorile, sărbătorile mari dar nu mai ţineam casher, nu mai mergeam la templu.

Despre religie am ţinut şi conferinţe la comunitate [Notă: la sala comunităţii evreieşti din Bucureşti, din strada Popa Soare, se organizează periodic conferinţe, comunicări], am scris. Astăzi  sunt foarte multe controverse. Noţiunea de evreu este foarte mult controversată. Unii consideră ca să fii evreu înseamnă să fii de religie mozaică, de religie iudaică, alţii consideră că evreu trebuie să fii din mama evreică cum este legea israeliană şi alţii, cum sunt unii rabini din Statele Unite, consideră că a fi evreu înseamnă de fapt altceva, înseamnă să aderi la tradiţia iudaică, la istoria comună iudaică şi la situaţia de a fi evreu. Că oamenii nu se nasc evrei ci devin evrei. Devin evrei prin asumarea situaţiei de evreu, adică a tradiţiei. Există o tradiţie iudaică, o apartenenţă istorică, o cultură iudaică. A-ţi însuşi, a adera la aceste valori iudaice înseamnă a fi evreu, a fi recunoscut ca evreu. Asta este mult mai important. De exemplu [Nicolae] Cajal 5 a spus despre Hanuka, că această sărbătoare reprezintă şi eroismul acestor evrei, care au rezistat asaltului trupelor siriene de atunci, deci e o sărbătoare naţională, o sărbătoare a eliberării. Desigur că este o sărbătoare în care s-a arătat minunea lui Dumnezeu, că a ars o candelă timp de o săptămâna. E o sărbătoare religioasă dar şi naţională şi eroică, are o serie întreagă de semnificaţii care sunt în afara sărbătorii mistice pur religioase. Aşa se întâmplă cu toate sărbătorile iudaice, care nu au numai o semnificaţie mistică, ci şi laică.

Se discuta [cu prietenii] puţin despre politica actuală a comunismului şi ce se întâmplă în străinătate în ţările zise capitaliste unde noi aveam rude.

În 1947 am ieşit arhitect, m-am angajat la început la UFDR, Uniunea Femeilor Democrate din România şi am făcut întâi un cămin de copii. Nu-mi mai aduc aminte pe ce stradă. Era într-o casă veche. Pe urmă m-am angajat la IPC, Institutul de Proiect pentru Construcţii, primul institut de proiectare din ţară de stat. În 1948,1949, m-am angajat acolo. Fratele meu era şi el angajat acolo. Din IPC s-a făcut IPCM, s-a făcut IPCT, s-a făcut ISCAS, ISPROM şi ne-a mutat dintr-o parte dar eu eram tot acolo. Timp de patruzeci de ani am lucrat la acelaşi institut de proiectări care s-a numit tot mereu altfel.

Am făcut proiectul meu pe la început de tot, la fabrica de ciment de la Turda, asta a fost o lucrărică. Pe urmă am făcut fabrici de ciment la Medgidia, în Bucureşti. Pe urmă, când s-a numit IPCT, am făcut împreună cu nişte foşti profesori la Arhitectură planurile, schiţe şi sistematizare pentru Mediaş. Pe urmă am făcut în provincie sute magazine pentru CENTROCOOP. Am făcut nişte proiecte tip şi s-au executat sute de magazine săteşti. Am făcut primul restaurant cu autoservire la Săvineşti şi aparatajele le-a executat Ministerul Chimiei [Combinatul de Fire şi Fibre Sintetice Săvineşti aparţinea de Ministerul Chimiei]. Am făcut o serie de proiecte pentru cămine muncitoreşti, internate şcolare. Am făcut în Bucureşti clădirea de pe strada Ion Câmpineanu, blocul 10 din Piaţa Palatului. Clădirea asta avea locuinţe la etaj şi la parter este o poştă şi un CEC. Am amintiri foarte frumoase. CEC-ul era cu o subpantă şi acest bloc are o trecere pe dedesubt. Era o stradă care dădea în Ion Câmpineanu şi nu puteam să o blochez şi am făcut o trecere pe sub casă. Am avut şi nişte ingineri foarte buni, unul dintre ei era evreu, care a făcut acolo minuni de vitejie ca inginer, pentru că casa asta a fost pusă peste o stradă şi din stradă venea o coloană foarte mare de canalizare şi un stâlp cădea pe aceasta. El a făcut un triunghi, adică stâlpul avea o despărţitură triunghiulară şi jos i-a făcut un tirant. Şi canalizarea trecea prin acest triunghi. Asta era cea mai importantă care s-a realizat. Am făcut şi proiecte experimental pentru magazine, cu acoperite cu nişte grinzi metalice şi cu o izolare termică deasupra şi cu nişte azbociment ondulat. La vremea respectivă, intre 1960-1965, era o inovaţie. Am fost angrenat într-un studiu împreună cu INCERC, Institut de cercetări, unde am proiectat o casă cu încălzire solară la Câmpina, pentru că acolo zilele solare neînorate erau mai multe în România şi iarna şi vara. Am făcut parter cu încălzire solară a casei printr-o seră care se face separat. În acoperiş erau puse nişte panouri solare şi apa caldă făcută în aceste panouri solare era trimisă prin pompe în calorifer ca să încălzească casa şi erau trimise şi pentru consum la robinet.

Prin 1975 le-am făcut o serie de alte proiecte care mi-au făcut plăcere foarte mare dar care nu au fost din păcate executate pentru că costau destul de scump. Acestea erau făcute ca proiecte tip şi pentru anumite oraşe trebuia să aibă o expresie locală. Se făcea un proiect pentru un anumit oraş, secretarul de partid al oraşului sau al judeţului avea un cuvânt greu de spus şi prefera să dea să facă acest proiect organizaţiei de proiectare din acel oraş sau din acel judeţ. Cam asta a fost, mi-a făcut plăcere pentru că  nu erau clădiri mari, clădiri importante dar mi-au plăcut. Am intrat ca simplu proiectant în acest institut şi până la sfârşit am ajuns şef de proiect la proiecte importante. Nu pot să spun ce aventuri am avut ca şef de proiect, că eu întotdeauna am avut fel de fel de aventuri.

Am făcut o deplasare [în anii 1950] cu o doamnă la Piteşti şi când m-am întors de la Piteşti în Bucureşti, am găsit un copil în tren. Într-una din staţii se urca o ţărancă, îmbrăcată foarte frumos cu un copil în braţe şi cu un bagajel. Şi se urcă unde erau trei locuri. M-am dat mai într-o parte, ca să-i fac loc şi a pus copilul pe locul care era liber şi a ieşit acolo. Am aşteptat să vie cu bagajele şi văd că pleacă trenul şi ea nu vine şi eu zic Probabil e pe platformă cu bagajele şi vine îndată. Colega mea zicea : “Să ştii că ne-a lăsat copilul aici şi a plecat.- Cum o să-l lase tu? Gândeşti că o mamă o să-şi lase copilul şi o să plece. Te pomeneşti că asta îşi rupe părul din cap că  a scăpat trenul. Să tragem semnalul de alarmă, să oprim trenu“l. În sfârşit după multe investigaţii am alarmat pe toată lumea era alarmată şi a venit conductorul. Zice: “Nu pot să opresc trenul pentru chestia asta. La prima staţie o să mă dau jos din tren, telefonam pe linia gării şi dacă găsim pe mamă acolo atuncea o să coborâm copilul. Trenul o să plece mai departe, îl lăsăm la gară şi să vină mama să ia copilul“. La prima gară se opreşte trenul, se duce conductorul la gară şi noi aşteptam, aşteptam, aşteptam. Nu se mişca nimeni. Vine conductorul înapoi. Zice: “Domnule, nu e, nu s-a găsit mama şi noi trebuie să plecăm. Dumneavoastră sunteţi anunţaţi în Gara de Nord că trebuie să veniţi cu copilul, dumneavoastră trebuie să aveţi grijă de copil, o să-l predaţi la jandarmeria din Gara de Nord“. Colega mea zice: “Eu plec şi lasă-mă în pace !“. Între timp merge trenul, noi mai legănam puţin copilul. Era cuminte săracul de el şi era un băieţel foarte drăguţ. A aflat lumea din tren că exista un copil şi au venit, au început să curgă ofertele. Dă-mi-l mie, eu am nevoie de un copil, cutare, cutare. Uite, eu sunt cutare. “Cum să ţi-l dau? Pe mine mă aşteaptă în Gara de Nord jandarmeria, eu trebuie să-l predau acolo, nu pot să ţi-l dau, ce e copilul meu? Păi, mergem noi. Veniţi în Gara de nord şi spune-ţi ce vreţi, înţelegi? “ Colega mea era foarte alertată. Când ajung în Gara de Nord, mă aşteptau la vagonul meu, la coborâre trei jandarmi înarmaţi. Şi pe mine şi pe colega mea ne băga la mijloc întâi, unul la spate, doi în faţă, aşa coloana toată, ne duce la jandarmeria din Gara de Nord. La biroul jandarmeriei se prezintă o doică de la «Mama şi copilul» [Organizaţie de protecţie a mamei şi copilului] şi se face un proces verbal: Declarăm, ca în staţia cutare s-a urcat cutare, cutare. Să confirmăm amândoi că este aşa. Eu mă duc şi dau un telefon la nevastă mea şi o întreb: „Putem să luăm încă un copil? Dacă eu mă duc acum să optez, aştia îmi dau copilul, eşti de acord?„ N-a fost de acord, dacă era de acord aveam azi un băiat mai mic.

Am avut multe aventuri la birou. Eu eram membru de partid şi mi s-a dat să fiu cu Gazeta de perete, unde era criticată secretara de partid, al cărei frate era în Comitetul Central. Eu eram şeful Gazetei de perete [Notă: Un avizier unde erau expuse diferite materiale propagandistice, fruntaşii în munca socialistă, critica exemplelor negative, etc.] şi mă trăgea la răspundere: “Cetăţene pentru ce te-a trimis Partidul acolo?“ Altădată îl criticam pe director. Directorul nostru mergea mai mult prin străinătate, nu prea venea în atelier să dirijeze proiectanţii, şi a apărut un articol cu o caricatură a lui în care scria N’y vue n’y connue [N-am văzut, nici nu cunosc]. Şi eu eram responsabil pentru treaba asta. Nu ştiu câte aventuri am avut, mă mir că nu m-a dat afară din partid. Tot felul de boacăne făceam.

În 1968 am fost la Paris şi în 1968 au intrat trupele sovietice în Cehoslovacia [Notă: Domul Streja se refera la Primăvara de la Praga], şi fratele meu a spus: “O să fie război“. Ceauşescu , imediat a ţinut o cuvântare în care a arătat că e împotriva intrării trupelor sovietice în România. Şi fratele meu a zis să rămân la Paris, să nu mă mai întorc şi el îmi aranjează să am o situaţie legală la Paris, refugiat din România comunistă. Puteam să fac asta. “Să las pe nevastă-mea cu copilul în România? Domnule, eu nu pot să-mi părăsesc familia, trebuie să mă întorc“. M-am întors, aveam viză pentru o anumită perioadă. În tren am mers cu vagonul de dormit şi nu era nimeni în tot vagonul de dormit, eram singur…şi tot trenul era cam gol, nu se întorcea nimeni în România de frica războiului. Am venit înapoi, nu mi-a părut rau. Ni se controlau bagajele de sus până jos, eram controlaţi extraordinar la plecare [din România] şi am avut foarte multe neplăceri. Desfăceau toate bagajele de sus până jos, să nu iau tablouri, opere de artă, bijuterii, bani. N-aveam voie să plec cu bani, îmi dădea voie să plec cu zece dolari, cu şase lei dolarul, ce puteam eu să trăiesc cu zece dolari?

Când a fost cutremurul din 1977, Europa Liberă  a transmis o emisiune în care spune că doamna Letzler din Statele Unite vrea să ştie de rudele ei din România, ce se întâmplă. Eu lucram la o întreprindere de stat comunistă, eram membru de partid şi americanii erau imperialişti, duşmanii poporului. Mă întâlnesc cu colegii mei şi spuneau: Europa Liberă, te caută Europa Liberă. Atunci această căutare de către Europa Liberă era un pericol, pe mine, membru de partid, lucrând într-o întreprindere de stat, şef de atelier. Organizaţia de partid m-a întrebat "Ce-i asta dom’le, te caută pe dumneata Europa Liberă? "Nu m-a tras la răspundere, dar a doua zi am primit un telefon de la Europa Liberă " Aici Redacţia Europa Liberă, cunoaşte-ţi anunţul care s-a făcut, aţi auzit? ", cu nevastă-mea a vorbit. Nevastă-mea: "Nu, nu cunosc. -Vi-l punem noi, acuma, că l-am înregistrat". Nevastă-mea zice: " Nu, nu-i nevoie". Şi după aceea, Europa Liberă probabil i-a transmis ei asta, şi ea se adresează din nou la Europa Liberă şi spune "vă rugăm foarte mult să nu-i mai transmite-ţi că poate să-i dăuneze". Europa Liberă transmite din nou "Doamna Letzler ne-a rugat ca să nu mai transmitem ca poate să-i dăuneze", iar vin aştia. Ascultam Europa Liberă în secret şi discutam ce se întâmplă în Europa Liberă, dar discutam şi despre cărţi şi despre toate problemele intelectuale care erau atuncea. Eram abonaţi la reviste de cultură care apăreau în România  şi cumpăram cărţi.

În comunism, viaţa intelectuală românească nu era proastă, erau scriitori valoroşi, erau piese de teatru, erau actori valoroşi şi noi aveam acces la toate manifestările culturale. Afară de activitatea profesională, în care la început mi se băgase pe gât arhitectura sovietică, eram abonat la nişte reviste, Arhitectura CCCP, în limba rusă în care eu nu înţelegeam nimic. Aveam în bibliotecă cărţi de arhitectură, pe vremea aia aveam istoria arhiecturii scrisă de sovietici şi tradusă în română, dar pe care acuma am vândut-o fiindcă nu mai face două parale. În casa noastră era literatură românească, literatura străină: franceză, engleză – soţia mea a învăţat şi germană, engleză şi franceză din liceu. Eu am învăţat engleza foarte târziu când eram de şaizeci de ani. Aveam literatură în special franceză, pentru că în timpul comunismului se făceau multe traduceri din literatură străină, editura era rusească dar traducerea era română. Eram în legatură cu fratele meu şi cu sora mea care ne trimiteau cărţi.

Unde am stat noi, pe strada Legislator, astăzi nu mai există. E zona în care s-a făcut Bulevardul [Victoria] Socialismului. [Notă: Actualmente Bulevardul Unirii. La ordinul lui Ceauşescu s-a distrus o porţiune de 4,5 kilometri din centrul istoric al capitalei, ca perspectiva de la Casa Poporului, a doua clădire ca mărime din lume după Pentagon,  să fie monumentală. Ironic pe acest bulevard se află astăzi majoritatea băncilor şi marilor concerne capitaliste.] Acolo era punctul de intersecţie al Căii Dudeşti cu Calea Văcăreşti, nu mai există nimic, s-a ras complet şi s-a făcut altceva. Demolarea [sistematică] 6 s-a făcut după ce a murit tatăl meu – tata a murit în anii 1970 –, foarte târziu în 1985-1986. Mama mea a locuit acolo până la cutremurul din 1977 şi pe urmă  a locuit la mine. Unde am stat noi [Str. Nicolae Golescu 20] a fost dărâmat parţial de cutremur, Ceauşescu a făcut aşa cu mâna, nu s-a ştiut ce înseamnă asta şi s-a demolat numai trei etaje de deasupra şi noi care eram la etajul întai am rămas acolo, fără acoperiş, fără etajele superioare. A plouat acolo, noi a trebuit să stăm într-un cămin studenţesc. Din căminul studenţesc ni s-a dat o casă în Drumul Taberei, că de acolo vedeam câmpul şi oile cum pasc. Şi pe urmă s-a pus acoperiş la casa unde am stat, în Nicolae Golescu şi am avut dreptul să ne mutăm înapoi dacă vrem. Şi ne-am mutat înapoi şi de acolo, am reuşit să ne mutăm în casa în care stăm astăzi, central, făcând un schimb de locuinţă în vremea comunismului.

La naşterea statului Israel [1948] bineînţeles am fost nemaipomenit de entuziasmat, şi o socotesc şi acum şi atunci că a fost o minune. O adevărată minune şi sunt în admiraţie pentru poporul evreu. Pentru că atunci când s-a făcut împărţirea Palestinei între evrei şi palestinieni, evreii deşi era o situaţie, împărţire foarte dezavantajoasă, statul evreu era despărţit foarte prost. Era făcut în aşa fel încât viitoare conflicte erau de prevăzut, dar evreii au acceptat orice fel de împărţire fiindcă era o renaştere a statului evreu, un punct politic. M-am gândit să emigrez în Israel, dar eu aveam părinţii aici, bătrâni, pe care mă simţeam obligat să-i întreţin, nu puteam să plec cu părinţii într-un stat nou format. Nu puteam să ne lăsăm şi părinţii sora ei era la Editura Politică, o dădea afară cât ai zice peşte. La războaiele din 1967 şi 1973 din Israel, eram cu sufletul la gură, dar rezultatul a fost destul de bun. Noi avem rude în Israel. Soţia mea are rude apropiate, toate verişoarele sunt în Israel. Am ţinut legătura, pe vremea aia nu prea puteam să telefonăm dar primeam şi trimiteam scrisori în continuu şi ne interesam de toate evenimentele, ascultam la Europa Liberă. Am fost împreună cu soţia prin 1980 în Ierusalim, în Tel Aviv, în Haifa, unde avem prieteni şi rude. Am fost de fapt să ne vedem rudele, dar am vizitat mare parte din Israel.

Mama a murit în 1982. Părinţii mei sunt înmormântaţi la cimitirul [evreiesc] Giurgiului. La înmormântare a participat un cantor obişnuit, nu un rabin. Eu spun Kadiş pentru comemorare, îmi amintesc de părinţii mei care au avut grijă de mine, mergem la cimitir.

În jurul anilor 1980 am fost în Moscova, în Leningrad [Sankt Petersburg]. În Moscova am fost de mai multe ori, am fost şi cu Uniunea Arhitecţilor, organizat de arhitecţi şi am fost şi cu Trenul prieteniei. „Trenul prieteniei” era organizat de  asociaţia de prietenie România-Uniunea Sovietică, o excursie. Am stat şi la Moscova şi la Chişinău, am trecut prin Transnistria, Transnistria atuncea era înarmată, era în război cu Moldova, era un război pur şi simplu. Am avut emoţii că trenul ăsta să nu aibă ceva de suferit. Am trecut prin Ungaria şi prin Cehoslovacia. Pe urmă am fost de mai multe ori la Paris, la Düsseldorf, în Germania, am fost pe urmă în Italia. Soţia mea a vizitat mai mult, a vizitat mai mult din Italia, eu am vizitat mai puţin, la Venezia, la Milano şi la Florenţa. Am fost pe Coasta de Azur, de la Paris am plecat în excursie, am vizitat cu un prieten de al meu Belgia, pentru că el era belgian. Pe urmă am fost în America, în Statele Unite, nu prea des, nu am fost în multe oraşe, la Washington, pe coasta de est. În Statele Unite am fost de mai multe ori, soţia mea a stat nouă luni de zile ca să îngrijească de prima fată şi pe urmă am stat trei luni de a doua fetiţă, am fost împreună trei luni de zile, dar ea a stat nouă luni şi mie nu mi-a dat voie, „Să se întoarcă întâi soţia şi pe urmă pleci”. Am fost şi în Canada de câteva ori. Adică am circulat destul de mult împreună cu soţia.

Eu nu mi-am închipuit că în România o să dispară Ceauşescu, când se făceau nişte manifestări nemaipomenite [manifestaţii cu ocazia zilei de 1 mai, de 23 august, cu ocazia vizitelor oficiale ale unor demnitari din străinătate etc.]. Ajunseseră aceste manifestări să fie formale şi oamenii participau obligaţi şi nu numai obligaţi, trebuia să semnezi. Eu eram şef de atelier atuncea şi trebuia să trimit pe oameni, trebuia să fac listă cine a fost, cine este prezent acolo. Şi pe urmă când se făceau manifestaţii nu aveai voie să fii cu o geantă sau cu o sacoşă, îi era frică lui Ceauşescu că se aruncă cu o bombă sau ceva. Din punct de vedere economic, era o criză nemaipomenită în industrie, nu se putea face planul pentru că nu existau resurse şi oamenii nu primeau salariile că nu s-a făcut planul. Era o situaţie nenorocită din toate punctele de vedere, dar nu mi-am închipuit cum o să se petreacă chestia asta. Şi a fost o surpriză nemaipomenită. Eram în Bucureşti şi când Ceauşescu a ţinut discursul în Piaţa Palatului [astăzi Piaţa Revoluţiei], m-am dus şi eu să ascult şi m-am dus chiar aproape, să aud ce spune. La un moment dat când a fost îmbulzeala asta mare am plecat şi eu m-am dus pe străzi şi pe străzi. Au fost împuşcături şi lumea a plecat, a fugit. Pe urmă eu am ieşit tot timpul şi se trăgea, chiar în blocul nostru s-a tras [domnul Streja locuieşte foarte aproape de zona Pieţii Palatului]. Am văzut tot ce s-a întâmplat, afară era armată, se păzea chiar la uşa noastră şi ceream voie să trec. “Dă-i, domne, drumul că trebuie să cumpere o pâine!”. [La revoluţia din 1989] au venit să-mi ofere arme ca să păzesc, dar nu mi-a dat voie nevastă-mea, cică „ăsta e nebun, umblă pe stradă şi se trage”. Eu umblam, ieşeam afară tot timpul. Nu-mi era frică, nevastă-mea era foarte fricoasă [din cauza mea], că mie nu-mi era frică. Când au fost minerii 7, au venit la noi pe terasă, adică eu am trăit toate lucrurile astea în centrul manifestaţiilor.

Am văzut magazinul Unic a început să dea alimente la oameni cu nişte preţuri mici, ca să fie alimentaţi cu pâine cu ce avea în magazin. Magazinul era pe bulevardul Bălcescu, unde e şi acuma, dar era un magazin mare. Pe urmă a apărut Informaţia, primul ziar al revoluţiei. L-am cumpărat şi l-am păstrat. Pe urmă a apărut România liberă, Liberalul, s-a manifestat partidul liberal, cu care eu nu prea am fost de acord, fiindcă publica o poezie a lui Nichifor Crainic. Nichifor Crainic a fost un poet care era extremist de dreapta ce să mai vorbim, a fost colaborator la nişte reviste legionare. Un partid cu tradiţie liberală nu poţi să publici în primul tău număr o poezie de Nichifor Crainic. [Notă: Nichifor Crainic (1889-1972), eseist şi poet. A absolvit studii de specialitate în filozofie şi teologie la Viena. Este principalul doctrinar al ortodoxismului gândirist, antisemit şi xenofob.]

M-am bucurat de libertatea nemaipomenită care dintr-o dată s-a dat voie să plece toată lumea din ţară, rudele din străinătate ne-au căutat şi am început să vorbim la telefon. După 1989 eu eram pensionar şi în această situaţie s-a schimbat foarte mult din punct de vedere al libertăţii. Acuma când am avut orizont intelectual şi moral deschis mi s-a părut o mare binefacere, deci asta am apreciat eu foarte mult la acestă revoluţie, nu avantajele materiale. Pot să plec în străinătate, pot să ascult radio, să văd televiziune. Că această libertate are şi părţi negative, asta este implicit, atunci când eşti dirijat nu mai ai nici un fel de responsabilitate, dar când eşti liber începi să capeţi şi nişte responsabilităţi.

Din cauza pensionării, am avut timp liber şi am devenit mai evreu decât am fost vreodată acuma la bătrâneţe, mai evreu decât unii care se duc la sinagogă ziua şi noaptea. Acuma am legături foarte strânse cu comunitatea pentru că mă interesează foarte mult situaţia comunităţii din toate punctele de vedere. Pe mine mă afectează direct toate evenimentele pozitive pe care le promovează comunitatea, asistenţă socială, continuarea activităţii religioase în temple, sinagogi, cultura evreiască care este reflectată şi în muzeu. Comunitatea asta întreţine şi restaurant caşer şi asistenţă medicală şi asistenţă pentru internări în spital şi o serie de lucruri şi operaţiile astea la ochi care le face şi pentru oameni care nu sunt evrei şi pentru că faptul că ţine legături cu statul în departamentul minorităţilor, în parlament, adică are o serie întreagă de activităţi, legături cu străinătatea, cu organizaţiile mondiale. Face nişte lucruri incredibil pentru o comunitate care grupează maxim 8.000 de evrei, 8.000 sunt foarte generos pentru că statistica arată 5-6.000. Deci, sunt înmărmurit de toate faptele pozitive,  cum este muzeul: Memorialul Martirilor [Evrei “Moses Rosen”].

Sunt afectat şi de toate lucrurile negative. Un lucru negativ care mă afectează, acum de curând este că ne-a părăsit [a plecat] rabinul Glanz. Că ne-a părăsit nu-i nimic dar am rămas chiar fără rabin. Şi pentru mine, eu frecventez cu interes vinerea seară la Templul Coral, nu înţeleg  ivrit, citesc traducerea rugăciunilor, pentru mine erau comentariile de la pericopa săptămânii. Îl apreciam extraordinar pe rabinul Hacohen, care are un dar al povestirii foarte pregnant literar, un dar al povestirii ca şi cum el a fost acolo, pentru că povesteşte ce au simţit evreii, cum au vorbit evreii cu Aaron şi să-l întrebe ce facem acuma dacă n-a venit Moise în patruzeci de zile, cum au fost îngrijoraţi. Acuma fiind părăsiţi de aceşti oameni şi pe mine mă afectează. Am fost la două trei sărbătoriri ale sâmbetei de vineri seară şi au fost nişte comentarii care nu m-au satisfăcut deloc. O dată a fost un ţadic, care se ocupă cu Tora, care studiază iudaismul. Nu ştiu în ce stadiu a ajuns, dacă învaţă de un an, de doi, de şapte, dar era îmbrăcat în caftan şi cu o pălărie neagră şi a spus câteva cuvinte despre pericopa săptămânii, care nu m-au satisfăcut deloc.

Sunt implicat şi aicea [la Sinagoga Mare, ca ghid al muzeului Memorialul Martirilor Evrei ”Moses Rosen”] şi înţeleg pe fiecare evreu care chiar dacă a scăpat [din Holocaust], este marcat toată viaţa de aceste lucruri. Eu am suferit nimica toată în comparaţie cu ei, am fost la muncă obligatorie, nu am fost deportat, dar sufăr pentru fiecare evreu care a fost deportat, care a murit în această perioadă. Consider că Holocaustul nu este o ardere  de viu, sau o ardere completă, este o perioadă istorică care se întinde de la 1930 la 1945, nu 1940-1944, asta este părerea mea. În Holocaust e adevărat că au murit 6 milioane de evrei dar au murit şi alţi oameni care nu erau evrei şi pentru care evreii trebuie să ţină minte şi să se roage pentru milioane de ţigani şi nu se ştie nici azi câte milioane de polonezi sau alte „naţiuni inferioare”.

Glosar:

Meyer Goldstein
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskya

Growing up
Our religious life
My school years
Continuing my studies
During the war
Post-war

Growing up

I was born on December 5, 1916, in the town of Korsoun-Shevchenkovsky, formerly in the Kiev province and currently in the Cherkassy region. Back in 1916 this town was called simply Korsoun.
The name of my mother’s father was Ariy Voskov; my grandmother’s name was Feiga. My grandparents came from Taganchi, a small Jewish town not far from Korsoun. At the end of the 19th century, after a pogrom, those who could flee, fled. My grandparents fled, too. Their first daughter had just been born, but on their way she caught cold and died. After that, in 1895, my mother, Sonya Voskova, was born in Korsoun.
In 1898, her sister Ita was born, then Vekha in 1902, Esther in 1907, Golda in 1909, and brother Munya in 1912.
Munya was a very gifted musician. All the girls received only junior education. Under Soviet rule, my mother, Vekha, and Golda worked in an artel of handicraftsmen as confectioners.  Later, Vekha married a printing plant worker and went to live with him in Cherkassy. Before the war Golda left for Kiev and worked in a newspaper. Ita lived in Korsoun. 
I grew up practically without a father, because soon after my birth, my father got ill, and then died when I was three months old. He got gangrene; his leg was amputated.
My father, Isaac Goldstein, was a confectioner. He worked under somebody else. He did not have his own business. He had no education. My mother told me that he was a religious man who went to synagogue, kept holidays and traditions, and prayed.
My father had brothers. His oldest brother Leib was a tailor. His second brother Menakhem was also a confectioner. My father was the third brother, while the fourth brother, whose name I don’t know, moved to America in approximately 1916. He died there in 1941, leaving a fortune in inheritance. In America he was a lawyer.
I never knew my father’s father. He was already dead when I was born. My father’s mother Rukhlya was alive and lived with her middle son Menakhem in Korsoun. They had no house of their own, but rented a tiny flat. The flat had only two little rooms. The first was occupied by my grandmother, while Menakhem and his wife Lea slept in the second one, which was bigger. I don’t remember that flat very well because I was there only several times when I was very young.
My grandfather Ariy Voskov became a father to me. My mother and I lived in his family, and I, just like other children, called him “father.” He made hats. He had a lot of orders, but we were poor, very poor, because not many people paid for his work. We never had a house of our own, we always rented. We often moved from house to house trying to find something cheaper. Usually we rented poorly furnished, cheerless flats with iron beds. All our family usually lived in two rooms. My grandfather would work in one of these rooms. I remember big wooden models, on which he pulled hats and great irons in our house. Grandmother did all the work around the house, cooked, cleaned, and raised children. She worked from early morning to late at night. She had to feed everyone, bring water from the yard, heat the oven, clean the rooms. Salaries were low and we did our best to survive. I remember when I was in the third grade stores began to sell very cheap toy pistols. Three days I spent crying before my mother. I will always remember it. I cried and begged her to buy one for me. But she… it’s not that she did not love me, but we were so poor… that thing cost 20 or 50 kopecks, but she could not tear this money away from the family. Those were Soviet times already, and my mother was working at the “Red Confectioner” artel. Her sister Esther also worked there.
When I was three or four years old there was a pogrom in Steblev, not far from Korsoun. Gangs would burst into Jewish houses, kill men and rape women. I did not understand what a pogrom was then, but later I understood it, when I saw how one woman was raped. Later she lived not far from us. She never got married and she had mental problems afterwards. During the pogrom my mother took me and fled from the town, together with one of her sisters.
My grandfather, Ariy Voskov, was a very religious man. Every day, morning and evening, he went to the synagogue. He put on his taleth and tefillin. No matter whether it was a work day or a day off, every morning and evening he spent in the synagogue.

Our religious life

We celebrated all religious holidays at home. I remember Passover. We brought all crockery down from the attic, and we always had very nice kosher crockery. All the family would sit around the table, and we cooked everything that had to be cooked according to the Hagaddah: eggs, one potato each, fish, chicken, horseradish, and matzos. Grandfather would lead the seder. This holiday I remember, but I don’t remember any other holidays.
As far as I remember, around 90 percent of families in Korsoun were Jewish. Two streets crossed downtown: Shevchenko and Lenin Streets. On one side there was the Ros River; over the river was a machine building plant, and dye-works. Then there were the smithies. The blacksmiths were all Jewish.
Most Jews in the town were craftsmen and traders. Craftsmen included tailors, hatters, shoemakers, roofers, and balaguls, those who had horses and carts, and took people to and from the train station, which was about five kilometers away from Korsoun. During Soviet times, all handicraftsmen united into an association called Shveinik, meaning “sewing industry worker.” All of Shveinik’s members were Jewish. This artel included my mother’s sisters Vekha and Golda as well as many other people whom I knew. Moshka Ocheretik was a craftsman. He led the self-defense unit of the Jews who defended the population from gangs during the Civil War.  Jews were all on friendly terms. They helped each other and defended themselves. And the Jews of Korsoun had good relations with Ukrainians. Many Ukrainians even spoke Yiddish as well as their native language.
The central streets of Korsoun had stone paving. In the very center of the town there was a market place and a big square with four synagogues. The largest synagogue was beautiful, made of stone, with nice big entrance over the steps. I remember it very well because my grandfather would go there and take me with him. On the first floor, where all the men stayed, there was a big hall with wooden benches. At that time I did not understand what those people and my grandfather were reading, and I was not interested in it. My mother and her sisters would go up to the second floor, but they went to synagogue only on holidays. There were three more synagogues in the town, but we never went there, so I don’t remember what they looked like.
Another picturesque area was Pomestiye, located on two islands on the Ros. There was a beautiful castle there, and waterfalls. There was also a very nice church. I still remember the sound of its bells and can sing it to you. For instance, when the service began, the small bell started – bong-bong-bong. Then, Bong! went the big bell. The church was very close to our house and I remember exactly what the bells sounded like. I can tell you for sure that I liked this church more than the synagogue then.
But in 1932 this church was ruined by order of the communists, because the country began to persecute religions.
And synagogues were closed down. Only one was left. Our synagogue, the most beautiful one, became a youth club, where youth and Komsomol members got together for their meetings. A Jew named Boguslavsky was its director. The second synagogue became a sewing workshop, and the third one simply stood empty. The smallest synagogue remained functioning. I don’t remember any manifestations of anti-Semitism in those years; it was the general state policy to close down all religious buildings. I remember it very well because I was 16 years old at that time. 

My school years

I was attending a seven-year Jewish school. All the subjects in it were taught in Yiddish. Most of all I liked mathematics and physics – I liked both subjects and their teachers. We also learned the Ukrainian language and literature, and the German language. Teachers of the Ukrainian language and literature were Ukrainians, while the rest of teachers were Jewish. It was a secular school for Jewish children, for whom Yiddish was the native language. We had no special Jewish subjects at all; Yiddish was simply the language of instruction.
I remember the major Soviet holidays: May 1, October Revolution, Paris Commune Day. On those days we went out to demonstrations together with adults, carried red flags, and enjoyed it very much. My grandfather Ariy never welcomed the revolution. He never celebrated any holidays except the Jewish ones. My mother and her sisters, like most Jews of their generation, were quickly assimilated and joyfully received the new order, believing in the Communist ideas. During the war my mother joined the Communist Party.
When I was in the fourth grade I joined the young pioneers. But my grandfather wanted me to attend the rabbi’s classes! So, I attended the rabbi’s classes at his house. Well, you know, we would sit at the rabbi’s, he would read to us and we would repeat after him. Later the rabbi complained to my grandfather about me, because I once met him in the street and saluted him! I saluted a rabbi like a communist pioneer! The rabbi got very upset and told my grandfather, who became indignant with me. But still, I remembered some of what the rabbi taught us. So, I knew Yiddish but never learned Hebrew very well.
At school I got very interested in electricity. All the lamps, chandeliers, and sconces that you see here in this room were made by me. I had always wanted to become an electrical engineer

Continuing my studies

I never thought I would become a teacher, but my fate went such a way that I found myself in the teacher’s institute. It happened so that after graduation from the seventh grade we all went to Nikolayev to continue our studies. There were eight of us, all Jews, five boys and three girls. In Nikolayev there was a Factory Plant College at the Andre Martie Plant, which today is a shipbuilding plant. We lived in a dormitory. There were five people in our room. There was one toilet and one kitchen for the whole dormitory, where lived a total of approximately 60 people. We lived well, trying to help one another and our families. It was a military plant and we received good portions of food there. On top of our meals in the canteen, we also received bread cards to buy one and a half or two kilos of bread a day. So five of us put these cards together and sent our bread to one family a week, in turns. This way I helped my mother to survive, because by then it was 1933, the year a famine was artificially created by the government.
Life was very hard, especially in villages. Young Ukrainians would go to the cities every morning to look for jobs to somehow feed their families and survive. Everyone’s life was hard.
Among my friends in Nikolayev was a girl, Anya Yakobson. We came from Korsoun together. I always cared for her, all my life. We were friends, then we dated…. One of her relatives from Nikolayev said that the Odessa Pedagogical Institute lacked students and we could try and enter it. So the whole group of us left Nikolayev for Odessa. We had nothing when we left. We did not even take our documents from the College.
In Odessa we were told that we could not be accepted without documents, so we were sent to the Worker’s Department (an institution of learning created by the Soviet authorities for youth without full school education). There we had exams. Only one other boy, Izya Kotlyar, and I passed those exams and were accepted to the third year, while the rest had to go home. In 1934 he and I studied at the Workers’ Department and then transferred to the Odessa Pedagogical Institute. I chose physics and mathematics because I liked them and also because at our school we had studied in Yiddish, so we did not know other languages well enough. We lived in a dormitory and were paid scholarship, but it was not enough. It was thirty rubles plus some kopecks. That is why, even though I was a Komsomol member then, I did no public work. I was never an active Komsomol member, I simply had no time for that. I worked at a bread store: at night I would bake bread, and during the day I would study at the Institute.
In our dormitory there were young people of various nationalities from different places – Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, et cetera. I was on good terms with all of them. We never divided people by nationalities. Life was hard for everyone.
At that time arrests and what became known as the Stalinist arrests and show trials began. My mother’s brother Munya served in the army leading an orchestra, for he was a very gifted musician. But he lacked self-control. Once he did not like the food they were given and said so.  He was arrested. That’s all. He disappeared. We could not inquire about his fate. No one would answer such questions.
In the beginning of 1939 I graduated from the Institute. I was sent to the town of Pikov, a Jewish town in the Vinnitsa region. Then in the fall of that year, the Germans captured Poland, and our troops entered the Baltic countries and western Ukraine. The country was on the verge of war, but few realized it.

During the war

I was summoned to the military registration and enlistment office. They sent me home, to Korsoun, and ordered to wait for a call-up. So at the end of November we were taken to the Leningrad military district. The Finnish War began.
We found ourselves in barracks in Gatchin. It was extremely cold, about 50 degrees Centigrade below zero. All we had were summer uniforms. We had three-story plank beds. There were so many people that at night we could turn only on order. In the morning all of us were taken outside for physical exercises. Many of us were from the South and were not used to cold. So the second day many got sick, including me.
Relations in the army were friendly. Nobody offended me as a Jew. On our way there in the train some people laughed and made Jewish jokes, teasing me, but in my military unit nobody did that. I was respected.
I was put in a signalers’ platoon. One day we were walking, choosing observation posts. A lance corporal was walking in front of me. We had to follow a narrow path because everything around us was mined. He was must have been distracted by something because he stepped to one side. Immediately there was a terrible explosion. I ran to him and saw that he lost his leg completely. That was the end of his fighting. He was rushed into hospital and I heard nothing else about him. There were many victims in the Finnish War.
After the end of the Finnish War our division was sent to Tbilisi. The year was 1940.
I worked at the headquarters because I dealt with communications. It was May 1941. Since I had higher education, they offered to let me prepare and become an officer. They planned to make me a junior lieutenant and transfer me to the reserve. So on Saturday, June 21, 1941, I passed my exams for lieutenancy. And on Sunday, June 22, when we were at the training range, the Second World War began. We were put on platforms and taken to Makhachkala. There we were stationed for all of 1941 and almost all of 1942. I was lucky there, I got in touch with my mother. She was in Yangiyul in evacuation, and she got married there. She had known her second husband, Shlyoma Sklyar, even before the war, because they had worked together as confectioners. On their way to evacuation his wife died on the train, and my mother became his close friend.
Many people could not survive evacuation to the east. My mother’s sister Ita was in evacuation together with her in Yangiyul, and there she died from cold and starvation. Her sister Vekha got married before the war and lived outside Cherkassy. She had a daughter. During evacuation they ended up somewhere else far away, and the girl was run over by a car in front of her mother. Vekha’s husband could not live through that and committed suicide, so Vekha was left alone.
Esther was in Magnitogorsk, working at the canteen of a military plant.
For women, evacuation was extremely hard to bear. They worked for themselves, for their brothers, for their husbands, and devoted everything to the soldiers. They did not eat enough or sleep enough. Coming from the south of Ukraine, they froze in Siberia, but they did everything in their power to advance our victory.
Golda, my mother’s youngest sister, had the best education. Before the war she was an active Komsomol member. She worked in a Komsomol newspaper in Kiev. In evacuation she ended up in Sverdlovsk, caught cold and died there.
Almost all of my relatives were evacuated to the east. Only my father’s brother Menakhem and his wife did not want to be evacuated for some reason. Later, when the Germans were very close, he, his wife Lea and my grandmother Rukhlya went to Krasnodar. My grandmother died on the train and was buried right there by the railway. Menakhem and Lea lived for about six months in Krasnodar before the Germans entered, gathered all the local Jews and those who had fled there, thinking they had gone far enough, and shot them.
I don’t know about the rest. Izya Kotlyar also fought and survived. I don’t know where he is now. And I lost my Anya Yakobson during the war, I lost all trace of her, ah.…
My mother’s parents had died before the war.
My mother came to me in Makhachkala. I found a flat for her. When she came, Regiment Commander Damayev, who came from a famous Russian family of actors and who treated me very well, helped get food for her. Later, when the Germans began to bomb Makhachkala, I sent my mother away. I took her to the port and sent her away because we already knew by that time that the fascists killed Jews. However, the Germans never occupied Makhachkala.
We began to fight from Gudermes, the second largest city in Chechnya. The Germans had already occupied the Northern Caucasus, Krasnodar and Rostov, and reached Terek. And we began to take part in military actions in Gudermes. When we arrived there, the city was empty, there were no locals at all. Some locals, those who showed hostility towards the Russians, had been moved out by the authorities. But most of them went into the mountains.
From Gudermes I began to move westward with my regiment. We liberated Taman, then the south of Ukraine, Berislav (our division was called “Berislav”), Kakhovka, and many other cities and towns. We already knew about ghettos in the cities, about Jews being shot, about death camps. And right before the Soviet troops came into Nikolayev, which was close to my heart because I studied there, the Germans gathered all the young people so that they would not go to the Soviet Army. They told them they would be sent to Germany, and they shot them all at the train station. When we entered the city, they were lying there, all dead.
In general, there were no divisions between Jews and non-Jews or other nationalities during the war. In my regiment, the Battery Commander was Berdichevsky. The chief of the medical unit was Gleiman, and his assistant was a Jewish woman from Leningrad. She now lives in Israel. But in the headquarters I was the only Jew.
All were equal at war. All were in trenches, all were equally cold, lacked food, slept where they could and when they could, only in breaks between fights. We all wrote letters home and we were all killed equally, no matter what nationalities we belonged to.
Then we liberated all the capitals – Belgrade, Budapest, Vienna, and Prague. We ended the war in Prague and celebrated victory there. From there we were put on trains and sent to the Far East to fight against the Japanese.
The war ended, but they did not let me leave the army. My regiment commissar summoned me and said, “You will not be transferred to the reserves until you join the Communist Party.” So they forced me to do it. I was not ready to. In April 1946 I joined the Party, and in June I was demobilized.
I came to Kiev. I was called up in Korsoun, but I wanted to go to Kiev. Since I worked in the headquarters, they forged a document for me, to make it look as if I had been called up from Kiev. My mother was in Korsoun at the time.
Every year I went to Korsoun. All the Jews there were shot during the war. The last class of the Korsoun school, children who graduated in 1941, including my great-nephew – none of them returned from war. All of them were Jewish. Some of them were killed at the front, some were shot in Korsoun, and others were reported missing.
Many Jews were shot in Korsoun. Today, their remains have been reburied in the Jewish cemetery of Korsoun. A common grave and a tomb were created with an inscription that the Jews of Korsoun were shot there. But the Germans! What they did in Korsoun! They dismantled the house Menakhem had just built to get building materials. They put their headquarters in our Jewish school, and they paved the road to it with gravestones from the Jewish cemetery. They put these stones so that the inscriptions in Hebrew could be read. There I found stones from the graves of my father and grandmother. The Germans enjoyed stepping on Jewish names.

Post-war

After the war I came to Kiev and worked as a mathematics teacher in various schools.
In 1951 I married Klara Matveyevna Zhitnitskaya, born in 1926. My wife comes from Korsoun. Our parents knew each other. Her mother, Makhlya Zhitnitskaya, was a tailor and worked in the tailors’ artel. Her family worked in Korsoun, and like all other Jewish families was assimilated, but they kept some holidays and traditions. Klara graduated from a pedagogical institute and worked as a teacher in one of the Korsoun schools.
We met during one of my visits to Korsoun. I think it was in spring. When we married it was a hard time. We did not have a Jewish wedding. Anti-Semitism was rising in our country. It had absolutely no influence on me at work. But in the streets, in lines, on public transportation, people would stare or tease. And there were articles in newspapers and pamphlets featuring typically Jewish names like “Abram Abramovich.” When you read, you immediately knew who you were reading about: if it was a Russian, his name was Ivanov, if a Ukrainian, Shevchenko; if Jewish, Abrashka, Surka or something like that. I guess the anti-Semites liked that.
By the way, my mother, who was a Party member, was summoned to the district Party committee and asked, “Why are you called Sonya? Your real name should be Sarah or Surah. You should bear your real name.” She could hardly get rid of them. Sneers continued for a long time. Not only the Jews as a nation, but also Jewish names were despised.
It was hard to find a job for the same anti-Semitic reasons. But the director of the school where I worked was very nice to me. He hired my wife as well, provided nobody would know that she was my wife. In those years, Soviet bodies of power forbade relatives to work in the same organization, especially if they were Jews. For several years we managed to conceal that we were spouses. For that reason my wife did not change her last name.
In the street people would ask me, “Where did you fight? In Tashkent?” Nobody wanted to believe then that Jews fought at the front and were killed just like the others who defended their motherland. When Stalin died, anti-Semites got quieter. But in general, anti-Semitism was always present in our country.
That is why we had no Jewish wedding. We continued to keep some Jewish traditions, but very quietly, in secret. On Passover we always had matzo at home. We bought it from the only synagogue that remained in Kiev, where people baked and sold matzo under threat of persecution. We also celebrated Hanukkah. I was born on Hanukkah, so it was a double holiday for us.
In 1952 our daughter Faina was born. We gave her a Jewish name. She was a cheerful and kind girl. She had friends of different nationalities, but she always kept her Jewish identity in mind. Immediately after graduating from school she married a Jewish boy named Ilya Kobernik. That is why she did not continue her education. She stayed at home, bringing up children and working around the house.
My wife and I continued to work at school until retirement. We have taught more than one generation of children. In 1996 my Klara died. I feel very lonely.
Despite the fact that life was hard we never thought of emigrating. My granddaughter Sveta now lives in Germany. My daughter with her husband and younger granddaughter are planning to move to her, so they are selling everything. They are leaving soon. I told them I’m not going with them. I am old and I want my remains to be buried here, in my motherland.
Times have changed now. Anti-Semitism is certainly hard to uproot. But Jewish life in Kiev and in Ukraine is very energetic now. Synagogues are working, as are Jewish cultural societies, including the Kinor Jewish community center, where I like to go.
I receive invitations from them and go to their meetings. But I don’t go to the synagogue, I’m not religious.
I receive aid from the Jewish community, from the Khesed charity center. I get food parcels, hot meals and Jewish newspapers. I like talking to old people. Basically, I’m not going to leave this land. This is all. Thank you.

Jiří Munk
Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Terezie Holmerová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: leden 2006

Poprvé jsem se setkala s panem Munkem a jeho okouzlující paní na jejich přání v jedné pražské literární kavárně. Z organizačních věcí rychle sešlo a rozpovídali jsme se o všem možném, takže jsem měla možnost poznat jejich neuvěřitelný elán a rozhled v různých oblastech společenského a kulturního dění.  Přestože byl pan Munk vždy vstřícný, ne vždy bylo jednoduché smluvit si schůzku, protože jednou se chystali na koncert, jindy na kurz angličtiny, počítačů nebo cvičení. Když už jsem však seděla v útulném malém bytě v pražských Vokovicích a poslouchala jeho slova, uvědomovala jsem si, jak je krásné, když si člověk na jeho místě může říci, a snad si to pan Munk říká, že sám sebe nezklamal. Pan Munk se nikdy nebál pojmenovat zlo a nikdy nezradil svoje přesvědčení, i když ho to třeba stálo pohodlí nebo materiální blahobyt. Dnes působí jako velice vyrovnaný člověk a myslím, že je to tím, že nikdy neztratil svou tvář.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války
Po válce
Glosář

Rodina

Bohužel jsem nepoznal své prarodiče ani z jedné strany. Co se týče našich úplně nejstarších předků, většina z nich pocházela a žila v Polabí. Přímá větev Munků pocházela z Přívor, což je malá vesnička u Všetat [Všetaty: malé město ve středních Čechách na severovýchod od Prahy – pozn. red.] Náš prapradědeček, Ignác Munk, byl chudým obchodníkem v Přívorech a jeho manželkou byla Terezie Lustigová, jejíž rodiče pocházeli z Jiren u Prahy [Jirny: malá obec na východním okraji Prahy – pozn. red.] Většina našich nejstarších příbuzných byli asi podomními obchodníky, pouze dědeček, Eduard Munk, měl podobně jako mnoho vesnických Židů nálevnu, protože měl povolení na prodej kořalky. A protože samotná nálevna by ho neuživila, měl také malé hospodářství. Dědeček si vzal Pavlínu Glasnerovou z Černuc, což je také malá vesnička v Polabí.

Rodina Náchodova, tedy příbuzní a předci maminky, pocházeli pravděpodobně už od prarodičů z Prahy. Předpokládám, že všichni žili ještě v ghettu, protože asi až do roku 1860 Židé nesměli bydlet v Praze nikde jinde než v ghettu. Tatínkem dědečka z maminčiny strany byl Simon Náchod, který měl v pražském ghettu, čp. 146, obchod s kuřivem. Jeho manželka, Franciska Neuern, bydlela před svatbou také v ghettu, v domě s čp. 105. O rodičích babičky z maminčiny strany víme pouze to, že babiččin tatínek se jmenoval Jakob Eisenschimmel a jeho manželka Aloisie. V jednom dokladu jsem našel, že dědeček z maminčiny strany, který se jmenoval Rudolf Náchod, žil také v Rychnově nad Kněžnou, [město v severovýchodních Čechách na úpatí Orlických hor – pozn. red.] kde působil jako advokát.  Bylo tam psáno Rudolf Náchod – advokát v Rychnově. Maminka a její sourozenci se ale narodili v Brandýse nad Labem [v současnosti město Brandýs nad Labem – Stará Boleslav ve středních Čechách na severovýchod od Prahy – pozn. red.] a od roku 1915 žila celá rodina v Praze jako jejich předci. Bydleli na Smíchově [městská část Praha 5] v ulici, která se tenkrát jmenovala Presslova, v čísle 15. Jejich byt se nacházel za kostelem svatého Václava v centru Smíchova. O manželce dědečka, Hermíně Eisenschimmelové, bohužel nevíme téměř nic.

Tatínek, Adolf Munk, se narodil v Přívorech. Měl dva sourozence, tetu Bedřišku a strýce Josefa. Tetička Bedřiška Munková si vzala za manžela pana Viléma Vohryzka a strýček Josef Munk si vzal sestru pana Vohryzka, Martu Vohryzkovou, z čehož vznikla  docela zajímavá rodinná situace. Vohryzkovi měli dvě děti, Hanu a Helenu. Starší dcera Hana byla moc krásná. Dokonce se říkalo, že se jeden adjunkt ze statku, kde žila se svou rodinou, kvůli ní zastřelil. Munkovi měli pouze jednoho syna, který se jmenoval Jiří Munk, tak jako já. Strýček Josef Munk byl za 1. světové války legionářem v Rusku. Když byla po první světové válce pozemková reforma a rozprodávala se velká šlechtická panství, legionáři měli přednost a díky tomu strýček získal velkostatek u Teplic [Teplice: město na severozápadě Čech – pozn. red.] zvaný Doubravice. Statek byl v pohraničí neboli Sudetech 1, kde tehdy žilo převážně německy mluvící obyvatelstvo. Původně patřil pánům z Lotringen, což byli šlechtici cizího původu. Šlechtici byli nucení svá panství rozprodat, samozřejmě jim to nevyvlastnili zadarmo. Statek v Doubravicích byl poměrně veliký, byl to vlastně takový malý zámeček. Koupili ho obě rodiny – Vohryzkovi i Munkovi – na polovic a patřil jim tedy společně. V době, kdy statek získali, patřilo k němu asi sto padesát hektarů půdy a později pravděpodobně ještě část půdy přikoupili. Obzvlášť Vohryzkovi tehdy patřili k „lepším“ velkostatkářům, jezdili kočárem do Teplic a jejich dcery byly u tzv. selské jízdy. Selská jízda byla taková garda, jak by se dříve řeklo – českých vesnických kulaků. Dostat se k selské jízdě bylo velkou ctí. Účastnila se všech významných slavností a měla vlastní jezdecké koně. Na statku v Doubravicích byly zaměstnány desítky lidí. Byl tam také adjunkt, to byl zástupce velkostatkáře, který se učil jeho řemeslu. A dále deputátníci. Deputát byl vlastně podíl na úrodě a tito deputátníci dostávali plat částečně v naturáliích. Tetička Bedřiška velmi milovala rodinu, hlavně svého manžela. Po fyzické stránce to byla velice statná žena.

Strýček Pepa prý nebyl v manželství  příliš spokojený. Jeho manželka byla velmi energická žena, taková, jak se říká, „do světa“, kdežto strýček byl spíše domácký typ, podobně jako i náš tatínek. V rodině se říkávalo, že jsou každý úplně jiný. Strýček Vilém rád chodil pěšky, anebo svůj statek objížděl na kole. Nosíval tříčtvrteční kalhoty a jako většina sedláků v té době lovecký klobouk. Měl nějaké problémy se štítnou žlázou a kvůli tomu měl takové zvláštní, vypoulené oči.

Všichni příbuzní, co známe, mluvili česky, pravděpodobně včetně našich dědečků a babiček, i když tehdy za Rakouska-Uherska museli samozřejmě umět i německy.

Když byly v osmatřicátém roce Sudety Němci zabrány 2, naše příbuzné odtamtud vyhnali, Vohryzkovi pak bydleli u nás v Brandýse a Munkovi někde v Praze. Domnívám se, že všichni naši příbuzní, kteří přišli ze Sudet do Prahy, byli potom jako jedni z prvních vybráni do transportů, které nešly do Terezína 3, ale rovnou do Lodže 4 nebo do Estonska. Mezi nimi byla Hana Vohryzková, provdaná za Hugo Steina. Oba zemřeli v Lodži a byli prohlášeni za mrtva už v roce 1942. Zbytek rodiny Vohryzkových, strýček Vilém, teta Bedřiška a jejich mladší dcera Helena, odjeli transportem nejdříve do Terezína a potom do Osvětimi, kde v roce 1944 zemřeli. Munkovi, tedy teta Marta, její manžel Josef a syn Jiří Munk odjeli transportem do Estonska, kde byli prohlášeni za mrtva v roce 1943. Z Prahy odjely nejdříve transporty s hodně bohatými a hodně chudými Židy. Židovská obec prý na příkaz Němců nahlásila jména hodně bohatých a hodně chudých Židů a ti pak museli odjet společně.

Bohužel jsme si s rodiči o našich předcích příliš nepovídali. Pouze maminka vzpomínala na svoje mládí v Brandýse. Je zajímavé, že se tam o ní a o její sestru Elsu starala nějaká teta. Ale je také možné, že to byla jenom vychovatelka. Maminka měla dva sourozence, Elsu a Quida. Občas vzpomínala na to, že byli velmi přísně držení. V Brandýse na zámku pobýval tehdy budoucí císař arcivévoda Karel [Arcivévoda Karel František Josef Ludvík Hubert Georg Maria, pozdější císař a král Karel I. (1887 – 1922): poslední rakousko – uherský císař 1916 – 1918 – pozn. red.] a ten měl svůj dragounský pluk [dragouni: od 16. století jezdecká pěchota, později druh většinou lehkého jezdectva – pozn. red.]. Maminka říkala, že to byli krásní hoši, a že jim teta vůbec nedovolila se s nimi seznámit. Později bydleli Elsa s Quidem a s moji maminkou v Praze na Smíchově a starala se tam o ně jejich babička Aloisie Eisenschimmelová, protože maminka jim velice brzy zemřela. Babička bydlela na Žižkově [městská část Praha 3] a chodila k nim každý den pěšky na Smíchov. Byla prý velmi přísná. Zřejmě pouze ona ještě dodržovala židovské zvyky, protože sestra říká, že měla oddělené nádobí na maso a mléko. Strýček Quido jakoby se nějak nepovedl. Nevím jestli měl vůbec maturitu,  pravděpodobně ne. Pořád měnil místa a nedokázal se v žádném udržet. Po válce pracoval jako pokladník v sociální demokracii.  Nebyl ale vůbec nešikovný, dokázal všechno opravit.  Vzal si Bedřišku Adámkovou. Nebyla to židovka, takže byla asi jedinou křesťankou v našem rodokmenu. Paní Bedřiška celý život vzpomínala na to, že ji prý miloval spisovatel Jirásek [Jirásek Alois (1851 – 1930): český prozaik a dramaik – pozn. red.]. Měla od něho schované milostné dopisy. Seznámila se s ním pravděpodobně v ochotnickém divadle, kde se strýčkem hráli. Byla to prý velice krásná herečka. Byli bezdětní. Maminčina sestra, teta Elsa, byla učitelkou řečí. Měla krásný byt v Praze, kde soukromně vyučovala jazyky. Učila němčinu, francouzštinu a uměla také anglicky. Pamatuju si, že jsem byl jednou jako dítě u ní na návštěvě v pražském bytě a byl jsem úplně oslněn, protože přišla otevřít služebná v bílém čepečku - jako u nějakých boháčů, což my jsme nikdy nebyli. Tetička Elsa si nejdříve vzala nějakého pana Grunda, s tím se ale rozvedla. Byl to prý sňatkový podvodník. V dokladech jsme potom našli, kolikrát se oženil. Prý byl veliký fešák. Elsa se pak brzy provdala podruhé, tentokrát za pana Ederera. To byl takový hodný, malý, tlustý, plešatý pán, a navíc i bohatý,  pracoval snad jako obchodní cestující.

Naše rodina nebyla příliš zbožná. Myslím, že už dědeček Eduard zbožný určitě nebyl, rozhodně jsme nedodržovali nějaké předpisy, jenom na velké svátky jsme chodili do synagogy a já jsem navštěvoval jako malý chlapec a potom i po válce hodiny židovského náboženství. Doma jsme velké svátky neslavili, drželi jsme Vánoce jako křesťané. Moje chůva, o které budu ještě mluvit, byla velice zbožná katolička. Díky ní jsem si zamiloval katolické bohoslužby, v Brandýse a ve Staré Boleslavi jsme spolu často chodili do katolických kostelů. Vzpomínám si na jednu příhodu. Ve Staré Boleslavi je slavný mariánský kostel a v třicátém osmém roce se tam konala velká církevní slavnost. V tomto kostele byla totiž zázračná soška Panny Marie, která se tehdy převážela do Prahy. V současnosti je chloubou kostela Panny Marie Vítězné na Malé Straně v Praze [městská část Praha 1]. Tenkrát do Boleslavi přijel tehdejší primas kardinál Kašpar, šel v čele průvodu, a kolem stály zástupy lidí. Moje chůva mě protlačila dopředu a  kardinálovi Kašparovi řekla, aby mi požehnal. Kardinál mi požehnal a dal mi svatý obrázek se svým podpisem! Někdy mě napadá, že možná díky tomu jsem přežil Terezín…

Dětství

Narodil jsem se jako nejmladší dítě. Nejstarší byla moje sestra Helena, pak můj bratr Viktor a jako poslední jsem se narodil já. Byl jsem vlastně nechtěné dítě. Maminka mi kdysi říkala, že už nechtěla žádné dítě, ale tatínek jí přesvědčil. Slíbil jí, že až se narodím, dostanu hned chůvu, a maminka dostala po mém narození od tatínka darem briliantovou brož! Narodil jsem se v porodnici u Záhorského v Londýnské ulici v Praze, to bylo tehdy takové nóbl sanatorium, soukromá porodnice. A přestože jsem se narodil v nejluxusnějším sanatoriu, tak jsem hned dostal chřipku a málem jsem umřel.  Dali mě do inkubátoru, takže jsem tím poznamenaný, alespoň podle psychoanalýzy.

Ještě v porodnici mě ihned svěřili chůvě a tato chůva se o mě potom pořád starala, vypiplala mě, a vlastně až do války se mi neustále věnovala. Říkali jsme jí Nánička. Velmi mě milovala. Já jsem se už potom za to styděl, protože jsem byl velký. V naší rodině se nikdy city navenek moc neprojevovaly. U nás se nikdo nelíbal, neobjímal. Nepamatuju se, že bych dostal třeba od maminky pusu. Ale Nánička byla úplný opak. Nikdo mě už v životě tak rád neměl. Ona neměla vlastní dítě a děti milovala. Celý život  byla u různých dětí, ale sama nikdy dítě neměla. Milovala mě jako vlastní dítě. Také mě vykrmila. K snídani často sebrala ze všech hrníčků s mlékem škraloupy a ty mi pak propasírovala do mého hrnečku s kakaem.  Vím, že se mi sourozenci smáli, protože jsem byl tlustý. Tenkrát se to považovalo za známku zdraví, a tak mě chůva všude pyšně ukazovala. Vlastně jsem příliš času s rodinou netrávil. Měl jsem pokoj, kde jsem s Náničkou žil, a na všechny prázdniny i o Vánocích jsem jezdil do její rodiny v takové vesničce nedaleko Hradce Králové [Hradec Králové: větší město ve východních Čechách – pozn. red.], zatímco moje rodina trávila volné chvíle v Doubravicích, nebo v létě v Krkonoších [Krkonoše: nejvyšší české hory, na severní hranici Čech s Polskem – pozn. red.]

Moje chůva pocházela ze šestnácti dětí. Její maminka byla Němka, tatínek Čech, povoláním řídící učitel. Ona sama byla vzdělaná, měla diplom zdravotní sestry a nějakou dobu pracovala právě u Záhorského v sanatoriu, kde jsem se narodil. Byla to zbožná katolička. Přestože však byla katolička, dělala většinou chůvu dětem v židovských rodinách. S jednou velmi bohatou rodinou jezdila i do Itálie, takže uměla trochu italsky, a díky mamince také výborně německy. Kupodivu mě z té němčiny nic nenaučila. Tatínek asi nechtěl. V Brandýse nebyli žádní Židé, kteří by mluvili německy, tam se mezi Židy mluvilo výhradně česky. Tatínek také nechtěl, aby byla Nánička pořád u mě, takže jí kupoval lístky do biografu, v sobotu, v neděli, říkal jí, že má volno, ať jde „za mužskýma“ nebo něco podobného, ale ona nechtěla, museli jí vždycky přímo vyhnat z domu. Platili jí asi dobře, protože za vydělané peníze si postavila v té vesničce u Hradce Králové, která se jmenovala Březhrad [nyní už je to součást Hradce Králové], domek. Tam jsem potom jezdil na prázdniny. Na pobyty v Březhradě mám moc hezké vzpomínky. Cítil jsem se v té veliké rodině opravdu dobře, všichni se mi věnovali, a hlavně bratři mé chůvy si se mnou pořád hráli. Tragédií je, že ve stáří před svou smrtí, když Nánička bydlela v tomhle domku, rozpoutal se mezi jejími příbuznými spor o to, kdo po ní domek zdědí. Ona si musela, chudák, ještě všechno tohle zažít, než zemřela.

Své dětství jsem strávil v Brandýse nad Labem. Četl jsem, že Brandýs má dlouhou židovskou historii. První zmínky o židovské obci v Brandýse sahají až do šestnáctého století. Údajně bylo v Brandýse hodně Židů proto, že město bylo střediskem Jednoty bratrské [Jednota bratrská – Unitas Fratrum: je protestantskou (evangelickou) církví, která se zrodila z velkého náboženského probuzení v Čechách (husitství). Byla založena Bratrem Řehořem v Kunvaldu v severovýchodních Čechách v roce 1457  pozn. red.], která měla k Židům lepší poměr než katolíci. Do malých měst nedaleko Prahy se Židé stěhovali také proto, že byli z Prahy mnohokrát vypovězeni, a usazovali se poblíž, aby se mohli případně vrátit. V Brandýse stále stojí synagoga, která je původem renesanční, ale byla mnohokrát přestavována. V této synagoze byla ještě v devatenáctém století židovská škola. Chodil do ní i Vojtěch Rakous [Rakous Vojtěch (1862 – 1935): vl. jm. Adalbert Östreicher, českožidovský spisovatel – pozn. red.], česko-židovský spisovatel, který se angažoval v asimilačním hnutí a psal o venkovských Židech z Polabí. Kromě synagogy je v Brandýse také velmi starý židovský hřbitov. Ještě v devatenáctém století žilo v Brandýse podle údajů 250 lidí, kteří se hlásili k židovskému náboženství. Poté, co byli židé zrovnoprávněni se všemi občany, myslím v roce 1860, se začali stěhovat do Prahy, takže v roce 1930 se už k židovskému náboženství hlásilo jen 60 lidí. Ovšem byli tam i lidé, kteří se nehlásili k židovskému náboženství, ale měli židovský původ, protože na základě protižidovských zákonů potom šlo do transportu přes 80 lidí. Židé v Brandýse byli za mého dětství již hodně sekularizovaní, nepamatuji se, že by tam byl někdo ortodoxní nebo konzervativní, že by někdo slavil šábes a podobně, nebyl tam ani rabín. Ale pokud se pamatuji, na velké svátky většina lidí chodila do synagogy a přijížděl rabín, pravděpodobně z Prahy. Pamatuji se, že na purim jsme chodili jako děti kolem synagogy se svíčkami a zpívali, to je takový židovský zvyk. Mě se ta synagoga moc líbila. Uvnitř byla klenba jako nebe, modrá se zlatými hvězdičkami. To je moje jediná vzpomínka na synagogu.

Židé v Brandýse byli z velké většiny obchodníci, kteří se ekonomicky vzmáhali za první republiky 5. Obchodovali především s textilem. Měli tam asi tři obchody s textilem, dále výrobnu nápojů a dílnu na zpracování kůží. Tatínek byl výjimka, protože byl advokát, a pak zde byl ještě lékař, pan doktor Laufer. Největší továrna v Brandýse se jmenovala Melicharka a její spoluvlastník, pan Umráth, byl židovského původu. Historie Melicharky začala tím, že obyčejný kovář a zámečník z Brandýsa - pan Melichar, vynalezl koncem 19. století nějaké úžasné zlepšení secího stroje. Jeho nápad výrazně zlepšil práci, ale protože byl pan Melichar chudý, vyráběl ho pouze ručně. O jeho vynálezu se dozvěděl bohatý Žid z Prahy, pan Umráth, dal se s chudým kovářem dohromady a za dvacet let se jim podařilo vytvořit největší továrnu na zemědělské stroje v tehdejším Československu, která vyvážela do celé Evropy. Pan Umráth byl opravdu bohatý člověk, ale s ním jsme vůbec nepřišli do styku. Možná, že ani nežil v Brandýse. Byla tam sice vila továrníka, ale tam bydlel pravděpodobně jenom pan Melichar. Ale ostatní Židé v Brandýse patřili, myslím, ke střední vrstvě, nikdo z nich nebyl ani příliš bohatý, ani příliš chudý.

Organizovaná židovská obec zřejmě v Brandýse nebyla, náboženství tam dojížděl učit rabín z Prahy. Nějaká miniaturní organizace ale v Brandýse musela být, protože pana rabína musel někdo platit, ale nevím, jaká to byla organizace, ani kdo byl jejím předsedou. Hodiny náboženství jsem měl jenom v době, kdy jsem chodil do první a druhé třídy, pak už jsem nemohl pokračovat. Chodil jsem na hodiny rád, protože mi pan rabín nosil bonbóny. Pamatuju se, že jsem na náboženství chodil sám. Buď nebyly v Brandýse židovské děti mého věku, anebo nechodily na náboženství. Moc si toho z hodin náboženství nepamatuji, vzpomínám si jen, že jsme četli Starý zákon.

Před válkou jsem byl ještě malý, takže jsem nepřemýšlel nad tím, jestli nás, Židy, vnímají lidé nějak jinak, hůř. Necítil jsem ani, že bychom se nějak lišili od ostatních, vnímal jsem pouze to, že jsme byli bohatší. Do třídy se mnou chodily úplně chudé, často bosé děti, kterým jsem občas dával svačinu. Ani od dětí jsem necítil nějaké známky antisemitismu, to začalo vlastně až později, když přišli Němci. Tatínek měl v Brandýse velice dobrou pověst, protože jako advokát pomáhal chudým. Dodnes na něj pamětníci vzpomínají.

Tatínek, Adolf  Munk, pocházel, jak už jsem řekl, z Přívor. Narodil se roku 1887. Tenkrát nebylo zvykem, že by děti z chudších židovských rodin chodily na gymnázium a vysokou školu, ale tatínkovi se to podařilo. Myslím, že jeho sourozenci neměli ani maturitu. Tatínek se však neučil příliš dobře. Prý už na gymnáziu měl potíže a tak ho poslali k nějakému strýčkovi Kohnovi, který dělal rabína v Rychnově nad Kněžnou, aby dohlížel na jeho studium. Tatínek u něho pravděpodobně i bydlel. Jednou se mi stalo, že spolužačka na architektuře, když viděla moje jméno, zeptala se, jestli můj tatínek nestudoval v Rychnově. Říkala, že její tatínek, který bohužel už zemřel, vzpomínal často na velkého kamaráda,  společenského a skvělého člověka, nějakého Munka. Myslím, že tatínek byl v Rychnově také na praxi u nějakého tamního advokáta, ale o tom nemáme žádné určité zprávy. Právnickou fakultu potom studoval v Praze. Na filozofii dokonce chodil k profesoru Masarykovi 6. Mám někde schovaný jeho index s krásným Masarykovým podpisem. Ani na  právech neměl ovšem tatínek nejlepší známky.

Maminka, Olga Náchodová, se narodila v roce 1897, byla o deset let mladší než tatínek. Pocházela z Brandýsa nad Labem, ale v mládí žila v Praze na Smíchově. Jak už jsem se zmínil, měla dva sourozence. Maminka jim zemřela velmi brzy, proto se o ně starala přísná babička. Měli tedy byt v Praze a k tomu ještě koupili v Brandýse od nějakého vzdáleného příbuzného náš pozdější dům. Shodou okolností tatínek maminky byl také advokát a protože náš tatínek zřejmě potřeboval praxi, nastoupil u svého tchána. Ten pak pravděpodobně předal praxi tatínkovi. To znamená, že tatínek dostal k mamince věnem ještě praxi a dům. Maminka prý byla v mládí velmi hezká. Svatba se konala 27. září 1923.  Mamince bylo dvacet šest let a tatínkovi už třicet šest, takže před tím musel mít už řadu praxí. Prý dělal praxi i někde v Duchcově [Duchcov: město na severozápadě Čech – pozn. red.] Tenkrát běžně dělali vystudovaní právníci advokátům koncipienty i několik let, než nastoupili vlastní praxi.

Myslím si, že se maminka s tatínkem k sobě příliš nehodili. Maminka nikdy nebyla se svým životem příliš spokojená. Nelíbil se jí maloměstský život a pořád toužila z Brandýsa uniknout. Občas tatínkovi ujela taxíkem do Prahy. Chodila tam prý moc ráda do kaváren.

Tatínek byl úplný opak. Toužil po klidu, asi jako já. Zdědil jsem povahu spíše po tatínkovi než po mamince. Tatínek měl sice špatné nohy, ale přesto rád chodil na procházky. Vždycky vzal psa, který se jmenoval Rek, a  šel po silnici přes pole směrem na vesnici Zápy. Občas mě bral s sebou, anebo chodil s naším rodinným lékařem, doktorem Lauferem. Tehdy ještě nejezdily auta, a tak šli po silnici a probírali mezinárodní situaci. Nevím přesně, jaké byly tatínkovy politické názory, ale někdo mi říkal, že byl sociální demokrat. Doktor Laufer byl tatínkův nejbližší přítel, s ním se stýkal úplně nejvíce. Doktor měl velice slavného bratra, který byl před válkou tak známý sportovní reportér [Laufer Josef (1891 – 1966): zakladatel české sportovní žurnalistiky a rozhlasové sportovní reportáže – pozn. red.], že ho Němci celou válku nechali na pokoji. Byl sice rovněž ze smíšeného manželství, ale hlavně mu pomohlo jeho před válkou tak slavné jméno. Komentoval v rádiu všechna důležitá fotbalová utkání. Jeho bratr, tatínkův nejbližší přítel a náš rodinný lékař, šel ale s celou rodinou do Osvětimi.

Kromě procházek tatínek rád truhlařil a také maloval. Měl v prádelně kompletně zařízenou truhlářskou dílnu. Ve volných chvílích vyráběl všechno možné,  malé kusy nábytku, židličky, stoličky. Zřejmě ho to velmi bavilo. Všichni příbuzní a známí z toho měli legraci, protože on je obdarovával těmi svými výrobky. Tatínek také maloval. Zavřel se na půdu, kde měl malířské štafle a okénkem výhled do polabské krajiny. Maloval tam většinou žánrové obrázky. Když jsem byl dítě, kreslil mi vojáky a koně. Uměl moc krásně kreslit i malovat. I my jsme po něm zdědili základní výtvarný talent a můj bratr se tomu později i více věnoval. Sestra celý život toužila být módní návrhářkou a dokonce i maminka hezky kreslila, ale nijak zvlášť jsme toho nevyužili.

Můj bratr byl mnohem větší rošťák než já. Myslím také, že byl takový činorodější, zatímco já jsem nebyl příliš aktivní. Špatně se učil, asi ho to nebavilo. Možná proto také tatínek určil mě, že převezmu po něm jednou jeho advokátní praxi. Neřekl bych, že jsme si s bratrem byli fyzicky podobní, on byl o pět centimetrů větší a  hubenější než já. Ale zřejmě jsme si podobní byli, protože si nás lidé později pletli. Příliš jsme si spolu nehráli, přeci jen byl mezi námi věkový rozdíl. Hráli jsme si spolu více až za války,  když jsme byli zavření v domě a nesměli jsme ven 7.

Jednou se mi to hraní nevyplatilo. Honili jsme se kolem kulatého stolu v jídelně a bratr mě nějak rozvzteklil, což se příliš často nestávalo, protože jsem normálně klidný člověk. Upadl jsem a vykloubil jsem si ruku. To bylo tehdy dost špatné, protože se s tím muselo do nemocnice. Nejblíže byla dětská nemocnice v Praze na Karlově [městská část Praha 2] , která tam snad dosud je. Pamatuju si tu hroznou cestu s vykloubenou rukou taxíkem do Prahy, šíleně to bolelo. Jel se mnou doktor Laufer, který to tam zařídil. Pořád mám někde v sobě ten hrozný zážitek, když mi dávali narkózu. To vám tenkrát dali na obličej masku a do té nalili chloroform. Já řval: „Doktore Laufříčku, pomoz mi!“ Potom už to bylo dobré, ale ta hrozná cesta ve mně zůstala a z narkózy mám doteď v sobě úzkost.

Pamatuju si před válkou několik významnějších událostí, které jsem osobně zažil. Jednak to byla návštěva rumunského krále Karola [Karel I. Rumunský: král rumunský (1881 – 1914) – pozn. red.]. Přímo kolem našeho domu projížděla delegace, na hlavách měli krásné helmy s peřím. Dále se pamatuji na poslední sokolský slet 8 před válkou, ten byl myslím v sedmatřicátém nebo osmatřicátém roce. U nás v Brandýse byli jako cizí delegace Jugoslávci, hlavně Chorvati a Srbové. Pak šli na slet průvodem do Prahy. Pamatuju se, že se Jugoslávci všem děvčatům velmi líbili.

Moje sestra byla moc hezká. Měla pověst, že je jednou z nejhezčích holek v Brandýse. Kluci se za ní hodně otáčeli. Pamatuju se, že tehdy před válkou chodili mladí lidé na rande do Staré Boleslavi, tam byla cukrárna U Horáčků. Jednou, nevím při jaké příležitosti, jsem tam sestru uviděl s nějakým klukem a on mi koupil zmrzlinu, abych to neřekl doma. Myslím, že sestra nevyužila svých předností. Maminka jí asi vytvořila trošku komplex, protože jí říkala: „Nemysli si, že budeš nějaká krasavice“ A ona, přestože byla hezká, byla nešťastná z toho, že měla pihy.

Náš dům stál na hlavní třídě, která se tehdy jmenovala, tuším, Masarykova. Byl to zvláštní dům asi tak z poloviny devatenáctého století, který byl z ulice jednopatrový a vzadu do zahrady přízemní. Byl orientovaný severojižně, takže jeho přední část byla vždy velmi studená. V přízemí byly tatínkovy kanceláře a v prvním patře byt, který měl asi pět pokojů a kuchyň. Vlastně to nebyl na tehdejší dobu příliš moderní dům. Já jsem bydlel nahoře v pokoji s chůvou. Měli jsme okna přímo do zahrady. Moje nejranější vzpomínka z dětství se váže k tomu, jak mě probouzel náš pes. V létě, když jsme měli otevřená okna, vždycky ráno skočil do domu a olízal mi celou hlavu a takhle mě probouzel. Od té doby mám rád psy. Ten náš byl německý ovčák, kterého nám darovali příbuzní z Doubravic. Byl v podstatě stejně starý jako já, takže jsme vyrůstali spolu. Stále mě hlídal a když mě kluci při hrách honili, bránil mě. Pamatuju si, že u domu byla směrem do dvora také veranda obrostlá fialovým klematisem, kde se dalo v létě jíst, a sklep vestavěný do svahu. Maminka občas poslala bratra nebo sestru do sklepa pro uhlí, a oni se tam báli chodit. Naproti našemu domu, v místě dnešního sídliště byla veliká, krásná zahrada se staletými stromy, které později vykáceli kvůli stavbě sídliště.

V prvním patře se nacházela jídelna s velkým kulatým stolem, kolem kterého jsme všichni sedávali a společně snídali, obědvali a večeřeli. Muselo se sníst všechno, co člověk dostal na talíř. Tatínek byl z chudé rodiny, takže dbal na to, abychom nebyli rozmazlení. Často docházelo ke scénám, bratr třeba nesnášel karfiólovou polévku, zvedal se mu žaludek, a přesto ji musel sníst. Neexistovalo si nějak vybírat. Když si člověk vzal nějaký kousek masa, tak k tomu dostal minimálně třikrát více přílohy a musel to všechno sníst. Později za války jsme teprve ocenili tuto výchovu, protože jsme nebyli ani trochu rozmazlení.

Kromě mojí vychovatelky v domě pracovaly ještě dvě paní. Kuchařka, paní Kloučková, byla  velmi silná paní z chudé rodiny. Byla tam ještě nějaká mladší paní, pravděpodobně uklízečka. Tatínek měl ještě asi tři zaměstnance ve své advokátní kanceláři. Všichni tatínkovi zaměstnanci vzpomínají, jak se o ně dobře staral. Byli u nás víceméně za členy rodiny.

Před tím, než jsem šel do školy, nepřišel jsem moc do styku s jinými dětmi. Teprve nyní si uvědomuji, že jsme denně chodili s Náničkou na procházky, ale s ostatními dětmi jsem se moc nestýkal. Obešli jsme všechny obchody, a protože se Nánička znala se všemi prodavačkami, zjistili jsme, co je nového, všechny možné drby. Pak jsme chodili do takzvané Panské zahrady na zámek. Nyní je zničená, ale za mého mládí to byla krásná zahrada s renesančními balustrádami. Tam jsem si hrál. Nánička někde seděla na lavičce a já jsem kolem běhal a sám si hrál. Nánička si potom zřejmě začala uvědomovat, že je někde problém, protože mi říkala: „Jiříčku, jdi se prát!“ nebo „Jiříčku, vylez na strom!“ a já jsem říkal: „Ále…“, nechtěl jsem, asi už to bylo v mé povaze, že jsem nijak po ostatních dětech netoužil.

Do žádné mateřské školy jsem tedy nechodil, protože jsem byl s Náničkou. Pak jsem šel rovnou do obecné školy. Byla to pouze chlapecká škola, jelikož tehdy byly školy rozdělené na chlapecké a dívčí. Bylo nás ve třídě velmi mnoho, asi dvacet pět dětí, možná i víc. Přestože jsem nebyl na děti zvyklý, nepamatuju se, že by to pro mne představovalo nějaký problém. Ostatní děti mi neubližovaly. Vím, že se párkrát některé děti chtěly prát, ale stačilo, že jsem řekl: „Já mám o čtyři roky staršího bratra a ten je velikej!“ a od té doby jsem měl pokoj. Bratr velmi rychle vyrostl, na svůj věk byl mimořádně velký. Tatínek byl také vysoké postavy, měřil asi 183 cm. Vím, že předváleční Židé byli většinou malých postav, a tak když se někde sešli Židé, tatínek byl o půl hlavy větší než oni. Maminka byla naopak zase malá a drobná.

Zážitky ze školy nebyly nijak špatné. Měli jsme hodného pana učitele Karhana, který si v první třídě zavolal tatínka a řekl mu, že mám absolutní sluch a že bych měl dělat hudbu. Bohužel, a toho ve svém životě asi nejvíce lituji, jsem už nikdy neměl příležitost se hudbě věnovat. Myslím si, že bych byl daleko šťastnější. Ve druhé třídě nás pak učil nějaký učitel a učitelka, ale ty si vůbec nepamatuji, pouze jsem je nedávno viděl na školní fotce. Největší dojem na mě udělala taková specielní vůně té školy, kterou nedovedu popsat. Je to vůně, z které se mi trošku svírá žaludek, ale na druhé straně to není úplně nepříjemné. Byla to nějaká směs křídy, houby, tabule a těch dětí, které se bály, to bylo také cítit.

Ze začátku jsem ve škole neměl žádné bližší kamarády. Po škole jsem šel rovnou domů a zase se mi věnovala chůva. Asi o mě měla strach a proto chtěla být pořád se mnou. Ale mě to nevadilo. Pak mi opatřili kamaráda z druhé třídy, který se jmenoval Homoláč. Jeho rodina se přistěhovala odněkud z Moravy. Jeho tatínek začal pracovat v Brandýse v nové filiálce Bati 9, která tam mimochodem stále stojí, je to moderní, funkcionalistický dům při cestě dolů k mostu. Když se přistěhovali, tak ten malý Homoláč neměl v Brandýse také žádné kamarády a můj tatínek mi ho nějak dohodil, protože si asi uvědomoval, že není dobré, abych neměl žádné kamarády. S tímhle Homoláčem jsem se potom kamarádil. Nejčastěji jsme si hráli u nás na zahradě. Rodiče mě totiž nepouštěli samotného nikam mimo dům a tak on vždycky přišel k nám. Měli jsme na zahradě pingpongový stůl, takže jsme často hrávali pingpong. Dokonce ještě v době, kdy mě vyhodili ze školy, rodiče mu nějaký čas dovolovali, aby k nám chodil, což bylo v té době už pomalu nebezpečné.

V mé třídě nebyly žádné židovské děti. Do školy chodil pouze Honza Lustig, to byl nějaký náš vzdálený příbuzný. Byl o rok mladší, chodil do první třídy. S tím jsem se  moc nebavil. Občas k nám sice přišli Lustigovi na návštěvu, ale to bylo vše. V Brandýse byly dvě rodiny Lustigů. Jedni měli obchod s textilem a druzí měli výrobnu nápojů.

V první a druhé třídě mi šlo asi všechno, jenom s krasopisem jsem měl trošku potíže. Ale dostával jsem samé jedničky. Vím, že ve třídě byl obrovský rozdíl mezi dětmi z „lepších“ rodin a z rodin chudých. Ve mně se vypěstoval už tenkrát takový sociální cit, protože děti z chudých rodin musely pracovat, byly nuzně oblečené, neměly svačiny a tak dále. Už v první třídě byl jasně viditelný třídní rozdíl.

Ze začátku pro mě chodila před školu Nánička, později jsem se styděl, takže už jsem chodil sám. Je zajímavé, že než jsem začal chodit do školy, byl jsem vyloženě obézní dítě, ale jakmile jsem začal chodit do školy, zhubnul jsem a v té podobě jsem už zůstal. To se samozřejmě netýká doby po návratu z Terezína, tehdy jsem byl ještě mnohem hubenější, ale jinak jsem zůstal v podstatě stejný, pouze jsem trochu vyrostl.

Z obecné školy mám vlastně jenom dvě třídy, první a druhou. Z druhé třídy do třetí už jsem nesměl. Naštěstí mě vzali do první třídy předčasně, bylo to v roce 1938, když mi ještě nebylo šest let. Jsem totiž rozený v listopadu, takže bych teoreticky měl jít až napřesrok. Jinak bych neměl ani dvě třídy. V dalším ročníku, 1939/1940 už jsem končil, protože pak už židovské děti do školy nesměly. Na třetí třídu mi pak ještě najali paní učitelku, která chodila k nám domů a učila mě, ale pak už se bála. Po válce jsem šel rovnou do třetí měšťanky 10. Neuměl jsem pořádně číst a psát, čtyři třídy mi chyběly. Neuměl jsem gramatiku, matematiku, takové ty základy. Ještě na vysoké škole jsem neuměl zlomky a musel jsem to dohánět. Takže školy jsem si v dětství moc neužil..

Po příchodu Němců do Brandýsa bylo nutné, aby někdo zodpovídal za židovskou obec ve městě a okolí. Samozřejmě, že to nikdo nechtěl dělat. Nakonec se toho ujal tatínek, takže byl pak za války předsedou židovské obce. Mělo to za následek, že k nám často chodilo gestapo. Pamatuju si, že jednou stál tatínek v pozoru a ti gestapáci mu nadávali a fackovali ho. A to přesto, že byl mnohem vyšší než oni. Jednou se náš Rek pokoušel kousnout gestapáka do holínky. On vytáhl pistoli a chtěl ho zastřelit, ale pak řekl, že takového hezkého psa nemůže zastřelit. Tatínek vedl v obci administrativu a registraci, Židé se totiž nejdříve museli registrovat. Gestapo to přísně kontrolovalo. Bylo to něco podobného jako s pražskou židovskou obcí, která pod kontrolou gestapa musela organizovat transporty.

Za války

Po příchodu Němců hned druhý den přišlo z advokátní komory, že tatínek nesmí vykonávat praxi. Byla to sice česká advokátní komora, ale její členové prostě chtěli využít situace a zlikvidovat židovskou konkurenci, jak lékaře, tak advokáty. Ani si nedokážu představit, jak to muselo být pro tatínka hrozné. Postupně a pozvolna potom začaly platit protižidovské zákony a opatření.  Jako dítě jsem to samozřejmě tolik nevnímal. Pamatuju se však, že jsme nesměli opustit Brandýs. Pak už nám zakázali i chodit do parku a dokonce vycházet na ulici mimo určené hodiny. Museli jsme odevzdávat všechny možné věci – klenoty, radia, fotoaparáty, sportovní potřeby, hračky, kola, stříbro, umělecké předměty atd., zablokovali nám všechny peníze v bankách. Samozřejmě nejhorší bylo, že jsme museli odevzdat zvířata. Měli jsme kočku, psa a dokonce i ochočenou kavku, kterou naštěstí nakonec někdo zastřelil. Jako dítěti mě ani tolik nevadilo, že jsem nesměl chodit do školy, bylo mi tehdy teprve osm let a bral jsem to z takového toho dětského pohledu. Ale pamatuju se, že největší scény nastaly, když musela odejít Nánička. Ona si mě chtěla vzít s sebou a nabízela tatínkovi, že mě během války ukryje, že mě bude vydávat za své nemanželské dítě, že jí celá rodina pomůže, aby na to nikdo nepřišel. Tatínek to odmítl s tím, že rodina musí být za každých okolností spolu. Nikdo v té době netušil, co nás čeká. Někde jsem se dočetl, že doktor Laufer uvažoval o emigraci, ale nakonec také zůstal doma. Pouze v té velké židovské továrně Melichar pracovali na vysokých postech Židé, kteří všichni včas emigrovali.

Emigrovat v té době už nebylo jednoduché. Žádná země už Židy nepřijímala, nikdo jim nechtěl dát víza k pobytu. Teprve nyní vychází najevo, že Američané Židy nepřijímali, i když věděli o tom, že byli v nebezpečí. Uzavřeli Ameriku, uzavřeli Kanadu. Američtí Židé se přistěhovalectví evropských Židů bránili, protože měli strach, že by je museli živit. Pouze v některých afrických zemích měli zájem o židovské zemědělce. Třeba Rhodésie [Rhodésie: vnitrozemský stát jižní Afriky. Od roku 1964 Zambie. V Zambii je zemědělství extenzivní, velmi zaostalé a z velké části jen samozásobitelské – pozn. red.], tehdy ještě anglická kolonie, přijímala Židy z Evropy, pokud se živili zemědělstvím. Podobně snad v omezené míře přijímala zemědělce i Kanada, Austrálie a Nový Zéland. Také tatínek se strýcem Vohryzkem uvažovali o emigraci, strýc byl přeci výborný zemědělský odborník, ale asi už bylo pozdě a nikdo tehdy nevěděl, co nás čeká.

Nedostávali jsme normální příděly potravin jako ostatní lidé. Neměli jsme mléko, vajíčka, maso, postupně nám seškrtali všechny potravinové lístky, takže jsme prakticky žádné nedostávali. Chodil k nám takový vyděrač, který měl kufřík a v tom falešné bonbóny, nevím z čeho se vyráběly. Tenkrát za války totiž pravé bonbóny nebyly. Vždycky otevřel kufřík, kde měl ty bonbóny v krabicích, a prodal nám je za vysokou cenu. Tatínek potom říkal, že mu ten pán i vyhrožoval, že když si bonbóny nekoupí, tak nás udá. Navíc se za války nesmělo moc topit, takže nám byla pořád zima. Museli jsme mít v bytě maximálně 18 stupňů, za překročení této hranice byl koncentrák. Měli jsme americká kamna a tatínek pořád kontroloval, jestli teplota nepřesahuje osmnáct stupňů. Obzvlášť v jednačtyřicátém nebo dvaačtyřicátém roce byly strašné zimy. Měli jsme před zahradou dvorek, který jsme si polili vodou, a tam jsme potom s bratrem chodili bruslit. Měli jsme brusle na kličku, které jsme potom museli odevzdat stejně tak jako lyže a ostatní sportovní potřeby. Náš pes Rek měl zakázáno chodit do domu. Tehdy, když byly dvacetistupňové mrazy, chtěli jsme ho vzít dovnitř, aby nám venku v boudě nezmrznul. On se ale bránil! Měl zafixované, že do domu nesmí. Nakonec jsme ho museli odnést násilím. Když ale skákal ke mně oknem, aby mě olízal, tak to vůbec nebral, jako že je v domě. To zase vyskočil oknem ven.

Nejhůř z nás dětí musela nést válku sestra, protože byla ve věku, kdy by člověk měl mít z toho dívčího světa nejvíce, tehdy jí bylo šestnáct let. Pro ní to muselo být opravdu hrozné. Na druhou stranu za ní velmi dlouho chodili kamarádi. Chodil k nám i syn Lauferů, říkali mu Osi [Oskar]. Setkávali se u nás ještě s nějakými mladými lidmi nežidovského původu, hráli společně pingpong, volejbal, měli gramofon a snad i tancovali… Jen z jednoho z nich se potom stal kolaborant. Tihle kamarádi pocházeli všichni z rodin, které byly oproti nám hůře situované. Dlouho se nebáli nás navštěvovat.

Tatínek vydělával poměrně dost i přes to, že byl v podstatě advokátem chudých. Lidé si ho vážili a říkali: “Ten pan doktor Munk, to je tak hodný člověk, to snad ani není Žid!“ Když mu někdo nezaplatil, tatínek ho nehonil a jeho sekretářka často musela zakročit místo něj. Našel jsem jeho předválečné daňové přiznání a vím, že průměrně vydělal asi tři sta padesát tisíc ročně. Nebyla to samozřejmě nijak závratná výše, ale bylo to hodně na dobu předválečnou, i na právníky obecně. Tatínek však své peníze nikdy neinvestoval, dával je do pojistek. To všechno potom propadlo. Tatínek měl peníze v bance. Nekoupil si auto, neměli jsme žádnou jinou nemovitost. Oproti tomu třeba doktor Laufer, který bydlel na rohu náměstí, postupně skupoval všechny domy v ulici. Než šel do koncentračního tábora, měl skoupenou skoro celou ulici. Udělali jsme vlastně jedinou investici – tatínek koupil společně s bratrem doktora Laufera, redaktorem Lauferem, parcelu u Staré Boleslavi směrem na Nový Vestec. Za Starou Boleslaví začínají husté borové lesy a i přímo na naší parcele byly vysoké stromy. Kromě stromů tam ale byla jen malá nedostavěná bouda. Pamatuju si, že jsme tam už jako malé děti a potom ještě před válkou chodívali na soboty a na neděle. I o tuhle parcelu jsme po válce přišli, protože ji maminka nevýhodně prodala. Jinak měl tatínek v zástavě několik polí, které mu dali do zástavy neplatiči, když neměli peníze a nemohli splácet směnky.

Myslím, že jsme byli oblíbená židovská rodina -  tatínek byl opravdu dobrý člověk, nikomu neublížil, nestalo se, že by někoho o něco připravil. Právě za války se projevilo, že žádné vážnější problémy ve vztahu k ostatním nebyly, naopak. Samozřejmě se také někteří lidé ihned přihlásili k Němcům, ale myslím, že většina nám pomáhala, nebo alespoň s námi soucítila. Ctitel Heleny, nějaký pan Koliandr, se vůbec nebál nám pomáhat, a dokonce nám pomáhal i balit do transportu. Byl opravdu statečný a nakonec se nějakým způsobem dostal i do Terezína. Různí lidé nám některé věci schovali u sebe. Ale nejstatečnější byl ten nejchudší – jakýsi zřízenec ze záložny, jehož manželka dělala u tatínka, k nám chodil až do poslední chvíle i přesto, že mohl přijít o místo. Chodil v čepici, na které bylo napsáno „Městská záložna“.

Jednou, v době kdy už v Brandýse byla Hitlerjugend 11, ale směli jsme ještě s židovskou hvězdou 12 vycházet na ulici, potkal jsem partu těchto kluků v uniformách. Zřejmě mě chtěli zmlátit, ale já jsem jim utekl a někam jsem se schoval. Další nepříjemná zkušenost mě potkala ve škole.  Vedle mě v lavici seděl nějaký Bočánek. Jeho tatínek byl úředník a před válkou se mému tatínkovi klaněl až na zem, ale později už za okupace v roce 1939 zřejmě tomu klukovi rodiče něco řekli a ten Bočánek se prostě jednou ve škole přihlásil a řekl:  „Pane učiteli já s tímhle klukem nebudu sedět.“ A když se ho pan učitel zeptal proč, odpověděl: „On smrdí.“. Pamatuju se také, že nějakou dobu před tím, než jsme šli do koncentračního tábora, přišlo do našeho bytu několik lidí. Myslím, že to byly především ženy, které se daly k Němcům. Ještě v době, kdy jsme v domě normálně bydleli, tyto ženy přišly a říkaly: „ Tohle si vezmu…tohle si vezmu…tohle si vezmu…“. Úplně si to u nás rozebíraly.

Tatínek, který měl svoji truhlářskou dílnu, ještě před tím, než jsme šli do transportu, vyráběl všelijaké skrýše na peníze, třeba do kartáčů na boty, na šaty, nebo do podpatků od bot. Nejdříve to rozlepil, peníze schoval, a pak to zase celé slepil zpátky. Dával tam německé marky. Tatínek dokonce udělal v domě mezipatro, takovou skrýš,  a tam visel uherský salám, schoval tam nějaké další potraviny a pak také pistoli ještě z první světové války. Tatínek byl po první světové válce záložním důstojníkem československé armády. Když byla heydrichiáda 13, prohlíželi dům od domu. Vešlo dovnitř zcela nečekaně třeba dvacet vojáků a prohledávali byt, zaměřovali se právě na takové skrýše. Pamatuju se, jak na chodbě ťukali do zdí a já jsem si říkal – tak, a teď je konec, najdou tu pistoli a všechny nás postřílejí. Ale nenašli nic. Další zážitek je, že za války jsme všechny děti dostaly spálu, a pokud si vzpomínám, tak to nás zachránilo. Ještě před transportem nás totiž chtěli vystěhovat z bytu, ale protože se  k nám přišli podívat Němci a tatínek jim řekl, že máme spálu, tak utekli a už se k nám nevrátili, dokud jsme neodjeli do Terezína.

Každý člověk musel za války složitě dokazovat, že není židovského původu. Odjakživa se vedly židovské matriky, kde byli zapsaní všichni lidé židovského původu dané oblasti, a tyto matriky se staly pro nacisty základním informačním zdrojem o „rasovém původu“ obyvatel. Chytřejší Židé brzy vytušili nebezpečí, přihlásili se ke křesťanské víře a nechali zapsat své děti do křesťanských matrik. Nepomohlo jim to, protože pravidlem bylo dokázat neexistenci židovských předků až do druhého kolena. Neúčinné byly tedy i snahy některých farářů vydávat Židům falešná potvrzení o příslušnosti ke křesťanské církvi.

Vlastně díky tomu, že tatínek podlehl nátlaku a vzal tak nevděčnou funkci, jako byla správa židovské obce za války,  jsme se zachránili. Prvním brandýským transportem CL šli totiž všichni Židé z Brandýsa kromě naší rodiny. Tento transport zůstal v Terezíně krátce, jenom několik měsíců, a pak šel celý do Osvětimi a do plynu. Četl jsem, že se zachránilo jen pár lidí, kteří se potom už nevrátili do Čech a zůstali někde v zahraničí. Jak už jsem říkal, v Brandýse v roce 1930 bylo šedesát lidí, kteří se hlásili k židovskému náboženství, ale do CL transportu bylo zařazeno o dvacet lidí více, tzn. že i ti,  kteří se k židovskému náboženství nehlásili, takže tím transportem odjelo nakonec celkem asi osmdesát lidí. Do tohoto transportu šli také lidé ze všech vesnic okolo Brandýsa. Pod tatínka, jakožto zástupce obce, spadaly právě Zápy, Byšice a další vsi, kde bylo ale jenom málo Židů. Náš transport CM šel krátce po prvním transportu CL, bylo to v podstatě jenom o několik dní později, tyto transporty následovaly velice rychle za sebou. Nejdříve se jelo do Mladé Boleslavi [Mladá Boleslav: město ve středních Čechách na severovýchod od Prahy – pozn. red.] na hrad. Do Mladé Boleslavi jel každý sám, takže jsme jeli obyčejným linkovým vlakem. Měli jsme na sobě hvězdy a s sebou několik zavazadel. Pamatuju se, že se nám nějací lidé ve vlaku smáli. Na hradě v Mladé Boleslavi nám sebrali poslední cennosti a odtud jsme cestovali vlakem, kde byli už jenom lidé transportovaní do Terezína. Nejdříve se jelo do Bohušovic, protože tehdy ještě nebyla prodloužená vlečka z Bohušovic do Terezína, takže z Bohušovic se šlo se všemi zavazadly pěšky do Terezína,. Jsou to asi dva nebo tři kilometry. Vedli nás četníci a vzpomínám si, že jeden četník si během cesty s tatínkem povídal a vzpomínali, jak byli oba společně za první světové války v Terezíně na vojně. Četníci se k nám chovali velmi slušně. Řada četníků byla tehdy dokonce popravena, protože nosili zprávy a pomáhali terezínským vězňům.

V Terezíně jsme bydleli v takzvaných Hamburských kasárnách. Rodiny byly rozděleny. Kromě různých potentátů, kteří měli sice malé, ale vlastní byty, všichni ostatní byli rozděleni podle věku a pohlaví. Děti asi do třinácti let bydlely společně s maminkami, ať už malí chlapci nebo děvčata. Starší chlapci se svými otci bydleli v jiných kasárnách. Hodně dětí také, i když mělo v Terezíně rodiny, bylo umístěno do domů mládeže, kterým se říkalo Kinderheimy. Dodnes lituji toho, že jsem v Kinderheimu nebyl, protože se tam děti učily. Přestože byla výuka oficiálně zakázaná, opatrovníci dětí v Kinderheimech ji tajně organizovali, takže se děti mohly ještě ledacos doučit. Navíc byli děti mezi svými vrstevníky. Já jsem byl v Terezíně úplně sám. Nevím proč, ale maminka si mě nechala u sebe, takže jsem byl mezi samými ženami. Uvnitř kasáren, kde jsme bydleli, byly třípatrové palandy nahuštěné blízko u sebe, mezi nimi tak uzounké uličky, že se jimi téměř nedalo projít. Když jsme přišli do Terezína, byly všechny palandy obsazené, takže jsme museli spát na zemi mezi palandami v těch uzounkých uličkách. Vzpomínám si, že jsme tam všichni měli blechy. To bylo úplně normální, ale horší byly štěnice. Když člověk v noci usnul, začaly se spouštět a hrozně štípaly. Bylo problematické se jich zbavit, protože když je člověk rozmázl, strašně zapáchaly. Museli jsme je tedy pálit svíčkami. Často se v noci zažehly svíčky a pálily se štěnice. Byly tam i vši, na konci války dokonce infikované tyfem.

Další můj zážitek souvisel s tím, že jsem bydlel mezi stovkami žen a bylo mi teprve jedenáct let. Ještě z kasáren tam totiž zůstaly „umývárny“, což byly prostě žlaby asi deset metrů dlouhé, nad nimi kohoutky. Byly to obrovské umývárny, kam se vešlo asi tak sto lidí. Myly nebo koupaly se tam nahé ženy všech možných věkových skupin. Ony se samozřejmě nestyděly. Já byl jedenáctiletý kluk a kolem mě ženské - staré, mladé, všechny dohromady, měl jsem z toho opravdu šok.

Tatínek bydlel s bratrem v Hannoverských kasárnách, které byly jen o kousek dál, takže jsme se mohli navštěvovat. Co chvíli  to ale bylo zakázané, např. když někdo utekl. Obecně platilo, že když někdo něco provedl, za trest se potom třeba nesmělo ven z kasáren, nesměly být návštěvy a podobně.

Cítil jsem se v Terezíně velice osamocený. Nepamatuju se, že by v Hamburských kasárnách byl nějaký kluk. Prý tam někde přímo v Hamburských kasárnách byl dětský domov, kde byly děti pohromadě, ale maminka mě tam nedala. Buď o tom nevěděla, nebo prostě nechtěla. Vlastně ani nevím, proč si mě nechala u sebe. A protože všichni dospělí měli pracovní povinnost, tak jsem se tam po Terezíně potuloval sám. Přestože děti dostávaly zvláštní příděly potravin, měl jsem pořád hlad a tak jsem sháněl něco k jídlu, třeba slupky od brambor u kuchyně. Občas jsem se s nějakým klukem seznámil, ale všichni pak postupně odešli do transportů. Pamatuju se asi na tři takové kamarády, s kterými jsme postupně, vždycky ve dvou někde sami hráli fotbal, ale do nějakého většího kolektivu jsem se v podstatě nedostal. Jen jeden čas jsem chodil na půdu, kde nějaký sochař tajně učil děti modelovat. Dostával balíčky potravin přes Turecko a všechno nám rozdal. I on brzy odešel s transportem.

Maminka ze začátku uklízela. Muselo to být pro ní hrozné, protože myla záchody. Ona byla taková „panička“ z dobré rodiny, kde měli služky, a nyní musela mýt záchody a navíc měla fanatickou vedoucí, Židovku, která ji trápila. Nechávala ji dělat stejné úkoly dvakrát a prostě si na ní zasedla.

Maminka se potom naštěstí dostala jinam. Za Terezínem postavili dřevěné baráky, kde se loupala slída, což byl materiál pro německý válečný průmysl. Slída se používala při konstrukci letadel. Maminčina práce nás zřejmě zachránila, spolu s tím, k jaké práci se dostal tatínek. Transporty totiž chodily z Terezína nepřetržitě. Tatínek měl zřejmě ve vedení nějaké známé, ale nic bližšího o tom nevím. Možná díky tomu se tatínek stal v Terezíně soudcem. V Terezíně byl totiž židovský soud, který měl na starosti různé přečiny, které se tam staly. Němci ponechali Židům určitou samosprávu, i když samozřejmě vážnější věci vyšetřovalo gestapo. Tatínek řešil převážně pozůstalosti. V Terezíně umíraly stovky lidí denně a jediné, co po nich zbylo, byl třeba jen kufr a vevnitř brýle nebo pár jiných osobních věcí. Tatínek měl najít případné příbuzné a potencionální dědice, jinak „majetek“ propadl ghettu, neboli vedení. Kromě vyšetřování drobných krádeží to byla vlastně hlavní tatínkova činnost. V Terezíně existovala i židovská policie zvaná Ghettowache, která měla na starost střežení pořádku uvnitř ghetta. Byli to mladí kluci v uniformách. Ještě před koncem války je Němci všechny poslali do plynu, protože se báli, že z jejich strany hrozí nějaká vzpoura nebo revoluce. Tatínkova funkce nás zřejmě nějakou dobu ochránila před transportem. Na podzim roku 1944 ale odešly poslední transporty a s nimi i tatínek a bratr. Tehdy už je nic nechránilo, v tu dobu odjelo v transportech i vedení ghetta a zbytek naší rodiny zřejmě zachránila maminka, která loupala slídu pro německý válečný průmysl.

Pamatuju se na slavnou dětskou operu Brundibár. Toto dílo složil před válkou modernistický skladatel Hans Krása [Krása Hans (1899 – 1944): pražský židovský skladatel, zavražděn nacisty v Osvětimi – pozn. red.], text k němu napsal Adolf Hoffmeister [Hoffmeister Adolf (1902 – 1973): český malíř, ilustrátor, karikaturista, básník, dramatik a prozaik – pozn. red.]. V Terezíně se díla někdo chopil a nastudoval ho. Děti z celého Terezína se chodily dívat na toto optimistické představení, kde dobro vítězí nad zlem. Bylo to pro nás úžasné. Účinkující děti se ale neustále střídaly, protože vždy než došlo k dalšímu představení, odjel mezitím transport do Osvětimi. Jen málo účinkujících přežilo, ale někteří z přeživších jsou stále naživu.

V Terezíně se konaly také sportovní slavnosti. Organizoval je slavný Fredy Hirsch 14, sám sportovec, který před válkou pracoval v židovské tělovýchově. Ohromně se dětem věnoval a snažil se, aby měly nějaké vyžití, takže se pořádaly různé hry a soutěže. Měli jsme i „uniformy“ – trenýrky a nějaká trička, každá kasárna měla jinou takovou „uniformu“. Dokonce byl uspořádán takový malý terezínský slet. Hlavně jsme ale cvičili a hráli hry na malém fotbalovém hřišti. Fredy potom odjel s dětmi dobrovolně do Osvětimi a když měly jít děti do plynu, spáchal sebevraždu, ačkoliv se mohl zachránit. Také se v Terezíně hrával fotbal. Bylo vytvořeno několik mužstev z dospělých mužů, jedno mužstvo měla Ghettowache, další třeba hasiči a podobně, vlastně to byla taková miniaturní fotbalová liga. Hrálo se na dvoře jedněch kasáren a my jsme se na utkání chodívali jako děti dívat. Později to Němci zakázali.

Když odešly poslední transporty z Terezína, vznikl velký nedostatek pracovních sil. Do té doby byla pracovní povinnost od patnácti let, ale nyní tuto hranici snížili, takže jsem musel začít pracovat i já. Hlavně v pětačtyřicátém roce jsem dělal takzvanou „ordonanc“, což byl poslíček mezi vedením ghetta a jeho obyvateli, nebo mezi vedením ghetta a německým velitelstvím. Míval jsem strach, protože jsem občas musel odnést na velitelství SS nějakou písemnost nebo hlášení. Ruce se mi klepaly, když jsem musel jít mezi esesáky. Pravda, že většina z nich byla spíš netečná, ale byli i takoví sadisté, kteří třeba jezdili po Terezíně na kole  a mlátili lidi. Většina z nich byla po válce popravena, ale některým se podařilo utéct. V ghettu samotném se ale esesáci příliš neukazovali, protože pořádek střežili četníci. Když jsme však na nějakého esesáka přeci jen náhodou narazili, vždycky jsme někam zalezli a schovali se, protože jsme se jich báli.

Také si vzpomínám na slavnou návštěvu mezinárodního Červeného kříže. Celý Terezín se tehdy uklízel, vylepšoval a stavěly se tam různé kulisy. Dokonce vznikla i kavárna. Začaly se vydávat bezcenné peníze, tzv. ghettogeld, za které se ale nedalo nic koupit. Byl otevřen obchod, kde se sice nedalo nakupovat, ale byly tam vystavené různé náhražky hořčice a jiné „potraviny“. Dokonce jsem si schoval „spořitelní knížku“, kde mi jako přibývaly peníze, protože jsem jako regulérní zaměstnanec „dostával plat“. To bylo samozřejmě všechno jen kvůli té komisi. V parku se zřídilo dětské hřiště a doslechl jsem se, že když přijela komise Červeného kříže do Terezína, nějaké děti si hrály na novém hřišti, a tehdejší velitel Rahm jim před komisí začal rozdávat čokoládu, pomeranče, sardinky. Všechno se natáčelo, existuje o tom film známého předválečného německého režiséra Gerrona [Gerron Kurt (1897 – 1944): vl. jm. Kurt Gerson, židovský herec a režisér. V době 2. světové války vězněn v ghettu Terezín, kde byl donucen režírovat propagandistický film Theresienstadt. Zavražděn v Osvětimi – pozn. red.] Děti musely říkat: „Strýčku Rahme, už zase sardinky? Proč už nám zase dáváš sardinky?“ Je to celé úplně neuvěřitelné. Spojenci ani celá komise prostě nechtěli vidět, co se skrývá za touhle kulisou. Švýcar, který komisi velel, dodnes nepřiznal, že se někde stala chyba. Nedávno jsem četl jeho vyjádření. Neustále obhajuje svůj tehdejší postup. Německý Červený kříž byl zcela pod vlivem nacistů.

Takových zvláštních věcí se ale stalo více. Naprosto neuvěřitelné je třeba i to, že v pětačtyřicátém roce létaly tisíce spojeneckých letadel přes Osvětim. Tenkrát už Němci měli zničenou protiletadlovou obranu, takže spojenecká letadla mohla létat velice nízko. Museli vidět koncentrační tábory, vědět o plynových komorách. Stačilo je zničit a zachránili by tím pár set tisíc lidí. Ale generálové letectva takový zásah zakázali, s tím, že se nejedná o vojenské cíle. Na to existují doklady. Celé se to příčí rozumu.

Navíc vychází najevo, že hodně amerických Židů nechovalo k evropským Židům žádný zvláštní soucit. Viděli jen masy chudých Židů např. z Polska a báli se, že by imigrovali do Ameriky, kde by je museli živit. Z různých dokumentů je zřejmé, že američtí Židé nijak netlačili na svou vládu, aby podnikla nějaké kroky k poskytnutí azylu evropským Židům. O tom se ani v současnosti zrovna moc nemluví. Podobně i nad papežem se vznáší otazník, proč se příliš neozýval, i když církev se nyní snaží tvrdit, že by tehdy Židům nějakými zásahy ještě uškodila.

Transporty z Terezína mířily z devadesáti procent do Osvětimi. V noci vám přinesli centimetrový štráfek průklepového papíru, kde bylo vaše jméno, číslo transportu a že se máte dostavit. Později bylo odbavování transportů do Osvětimi přesunuto do Hamburských kasáren, kde už jsme v té době nebydleli. Na dvoře těchto kasáren se museli všichni povolaní shromáždit. Směli mít s sebou pouze jedno zavazadlo. Kasárnami se prošlo na druhou stranu, kde byla vlečka a nákladní vagóny, tam se nastupovalo do transportu. Nikdo z nás nevěděl, kam vlastně transporty míří. Na rampě stál německý velitel ghetta Rahm a měl v ruce ještě poslední seznam lidí, kteří měli být z různých důvodů z transportu vyřazeni. Nejčastěji to byli ti, co nějakým způsobem pracovali pro Němce. Každý vězeň určený do transportu musel mít na krku pověšenou ceduli se svým číslem a s číslem transportu. Člověk přestal být člověkem a stalo se z něj pouhé číslo. Pamatuju se, že už při cestě do Terezína jsme měli čísla, já byl CM390. U transportů do Osvětimi člověk dostal nové číslo. Dvakrát jsme s maminkou stáli u otevřených vagónů a naposledy jsme ukazovali Rahmovi naše čísla a on nás dvakrát poslal pryč. Pravděpodobně měl údaj o tom, že maminka pracuje na slídě.

Maminka však měla při práci na slídě obrovské potíže. Nebyla schopná splnit stanovené normy. Dokonce ji chtěli vyhodit, ale osud zřejmě zasáhl. Byla to velmi nezdravá práce. Nějaké velké kusy slídy se musely ručně štěpit na malinké kousky. Ale nakonec nás to asi zachránilo před transportem.

Tatínek takové štěstí neměl. Tatínek měl už před válkou nemocné srdce. Bral na to nějaké léky. Nevím přesně, co měl za nemoc, ale v Terezíně se navíc k tomu ještě nastydl a měl zřejmě zánět ledvin, protože si musel omotávat záda králičími kůžemi. Tatínek šel tedy do  transportu v roce 1944 nemocný. Přestože mu tehdy bylo teprve sedmapadesát let, vypadal dost staře a to u selekce zřejmě rozhodlo.

Bratr se zachránil díky náhodě, která se váže k jedné dřívější události. Bratr měl v jedenačtyřicátém roce bar micva, což jsme kupodivu slavili, ačkoliv jsme jinak židovské oslavy příliš nepraktikovali. Tatínek měl někde schované švýcarské náramkové hodinky dobré značky a u této příležitosti mu je daroval. Když stál potom v čtyřiačtyřicátém roce bratr ve svých šestnácti letech, sice vyhublý, ale na svůj věk vysoký, v Osvětimi na rampě před selekcí,  nějaký esesák si všiml hodinek a zeptal se ho: „Co je to za hodinky?“ Bratr mu na to něco odpověděl a esesák mu řekl: „Tak mi je dej!“. Bratr mu hodinky bez okolků dal, protože se pak stejně muselo úplně všechno odevzdávat. Ten esesák se ale ještě zeptal, kolik je bratrovi let, a když bratr odpověděl, že šestnáct, poradil mu: „Při selekce řekni, že už je ti osmnáct.“ A bratr byl vždycky přesvědčen o tom, že mu tahle událost zachránila život, protože kdyby řekl, že je mu šestnáct, šel by asi rovnou do plynu. Bratr potom prožil strašné věci. Tatínek šel zřejmě v Osvětimi rovnou do plynu, ale bratr prošel Osvětimí a dostal se do dalšího koncentračního tábora, který se jmenoval Kaufering [nacisté zřídili u koncentračního tábora Dachau dvě obrovské podzemní továrny – Kaufering a Mühldorf, kam posléze přesunuli podstatnou část zbrojařské výroby, pracovali zde v nelidských podmínkách hlavně Židé z Polska, Maďarska a Pobaltí – pozn. red.], nevím přesně. Na konci války se bratr dostal do transportu smrti. Naložili jeho a další polomrtvé vězně do vlaku, zavřeli je tam, nedali jim jíst ani pít a několik dní někam jeli, takže polovina lidí ve vagónu během cesty zemřela. Navíc je ještě napadly spojenecké letouny v domnění, že jde o vojenský transport. Rozstříleli lokomotivu, takže vlak zůstal stát někde na trati v lese. To už bylo na konci války někdy v pětačtyřicátém roce. Viky říkal, že už byl skoro mrtvý. Nějaký jeho kamarád ho ještě vytáhl z vlaku, kde byly už jen samé mrtvoly, někam do lesa, a tam je našli Američani. Američané ale nebyli obeznámení s tím, v jakém jsou stavu, takže jim dali normálně najíst a mnoho lidí zemřelo kvůli tomu, že se najednou najedli. Bratr měl po válce velké zdravotní potíže, mimo jiné i tuberkulózu a musel se dlouho léčit v sanatoriu.

Na konci války, v pětačtyřicátém roce, přišli do Terezína muži ze smíšených manželství, kteří byli do té doby chráněni. Působili jako zjevení, protože byli čistě oblečení, vyživení, přivezli si s sebou i jídlo. Žili předtím relativně v normálních poměrech, jelikož je nějakým způsobem živily jejich árijské manželky. Jako vedoucí jim byla určena jedna krásná paní, říkalo se, že byla milenkou vedoucího ghetta. Tahle paní si mě velmi oblíbila, ba přímo zamilovala, a protože sama neměla děti, chovala se ke mně jako k vlastnímu synovi. Já jsem dělal poslíčka mezi touhle vedoucí a několika sty nových přisídlenců ze smíšených rodin. Oni se strašně bouřili proti tomu, že by měli poslouchat nějakou „ženskou“. Zjevně žili do té doby více méně normálním životem, a když přišli do nového prostředí, kde měli poslouchat, dodržovat nějaký program a uskrovnit se, začali se bouřit a projevovat nesouhlas. Bylo to docela nepříjemné, i když mě jako poslíčka rozmazlovali, dávali mi všechno, co si přivezli s sebou, takže to byl docela pěkný konec války.

Tato paní se jmenovala Taussigová. Měl jsem takový raný erotický zážitek, protože ona mě často jako své vlastní dítě objímala a líbala. Bylo mi už skoro třináct let. Po válce mě velmi toužila vidět, ale já jsem se styděl a už nikdy jsme se nesetkali. Myslím, že ani po válce neměla své vlastní děti.

Úplně na konci války, mohlo to být poslední měsíc, se Němci přeci jen dohodli, a předali dohled nad Terezínem švédskému Červenému kříži. Přijeli švédští vojáci, kteří nás měli chránit, a kolem celého Terezína byly vylepené plakáty „Pod ochranou Mezinárodního červeného kříže“. Někdy předtím nebo možná až potom byly do Terezína stahováni polomrtví vězňové z transportů smrti, kteří předtím prožili peklo v těch nejhorších koncentračních táborech. Ti, kteří přežili, byli teď dopraveni do Terezína. Většina z nich byla nakažená skvrnitým tyfem a protože se všichni v Terezíně báli rozšíření nákazy, byl pro ně vytvořen takový malý koncentrační tábor, obehnaný ostnatým drátem, a tam se o ně starali. Pamatuju si hrůzu těch ubohých lidí, když je chtěli ve sprchách odvšivit. Všichni si mysleli, že jdou do plynu, a tak je tam museli nahnat holemi, aby je vůbec mohli odvšivit. Po osvobození přijela do Terezína  velká skupina českých lékařů, která se o tyhle lidi starala. Krátce po válce potom byla vyhlášena karanténa. Nikdo nesměl kvůli skvrnitému tyfu ani z Terezína, ani do Terezína.

Koncem války proudili po silnici kolem Terezína, tehdy už chráněného Červeným křížem, Němci, kteří utíkali před Rusy. Občas ze svých aut stříleli z kulometů do Terezína anebo tam hodili nějaký granát, takže i koncem války bylo v Terezíně občas dost nebezpečno. Ale brzy po nich už přijeli Rusové. Takovou radost jako tehdy už člověk asi nikdy nepocítí. Byl to nepopsatelný pocit, když Rusové přijeli na tancích do Terezína. První, co udělali, bylo, že zastavili tanky a porazili všechny ploty mezi silnicí a Terezínem. Pak ale uviděli další plot oddělující Terezín od míst, kde se léčili vězňové z vyhlazovacích táborů a transportů smrti, a protože nevěděli nic o karanténě ani o situaci těchto vězňů, pustili je ven. Zkuste si představit, jaké to je vysvětlovat ruskému generálovi, proč jsou někteří vězňové stále pod zámkem. Dalo obrovskou práci ty ubožáky znovu pochytat a dostat je zpátky do uzavřených prostor. Rusové navíc předtím zřejmě někde nakradli větší množství čokolády, a tak nás všechny, včetně těch vězňů, kteří ještě nesměli jíst, nacpali čokoládou.

Na konci války jsme byli v Terezíně s maminkou sami, neměli jsme tam žádné příbuzné, protože moje sestra, která se v Terezíně seznámila s panem Kovanicem a provdala se za něj, mezitím odjela do Švýcarska transportem, který měl být výměnou za německé válečné zajatce. Jednoho dne jsme se dozvěděli, že se v Terezíně hledají jmenovaní lidé, mezi nimi i my s maminkou, kteří se mají dostavit na určené místo. Byli jsme velice udivení, protože v té době byla ještě přísná karanténa. Když jsme přišli na místo, stál tam autobus, kterým přijeli skauti s Brandýsa. Nevím, jak se to ti skauti vlastně dozvěděli, jestli to hlásil brandýský rozhlas, každopádně si spočítali, že z Brandýsa za války odjelo asi šedesát nebo osmdesát lidí a že tedy bude stačit jeden autobus, který nás nadvakrát všechny odveze zpátky do Brandýsa. Ti skauti byli v Terezíně asi dva dny a nakonec se jim podařilo zjistit, že jsme z Brandýsa zůstali sami ještě  s nějakou paní z vesnice nedaleko Brandýsa. Nakonec jsme tedy z Terezína jeli s těmi skauty v prázdném autobuse tři. Přijeli jsme tedy do Brandýsa dříve, ještě před ukončením karantény v Terezíně, kterou nám  z nějakého důvodu dovolili porušit. Od té doby jsem byl náruživý skaut.

Po válce

Když jsme přijeli do Brandýsa, maminka se šla podívat do našeho domu a zjistila, že tam bydlí někdo jiný. Maminka si sama bez tatínka nedokázala s ničím poradit a tak tam ty lidi nechala bydlet. V přízemí měl byt nějaký protektorátní četník a později byla v našem domě dlouhou dobu hudební škola.

Neměli jsme tedy kde bydlet, neměli jsme peníze, neměli jsme nic. Naštěstí nás vzala k sobě nějaká paní Zahálková. Byla pravděpodobně ze smíšené rodiny, měla nějaké židovské předky. Její manžel byl jako komunista v koncentráku a ještě se nevrátil. A protože náš tatínek se za války o tuto paní po tom, co jejího manžela zavřeli, staral, nechala nás paní Zahálková teď bydlet u sebe v malé vilce přímo v Brandýse. V té době tábořili v Brandýse sovětští vojáci. Byli jsme tehdy všichni velmi naivní. Netušili jsme, že jsou už mezi Spojenci určité nesrovnalosti a ze sovětských vojáků jsme byli zpočátku úplně nadšení. Tehdy se stala taková příhoda: Jeden ze sovětských vojáků si někde půjčil kolo a už ho nevrátil, jednoduše ho ukradl a když si jeho majitel šel stěžovat důstojníkovi, důstojník vojáka na místě zastřelil. V té době se také nějací sovětští vojáci seznámili s maminkou a s paní Zahálkovou a byli pozváni k paní Zahálkové na návštěvu. Paní Zahálková měla třináctiletou dceru a vzpomínám si, že se obě maminky bály, aby nám vojáci něco neudělali, a proto nás před nimi zavřely. Ony se jich také bály, ale zároveň se bály je odmítnout. Samozřejmě se ztratily hodinky. Dojmy z Rusů po válce tedy potom byly už spíše ambivalentní, i když samozřejmě ten první dojem z osvobození v nás všech zůstal.

Neměli jsme zprávy o sestře, o bratrovi, ani o tatínkovi. Maminka po válce dlouho věřila, že se tatínek vrátí, a to i v době, kdy už byl prohlášený za mrtvého. Bez něho byla úplně ztracená. To si člověk vůbec nedokáže představit, v jaké se ocitla situaci. Maminka vlastně neměla žádné vyšší vzdělání, ani maturitu. Měla pouze střední obchodní školu a nějaké obchodní kurzy a v praktickém životě si vůbec nedokázala poradit. Byla zvyklá, že všechno dělal tatínek. Tenkrát takových žen bylo asi víc.

Sestra i bratr se vrátili domů ještě v roce 1945, ale o několik měsíců později než my s maminkou. O bratrovi jsme dlouhou dobu neměli žádné zprávy a netušili jsme, jestli je vůbec naživu. Mnoho lidí tehdy nevědělo nic o osudu svých blízkých a bylo to velmi složité zjišťování. Trochu pomáhal Červený kříž, ale jinak si lidé museli pomoci především sami. Protože byl bratr v hrozném stavu, poslali ho Američané ihned po skončení války do nějakého sanatoria, kde se léčil s tuberkulózou. Poté, co se vrátil do Čech, pokračoval v léčení ve zdejším sanatoriu.

Z našeho příbuzenstva kromě tatínka nepřežili ani jeho sourozenci s rodinami, tedy Vohryzkovi s dětmi a strýček Josef, bratr tatínka, s manželkou a synem. Nepřežila ani sestra maminky, teta Elsa, která byla bezdětná. Nevrátila se také většina vzdálenějších příbuzných. Měli jsme příbuzné v Kadani, Českém Brodu, Kutné Hoře [Kadaň: severozápadní Čechy, Český Brod, Kutná Hora: východní Čechy – pozn. red.] Přežili jen ti, kteří pocházeli ze smíšeného manželství, k nimž patřil bratr maminky, strýček Quido. Vzal si za manželku paní árijského původu a proto šel do Terezína až koncem zimy pětačtyřicátého roku. Podobná situace zachránila také našeho vzdáleného příbuzného Viktora Munka z Kutné Hory. Nějaká tatínkova sestřenice se stačila provdat do Francie za árijce a vyhnula se tak válce. Po sňatku se jmenovala Besson a byla učitelkou na lyceu v Dijonu. Tatínkův bratranec Pavel Munk stačil emigrovat do Ameriky.

Po válce jsme byli úplně chudí, neměli jsme ani co na sebe. Tehdy se sepisovaly válečné škody a kdo uměl třeba podplácet, dostal i nějaké odškodnění, ale maminka to neuměla takhle zařídit, takže jsme nedostali nic. Na mě dostávala jenom asi tři sta korun, sama dostávala šest set. Po válce jsem byl nejchudší ze třídy. Náš dům skončil tak, že ho maminka prodala nějakému řezníkovi. Prodala ho asi za sto šedesát tisíc tehdejších korun, ale těsně potom, asi za půl roku, přišla měnová reforma 15 a peníze úplně ztratily hodnotu, takže nám nezbylo vůbec nic. My nějak prostě nemáme a nikdy jsme neměli na takové věci štěstí. A přestože mamince vymlouvali, aby dům prodávala, ona to nakonec stejně udělala, protože s ním byla spousta starostí, nájemníci pořád na nás chtěli něco opravovat a celý nájem potom padnul na tyto opravy.

Je tomu asi pět let, co jsme se tam byli podívat. Nějací potomci řezníka, který dům od maminky kdysi koupil, nám zavolali, že našli v okapu srolované staré negativy fotografií, bohužel už tak zničené, že se vůbec nedaly použít. Můj synovec Jirka chtěl náš dům vidět a tak jsme se tam po dlouhé době zase podívali. Byla to však pro mne velice tristní návštěva. Ti lidé vybourali a předělali celý vnitřek domu. I když já do Brandýsa nerad jezdím už proto, že je  pro mne velmi smutný pohled na to celé město. Možná už je teď situace lepší, ale sídliště naproti našemu domu už asi nikdo nezbourá.

V Praze v Truhlářské ulici [městská část Praha1] žili nějací příbuzní Lustigů, Pavelkovi, kteří byli tak hodní a po válce se nás ujali, takže jsme se nastěhovali do jejich nevelikého bytu v Praze. Inženýr Pavelka sám nebyl Žid, ale vzal si Židovku, jmenovala se Vilka, a ta prý byla naše vzdálená příbuzná. Měli dceru Eminu, která byla asi o dva roky starší než já.  Mě bylo tehdy třináct a jí tak patnáct nebo šestnáct let. Spala v takovém malém pokoji pro služku, a mě vždycky ustlali vedle ní na zemi. Pamatuju se, že jsem míval pod hlavou místo podhlavníku Palackého Dějiny národa českého [Palacký František (1798 – 1896): český historik, organizátor politického a kulturního života, zakladatel novodobého českého dějepisectví. Dílo: Dějiny národu českého v Čechách a v Moravě (Geschichte von Böhmen), 1836-76 (5 dílů) – pozn. red.], ale moc z toho se mi do hlavy nedostalo. Nebýt strýčka Pavelky, asi bych ani nezačal chodit do školy. Strýček mě hned, ještě v květnu 1945  zavedl do nejbližší školy v Sanytrové ulici, přesněji řečeno na rohu Sanytrové a Dušní hned naproti kostelu Šimona a Judy. Dnes stojí tato škola v těsné blízkosti hotelu Intercontinental. Začal jsem tam chodit hned v květnu, takže jsem do prvního ročníku chodil vlastně jen šest neděl. Nejdřív jsem měl trochu problémy,  protože mi scházelo čtyři nebo pět let učení a začal jsem vlastně rovnou chodit do druhé měšťanky, ale vzhledem k tomu, že jsem byl zřejmě otevřený novým poznatkům a chodil do třídy z nejchudšími dětmi z celé Prahy, které se vůbec neučily, nakonec jsem dostával na vysvědčení samé jedničky. Mými spolužáky byly totiž děti z Františku, to byla čtvrť v blízkosti dnešního Anežského kláštera, kde žila úplná spodina Prahy -  zloději, prostitutky, pasáci. Psal o nich spisovatel Géza Včelička [Včelička Géza (1901 – 1966): vl. jm. Antonín Eduard Včelička, český novinář, básník a prozaik – pozn. red.], to jméno už dnes asi nikomu nic neříká. Byl jsem oproti nim opravdu vzorný žák, pan ředitel si mě dokonce vzal k sobě abych mu pomáhal, takže jsem třeba hlásil školním rozhlasem, anebo chodil učitelům, kteří tehdy po válce teprve začínali studovat vysoké školy, s indexy zapisovat přednášky a podobně.

Mí spolužáci byli nenapravitelní gauneři toho nejtěžšího kalibru, občas jsem se nestačil divit. Dělali si např. legraci i z prezidenta Beneše 16. Nebylo jim nic svaté. Byli z revoluce ozbrojení. Byli to třináctiletí kluci, ale měli pistole, granáty. Když jednou přišli během vyučování do třídy četníci, vybrali celý koš těchto zbraní. Je zajímavé, že na mě si nikdo netroufl, zřejmě věděli o tom, co se stalo Židům za války a asi proto mě respektovali. Jinak se ale mezi sebou pořád prali, chovali se jako zvířata.

Do třídy se mnou chodil ale také nějaký Erich Wildau. Kamarádili jsme se spolu a brzy se z nás stali nejlepší přátelé. Jeho tatínek byl Žid. Ještě před válkou opustil Erichovu maminku a odjel do Argentiny, kde se z něj za války stal boháč, vlastnil textilní továrnu. Erichova maminka, která nebyla židovského původu, prohlásila, že otcem Ericha a jeho dvou sourozenců je nějaký krejčí árijského původu, aby tak uchránila děti od nacistické represe. Erich Wildau tedy díky tomu prožil celou válku doma v Praze. Takových případů bylo více, kdy matka ve snaze zachránit své děti prohlásila, že jejich otcem je někdo jiný. Nakonec si Erichova maminka krejčího vzala a měli spolu nějaké další děti. Erichův tatínek si později vzal všechny své děti k sobě, takže můj nejlepší kamarád v roce 1948 odjel do Argentiny.

Erich Wildau mě přivedl do skautského oddílu 17, kam patřil ještě před tím, než jsme se skamarádili. Svá nejhezčí léta po válce do doby než bylo skautské hnutí zakázáno, jsem tedy prožil mezi skauty. Už v roce 1945 jsme spolu s Erichem odjeli na skautský tábor do Poběžovic u Domažlic v Českém lese [jihovýchodní Čechy]. Bydleli jsme v bývalém táboře Hitlerjugend. Bylo to poměrně velké středisko, kde se ubytovalo asi dvě stě skautů. Nebyl to úplně obyčejný tábor, protože jsme plnili také funkci dozorců. Tehdy totiž byli v pohraničí ještě neodsunutí Němci a my jsme dohlíželi na to, aby odevzdali veškerou úrodu, jelikož bylo právě po žních. Odvezli mě na nějaký německý statek a já jsem dával pozor u váhy. Němci postupně snášeli obilí a já jsem zaznamenával údaje, kontroloval váhu a podobně.

Poběžovice ležely v části země, která byla na konci války obsazená společně americkou a britskou armádou. Američané a Britové, kteří chodili s místními německými dívkami, se od nich dovídali různé hrůzostrašné historky o tom, jak Češi německé dívky po válce znásilňovali a ubližovali jim, a díky tomu tito Američané nás Čechy nenáviděli. Dokonce se stalo, že když šla jednou skupina skautů do vesnice, Američané jim namlátili. Na tom skautském táboře jsme všichni z toho najednou byli úplně pryč, že nás vlastně Američané nemají rádi. Ráno při nástupu se vždycky vytáhla na stožár česká a sovětská vlajka a hrála se česká a sovětská hymna. Jednoho dne při nástupu, když jsme zrovna vytáhli sovětskou vlajku a poslouchali sovětskou hymnu, přišla k nám americká stráž. Byla to skupina amerických vojáků. Nejdříve přišli ke stožáru, odřízli sovětskou vlajku a strčili si ji do kapsy. Pak šli ke gramofonu, vzali desku, šli k našemu vůdcovi, narazili mu ji na hlavu a beze slova odešli. My jsme na to koukali jak blázni.

Na druhou stranu, jednou jsme byli na nějakém meetingu v lesní škole v Rybníkách nedaleko od našeho tábora [lesní škola byla vlastně jakási vyšší skautská škola – pozn. red.] a na tohle setkání přiletěl i generál Patton [Patton, George Smith ml. (1885 – 1945): generál armády Spojených států amerických. 3. americká armáda, které za druhé světové války velel, osvobodila západ a jihozápad Čech, včetně města Plzeň – pozn. red.]. se svými důstojníky, což byli vlastně bývalí američtí skauti, a ti k nám byli naopak velmi přátelští. Seděli s námi kolem táboráku a zpívali, dokonce nám dali k dispozici své malé letadlo, takže jsme mohli létat nad krajinou, půjčili nám také auto se šoférem. Americká generalita asi na rozdíl od řadových vojáků věděla, jak to s českým národem doopravdy je. Celkově se dá říci, že kde byli neodsunutí Němci 18, tam byli Američané protičesky naladění, zatímco tam, kde byla česká děvčata jako v Domažlicích, tam nás měli Američané rádi.

V době, kdy jsme pobývali na táboře v Poběžovicích, potulovali se po lesích utíkající ozbrojení členové SS, tzv. verwolfové, a proto, když jsme chodili na německé statky a usedlosti, museli nás hlídat starší ozbrojení skauti, kterým se říkalo roveři. Okolí Poběžovic bylo ryze německé, byli jsme jediní Češi v celé oblasti. Pamatuju se, že jsme chodili průvodem, v přední části průvodu jsme nesli československou vlajku a hlasitě zpívali. Němci vycházeli ze svých domů, aby se podívali, co se děje. Měli na hlavách různé čepice a když někdo nesmekl, naši roveři tam zaběhli a zmlátili ho, zfackovali, protože nesmekl před naší vlajkou. To už se mi tehdy příliš nelíbilo. Bylo to těsně před ich odsunem.

Jinak jsem se ale u skautského hnutí opravdu našel. Po válce jsem se cítil nezařazený, ocitl jsem se prakticky bez příbuzných, bez všeho. Myslím, že v podstatě všichni přeživší se cítili vykořenění a toužili se někde zařadit. Neměli majetky, rodiny, příbuzné, zaměstnání, neměli to, co normálně vytváří kolektiv člověka a podporuje ho. Někteří lidé později takovou oporu nalezli v komunistické straně, já jsem zvolil skauty. Ve skautingu jsem našel nový způsob sebeidentifikace i náhradní kolektiv. Skautské ideály jsem přijal za své. Bohužel to všechno skončilo po osmačtyřicátém roce, kdy bylo skautské hnutí zakázáno.

Po prázdninách v roce 1945 jsem šel opět do měšťanky. Byla to už třetí měšťanka. Dosud nevím, jak jsem mohl překlenout obrovské neznalosti způsobené válkou. Tyto neznalosti se projevily vlastně až na gymnáziu, protože v měšťance byla úroveň tak nízká, že jsem tam byl jednooký mezi slepými králem. Třetí měšťanka mi příliš práce nedala a jen díky tomu, že jsem dostal na vysvědčení samé jedničky, jsem se dostal na gymnázium, protože se samými jedničkami jsem mohl přejít do kvarty bez přijímacích zkoušek. Zkoušky bych určitě neudělal, protože profesoři na gymnáziu nebrali žádný ohled na to, že jsem za války nemohl chodit do školy.

Začal jsem tedy chodit do staroměstského gymnázia v Praze. Tehdy gymnázia procházela obdobím chaotických proměn, měnily svůj charakter, pořád se stěhovaly. Já jsem se v tom nevyznal. Jenom za dobu, kdy jsem studoval, jsme se sloučili asi s čtyřmi dalšími gymnázii. Nejdřív jsme byli jenom chlapecké gymnázium, pak došlo ke sloučení s dívčím gymnáziem, následně zase k odtržení dívčí větve a na konci už bylo gymnázium zase smíšené. Gymnázium stálo v Dušní ulici [městská část Praha 1], dnes je na jeho místě obchodní akademie. Přihlásil mě tam opět strýček. Maminka snad vůbec nevěděla, kam jsem chodil. Dokonce se na mě nikdy do gymnázia nepřišla ani zeptat. Musela jen podepisovat žákovskou knížku. Už na gymnáziu jsem proto byl úplně samostatný a vzhledem k naší ekonomické situaci jsem si přivydělával brigádami o prázdninách.

První období na gymnáziu bylo velmi krušné. Plaval jsem v gramatice, plaval jsem v matematice. Tenkrát bylo gymnázium poměrně elitní záležitostí, kam se dostalo tak deset procent populace, na rozdíl od dneška, kdy na gymnáziu studuje skoro každý. Samozřejmě moje gymnázium nepatřilo k nejlepším, na taková kvalitní a vyhlášená gymnázia, jako bylo třeba už před válkou gymnázium v Truhlářské nebo Nerudovo gymnázium, bych tehdy nemohl jít. Tohle bylo spíš průměrné pražské gymnázium.

Už v kvartě, kdy jsem přišel, bylo gymnázium rozdělené na dvě větve. První větev byla klasická, kde se vyučovala latina a francouzština, a druhá technická, kde se naopak studovala deskriptivní geometrie a angličtina. Já bych samozřejmě více tíhl k latinské větvi, ale to nebylo možné, protože studenti v kvartě latinské větve měli za sebou už asi tři roky latiny a uměli i trochu francouzsky. Byla to čistě humanitní větev, zatímco já musel jít na technickou, což mělo u mě potom velký vliv i na výběr vysoké školy.

Do třídy se mnou chodil jeden židovský chlapec, Petr Rossler, který také za války prošel koncentráky. Odešel s prvními transporty do Lodže a přežil se svým bratrem Osvětim. Ztratil rodiče a protože sirotci měli po válce možnost se odstěhovat, asi v osmačtyřicátém roce odjeli oba bratři do Austrálie. Po válce byl totiž ve světě o židovské sirotky relativně zájem. Židovské rodiny hlavně v Austrálii nebo v Kanadě nabízely, že si je vezmou k sobě. Petrovi i jeho bratrovi se podařilo odstěhovat, přestože tady měli strýčka. Oba bratři se v Austrálii etablovali, založili rodiny. Můj spolužák se stal chemikem a jeho bratr slavným architektem. Nedávno restituovali po strýčkovi nějaký majetek v Čechách. Rossler byl můj jediný židovský kamarád ve třídě.

Ve škole byl asi jenom jeden opravdový antisemita a to byl profesor chemie. Od spolužáků jsem se dozvěděl, že byl za války známým kolaborantem. Mlátil studenty, když nechtěli zpívat německou hymnu „Deutschland, Deutschland“. Hodně kolaborantů se později stalo komunistickými agenty. Tak to udělal i tento pán, protože velice brzy vstoupil do strany 19 a v roce 1948 se dokonce stal ředitelem školy, když převzal místo po starém panu řediteli masarykovského střihu, který musel odejít do penze. Tenhle nový ředitel a profesor chemie mě neměl rád, takže jsem z chemie pořád propadal. Pro nás studenty bylo velice smutné pozorovat, jak se mnoho lidí z řad profesorského sboru postupně dávalo ke komunistům, ačkoliv se dříve hlásili k národním socialistům.

Tehdy mě nenapadlo, že budu jednou studovat architekturu. Zajímala mě astronomie. Měli jsme totiž profesora fyziky, který, ačkoliv nebyl Žid, se velmi zajímal o to, co Židé za války vytrpěli a upřímně nás litoval. Půjčoval mi knihy o astronomii, která byla tehdy módní. Díky bratrovi, který četl mnoho děl světové literatury, jsem byl také od svých patnácti let ponořen do klasické literatury. Pamatuju se, že bratr jednou ještě před rokem 1948 přinesl domů krabici plnou sebraných spisů Flauberta [Flaubert Gustave (1821 – 1880): francouzký realistický romanopisec – pozn. red.], které koupil od nějakého soukromého knihkupce. Já jsem tu krabici celou přečetl, bylo to asi dvacet nebo třicet knížek. Přečetl jsem v podstatě všechno, co bratr přinesl domů. Bratr rád četl „prokleté básníky“ – Rimbauda, Baudelaira, Verlaina. K nim jsem se dostal zhruba ve svých šestnácti letech. Velmi rád jsem četl také díla antických filosofů, hlavně Epikteta [Epiktétos (asi 55 – asi 135): římský stoický filozof, pův. otrok – pozn. red.] a ostatní stoiky. Měl jsem tehdy zřejmě takovou stoickou náladu, možná to bylo pubertou. Celkově vzato jsem přečetl opravdu obrovské množství knih – veškerou klasickou literaturu ruskou, francouzskou i německou.

Ještě po osmačtyřicátém roce jsem chodil do tzv. Akademické knihovny. Byla to knihovna určená především pro studenty vysokých škol, ale směli tam i středoškoláci. Sídlila v budově na Klárově [městská část Praha 1], naproti dnešní Strakově akademii [sídlo české vlády], v domě, kde byl tehdy také veřejný plavecký bazén. V této knihovně měli na řetězech připevněné dlouhé seznamy titulů, které bylo možné si vypůjčit domů. Je příznačné, že už v roce 1948 byly tyto seznamy proškrtané. Někdo si dal tu práci, že prošel tisíce stran seznamu a mnoho děl např. Karla Čapka 20, Balzaca [Balzac, Honoré de (1799 – 1850): francouzký romanpisec – pozn. red.] a jiných spisovatelů začernil tuší na znamení toho, že se už nesmějí půjčovat. Komunisté byli v takových věcech opravdu důslední. Některé stránky byly dokonce slepené k sobě. Ale v knihovně pracoval tehdy hodný, starý pán, který mi půjčoval všechny knížky, i ty, které byly v seznamech začerněné. A já jsem četl opravdu všechno, např. jsem přečetl celého Goetha [Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (1749 – 1832): německý básník, spisovatel a vědec – pozn. red.]. Dokonce jsem zkoušel i psát básně a povídky, ale nakonec jsem všechno zahodil. Myslím, že nikdo z naší rodiny neměl vypěstované zdravé umělecké sebevědomí, to bylo vidět především na mém bratrovi.

Většina Židů se po válce už nehlásila k židovskému náboženství, mnozí se dokonce přejmenovali. Tvrdili, že důvodem jsou jejich německá jména, ale ve skutečnosti spíš asi chtěli zapomenout na to, že jsou Židé. My, přestože jsme byli typická asimilovaná židovská rodina, tatínek byl český vlastenec, jsme nikdy své židovství neskrývali. Už na měšťance a potom i na gymnáziu jsem začal chodit na náboženství k slavnému rabínovi Sicherovi. Byl to vzdělaný pán, přednášel na Univerzitě Karlově zřejmě hebraistiku nebo židovské dějiny. Chodil jsem k němu sám, protože nikdo se už na židovské náboženství nepřihlásil, zatímco já jsem měl pořád na vysvědčení známku z židovského, nebo izraelského náboženství. Po válce totiž bylo náboženství ještě nějakou dobu povinné. Chodil jsem k panu rabínovi rád, protože uměl krásně vykládat Starý zákon. Naučil jsem se hebrejsky, ale bohužel jsem všechno zapomněl. Dokonce jsem tehdy už perfektně četl v hebrejštině. Vždycky na konci roku mi dal pan rabín nějakou knížku, kde bylo vepsáno „Za výborný prospěch“. Když jsem měl nějakou přestávku mezi předměty ve škole, zůstával jsem i na katolické náboženství, protože tam také probírali Starý zákon. Vždycky když spolužáci nic neuměli, pan katecheta mě dával ostatním za vzor, povídal: „Podívejte se ten Munk, jak ovládá Starý zákon!“ Kluci z toho měli samozřejmě legraci.

Jednoho dne někdy po osmačtyřicátém roce za mnou přišel nějaký mladý pán a představil se jako člen společnosti, která organizuje vystěhování do Izraele. V Československu probíhal už před vznikem samostatného státu Izrael výcvik letců  pro izraelskou armádu. Když potom vznikl Izrael a arabské státy ho ihned napadly, jediné, co je zachránilo, a tvrdili to i samotní izraelští generálové, byli letci a letadla z Československa. Za mnou tedy přišel tenhle pán pravděpodobně od izraelské tajné služby a přemlouval mě, přestože mi tehdy bylo teprve šestnáct, abych šel pomáhat do Izraele, že mě v Čechách vycvičí a budu pak moci pracovat v Izraeli jako pilot. Mě to ovšem nějak nezaujalo, naše rodina nikdy k sionismu 21 netíhla. V Brandýse pokud vím nikdy žádný sionista nebyl.

V době únorového převratu v roce 1948 22 mě bylo šestnáct let. Tyto události jsem vnímal podobně jako většina ostatních skautů - ke komunismu jsem měl odpor. Je zajímavé, že na jednom skautském táboře jsme si udělali takové malé volby v našem oddíle a pouze jeden z nás se ukázal jako přesvědčený komunista. Pořád jsme se s ním hádali, a protože byl neoblomný, nakonec jsme ho vždycky hodili do vody. Já jsem byl názorově nejblíže sociální demokracii a sociálnímu reformismu. Byl jsem od začátku přesvědčen, že komunismus je špatný, že je to neuskutečnitelná fantazie, a že žádná ideologie, která obsahuje myšlenku násilí, nemůže přinést nic dobrého.

V létě roku 1948 byl v Praze poslední všesokolský slet. Tehdy byl Edvard Beneš ještě prezidentem a všichni sokolové přijeli do Prahy, aby ho podpořili. Pamatuju se, že Pařížskou ulicí [městská část Praha 1] šel slavnostní sokolský průvod, kde byly za sebou seřazené jednotlivé župy. Plzeňská župa nesla americké vlajky a vůbec celá Pařížská ulice byla ověšená americkými a britskými vlajkami. Na chodnících stály zástupy lidí a spolu s průvodem křičely různá hesla jako např.: „Ať to slyší celý svět, Beneš musí na hrad zpět!“. Když procházeli kolem tribuny, na které stáli komunističtí papalášové, připraveni pozdravit se a zamávat slavnostnímu průvodu, všichni účastníci průvodu náhle zmlkli a udělali „vlevo hleď“, takže se odvrátili od tribuny. Komunističtí pánové tedy sice mávali, mávali, ale celý průvod hleděl na druhou stranu. Na konci Pařížské ulice pak stály autobusy estébáků 23, zatýkali lidi z průvodu a odváželi je pryč. Raději jsem zmizel.

Měli jsme krásné skautské klubovny v opěrných pilířích Čechova mostu v Praze [městská část Praha 1]. Tyto pilíře stály přímo u Vltavy pod letenským kopcem, dnes je tam silnice vedoucí po nábřeží směrem ke Strakově akademii. Krátce po převratu bylo skautské hnutí rozehnáno, naši vůdcové pozavíráni, jeden z nich dokonce popraven. V naší klubovně se střídal chlapecký a dívčí oddíl a s dívkami jsme proto často přicházeli do styku, takže moje první lásky se vážou ke klubovně a skautskému prostředí. Jednoho dne přišli i do naší klubovny estébáci, mlátili nás, všechny věci nám vyházeli a klubovnu zavřeli. Měl jsem u skautů dobrého přítele, Chorvata, jmenoval se Ante Perešin. Někdy po osmačtyřicátém roce od nás všechny Jugoslávce vyhnali v důsledku politických změn souvisejících se sovětsko–jugoslávskou roztržkou [28. července 1948 účastníci Informbyra vyloučili ze svého svazku Komunistickou stranu Jugoslávie. Rezolucí Informbyra vyvrcholilo napětí mezi Stalinem a Titem, jehož kořeny sahaly až do období 2. světové války, kdy se Titovým partyzánům podařilo osvobodit Jugoslávii bez přímého zásahu sovětské armády. Tito proto vůči Stalinovi vystupoval vždy suverénně a sebavědomě. Ani vnitřní vývoj v Jugoslávii neprobíhal podle Stalinových představ – Tito se bránil špionážní činnosti sovětsých „poradců“, kteří nakonec museli být ze země odvoláni. Od té doby se intenzita procesu rozchodu obou komunistických zemí zesilovala – pozn. red.]. Pro mého kamaráda a jeho rodinu jednou přijelo STB a byli vyvezeni v noci na hranice. Jednoho dne jsem k nim přišel na návštěvu, ale byt byl prázdný.

Náš oddíl se tedy rozpadl. Občas jsme se ještě s bývalými skauty scházeli a navštěvovali různé kulturní akce, debatovali o filosofii a podobně. Každou neděli jsme mívali sraz v kostele sv. Jakuba v Praze, kde byly při mši krásné varhanní koncerty. Díky tomu jsem měl v kádrových materiálech škraloup – byla tam informace o tom, že jsem Žid a zároveň chodím do katolického kostela. Pointa je v tom, že hlavního iniciátora našich kulturních setkání jsem později našel v seznamech agentů STB. Určitě o nás podával zprávy, ale protože jsme se nedostali k nějaké podvratné činnosti, nikoho z nás nezavřeli.

Byli jsme jedna z mála židovských rodin, kde nebyl jediný komunista. Celou komunistickou éru jsme se nějak drželi, i když se to samozřejmě na našich kariérách silně projevilo. Nikdy nás v podstatě nenapadlo, že bychom do strany vstoupili. Někteří Židé po válce nejenže zapírali své židovství, měnili si jména, ale také zapírali své bohaté, buržoazní předky. Bylo to dost smutné. Část Židů emigrovala a ti, co zůstali, většinou vstoupili do strany. Touha po kolektivu, který vás bezvýhradně přijme, přiměla totiž mnoho Židů k identifikaci s komunistickou ideologií. Jiní se našli v sionismu, a někteří, jako já, hledali novou oporu ve skautském hnutí. Ztotožnil jsem se se skautskými ideály i přesto, že si z jejich zásad mnozí zkušení lidé dělali legraci. Já jsem bral jejich morálku opravdu vážně. Myslím, že mě mé členství u skautů ještě dlouho potom kazilo kádrový profil.

Na mé gymnázium v době mého studia chodily převážně děti z buržoazních rodin. Ačkoliv jsme všichni museli vstoupit do Svazu mládeže 24, jen málo studentů se přidalo ke komunistům. Výjimkou byl chlapec, jehož otec byl důstojníkem STB. Tento chlapec se choval jako úplný cynik, ze všeho si dělal legraci. V dospělém věku pracoval jako komunistický agent v zahraničí a když se po revoluci v roce 1989 25 vrátil, třikrát změnil své jméno a dokonce si nechal udělat plastickou operaci obličeje. Na žádného jiného komunistu z řad studentů si nevzpomínám.

U maturity byla situace horší. V maturitní komisi byli přítomni i zástupci strany a různých stranických organizací, kteří mohli doporučovat adepty na přijetí na tu kterou vysokou školu. Každá střední škola dostala tzv. směrná čísla, což byl počet žáků, kteří mohli být doporučeni k přijetí na jednotlivé vysoké školy, ale byly to velmi nízké kvóty. Věděl jsem, že nemá cenu hlásit se na filozofii, protože by člověka čekalo pouze studium marxismu – leninismu, takže jsem se nakonec přihlásil na medicínu, tam ovšem byla zase nutná znalost latiny. Nakonec jsem byl už docela smířen s tím, že mě na žádnou vysokou školu nikdo nedoporučí. Maturitní komise mi neopomněla připomenout můj buržoazní původ a vůbec se dá říci, že na tehdejší dobu byl můj profil špatný. Všude jsem měl napsáno, že jsem indiferentní, nezúčastňuji se všech možných akcí a podobně. Nicméně u maturitní komise byl nějaký komunista, který sám zažil koncentrák, a ten se postavil na moji stranu, zmínil se o tom, že jsem byl v dětství v koncentráku a vyslovil se pro to, abych dostal nějakou možnost. Shodou okolností se nikdo nehlásil na UMPRUM [Vysoká škola uměleckoprůmyslová v Praze], škola měla kvótu asi dvou lidí, které mohla doporučit, a tak jsem se dostal ke zkouškám na UMPRUM. Byly to těžké, třídenní zkoušky, v rámci kterých se kreslilo v terénu, v ateliéru, musel jsem navrhovat nějakou kašnu, ale hlavně se musely komisi předložit předchozí práce. Nikdy jsem nekreslil, i když jsem měl na gymnáziu z kreslení samé jedničky, a protože můj bratr naopak pořád kreslil, tak jsem vzal štos jeho kreseb, a aniž bych mu o tom řekl, odnesl jsem je ke zkoušce a předložil komisi. Kupodivu jsem dopadl dobře, z  osmdesáti adeptů brali patnáct, a já byl patnáctý. Tenkrát ještě nebyla tak velká protekce ani korupce u přijímacího řízení jako později. Sotva jsem začal docházet na UMPRUM, zavolal si mě tehdejší rektor Smetana s tím, že našel v mých kádrových materiálech, že jsem se hlásil na medicínu a vlastně jsem tedy na UMPRUM ani nechtěl, a že dostal právě příkaz z Ústředního výboru strany, že musí přijmout syna nějakého komunistického papaláše, a jestli by mi tedy nevadilo, kdyby mě zařídil studium na architektuře na technice [technika neboli ČVUT: České vysoké učení technické, vznikla v roce 1803 jako první polytechnika ve střední Evropě – pozn. red.]. Mě to tehdy bylo opravdu jedno, takže jsem se nakonec dostal rovnou na techniku, kterou jsem kupodivu i vystudoval.

Naivně jsem se domníval, že s architekturou nemůžou komunisti nic provést. Bohužel jsem nevěděl, že v Sovětském Svazu je už architektura dávno pokřivená socialistickým realismem. Ideolog Ždanov [Ždanov Andrej Alexandrovič (1896 – 1948): sovětský státní a stranický činitel. Od roku 1944 se zvláště zabýval ideologickými otázkami, problémy marx. – len. filozofie a lit. teorie – pozn. red.] propagoval jakýsi monumentální návrat ke starým historickým slohům, zatímco mě se líbil předválečný funkcionalismus. Během mého studia jsem zažil vlastně tu nejhorší dobu, kdy se všechno muselo dělat přesně tak, jak to bylo v Sovětském Svazu. Tehdy se děly neuvěřitelné věci. Nesměli jsme navrhnout široká okna, protože v SSSR byla úzká. Naši profesoři – tehdejší nejlepší architekti, kteří před válkou navrhovali slavné funkcionalistické vily na Babě [městská část Praha 6] a jiné známé budovy, nyní neustále jezdili do Moskvy a klaněli se tamním podivným architektonickým výtvorům. Architektura byla úplně znásilněná. Z naší generace proto nevzešel žádný velký architekt, protože jsme byli pokřivení stejně jako naše doba. Krátce potom co jsem dostudoval, v sedmapadesátém roce, se situace začala uvolňovat natolik, že další studenti po nás už mohli relativně normálně studovat.

V době mého studia byl hlavním ideologickým dohližitelem na škole mladý muž židovského původu, syn z velice známé bohaté obchodnické rodiny, která za války emigrovala. Rodiče po válce zůstali v cizině, syn se vrátil do vlasti jako komunista. Na veřejné stranické schůzi se zřekl svých rodičů i svého jména a od té doby používal nové jméno na znamení toho, že s nimi nemá nic společného. Přísně dbal na to, aby byli všichni vyučující správně ideologicky zaměření. Byl postrachem všech profesorů na fakultě architektury. Postupně kontrola polevila. V osmašedesátém roce se tento pán podepisoval opět svým původním jménem spojeným pomlčkou se svým novým jménem. Po revoluci jsem se s ním setkal na židovské obci jako s pobožným ortodoxním Židem, který tam pravidelně docházel a podepisoval se už pouze svým původním jménem po rodičích. Připomněl jsem se mu se slovy : „My se známe z fakulty, vy jste tam tenkrát…“ A on rychle opáčil: „No jo, to jsme se nadělali v mládí hloupostí!“ To je takový zvláštní případ židovského osudu…

Na fakultě se projevoval antisemitismus hlavně ze strany kádrového oddělení. Často jsem byl osočen, že málo politicky pracuji. Jednou si mě dokonce zavolal kádrovák, nějaký dělník z Kolbenky (ČKD) [ČKD, Českomoravská Kolben Daněk: jedna ze slavných průmyslových firem předválečného Československa. Po válce byl podnik obnoven a rychle znárodněn. Mezi nejdůležitější patří výroba lokomotiv ve Vysočanech a tramvají na Smíchově. Podnik se postupně stává největším výrobcem tramvají na světě a zaměstnává až 50 000 zaměstnanců – pozn. red.], začal mluvit o tom, že Židy nemá rád a skončilo to slovy: „A my vás stejně všechny Židy zase naženem do koncentráků. Tam patříte!“ Ze strany profesorů jsem antisemitismus nepociťoval. Ztratil jsem se mezi ostatními, protože nevypadám příliš židovsky. Někdy jsem musel čelit trapným situacím, když přede mnou ne zrovna pěkně mluvili o Židech, nevěděl jsem, jestli se mám přihlásit ke svému původu, anebo přejít situaci decentním mlčením. Také jsem byl jediný z celého ročníku, kterého kádrové oddělení nepustilo ani na studijní cestu do Polska.

Po ukončení studia na fakultě architektury jsem se poprvé dostal do opravdového konfliktu s komunistickým režimem. Po vystudování jakékoliv fakulty dostal absolvent tzv. umístěnky. Byly to poukázky na konkrétní místa v určitých podnicích. Protože se obecně vědělo, kde jsou jaké pracovní podmínky, o tyto umístěnky se vždy vedl velký boj. Kvůli tomu se stávalo, že už rok před ukončením studia byli všichni příbuzní v pohotovosti a sháněli konexe, aby dostali protekci a sehnali pro svého adepta nějaké dobré místo. Já jsem žádné příbuzné neměl, takže jsem všechno ponechal osudu. Bylo mi víceméně jedno, kam se dostanu. Jedinou protekci, kterou jsem měl, byl kamarád mého švagra, jmenoval se Erich Kohn. Byl to předválečný komunista, za války byl v Terezíně, a v době ukončení mých studií zastával poměrně vysokou pozici, byl ředitelem nějakého výzkumného ústavu. Maminka donutila švagra, který s panem Kohnem v Terezíně pracoval a velmi se spřátelili, aby ho šel poprosit o pomoc. Ten Kohn prý odmítl se slovy: „Nezlobte se na mě, ale já jako Žid si nemůžu dovolit, abych jinému Židovi pomáhal.“ To byla jediná protekce, kterou jsem snad v životě mohl mít, ale neměl.

Bylo to v těžké době po Slánského procesech 26, které pan Kohn přežil, a jako fanatický komunista se snažil být co nejvíce opatrný. Vzhledem k tomu, že jsme byli nekomunistická rodina, nemohli jsme být těmito procesy přímo zasaženi, protože se týkaly jenom komunistů, ale zároveň jsme samozřejmě cítili, že se tento antisemitismus vztahuje i na nás. Říkali jsme si, že to není jen tak, protože se tehdy celé komunistické vedení včetně Slánského chovalo opravdu nehorázně. Ve skrytu duše jsme jim my, nekomunisté, tyto procesy možná i trošku přáli a říkali jsme si, ať se klidně mezi sebou pozabíjejí.

Dostal jsem umístěnku do Jablonce [Jablonec nad Nisou: město na severu Čech – pozn. red.] na okresní hygienickou stanici. Když jsem tam přijel, bylo mi sděleno, že žádného architekta nepotřebují. Nechal jsem si ihned podepsat, že mě nepotřebují, protože to byla tehdy velká výhoda. Když se člověk zbavil umístěnky, byl v podstatě volný a mohl si vybrat podnik, kde chtěl nastoupit. Tehdy byl nedostatek pracovních sil, hlavně z řad vysokoškoláků. Celý rozradostněný jsem se vrátil na fakultu a pochlubil se svým spolužákům, kteří všichni museli využít nějaké protekce, aby našli slušnou práci. Jeden z mých kolegů, který měl bratra na vyšším postavení ve vedení fakulty, se postaral o to, aby mi tu umístěnku zase vzali, přestože jsem na ní byl jmenovaný já, takže by jí teoreticky nemohl nikdo jiný použít.  Pán Bůh ho asi potrestal, protože ve třiceti letech umřel na rakovinu, měl nádor na mozku. Dali mi jinou umístěnku, tentokrát do Agroprojektu Liberec. Tam mi bylo opět řečeno, že žádného architekta nepotřebují, a že budu mít za úkol agitovat a zakládat zemědělská družstva, pozdější JZD 27. Řekl jsem si, že jsem nestudoval na to, abych zakládal zemědělská družstva, a že ani komunistická strana nemůže chtít, aby architekt, do kterého dávala peníze, šel zakládat JZD. Prostě jsem tam nenastoupil, což byl tehdy trestný čin. Někteří mí známí udělali něco podobného, jejich podnik se s nimi rozloučil, ale víc se tím nikdo nezabýval. Mě ovšem můj ředitel zažaloval. Přestože jsem byl odsouzený jenom podmíněně, zaznamenali mi můj prohřešek pečlivě do kádrových materiálů. Kvůli tomu jsem potom naopak dva roky nemohl žádnou práci najít, protože mě všude odmítli jen co nahlédli do mých kádrových spisů. Na druhou stranu jsem byl regulérní uchazeč o práci, takže mě nemohli zavřít jako příživníka. Teprve po roce 1990 jsem byl soudně rehabilitován.

Takhle jsem se potácel asi dva roky a byl jsem pořád jednou nohou v kriminále. Pořád jsem odpovídal na různé inzeráty s nabídkami práce, ale všude, když viděli můj kádrový profil, odmítli mě. Hrozilo mi, že budu muset nastoupit trest, protože jsem měl podmínku a nepracoval jsem, což bylo trestné. Raději jsem nastoupil dočasně do Chebu [Cheb: město na západě Čech – pozn. red.] na nějaké pomocné práce při obnově tamního historického centra, ale pořád nad mým osudem visel otazník. Cheb byl tehdy v přísně chráněném pohraničním pásmu a já jsem se tam volně pohyboval. Jednou mě někdo udal STB, že se pokouším přejít hranice. Protože STB sídlila přímo na náměstí a já kolem ní každý den chodil, stavil jsem se tam jednou při cestě sám a zeptal se jich: „Vy mě prý hledáte?“ Byli překvapení, protože dostali hlášení, že už jsem dávno přešel hranice. Byla to fraška.

Kromě práce v Chebu jsem se v této době nějakým způsobem dostal k zajímavé práci u architekta Zázvorky [Zázvorka Jan st. (1884 – 1963): český architekt], což byl velice významný architekt, který navrhoval např. památník na Vítkově a Smíchovské nádraží v Praze. Byl to snad jediný architekt, který měl v této těžké době svůj soukromý ateliér. Měl protekci, ačkoliv nebyl komunista, protože byl po první světové válce jako legionářský generál hejtmanem v Kladně [Kladno: město ve středních Čechách na západ od Prahy – pozn. red.] a v době tamějších dělnických hladových bouří odmítl uposlechnout rozkaz, aby střílel do dělníků. Byl tehdy degradován, ale komunisté se mu to později snažili vynahradit tím, že mohl mít soukromý ateliér.

Podniky byly tehdy rozdělené podle kádrového profilu na skupinu „A“, „B“ a „C“, přičemž „A“ byly „nejlepší“ podniky a „C“ „nejhorší“. Nakonec jsem v roce 1959 našel místo v jednom „C“ podniku, díky tomu, že se nade mnou tamní „kádrovačka“ slitovala a vzala mě i přes moji pošramocenou kádrovou historii s tím, že ani strana přece nemůže mít zájem na tom, aby mladý člověk, který chce pracovat, nepracoval. Byl to družstevní podnik. Družstevní podniky patřily k nejnižší kádrové skupině, „C“. „A“ byly normální projekční ústavy, na ty jsem vůbec neměl nárok, „B“ byly menší, městské, nikoliv celostátní ústavy, a na nejnižším stupni byly družstevní projektové podniky. Tyto podniky pracovaly pro vesnice, pro vesnická spotřební družstva neboli Jednoty 28. Naší prací bylo zřizovat a opravovat různé malé ošklivé prodejny, hospody a nákupní střediska. Měli jsme tehdy velmi omezené možnosti, jen co nám socialistická stavební výroba dovolila. O architektuře se nedalo moc mluvit.

V šedesátém roce byla velká amnestie politických vězňů. Mnoho lidí, kteří dostali dvacet, čtyřicet let vězení úplně za nic, byli nyní rehabilitováni, dostali nějaké malé finanční odškodnění, a mnoho z nich poslali do našeho podniku pracovat, aby je měli všechny pod kontrolou. Byla to docela příjemná parta lidí. V tomto podniku jsem pracoval až do roku 1965, kdy byl založen nový podnik určený k obnově obchodní sítě v historickém jádru Prahy. Po roce 1948 byly totiž v centru Prahy všechny obchody znárodněny a postupně uzavřeny. Když člověk procházel třeba Královskou cestou [městská část Praha 1], všechny obchody měly stažené rolety, nikde nic nefungovalo. V roce 1965 jsme dostali za úkol tyto obchody obnovit.  Byla to hezká práce, protože jsme navrhovali obnovu celých historických ulic, včetně interiérů obchodů a restaurací. Bohužel se všechno zastavilo po okupaci v osmašedesátém roce 29. Přesto jsem v tomto novém podniku vydržel až do roku 1971, kdy jsem se opět vrátil do svého původního podniku. Tam jsem to „dotáhl“ až do penze. K skutečně „velké“ architektuře jsem se tedy kromě několika výjimek nedostal. Mnoho architektů odcházelo raději někam do výzkumných ústavů, protože lepší než projektovat paneláky bylo neprojektovat nic. Býval bych se rád architektuře věnoval, i na fakultě jsem se zajímal o rekonstrukce historických staveb a proto jsem také nastoupil na pomocné práce při rekonstrukci centra v Chebu. Chtěl jsem se dostat do tzv. Státního ústavu pro rekonstrukci památkových měst a objektů, lidově nazývaného „sutinoprojekt“, tam se totiž pracovalo právě na rekonstrukcích historických staveb a byla by to bývala určitě hezká práce, ale tam jsem se nemohl dostat, protože to byl státní ústav skupiny „A“. Zpočátku jsme se s kolegy zúčastňovali různých architektonických soutěží s několika úspěchy, např. v soutěži na Staroměstskou radnici v roce 1962, ale brzy jsme zjistili, že k úspěchu je třeba patřičných známostí.

Můj bratr po válce nejdřív chodil se mnou do měšťanky, protože mu také chybělo pět let, a potom začal navštěvovat grafickou školu pod Petřínem [Petřín: známý pahorek v centru Prahy – pozn. red.]. Byla to tehdy vyhlášená škola, kde studovali mnozí talentovaní mladí lidé, jako např. výtvarník Vladimír Boudník [Boudník Vladimír (1924 – 1968): český malíř a grafik – pozn. red.]. Bratr ovšem tuto školu nedodělal. Protože byl mnohem revolučnější povahy než já, dostal se do čela sporu s tehdejším ředitelem grafické školy. Celá jejich třída se proti němu z nějakého důvodu vzbouřila, ale všichni, s výjimkou mého bratra, potom svůj postoj odvolali. Bratra tedy z grafické školy vyhodili, a on už pak žádnou jinou školu nestudoval a celý život pracoval jako dělník. Nejdříve pracoval jako korektor v grafické továrně v Hradišťku u Štechovic, kde se vyráběly různé obtisky. Tato práce měla alespoň něco společného s výtvarnem, bratr dokonce vedl pro ostatní dělníky určený výtvarný kurz. Před odchodem do penze ale pracoval v továrně Amati Kraslice, kde pouze balil trumpety a jiné hudební nástroje, přitom se ale stále amatérsky věnoval výtvarné tvorbě.

V roce 1959 jsem se seznámil se svojí manželkou. Po válce si mnoho Židů, kteří se vrátili z koncentračních táborů, vzalo za manželky dívky nežidovského původu. Jednak bylo židovských dívek málo, a Židé už také zřejmě nechtěli mít se svým původem nic společného. My s manželkou jsme byli výjimka. Nejdřív jsme nevěděli, že máme společnou minulost. Oba jsme byli současně v Terezíně, ale nevěděli jsme o sobě. Moje paní byla v Kinderheimu. Když jsme se potom asi v devětapadesátém roce seznámili a zjistili, že máme za sebou podobný příběh, velmi nás to sblížilo. Přeci jen nám byli lidé, kteří nezažili to, co Židé za války, poněkud cizí, protože nemohli pochopit, jak jsme se cítili. Já jsem nikde o svých zážitcích nemluvil. Snažili jsme se své pocity potlačit a zapomenout na ně, a ve dvou to bylo jednodušší.

Moje manželka pochází z Letné [městská část Praha 7]. Její tatínek byl sice zubař, ale rodinná tradice jejich předků byla spojená s nakladatelstvím knih. Její dědeček byl prvním vydavatelem Švejka 30 a založil vydavatelství Synek, které bylo před válkou známé vydáváním hodnotných knih. Maminka mojí manželky zemřela na rakovinu když byla moje žena ještě úplně malinká a její tatínek si potom našel novou paní. Manželku krátce poté přehlásili na katolickou víru v domnění, že jí to v životě pomůže, ale za války bohužel rozhodovala úplně jiná hlediska.

Manželka pocházela ze dvou dětí. Její bratr, Jiří Synek, později známý pod pseudonymem František Listopad [Listopad František (nar. 1921): vl. jm. Jiří Synek, český básník a prozaik – pozn. red.], který v současnosti žije v Lisabonu, měl za války velice zajímavý osud. Tehdy mu bylo asi osmnáct, dvacet let, byl zapojený do nějaké podzemní organizace a proto se celou válku skrýval u různých lidí v Praze. Je neuvěřitelné, že ho nikdo neobjevil a musel být bezpochyby velice odvážný. Vyprávěl historky o tom, že třeba musel ukrást na úřadě razítko, aby ho pak mohl použít na potvrzení nějakých dokladů. Po válce dostal od prezidenta Beneše vyznamenání za statečnost. Byl to jediný komunista v naší rodině, ale komunista jiného druhu než byli ti, kteří během komunistické éry poklonkovali režimu. Bratr manželky ještě před převratem v roce 1948 odjel služebně do Francie, kde pak vydával nějaký politický časopis. Když ho komunisté po převratu povolali zpět do Československa, odmítl se vrátit a zůstal v cizině. Manželka potom měla kvůli němu spoustu starostí, vozili ji na STB, protože její bratr občas vystupoval v rádiu Svobodná Evropa 31, což v padesátých letech nebyla legrace. V jejích kádrových materiálech bylo všechno pečlivě zaznamenáno. Komunista, který emigroval, byl totiž z pohledu režimu mnohem horší než nekomunista. Manželčin bratr se věnoval hlavně literární tvorbě, je známým básníkem, spisovatelem a dramatikem. V současnosti žije v Portugalsku a je tam jako kulturní činitel velice uznáván. Dokonce zastupoval Portugalsko v rámci jednání o přistoupení České republiky do Evropské unie. Dostal mnoho vyznamenání a ocenění v Portugalsku i v České republice, naposledy např. vyznamenání od prezidenta Havla 32 i českého ministra zahraničí za to, že propaguje českou kulturu v Portugalsku.

Moje manželka vystudovala novinářskou fakultu. Nejdříve pracovala jako redaktorka v nějakém časopise, později pracovala na Barrandově [známé filmové studio v Praze – pozn. red.] jako dramaturg. V padesátých letech proběhly v mnoha podnicích velice tvrdé kádrové prověrky, poslední z nich se uskutečnila myslím v roce 1957 nebo 1958. Mnoho pracovníků v podnicích kádrové skupiny A nebo B přišlo o místo. Pamatuju se, že tehdy vyhodili z naší fakulty mnoho asistentů. Moji manželku tehdy vyhodili z Barrandova. Kvůli bratrovi měla pořád nějaké maléry a často díky tomu neměla ani peníze na chleba. Naštěstí se dostala k animovanému filmu tehdejší společnosti Bratři v triku a tam vydržela až do penze. Dlouhou dobu byl nedostatek scénářů pro kreslené filmy a díky tomu jsme od pětašedesátého roku začali společně psát scénáře k animovaným filmům. Začala s tím manželka, ale já jsem se záhy připojil, protože mě to bavilo. Všeobecně známými se staly večerníčky [večerníček je krátká, nejčastěji kreslená pohádka pro děti vysílaná v pravidelný čas večer – pozn. red.] o dvou pejscích - Štaflík a Špagetka. V roce 1999 se na nás obrátilo nakladatelství Albatros [nakladatelství Albatros bylo založeno v roce 1949. V bývalé Československé socialistické republice bylo jediným nakladatelstvím, které se specializovalo na vydávání literatury pro děti  – pozn. red.] s nápadem zpracovat Štaflíka a Špagetku v knižní podobě. Napsali jsme dvě knihy, první z nich byla rozebrána v počtu dvaceti tisíc výtisků a byla přeložena i do  cizích jazyků. Druhá vyšla nedávno, takže na její hodnocení je ještě brzo. Jako večerníček se Štaflík a Špagetka natáčel od osmašedesátého roku. Původní název zněl „Psí život“ a z toho byl po ruské okupaci samozřejmě problém. Všiml si toho nějaký cenzor, takže jsme nakonec museli vymyslet nový název. Večerníček se prodal asi do čtyřiceti zemí. Díky tomu, že to byl film bez komentáře, odpadl problém s dabováním. Když jsme psali knížky, museli jsme proto spoustu věcí vymýšlet úplně znovu. Vymysleli jsme si, že ti psi žijí v městečku, které se jmenuje Psinice. Váže se k tomu veselá příhoda. Nějaká paní z nakladatelství se totiž přihlásila, že Psinice u Jičína [město Jičín leží na severovýchodě od Prahy v turistické oblasti Český ráj – pozn. red.] opravdu existují, že tam má chalupu. Říkali jsme si, že z toho musí být malér, protože jsme si z těch Psinic dělali v knížkách legraci. Nedávno jsme byli do Psinic pozváni, a všechno bylo úplně naopak. Na tamějším fotbalovém hřišti se konala veliká slavnost, kde byli mažoretky, hasiči, obyvatelé vsi i starosta. Štaflík a Špagetka tam byli jmenováni čestnými občany Psinic a my jsme ještě dlouho na hřišti pod stanem podepisovali naše knížky. Další ze  scénářů se už tak neproslavily. Byli to např. Edudant a Francimor podle K. Poláčka, Pučálkovic Amina podle knížky J. Plachty anebo Pozor, bonbón! o dvou bobrech, což byl pokus o večerníčkovskou detektivku a další.

Šedesátá léta byly asi nejhezčím obdobím mého života. V roce 1965 se nám narodila dcera Hana, koupili jsme si náš současný byt ve Vokovicích [městská část Praha 6] a navíc i v politické sféře docházelo k zjevnému tání. Byl to krásný pocit, protože se zdálo, že vše směřuje k lepšímu. Nejvíce se tato tendence projevila v kultuře. Do Československa se dostávaly skvělé divadelní hry, filmy, knihy. Moje manželka se tehdy přátelila s Josefem Škvoreckým [Škvorecký Josef (nar. 1924): český prozaik, esejista a překladatel – pozn. red.] a dalšími významnými osobnostmi kultury. Patřili k nim např. spisovatel J. Jedlička, básník J. Zábrana, malíř M. Medek, filosof I. Sviták a další. Manželka byla vždycky velice společensky aktivní. Nevím, jak se seznámila s tolika významnými osobnostmi, ale pravděpodobně společně studovali a později se setkala s mnoha lidmi prostřednictvím svého zaměstnání u filmu.

Také já jsem byl v těch letech politicky aktivní. V roce 1968 jsme spolu s dalšími nestraníky zakládali ve Svazu architektů tzv. KAN, Klub angažovaných nestraníků. Tehdy existovaly svazy umělců všech oborů včetně spisovatelů, výtvarníků, hudebníků atd., které pak posloužily jako platforma pro vznik různých reformistických skupin, jako byl třeba KAN. Tyto kluby nebyly uzavřené a v šedesátém osmém roce spolu vzájemně komunikovaly o politických záležitostech a v podstatě do určité míry spoluvytvářely politiku. Náš klub pozval na zakládající schůzi např. filosofa, básníka a politika Ivana Svitáka [Sviták Ivan (1925 – 1994): český filosof a politolog – pozn. red.], který byl tehdy velice známou osobou. Byl totiž velice aktivní, psal do novin, účastnil různých podobných schůzí. Zároveň jsme hostili také delegáty z jiných svazů. Tato ustavující schůze se konala v červenci 1968. Dodnes si pamatuju na jeho projev o tehdejším reformním kurzu, který zakončil tím, že buď situace ještě nějakou dobu vydrží, anebo nás Rusové obsadí. Tehdy se mu všichni mí kolegové architekti srdečně smáli, ale za pár týdnů nebo snad dokonce dnů se jeho proroctví naplnilo 33.

V posledních týdnech před okupací existovala už takřka úplná svoboda tisku, takže jsme se mohli v novinách dočíst o všem, co se tehdy dělo. Také jsme poslouchali zahraniční rozhlas. Věděli jsme tedy i o cestě Dubčeka 34 a dalších politiků do Moskvy, věděli jsme o jednání v Čierné nad Tisou [29. července  -1. srpna 1968: V Čierné nad Tisou (v železničním vagoně) se setkali členové vedení KSČ a KSSS – pozn. red.]. Spolu s dalšími lidmi z mého okolí jsem zastával názor, že není rozumné, aby reformy pádily kupředu takovým tempem a že by vůbec nevadilo, kdyby byly opatrnější a probíhaly spíše pozvolna, abychom nedráždili Rusy a nevystavovali se zbytečnému nebezpečí. Tehdy už však v popředí stály síly, které hnaly reformní proces kupředu extrémní rychlostí. V současnosti víme o tom, že i v sovětském Ústředním výboru dlouho panovaly neshody ohledně toho, jestli přikročit k vojenskému zásahu. Je ovšem těžké spekulovat o tom, jestli by případný pomalejší či opatrnější kurz zabránil tragédii. Faktem bylo, že jsme byli opilí svobodou a bez zábran.

Přímo v den okupace, 21. srpna, jsem byl v našem bytě ve Vokovicích sám, protože manželka byla spolu s tehdy tříletou dcerou na rekreaci pořádanou svazem novinářů na zámku Roztěž u Kutné Hory. V noci jsem slyšel nalétávat letadla, slyšel jsem z letiště přijíždět tanky, takové ty malé, co se vejdou do letadla. Říkal jsem si, že jsou to zase nějaké manévry, vůbec mě  nenapadlo, co se děje. Tenkrát jsme měli auto, Renaulta, takže jsem ráno normálně sedl do auta a jel jsem do práce, která byla ve Štupartské ulici [městská část Praha 1]. Jel jsem po hlavní ulici u nás ve Vokovicích. Tehdy na této ulici běžně parkovaly auta a já jsem si ihned všiml, že ten den byla všechna parkující auta úplně zdemolovaná. Projíždějící tanky je totiž slisovaly. Nikde nikdo, ulice byla úplně prázdná, jel jsem autem úplně sám. Lidé nechali auta doma, protože se báli. Tramvaje nejezdily, jel jsem prázdnou ulicí, viděl jsem pouze občas nějaké chodce a říkal jsem si, jak je to hrozné, že doprava opět nefunguje. Na konci ulice mě zastavil nějaký pán s prosbou, jestli bych ho mohl vzít do práce. Nasedl tedy ke mně do auta a povídal mi, jak je strašné, co se stalo, ale já jsem si to pořád nespojil. Když jsme přijeli na Prašný most [most vedoucí přes údolí k Pražskému hradu – pozn. red.], najednou nás obklopily z obou stran kolony tanků, protože jedna řada jela nahoru a druhá proti ní dolů. Dostal jsem se mezi ně. Byl to zvláštní pocit, byly to obrovité kolosy, burácely a jejich pásy se sunuly přímo vedle mého autíčka, které v tu chvíli působilo jako dětská hračka. Teprve v tu chvíli jsem si uvědomil, co se stalo. Když jsme jeli Chotkovou ulicí, míjeli jsme záseky s kulomety. Chotkova ulice vede z kopce serpentinou, a jak jsem projížděl kolem kulometů, mířily na mě hlavice a kopírovaly se mnou celou mojí cestu. Neustále mě sledovaly. Naštěstí mě nakonec nezastavili. Když jsem se dostal do práce, všichni žasli a říkali mi, že jsem blázen, že jsem jel autem.

Hned druhý den jsem ale autem jel znovu, protože jsem nevěděl, co je s manželkou. Rozhodl jsem se jet za ní. Praha byla opět úplně prázdná, nepotkal jsem žádné auto kromě sovětských kolon a tanků. Stejná situace byla i u Kutné Hory. Asi třikrát mě zastavili Rusové se samopaly. Tenkrát jsme všichni nosili na košilích trikolóru, kterou mi hned napoprvé strhli i s košilí jakmile jsem vystoupil z auta. Potom začali prohledávat auto, hledali asi cennosti nebo nějaké propagandistické materiály. Pokaždé se také šli podívat do kufru a vždycky se strašně rozzuřili, protože v kufru byl motor a to oni neznali a nedokázali pochopit, pokládali to snad za nějaký protistátní čin. Pak zase běželi dopředu, tam motor nenašli a byli z toho úplně vedle. Bál jsem se, že mě zastřelí kvůli tomu, že mám motor vzadu.

Kutnou Horu a okolí obsadili Poláci. Obsadili i zámek, kde byla manželka na rekreaci novinářů. Tehdy tam byly i nějaké významné osoby, jako např. Jiří Dientsbier [Dientsbier Jiří (nar. 1937): český novinář, politik a diplomat – pozn. red.]. Polští důstojníci se všem omlouvali za to, co se stalo, že za to nemůžou, že musí. Vyzvedl jsem manželku s dcerou a jeli jsme nazpátek do Prahy. Po cestě už bylo všechno zorganizované. Místní obyvatelé nám ukazovali cestu tak, abychom se vyhnuli kontrolám. Naopak Rusy zaváděli na slepou kolej někam do lesa nebo do polí, viděli jsme tanky, které skončily v blátě na poli a nemohly se vrátit. Sovětští vojáci tam potom chodili po domech a žebrali o vodu, ale místní obyvatelé jim odmítali dát i vodu. Všude byly odstraněny ukazatelé cesty, označení vesnic, ulic, směrovky byly obrácené třeba na úplně druhou stranu, aby se Rusové nemohli orientovat. Oni potom bloudili s mapami v místech, kde se nevyznali a než jim pomohli místní kolaboranti, byli úplně zmatení.

Věděli jsme, že při existenci atomových zbraní a bipolárního světa, navíc po zkušenosti s Maďarskem 35, nemáme prakticky žádnou šanci na to, aby nám západ, konkrétně Amerika, pomohl. Dozvěděli jsme se, že Sověti Američany včas informovali o plánovaném zásahu v Československu a také o tom, že spoléhají na platnost dohod o sférách vlivu a tedy i rozdělení Evropy, a že tudíž Amerika Československu nepomůže.

Někdy na začátek září jsme měli už dopředu naplánovaný zájezd se Svazem architektů do Anglie. Asi deset dní po okupaci jsme tedy odjeli vlakem přes Paříž do Londýna. Vlak byl plný emigrantů, tenkrát totiž nikdo nepotřeboval žádné výjezdní doložky. Při odjezdu se s námi všichni loučili, že už se nevrátíme. Samozřejmě jsme i my uvažovali o emigraci. Každý den jsme debatovali o tom, jestli máme nebo nemáme v Anglii zůstat, nakonec jsme se rozhodli, že se vrátíme. Většina z našich známých emigrovala. Říkali jsme si, že se přece nenecháme jen tak vystrnadit. Nikdy jsem nebyl v komunistické straně a říkal jsem si, že mě nikdo nedonutí dělat něco, co nechci. Navíc se nám nelíbilo, že někteří emigranti zneužili situace, kdy k nim všichni v zahraničí byli velmi vstřícní a dělali jim, co jim na očích viděli. Byli to hlavně mladí lidé, třeba studenti. Potkali jsme dva studenty, kteří se nechali ubytovat u nějakého vysoce postaveného staršího pána a zneužívali jeho pomoci. Některé české dívky tam zase pracovaly ve striptýzových barech a jednou jsme dokonce viděli upoutávku na zlatý hřeb nějakého baru – striptýz studentky Filosofické fakulty Univerzity Karlovy v Praze. Takových věcí bylo více a my jsme se za ně styděli. Navíc jsme si mysleli, že by se ještě něco v Československu dalo zachránit a nedokázali jsme si představit, jak tvrdý kurz nastane po zahájení normalizace 36. Byli jsme tehdy hosty svazu architektů v Británii. Přijal nás Robert Matthew, což byl ředitel největší architektonické kanceláře v Anglii. Ptal se nás, jestli bychom chtěli v Anglii zůstat, že by nás případně zaměstnal. Byl to velice vlivný muž, vlastnil mnoho nemovitostí a dal nám, architektům, k dispozici palác v Saint James Park v Londýně včetně služebnictva. Pak jsme jeli do Edinburghu a nakonec nazpátek do Prahy. Když jsme se vrátili, mysleli jsme si, že se národ nenechá tak rychle zlomit, ale opak byl pravdou.

Po celou dobu normalizace pracovala moje manželka jako dramaturg pro kreslené filmy. Byla to příjemná práce vzhledem k tomu, jaké byly tehdy možnosti. Kreslený film si udržel dobrou úroveň, protože ho komunisté nemohli tolik zglajchšaltovat jako hrané filmy. V této branži se uchytili i někteří známí výtvarníci, kteří jinde nemohli pracovat, protože byli režimu nepohodlní. Manželka např. přivedla ke kreslenému filmu výtvarníka Vladimíra Jiránka [Jiránek Vladimír (nar. 1938): český ilustrátor, kreslíř a humorista – pozn. red.], který se zdiskreditoval kreslením politických karikatur v osmašedesátém roce a neměl proto mnoho možností, jak se uživit, nebo výborného výtvarníka J. Šalamouna [Šalamoun Jiří (nar. 1935): český grafik – pozn. red.].

V době normalizace jsme se osobně znali s některými předními osobnostmi disentu, ale upřímně řečeno mě disent odrazoval, protože tam bylo devadesát procent bývalých komunistů. Nemohl jsem opomenout, že tito lidé udělali kariéru v padesátých letech na základě své stranické příslušnosti, v době, kdy bylo mnoho nevinných lidí popraveno či odsouzeno k mnoha letům ve vězení, a „procitli“až v sedmdesátých letech, kdy se jim už nic moc nemohlo stát. Ale neznamená to, že bychom byli úplně nezúčastnění. Měli jsme mezi disidenty známé, chodili jsme na různá tajná setkání a manželka podepsala v roce 1987 petici Několik vět. Před převratem v roce 1989 jsme také ze Švýcarska provezli přes hranice tajné materiály pro známé disidenty.

Třicet let normalizace jsme prožívali v jakémsi útlumu. Nikdo již nedoufal, že se dožije nějaké zásadní změny režimu a mnoho lidí proto emigrovalo. To již nebylo tak obtížné, ale my jsme o tom neuvažovali. Naše vazby na české prostředí a hlavně Prahu byly příliš silné.

Politické čistky, které následovaly po roce 1968, se v našem podniku týkaly jen hrstky komunistů. Většina kolegů byla proti režimu a už se nebála to otevřeně dávat najevo i když bylo všude plno udavačů. Kdo toužil po kariéře a majetku, vstupoval do strany místo těch vyhozených. Kdo nic neměl, jako my - neměli jsme auto, chatu, vilu, jen byt v paneláku a nechtěl dělat kariéru, mohl žít v relativním klidu. Myslím, že svoboda je otázkou vnitřního přesvědčení, kterou člověku nemůže nikdo vzít.

V době normalizace jsme se tedy věnovali psaní scénářů pro kreslené filmy. Co se týká mé práce architekta,  pracoval jsem pouze na menších stavbách a rekonstrukcích na venkově nebo na interiérech. Nedostatek bytů, 20 let se nestavělo, donutil vládu v 60. letech ke stavbě panelových sídlišť, která tak negativně poznamenala naše města. Stavební výroba získala neúměrně velkou politickou moc a určovala architektům co a jak mají plánovat. Byla to karikatura utopických vizí architekta Corbusiera [Corbusier Le (1887 – 1965): švýcarský architekt – pozn. red.] z 30. let 20. století. Většina architektů byla nucena tyto absurdní „králíkárny“ projektovat. Byl jsem proto rád, že jsem toho byl ušetřen.

Přes tuhou normalizaci byly možnosti kulturního vyžití poměrně široké i když mnoho našich umělců bylo v klatbě. Manželka, jak už jsem říkal, jako dramaturg Kresleného filmu umožnila řadě z nich se uplatnit pod cizími jmény a podobně se to dělo i jinde. I když se o tom všeobecně vědělo, režim již neměl dost sil tomu zabránit. Pilně jsme v té době navštěvovali výborné koncerty, malá i velká divadla, povolené i nepovolené výstavy. Vycházely překlady světové literatury, promítaly se i kvalitní zahraniční filmy. Občas jsme se dostali i do ciziny, hodně jsme se věnovali sportu. Často jsme trávili víkendy v tenisovém klubu, kde jsme měli dobrou partu přátel.

Dcera měla z kádrových důvodů problém dostat se na jakoukoliv vysokou školu, takže se nakonec musela spokojit s pedagogickou fakultou, ačkoliv tvrdila, že nikdy učit nebude. Navíc si musela vybrat obor, o který byl nejmenší zájem, což byla pochopitelně ruština, kterou začala studovat v kombinaci s výtvarnou výchovou. Po převratu si vyměnila ruštinu za pedagogickou psychologii a tu pak studovala spolu s výtvarnou výchovou až do konce studia. Po studiu se chtěla živit jako výtvarnice a grafička. Navrhovala knižní obálky, vizitky, nakonec se dostala i k filmové tvorbě. Nejdříve pracovala na absolventském experimentálním filmu a animovala obrázky známého malíře J. Dubuffeta [Dubuffet, Jean Philippe Arthur (1901 - 1985): francouzký malíř – pozn. red.]. Později napsala scénář k filmu o známém židovském výtvarníkovi Robertu Guttmanovi [Guttmann Robert (1880 – 1942): známý pražský malíř a sionista. Zemřel v lodžském ghettu – pozn. red.], na který dostala peníze od komise přidělující finanční prostředky pro různé filmové projekty. Napsala také scénář k filmu o mém bratrovi, ale bohužel se dosud nepodařilo sehnat dostatek finančních prostředků k jeho realizaci, takže je dcera v současnosti vlastně bez práce. Bydlí v Praze na Vinohradech [městská část Praha 2] v podkrovním bytě. Tento byt byl mým posledním projektem.

V době převratu v roce 1989 mi bylo 58 let a  pracoval jsem jako odborník na obchodní stavby na ředitelství našeho podniku. Vzhledem k tomu, že jsem byl za války vězněn, měl jsem právo odejít do důchodu už v roce 1989, protože každý člověk, který byl za války nespravedlivě uvězněn, mohl jít za každý rok věznění do penze o rok dříve. Chtěl jsem ještě pracovat, ale věci nabraly rychlý spád. Komunisté v dosavadním vedení si podnik zprivatizovali, přesněji řečeno přetvořili na svůj soukromý majetek. Tento proces trval zhruba do jara roku 1991, kdy všichni zaměstnanci dostali výpověď a podnik zůstal v rukách těchto lidí a funguje takovým způsobem v podstatě dodnes. Byli to hlavně představitelé nové generace komunistů, kteří v osmdesátých letech vystudovali vysoké školy a ještě před revolucí stačili vstoupit do strany,  ale svoji stranickou příslušnost nebrali ideologicky, nýbrž čistě pragmaticky. Byli si prostě vědomí toho, že najít slušnou práci bez stranické knížky nelze a nedělalo jim problém tuto maličkost vyřešit. Poté, co se náš podnik de facto rozpadl, odešel jsem do nuceného důchodu, a protože tehdy pro důchodce neexistovala žádná omezení ohledně možností přivýdělku, pracoval jsem ještě pět let na živnostenský list  jako člen Komory architektů. Tato práce mě ale vůbec netěšila. Všude jsem narážel na obrovskou korupci. Bez úplatku nebylo prakticky možné dostat slušnou zakázku. Člověk snadno zjistil, že když je sám, nemá v korupčním prostředí šanci obstát, protože všechny výhody postupně sbírají velké podniky, které využívají toho, čemu se oficiálně říká provize, ale já to nazývám korupcí. Funguje to tak, že když vám někdo „dohodí akci“, žádá třeba deset či dvacet procent ze zisku. Bujela korupce na úřadech, ale třeba i památkáři schválili projekt většinou pouze za úplatek. Člověk viděl, jak je státní majetek rozkrádán. V roce 1995 jsem si řekl, že na to nemám žaludek, a že to ani nemám zapotřebí, a odešel jsem do opravdového důchodu.

Kromě toho jsem musel po revoluci řešit restituci našeho majetku za celou rodinu. Bylo to hrozné martyrium, které mi pocuchalo nervy a zkazilo deset let života. Nesl jsem to zvlášť těžce proto, že majetek nenávidím a nikdy jsem nechtěl nic vlastnit, ale cítil jsem povinnost vůči rodině, hlavně vůči dceři, učinit spravedlnosti zadost. Už po válce maminka pečlivě sepsala všechny věci, o které jsme přišli, a spočítala jejich hodnotu asi na tři a půl miliónu předválečných korun. Po válce jsme živořili a z našeho majetku nám nebylo navráceno kromě našeho domu vůbec nic. Vláda totiž sbírala všechny podklady o majetku, o něž byli připraveni čeští Židé, proto, aby měla v ruce důkazy použitelné v rámci mezistátního jednání s Německem. Jelikož Sudetští Němci zase žádali o navrácení majetku ztraceného odsunem, jednaly obě vlády tak dlouho, až se dohodly, že se oba tyto protichůdné majetkové nároky vyruší a nikdo nedostane nic. Němci ovšem dostali odškodné od své vlády. Navíc se řešila otázka majetku, který zůstal v zemi. Tehdy jenom v Praze třetina budov, ať už obytných budov nebo fabrik, které před válkou vlastnili Židé, připadla státu, protože jejich majitelé válku nepřežili. Spousta Židů měla tedy teoreticky právo zdědit majetek po svých zesnulých příbuzných. Neměli jsme nikterak bohaté příbuzné, pouze Vohryzkovi měli statek v Doubravicích, na který jim náš tatínek půjčil nějaké peníze, a zbytek byly menší domky na různých místech v Čechách. Po válce se měl majetek po zemřelých Židech oficiálně vracet na základě klasického dědického zákona, ale bylo to složitější, protože tento majetek byl za války většinou zkonfiskován Němci. Naše úřady tento majetek po válce zase zkonfiskovaly jako německý. Bylo nutné dokázat, že ten majetek Židům Němci opravdu vzali, což bylo problematické obzvlášť v pohraničí. Navíc se také muselo dokazovat, že se zůstavitelé od roku 1926 hlásili k české národnosti, jinak nebylo možné získat majetek zpět do soukromých rukou a zůstal ve vlastnictví státu jako majetek zkonfiskovaný Němcům. Dekonfiskace trvala několik let, protahovali ji až do roku 1948, kdy byla většina restitucí zastavena, avšak nikoliv oficiálně. Všichni dědicové byli donuceni k tomu, aby se svých nároků zřekli. My sami jsme se svých požadavků zřekli raději dobrovolně. Po roce 1989 nám také nechtěli nic vrátit. Ani nebudu popisovat deset let dlouhou historii se statkem v Doubravicích a s ostatními menšími nemovitostmi, bylo to vyloženě ostudné.

Jeden příklad za všechny – měli jsme dostat dům po příbuzných na náměstí v Kadani.V devadesátých letech ho koupil nějaký bývalý důstojník STB. Když jsme se jeli do Kadaně o tento dům přihlásit, právník na místním úřadu nám řekl, že se toho člověka všichni bojí a prodali mu dům s tím, že pokud se o něj přihlásíme, tak nám ho vrátí. Ale vzápětí nám doporučil, abychom už do Kadaně nejezdili, protože by se nám tam mohlo něco stát. Na katastrálním úřadu nám úřednice řekla, že existovala lhůta, po jejímž uplynutí už se tento restituovaný dům nesměl prodávat, ale že ti lidé vytrhli z matriky listy a antidatovali převod tak, aby celá transakce proběhla před tímto datem. Bylo to přesně den před tím, než lhůta vypršela. Úřednice přiznala, že nový majitel našeho domu vytrhl inkriminované listy z matriky, ale zároveň nás upozornila, že nám nebude svědčit, protože se toho člověka bojí. Problém se dostal až k soudu a byla to fraška, protože soudce, komunista z doby ještě před převratem, byl s tím člověkem očividně domluvený a vyloženě si z nás dělal legraci. Mluvil o tom, že naši příbuzní se asi dali za války k Němcům, protože neexistují záznamy o tom, že by náš dům Němci zabavili. Dům před válkou patřil jedné tatínkově sestřenici, soudce ale říkal, že musíme z matrik opatřit výpisy příbuznosti od pradědečka a pokud je nebudeme mít, nebude s námi vůbec jednat. Podařilo se nám tedy sehnat výpisy sahající až do roku 1780. Na dalším stání jsem tyto spisy předal a soudce řekl, že je nepotřebuje. Bylo to nejhorší ponížení v mém životě. Člověk je v takové situaci úplně bezbranný. Odvolali jsme se k vrchnímu soudu, ale ten shledal vše v pořádku. Mluvím o těchto podrobnostech, protože podobné potíže s restitucemi mělo mnoho dalších českých Židů. Je neuvěřitelné, že se takové věci děly po sametové revoluci.

Co se týče nároků v zahraničí, naše zkušenosti nebyly o mnoho lepší. Zažili jsme neuvěřitelné věci -  nechuť pomáhat, nechuť se čehokoliv vzdát. Dostali jsme spoustu dopisů od zahraničních pojišťoven,  kde psaly nehorázné nesmysly, jenom proto, aby nám nemusely nic vyplatit. Navíc jsme měli smůlu na neschopné právníky. Nakonec donutily americké advokátní firmy tyto zahraniční pojišťovny pod pohrůžkou soudního řešení vyplatit alespoň část pohledávek. Bylo to celé trapné a nesmyslné.

Další anabáze se týkala výhod pro politické vězně. Ostuda byla, že Svaz politických vězňů byl vyloženě antisemitský, protože tvrdil, že my nejsme žádní političtí vězňové a neměli bychom tedy dostat žádné výhody, které měli političtí vězňové, protože jsme nebránili vlast, ani jsme nevyvíjeli žádnou politickou činnost. Ještě za socialismu jsme měli některé výhody, byly však jenom pofidérní a symbolické. Existovala tzv. dvěstěpětapadesátka, což byla vyhláška, na jejímž základě mohli političtí vězňové získat výhody, pokud předložili doklad od ministerstva národní obrany potvrzující věznění v době války. „Výhody“ z této vyhlášky spočívaly v tom, že jsme mohli za každý rok v koncentráku odejít o rok dřív do penze a potom za každý rok věznění jsme měli dostat o sto korun více důchodu, což bylo směšné. Jediná výhoda, kterou máme v současnosti, je to, že máme zdarma autobusové a vlakové spojení po republice.

Po převratu v roce 1989 jsme se s manželkou oba aktivně zapojili do židovské obce v Praze a pomáhali obnovit její činnost. Abych využil svoji profesi, stal jsem se brzy po revoluci členem komise pro výstavbu. Kromě toho jsem také členem představenstva akciové společnosti Matana, která spravuje židovský majetek, jež byl obci navrácen v restitucích.

Protože jsem celý život četl především krásnou literaturu a ve filosofii jsem kdysi skončil u antiky, začal jsem se v poslední době věnovat tomu, na co jsem si nikdy nedokázal najít čas, a to moderní filosofii a východním naukám, především zen-buddhizmu. Kromě toho jsme s manželkou nedávno dopsali druhou knížku o Štaflíkovi a Špagetkovi, která už byla vydána. Neměli jsme auto a i v tom jsme výjimkou. Mít auto, nebo i v jiném ohledu si žít lépe než ostatní, znamenalo v komunistické éře většinou nutnost stranické kariéry, případně jiné spolupráce s režimem a k tomu jsme nebyli ochotni.

Také se dle svých možností snažíme udržet si co nejdéle tělesnou i duševní kondici, abychom nebyli nikomu na obtíž. Cvičíme, plaveme, hrajeme tenis, zdokonalujeme si angličtinu a práci na PC. V tomto směru nám Židovská obec pomáhá pořádáním různých kurzů a podobně.

V této zemi, kde naši předkové žili po mnoho staletí a úspěšně se zde asimilovali, jsme prožili všechny hrůzy a převraty neklidného 20. století. Většina z těch mála Židů, kteří přežili, tuto zem v několika emigračních vlnách opustila a jsou roztroušeni po celém světě od Izraele po USA. My jsme přes nepříznivé politické i ekonomické podmínky zůstali a snažili jsme se navázat na život našich předků, především na jejich morální hodnoty, které jsou obsaženy i ve Starém zákoně.

Otřesné zážitky vězněných židovských dětí, ztráta rodinného zázemí a všech příbuzných, Židům nepříznivý poválečný komunistický režim na nás zanechaly trvalé následky a přenesly se i na naše děti. Tyto těžko sdělitelné zkušenosti se snažíme předat dalším generacím, aby něco podobného už nezažily. Nedávno jsme se vrátili z malého městečka v Itálii nedaleko Bologni, kde jsme ke Dni holocaustu místním dětem vyprávěli o svých zážitcích. Manželka je jednou z posledních žijících dětí, které v Terezíně psaly verše, které se zachovaly a jsou spolu s kresbami obsaženy v knize Motýli tady nežijí, která byla přeložena do všech světových jazyků. Mnoho těchto veršů bylo po celém světě zhudebněno, zdramatizováno, nebo jsou součástí památníků holocaustu.

Glosář:

Tomas Kraus
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Dagmar Greslova
Date of interview: March 2005

JUDr. Tomas Kraus was born on 19th March 1954 in Prague. Already during the time of his high school studies he occupied himself with activities in Prague's cultural life, particularly in the Jazz Section of the Musicians' Union. He was production manager for Prague Jazz Days and other music festival, contributed articles and reviews to the Jazz Bulletin and other magazines. He graduated from the Faculty of Law at Charles University in Prague. After finishing his university studies, he worked in the foreign department of the SUPRAPHON Company, from 1984 as the Music Video department manager. From 1985 Dr. Kraus worked for the ART CENTRUM Company, where he initially collaborated on the EXPO 86 project; later he held the position of Assistant to the General Director, and subsequently as the manager of the mercantile department, which was responsible for audio- visual presentations, advertising, exhibitions and architecture. Since 1991 Dr. Kraus has been the Secretary of the Federation of Jewish Communities. Besides developing a new infrastructure for the entire organization, he has in this function particularly concerned himself with questions of restitutions of Jewish property and compensation for Holocaust victims, on both domestic and international levels.

My parents
During the War
Growing up
Reflections on the Holocaust
Glossary

My parents

My grandfather on my mother's side, Otto Flusser, was from Teplice-Sanov. He lived there with his wife, my grandmother, Elsa Flusserova, nee Hackelova, and with his children. Back then there were six thousand Jews living in Teplice, after Prague it was the second largest German-speaking Jewish community. Teplice was in the Sudetenland 1, and Czech wasn't spoken at all there. My grandpa was a trained butcher, he had his own butcher shop, but interestingly enough, it wasn't a kosher butcher shop, but a normal butcher shop, because he wouldn't have stood up against the competition, as there were a lot of kosher butchers there. He had a shop across from the Hotel Ditrich, which when I tell this to Teplice natives today, they say that that's as good a place as you could get. My mother Alice Krausova [nee Flusserova] had six siblings, two brothers and four sisters. One of my mother's sisters, Luisa, was even a subreta [a female singer of young, merry soprano roles, usually in operettas] in the Teplice Operetta, which back then was a big deal - back then Teplice had the nickname 'Little Paris' because of it's cultural prestige.

In 1938, right after Munich 2, the entire Flusser family moved to Prague. They left absolutely everything behind in Teplice - their apartment, store, property, and picked up and escaped to Prague. It was very hard for them to get used to Prague and make it there, because they couldn't speak Czech. People in Prague looked upon them as Germans. But finally they managed to establish themselves in Prague. There my mother met my father in 1938. So I always say, that if not for the betrayal in Munich, I actually wouldn't have been born.

Along with her entire family, my mother went to Terezin 3 a few months after my father went there on the AK1 transport. Unfortunately one of my mother's brothers, so my uncle, was put on the first extermination transport to Poland, to Trawniky I think. He didn't survive. They unloaded them from the train and shot them all on the spot.

In Terezin the entire Flusser family was gradually designated for the transports, my father wasn't able to protect them all. He was only able to save my mother and grandmother from deportation. Finally, in 1944 my parents went to Auschwitz together. They had to leave after the visit of the Red Cross, when the majority of the camp was eliminated, even those who had lived there the whole three years, after that they all had to go to Auschwitz. In Auschwitz my parents were separated. Both of them were lucky, in quotation marks, that they were assigned to work. My father was assigned directly to the main Auschwitz camp at Birkenau, and got a number. A lot of people have numbers, but I've spoken with people from the Auschwitz Museum, really only those that were already designated for work got numbers. Not those that were designated for liquidation.

My mother didn't get a number, though she went to work, but right after arriving she was sent to some sub-camp. I don't know exactly how long she spent in Auschwitz sub-camps. One was named Merzdorf, it was between Auschwitz and Katowice. The she got into a labor camp that was in Kudowa Zdroj [Kudowa Spa], which today lies in Poland right across the Czech- Polish border by the Nachod-Belovas border crossing. In Kudowa Zdroj she lived to see the liberation - in May of 1945 the Russians arrived there and transported the prisoners away.

There are two types of Holocaust survivors. On the one hand those that want to describe and tell everything in detail - what color of gloves the SS soldier had who pointed right and left, basically describe everything in the greatest possible detail. This is the case with my father; he really did describe it in the minutest detail. For one he was capable of it, because he was a reporter, but mainly he wanted to write it down - as a memento, a warning. On the other hand, there is a second type of people, who are silent; they won't say even a word. By not talking about it, they are, metaphorically speaking, erasing the experiences from their memory, because the memories are too painful. An example of this attitude was my mother.

The only thing that I do know about what happened to my mother during the war, I know from one of her friends. She told me a story, that when they were returning from the camp in Kudowa Zdroj, the Russians were transporting them on a truck. One time, when the Russians had caught some Germans, a Russian soldier came up to my mother and her friend, handed them a rifle, and said, 'Now do with those Germans the same as what they had done with you,' and all they said was, 'If you want to punish them, shave their heads.' Because my mother never talked about her imprisonment, this is the only anecdote I know from that time.

Besides my mother, no one from the Flusser family survived the Holocaust. As late as 1947 my parents were taking out ads in newspapers, just in case someone knew something about the Flussers, in case they had by chance survived - because they didn't know what had happened to them and back then there were no records available.

After the war my mother worked in the school system, she worked for the staff department at Charles University in Prague. She died in 1988.

My grandfather on my father's side, Robert Kraus, was from Uhlirske Janovice. The Kraus family lived by the Sazava River, in Vlasimi, in Kacov. Grandfather had a lot of siblings, brothers and sisters. The family owned a farming estate in Uhlirske Janovice.

During the Communist era I went to have a look around in Uhlirske Janovice, sometime in 1981, I went to the cemetery and found my grandparents' tombstone. Later, still under the Communists, this cemetery was liquidated by burying all the tombstones in one spot and all that remained was just a lawn. The graves are there, of course, no one did anything with them, but it's not demarcated, there's just a bench and a memorial plaque. So that they wouldn't have to take care of it, they simply buried it. Which is basically according to the Jewish religion, if the tombstones are severely damaged and there's no one to take care of the cemetery, everything is buried.

Grandpa Robert Kraus had already moved to Prague as a small child, so you could say that he was actually a Prague native. He became a traveling salesman, so he traveled a lot, and that's why it's fitting that he met my grandmother [Matylda Krausova, nee Kollmannova] on some train. The interesting thing is that Grandpa and Grandma got divorced, which in those days wasn't at all common. Grandpa then remarried, he married some Maria, I don't know her whole name, but I do know that she wasn't Jewish. That saved his life during the war, because she didn't divorce him, on the contrary, she tried to keep their marriage together. Marie kept him in Prague for the whole war, up to January of 1945, when he had to leave for Terezin, but he was actually only there for four and a half months and then came right back to Prague.

Jakob Kollmann [father of Matylda Krausova] was from Ceske Budejovice. He was a light machinery mechanic, and had a little shop where he sold clocks, barometers and all sorts of devices like that. His store was right on the town square, underneath a beautiful arcade. Not long ago I received some photographs where my great-grandfather's store can be seen, you can even see how there used to be a streetcar driving around the square, and my great-grandfather is standing there underneath his shop sign.

My grandmother was from Ceske Budejovice. After she and Grandpa Robert Kraus were divorced, she remarried; she married some man, a Jew, who was named Alexandr Straschnow. My father basically adopted that Mr. Straschnow as his stepfather, and loved him very much. I consider him to be my step- grandpa. He died in 1941, before the deportations.

My father managed to protect his mother, my grandmother, from the transports until 1944. In 1944 he himself had to leave Terezin, that's connected with the propaganda that took place around the visit of the Red Cross. When the Nazis liquidated practically all of Terezin. However, my grandmother had the luck that she stayed in Terezin and survived. It's a very unusual case that both of my grandparents survived, which is truly an exception, because usually it didn't happen that way. My grandmother survived thanks to the fact that my father was in AK1 and my grandfather thanks to the fact that he was in a mixed marriage.

My father, Frantisek Robert Kraus, was born on 14th October 1903 in Prague, into a traveling salesman's family. As he himself once wrote, he lived a relatively idyllic childhood, on the slum-clearance and demolition lots of the Jewish Town, in those days Prague's fifth quarter. As was common back then in so-called better Jewish families, he came by his elementary education at the Piarist convent school on Panska Street, then continued at the private high school on Jindrisska Street, and then did his graduation exams at the classical high school in the Kinski Palace on the Old Town Square. After his parents divorced, he stayed with his mother and had to begin to contribute financially to the household. For a long time this meant the end of his considerations of an academic career, but it did lead him to be a journalist.

My father and mother met in the year 1938, shortly after my mother and her entire family came to Prague from Teplice. At that time my father was already divorced, he had a son, Ronald Kraus, from his first marriage. He married my mother in 1939, which was already somewhat of a problem, but marriages by the normal civil authorities were still possible.

Dad was a journalist and writer. He wrote the records of the Kraus family in the form of books in which he reminisces about his family and childhood, though he did also write other people's stories, there are a lot of autobiographical elements in his works. During the time of the First Republic 4 he began working for German Jewish papers, for example for the famous Prager Tagblatt 5, Prager Presse 6 and others. He had contacts in Czech intellectual circles. He really did know all the famous figures of the time. He knew Franz Kafka [Kafka, Franz (1883-1924): a German-language writer of Jewish origins from Prague] or Jaroslav Hasek 7. His literary paragon, family friend and lifelong teacher at the same time was the 'raging reporter' Egon Erwin Kisch [Kisch, Egon Erwin (1885-1948): a German writer and journalist of Jewish origins from Prague]. At one time my father even lived at Kisch's place, and they became very good friends. But later, in 1948 they parted ways in a matter of opinion, because my father was a convinced leftist social democrat, while Kisch remained a Communist even after 1948, and approved of the putsch 8. From that time onward my father and Kisch never spoke again.

My father was there when Czechoslovak Radio 9 was founded. He worked in radio, he broadcast in foreign languages: in German, in English, in French; for a long time he also worked for the Czechoslovak News Agency 10. My father was often abroad due to his collaboration with the Berlin magazine 'Die grüne Post.' But in those days Nazism was already assuming power. My father tried to take a stand against the nascence of Nazism in Czechoslovakia, especially in the Sudetenland, in his regular radio reportages and broadcasts. He thus elicited the anger of Henlein's supporters 11, who even lobbied against him in Parliament - due to which he got blacklisted. He considered the mobilization - he addressed this theme in the story 'Helmet In The Field' - and subsequent events, culminating with the capitulation in Munich, in the reportage 'Runciman at Henlein's', which had tragic consequences not only for him, to be fateful.

During the War

My father found himself on the black list, he was interrogated a few times, but they didn't put him in jail, but instead put him on the very first transport that went to Terezin in October of 1941, that was transport number AK1, which stood for 'Arbeitskommando' [German for 'labor battalion']. This group was to take part in reconstruction of the town of Terezin into a Jewish ghetto. This first Terezin transport was still a normal, classical train, not the cattle wagons that were used later. They took the train to Litomerice, got off at Bohusovice, had police in front and behind them, all told there were about 340 of them. That was the entire train, a normal train with everything, someone even told me how it all fits together, that it's exactly how my father describes it in his books. That person found an entry written by the police, that they really did accompany this train. The entry even states at exactly what time the train left Masaryk Station in Prague; the policemen before were on duty, because they had helped a circus depart prior to that. The policemen didn't really even know why they were accompanying the transport. So they arrived in Bohusovice, and from there it was three more kilometers on foot to Terezin.

When one looks at it from a historical standpoint, from today's perspective, the horrendous tragedy of my father being put on the very first transport basically saved his life. Because in Terezin AK1 had special status, you can't say that they were privileged; they weren't prominent people, like for example the Council of Elders, but neither were they completely on the level of the rest of the prisoners. Thanks to this my father for example managed to protect his mother, my grandmother, from the transports until 1944. In 1944 he and my mother both had to leave Terezin, which was connected with the propaganda that took place around the visit of the Red Cross. When the Nazis liquidated practically all of Terezin. However, my grandmother had the luck that she stayed in Terezin and survived.

My father and mother were transported together on 17th March 1944. After their arrival at Auschwitz they were separated. My father commuted daily from Auschwitz to work at IG Farben and to Buna, where they made synthetic gasoline. One day blacksmiths and carpenters were supposed to apply - my father, who had never held a hammer in his hand in his life, applied. So he was assigned to a branch labor camp in Gleiwitz 12, where they were repairing railway wagons, which was horrible work for which they picked mostly prisoners from Terezin. Then sometime on the cusp of 1944 and 1945 they transferred my father to another factory in Blechhammer (Blachovnia). About in April of 1945 the Nazis began to liquidate the branch labor camps and were organizing death marches 13. They also dispatched a death march from Blechhammer, but my father and a couple of other people managed to escape from there.

Arnost Lustig [(b. 1926): Czech-Jewish writer] writes about my father's travails in the time of the war's end:

"For the time being he wandered, like Odysseus, through territory through which armies and rivers of refugees poured, from Poland through Subcarpathia to Budapest. On the way, he received a document from Brigadier General Svoboda 14 that he was a journalist, which he in any case felt himself to be everywhere where he was driven along.

He wanted to bear witness. Because he was never alone. He was with the dead, who he had survived. He was with the echoes of those killed, which he couldn't drive out of his ears. He couldn't give up the memory, which he perceived as the foundation of further existence. He was with his dead, with whom he had lived four years of the war in various camps. He remained with his pre-war newspaper colleagues, whose ashes were blowing in the Polish wind over the European continent and rivers and seas, the same as the ashes of Ottla Davidova, Franz Kafka's sister, whom he had known and who must also have undertaken that long road via Terezin into the chimney of Auschwitz-Birkenau.

He carried within him experiences that had burned their way to the bottom of his soul. He wanted to be rid of some of them. Those that degraded even after the fact. Those that tore at his soul, as if it was a worn-out tire. Echoes of the inferiority and meaninglessness of a life thrust upon him by Nazi Germans and Austrians and all those who served them.

He felt himself to be like an aging snake, who, despite the number of times he's already had to do it, has to shed his old skin in the spring." (Arnost Lustig on F.R. Kraus)

Thanks to the partisans, my father got to Budapest via Poland and Subcarpathia 15 in March of 1945, which had already been liberated. There he started to more or less pull himself together again. Through his career as a journalist he knew a few people in Budapest. So he contacted them, and they found some basic assistance for him, rented a small apartment for him. In Budapest he sat down, and wrote down all the experiences that were still fresh inside of him. So when he arrived in Prague in May of 1945, he already had a whole book finished. As he was a reporter, he wrote a book of reportage. This book, 'Gas, Gas...Then Fire,' was published in September 1945 and it was the very first reportage about the camps that was published in Czechoslovakia. It was published by the old publisher Chvojka, with whom I even managed to speak. They divided this reportage into two parts, one book was named 'Gas, Gas...Then Fire,' and the second part is called 'And Lead Back Our Scattered Ones.' It's a continuation, but from a somewhat different angle, the emphasis here is on describing the time in Terezin.

When my father returned to Prague from Budapest, he had nowhere to go. He got the idea to go to the apartment of my grandfather's, Robert Kraus's, second wife. Grandpa survived the war in Terezin, as he had been in a mixed marriage. This aunt, who wasn't Jewish, had been able to hold on to his apartment on Maislova Street the entire time. Right after the liberation she went to Terezin for my grandfather, and brought him back to their apartment. When my father then arrived in Prague, it occurred to him to go to Grandpa's apartment and he found Grandpa there! When my mother returned from the concentration camp, she had no idea what she should do, and because she also had no place to go, she said to herself that she'll go there, and they all met up there! I think that it would be worthwhile to write a novel about this meeting.

"The last disease was incurable kidney disease, which he couldn't blame on alcohol, only on hunger, thirst, beatings and the last cruel winter of 1944-1945. On invisible pain of the soul, unexaminable wounds that never healed, on blisters and frostbitten hands and swollen feet from the death march before he got to Prague with the unceasing echo of massacres, without a penny in his pocket, without a roof over his head... He reached his goal in rags, destroyed shoes, with ID from the Repatriation Office, until he got his citizenship card. He felt a burning satisfaction; victory pregnant with losses, defeats and desperation; a joy resembling a flame, which is quenched by invisible waters." (Arnost Lustig on F.R. Kraus)

My father also captured the issue of war in the book 'David Will Live.' He had originally dedicated it to Jan Masaryk 16 under the name 'Semarjahu Searches For God,' but it was published in December of 1949, and so the publishers changed not only its name, but also added a new ending. The novel, which is based on actual events, tells the story of a Jewish doctor who passes through Terezin and subsequently Auschwitz, where his family is forcibly divided. It's not until many years after the war that he then meets up with his son, whom he thinks hadn't survived, only due to an utter coincidence. For in the meantime David has become a world-renowned violin virtuoso. Once David is playing at a concert, sitting in the front row is a person who notices that David has a number tattooed on his forearm. After the concert he comes to see David, and says that he also has a number. They find out that the numbers are consecutive, that they must be father and son - they recognize each other only thanks to the numbers tattooed on their forearms. This story really happened. However, as opposed to the original conclusion, which took place in what was then Palestine, in the last chapter, added by the Communists, of the revised edition, David becomes a fervent Communist and plays for workers in factories.

A similar fate also befell another novel, 'The Changed Land,' which wasn't published until 1957. In it my father doesn't devote himself to concentration camps any longer, but returns to the issue of the Sudetenland. The countryside around Ceska Lipa, which he had fallen in love with before the war, became for him the location of events and human destinies before and after Munich, during the war and immediately after it. My father drew upon not only his experiences, but also on many historical sources and preserved materials, which he carefully studied. Here too, though, the publishers intervened, and assigned my father a co-author, Jaroslav Pechacek, who added to the book the proper air of 'building socialism' - scenes where factory workers organize Communist resistance. So the entire book gives the impression of a celebration of the Communist anti- Fascist resistance, thus in a way that my father intended. My father had originally wanted to show in the book that the Sudetenland Germans were actually victims of the Nazi ideology, during the period that the book was published, he couldn't publicly present anything like that.

February 1948 had an influence not only on the fates of my father's works, but also on him as well. For after the war he again started working for the Czech News Agency and for Czechoslovak Radio, where he became the founder and head of the shortwave foreign broadcast department. He also worked there as an announcer in English, French and German, and as the commentator for Central Europe. All that, however, ended at the beginning of the 1950s with the Slansky trials 17. Within one day my father lost his positions in both CTK and in Radio. With the exception of the publication of 'The Changed Land,' which was only allowed to be published at the price of dramatic changes in the text, from that time on he could only make a living with occasional writing. Thus he focused on his childhood experiences. Stories of Old Prague soon became a rewarding theme, which were used by many newspapers and magazines, including foreign ones. From time to time even a story appeared with a theme of World War II and concentration camps - the concept of the Holocaust wasn't in use yet back then.

My father also became one of the main regular contributors to the Jewish Religious Communities' Newsletter. He was the head of a commission that organized parties at the Prague Jewish Community. Parties were held in Maislova Street twice a year - always at Chanukkah and Purim. Thanks to my father, in the 1960s the pick of Czech culture used to go to the Community - my father had many contacts still from the times of the First Republic. He was capable of inviting many well-known people to these events - Jan Werich 18, Milos Kopecky [Kopecky, Milos (1922-1996): Czech actor of Jewish origin], Miroslav Hornicek [Hornicek, Miroslav (1918-2003): Czech actor, writer, playwright and director], the singers Karel Gott [Gott, Karel (b. 1939): the leading Czech singer of popular music in the 20th Century] and Waldemar Matuska [Matuska, Waldemar (b. 1932): Czech singer] and many other artists. People were excited by these parties - after their experiences from the concentration camps and after the events of the political trials with Rudolf Slansky, they represented for them at least a little relaxation, and the Community represented a substitute family for them. They also organized lectures for young people, in which there was a relatively large amount of interest.

These events and the cultural life at the Community functioned perfectly up to the year 1968, when a fundamental turning point occurred, and 90 percent of my friends immigrated. Practically no one from the generation of my friends remained here. The August occupation in 1968 19 changed these people's lives in a fundamental fashion - before this turning point most of them would never have thought of emigrating. Most of these emigrants did very well abroad, and today would no longer consider returning to the Czech Republic - their children no longer have anything in common with Prague. After 1989 20 one of my contemporaries decided to contact all our friends that had participated in the cultural life of the Community - the group 'Children of Maislova' was formed, and there have already been several reunions. [Children of Maislova: Jewish youth that had known and associated with each other before 1968 on the basis of their membership in the Prague Jewish Community.]

The novel 'The Executioner Without a Shadow' came into being at the beginning of the 1960s. In it my father returns to his authentic wartime experiences, which he contrasts with typical pictures of Old Prague, teeming with many figures and local detail. As he himself writes in the introduction, he wanted to write '... about events which from beginning to end really took place on this planet, in the middle of its culturally most advanced continent, in the heart of Europe... and to describe the fate of a relatively insignificant person with an ugly face, who... for long years lived in our Old Prague ... That, which he in the end became, was created by, and only by people ...'.

The novel was about the Jewish executioner in Terezin, who performed the only two executions that took place in Terezin. Everyone accused him of being a monster, that he even looked like a monster, as he was hunchbacked. My father tried to describe him in such a fashion, that the person was in reality also a poor wretch, a victim, that he compensated some complexes of his own with his behavior. He managed to interconnect the entire description with scenes and the atmosphere of Old Prague - he contrasted the idyll of Old Prague with the atmosphere of Terezin.

But Czech publishers at the time didn't show much interest in the book, mostly pointing to the fact that the subject of Nazi persecution had already been exhausted. I myself still remember that my father made the rounds of publishers, manuscript in hand, and no one wanted to publish the book, with the reason that World War II was already passé, and that no one was interested in that subject matter any longer. I published the novel 'The Executioner Without a Shadow' in 1984 as a samizdat in the Jazz Section.

A similar fate also befell another novel 'Three Rifles,' which was created at the urging of Adolf Branald as a psychological probe into the hearts of three SS officers, and a novella intended for children, 'Song About Lea.' Though the theme of the novel 'Face No. 5' about a Nazi criminal who after the war has his identity and looks changed, was used in the film 'Lost Face,' filmed at Barrandov, it was, however, without my father's authorship being acknowledged in any way. [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to director Pavel Hobl's film 'Ztracená tvár' (Czechoslovakia, 1965) also known as 'The Borrowed Face' or 'The Lost Face.']

My father, Frantisek R. Kraus, died in Prague on 19th May 1967. He managed to see the 'thawing' after the Liblice Conference on Franz Kafka, which he considered being a turning point in cultural and political life, but he didn't live to see the Prague Spring.

Growing up

I was born in 1954, so not until after World War II - the interesting thing is, that my parents were among the few to have both survived the Holocaust. People of my generation mostly come from marriages that were second marriages, because their original partners hadn't survived. Such people lost a partner, didn't find another until after the war, and only then started new families.

I met up with Judaism from a very young age - as my father was active in the Prague Jewish Community, it was completely natural for me to attend the Community regularly. I went to the Community for parties, later as a student for lunches. I never felt any division of identity - I perceived Judaism as some sort of tradition, however in a non-religious fashion. As a child I remember that during Christmas we had a tree at home, so that we children wouldn't miss out on anything. The tree is this symbol, which actually vouches for coexistence and the intermingling of traditions; I looked at the Christmas tree in a religious context.

After the year 1945 the Prague Jewish Community was composed in small part by original Prague Jews, who had returned here after the war. The larger part of the community was formed by people who came to Prague after the war from Subcarpathia, and these brought with them something that was absolutely foreign, what absolutely didn't have any tradition here - Orthodoxy. Prague was never Orthodox 21, the mainstream here was Neolog 22 - people here practiced more to preserve continuity, not because of religion itself. The Community as such was of course religious, it observed all regulations, but most people before the war, and after the war, also those that returned, were secular.

My parents tried to give me a nice childhood, so we traveled a lot, so that I wouldn't grow up in Prague, in the city - we'd regularly go to certain places. We visited my grandpa, who lived in Marenice, in the Sudetenland. I spent a large part of my childhood in the area around Ceska Lipa - July and August in Stare Splavy at my father's friend's; fall we spent in Dubi at a friend of my father's, the writer Marketa Reichmanova. In March we'd regularly go on vacation to Svaty Petr. In December, around Christmas, we'd visit the Karlovy Vary 23 spa. My father had a lot of friends at the Karlovy Vary Jewish Community, which stayed very numerous until the year 1968. We visited the spa until the end of the 1960s; my father would meet friends from all around the world there. One of my father's friends was the general director of the Hotel Pupp [Grandhotel Pupp], which was the best hotel in Karlovy Vary - so we always lived in the best suites and very much enjoyed our vacation at the spa. My parents were also recuperating from the effects of the war there; although you couldn't see it on them, the years spent in concentration camps had left their mark on them. My father was ill and died early - in 1967.

My parents had friends in West Berlin, and they would occasionally come to visit us in Prague, we of course couldn't go to the West too much. When I was 14, in August of 1968, my mother and I managed to leave the country to go visit these friends. By coincidence we were in West Berlin right during the time when the Russians invaded Prague 24. For a terribly long time we didn't know what we should do. If we should return, or stay in Germany. Everyone said, 'Don't be stupid, you can't go back there. There are going to be big problems there now." We didn't want to stay in a completely foreign environment, my mother was already older after all, and said that she didn't want to start from scratch in a foreign place. I was 14, I didn't know anything yet. The official propaganda from Czechoslovakia claimed that nothing serious was going on, that the Russians may be here, but everything had been agreed to in Moscow, everything is fine, the reform process is continuing. We stayed in Berlin for about three months, and then returned to Czechoslovakia. For a while after that it really did look like the situation wasn't that bad, the borders were open - they didn't close until April 1970. However Gustav Husak 25 ascended to power, the normalization 26 period began, of hidden anti-Semitism, and 'the jig was up.'

Reflections on the Holocaust

Reflections on the Holocaust in the Czech environment underwent significant transformations. The first reaction to more detailed information and the description of what the concentration camps represented was absolute shock - a natural reaction to the horrors and atrocities that had taken place behind the walls of the camps. This perception lasted from the end of the war until 1948. Gradually, however, from the 1950s this picture began to change - thanks to the political situation that existed in socialist Czechoslovakia, and thanks to the image of the resistance that the Communist authorities at the time propagated. The original image of the resistance was allied, which is supported by film documents, which show a parade of Allied armies in Old Town Square, where the English, Americans, French and Russians were all marching together. However, from the 1950s onward nothing of the sort could be considered - the Communist doctrine promoted its own version of history: Czechoslovakia was liberated by the Red Army, and the only anti-Fascist resistance that existed was Communist. It's true, after a fashion, that the Communist resistance was the only one that was more or less organized. However, very little is known, for example, about how many Jews were in the resistance and neither is the fact mentioned that many Jews fought in foreign armies, many of them fell on both the Western and Eastern fronts. In Czechoslovakia the Jewish victims were 'nationalized' by the Communists - they didn't talk about Jewish victims, but Czechoslovak victims.

Reflections on the Holocaust began to imperceptibly change in the 1960s in connection with the new wave in literature and film. The writer Arnost Lustig wrote beautiful and interesting books about the Holocaust. Many of these books have been made into movies, and this theme thus made its way into public consciousness. The subject of concentration camps and the Holocaust began to be used by people that didn't have such close connections with the war as the Holocaust survivors, thus the Holocaust in a certain fashion made its way into the nation's subconscious, because people felt the need to come to terms with this subject.

A fundamental turning point, however, came with the normalization era. The year 1967, when diplomatic relations with Israel were severed, was crucial. Using events in Prague's Pinkas Synagogue, one can observe the Communist regime's approach towards Jewish victims of the Holocaust. The interior of the Pinkas Synagogue was altered in 1954-1959, when it was changed to a memorial to the victims of Nazi persecution. The painters Jiri John and Vaclav Bostik inscribed on its walls the names and dates of 77,297 Protectorate Jews that had died during the Holocaust. In 1968, however, the memorial was closed, with the official reason given being that groundwater was rising into the synagogue walls.

In reality, however, the main motives were political. The memorial was perceived as propagating Israel. Jewish victims of the Holocaust weren't to be mentioned - the remembrance of the Holocaust became politically undesirable. Back then, Czechoslovak politics were influenced by the politics of the USSR, and its relationship with the state of Israel, which in the beginning had been positive, as the USSR had thought that it would include the new state in its sphere of influence. From 1952, however, relations between the USSR, its satellites and Israel worsened. From this point on, anti-Zionism was strongly promoted in the USSR and its satellites in Central and Eastern Europe. Anti-Semitism and negative anti-Jewish social stereotypes had also been imported to us from Russia, while earlier in the Czech environment, they had been more of clerical stereotypes - anti- Judaism.

An example of the Communists' approach to the Holocaust was the Terezin Memorial. The former children's dormitory L410 [The so-called 'Mädchenheim,' accommodation for young girls] was set up as a police museum for the North Bohemian region. No sign of any Jews anywhere - the only exception was a stone menorah, which had been erected by the cemetery in the 1960s. That was all. Jewish victims weren't supposed to be presented to the public. The Terezin Memorial did have its own internal Terezin studies, where serious research went on without being fouled by ideology, but for example no results were allowed to be published.

In the attitudes towards the presentation of World War II and the Holocaust, political momentum dominated, victims of war - Czechoslovak citizens who had died because of their political convictions and participation in the Communist anti-Fascist resistance were remembered. The fact that in the concentration camps as well as outside of them, there had also existed a non-Communist anti-Fascist resistance movement was never mentioned. What's more, Czech Jews were counted in the official number of Czechoslovak victims, and under the influence of the normalization, consciousness of the Jewish victims gradually faded. Jewish victims were inconvenient for the rhetoric of the Czechoslovak Communist Party. Communist propaganda took advantage of Jewish victims for its own ends, and presented them as Czechoslovak victims.

This attitude towards Jewish victims of the Holocaust partially persists in society to this day - as witnessed by the position of the Czech Freedom Fighters Association on the question of compensation. When the Federation of Jewish Communities began to negotiate compensation for victims of the Holocaust, the Czech Freedom Fighters Association looked upon these victims through the optics of the resistance: allegedly one cannot compare Jewish victims who suffered by being jailed in concentration camps to partisans who fought with arms in hand.

The year 1989 brought a turning point. In the 1990s the archives were opened and proper research began. Today's perception of the Holocaust is influenced, among other things, by the fact that we live in a 'global village' - although earlier there had already been some sort of consciousness of the Holocaust in the nation's consciousness, interest in the Holocaust is returning to us via the United States of America. A groundbreaking work was Spielberg's film 'Schindler's List' 27, which was greeted with enthusiasm the world over. For the Czech environment, however, Schindler's figure is very controversial, as he had been a part of the 'Abwehr' [German for 'defense;' the 'Abwehr' was a German intelligence organization that existed from 1922-1944.], units that participated in the liquidation of the Sudetenland. Through America, klezmer and Yiddish literature is coming to us - but people don't realize that nothing like that existed in Prague before the war. Often it is erroneously stated that before the war, three cultures coexisted in Prague - Czech, German and Jewish - however, that's not at all how it worked. The Prague Jewish community was more or less a branch of Austrian and German ones. Jewish culture as such didn't exist in Prague before the war - Jewish protagonists were for one in Czech circles, on the other hand they were also in German circles, but more often they formed some sort of bridge, a connection between Czech and German culture.

Today's awareness of the Holocaust in the Czech world is not sufficient - many people designate the Holocaust as genocide, which is however an erroneous classification. The Holocaust was accompanied by a massive theft of property, which was in its time the main motive. If one was to talk about genocide, then the Holocaust was genocide carried out on the basis of laws - and it's exactly in this that the Holocaust is unique. That is why the Holocaust is completely unique.

Glossary:

Dora Rozenberg
Subotica
Serbia
Interviewer: Nina Poljakovic

I know a bit about the origins of my paternal great grandmother and great grandfather. My great grandfather was Gaspar Spitzer, and his wife Betti Hirsch - married name Spitzer. They were middle-class merchants; they had a shop where one could find everything from groceries to household chemistry. Since the towns were smaller and shops like that one were rare, the business was good. They had five or six children but I do not remember their names other than my grandfather’s, Mor Spitzer. They were quite religious, they kept kosher and observed all the Jewish holidays, but unfortunately I don`t know how, when and where.

My paternal grandfather Mor Spitzer, was born in Subotica and lived on the Tompa farm, a small place in Vojvodina. His wife was Mimi – Marija Koh, married name Spitzer. She, unfortunately, died very young, at 40, from galloping consumption. She was a beautiful and strong woman, who kept the family on her shoulders. She left behind five children. They lived on a farm, at that time Jews did all sorts of things; they worked with meat, textiles, and tools which they used to sell in the village. They didn’t have an actual shop but it was known you could get everything you needed in their house and they even had inns.

Since it was a bohemian age, so to speak, where local people liked to spend all night at an inn making trouble, my grandmother tried to prevent it and succeeded most of the times by having gendarmerie on stand-by. I remember that after she died the chief of gendarmerie used to come to my father and tell him how she was a wonderful, energetic person, and we have always suspected that he was in love with her. They were pretty well-off materially while great grandmother was alive. After her death grandfather sold everything they had, he let the children go wild, without giving them anything, and became an alcoholic.

Their mother tongue was Hungarian and that was what they spoke at home. They were very religious, but you could not tell this from their dress. They were Neologs1. They kept kosher at home and, went to synagogue. They celebrated every holiday very strictly. They lit candles, made challah on Fridays, Shabbat was observed, etc.

They were members of the Jewish community but since the farm was very far away they did not socialize much, except for holidays when the family gathered together. They had a woman who sometimes came to help grandmother clean the house, and a woman who took care of the work outside. At that time it was not the practice to have a woman to take care of all the household activities. Grandmother died from her own carelessness. One winter the laundress did not come so she cleaned everything for the household (for five children and two adults) by herself in the yard, she caught a cold and died a short time later on Purim. After that the family fell apart but grandfather never married again, in fact he was so ill they amputated one of his legs. He was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, until he was 75 or 77 years old. Grandmother and grandfather had siblings but I do not remember anything about them.
My maternal grandfather was named Salamon Merkler. He had nine children; he was widowed with five children and then married my grandmother, the most wonderful person in the world. Her name was Lujza Bek, she was born in Kiskunmajsa [Hungary] and she had four children with grandfather. She was a wonderful woman because she accepted grandfather’s children as her own. In fact when the grandchildren who were not hers went to visit them, they would not say they were going to grandfather’s but said they were going to grandmother’s. Grandfather was born around 1870 and grandmother was 18 or 20 years younger than grandfather. They lived in Cantavir, a village near Subotica. It was a wealthy village since there lived people with big households, it is as wealthy today actually. There lived quite a few Jews, 15-20 families for certain, but there was no synagogue, only one house represented the place of worship. Of course, there was no Jewish school in the village so the children went to Subotica to school. Jews in the village lived together with other ethnic backgrounds and had good relations. Grandmother and grandfather had a house and since he was a tinsmith he had his own workshop, while grandmother was a housewife and took care of the house and of the cows that they had at home. She could not work because she took care of the nine children. Two of the sons were also tinsmiths and worked with their father in the workshop.

Grandfather was a religious man; he knew the customs and religion itself. He dressed in everyday clothes. He probably wore kipa in the house and especially during the prayings, but never out on the streets, nor did he wear kaftan or payot, since they were not orthodox. Grandmother acted the same way. When he was young he went to cheder and had a special teacher who taught him about Jewish traditions and customs. Grandfather and grandmother were kosher, they kept Shabbat, went to synagogue, especially grandfather who went there every night and who strictly maintained orthodox customs. They never told me what the holidays looked like in their house. When they moved to Subotica they could buy kosher meat and eat kosher food. They were members of the Jewish community but they were never involved in politics, nobody harrased them and they lived quite well. They had two Christian women who helped grandmother with the cleaning, and taking care of the nine children and since they had a barn with cows they needed the attention too. They had a large garden with vegetables and my grandmother just couldn`t manage it alone, so the older girls helped grandmother in the kitchen and took care of the younger children. They were surrounded by Christians and  had good relations with them, there were never incidents nor they have been called out for being Jewish. They did not use to visit each other since they all worked all day long so there was no time for socializing. The part of the house where we lived had street windows and behind it, down the yard, was the workshop. I remember the yard itself. There were a lot of fruit trees, and when there was summer they used to put a large tin tub, for me to bathe in, under the trees.

The thing I remember from grandmother and grandfather’s is Friday evening (Shabbat). When I was in the concentration camp, I always dreamed about that and sometimes it was what kept me alive; seeing the table set, the candles burning, the smell of challah. We did not have a ring-cake, instead grandmother made crescents with cinnamon, they were enormous, or at least they seemed that way to me. I could not get a bite until grandfather came home from synagogue. When he came home he blessed us, grandmother had already lit the candles as was the custom and she served dinner. Since grandfather was old and was not allowed to eat everything, we always had dairy dinners. I can still smell those crescents. In the camps when I closed my eyes and remembered the smell I was no longer so hungry. This is something I have remembered through all the periods of my life up until today.

Grandfather’s only sister was named aunt Lenci.  She lived in Cantavir at her son`s who had four children (Zsiga, Margit, Rozsa and Ilus) and two grandchildren who were born after Lenci`s death. Margit, Rozsa and Ilus were sewers and lived in our neighborhood. Lenci was short, and she wore an apron as all the village women did. She died around 1920.

Grandmother had many brothers and sisters, around five or six. We liked uncle Maksi most. He was a huge man, a good man and he loved the family. My mother, father, brother and I used to go often at his place or he came to ours. There couldn’t pass a Sunday for us not to see each other.

My father Salamon Spitzer, called Sanjika, was born on February 18, 1888 in Subotica. His native tongue was Hungarian but he also spoke German. He finished the sixth grade of elementary school and was unable to continue his studies because as a youngster he suffered a lot. When his mother died, his father left him too. Being very poor he was often hungry for days and was even going barefoot in snow and cold because there was no one to take care of him. At the age of seven he lived with his aunt in Subotica, who was mean and treated him very poorly. Her husband was no better, and since they have not had children of their own, they did not now how to treat him. He lived with them until he was independent enough. When he finished sixth grade of the elementary school he started working at first as an apprentice in a glass-shop owned by a Jew, who was named Kohn. Kohn was a good man and he even helped my father in his growing up by supporting him materially. He made good progress and when he married my mother they opened a small workshop with minimal start-up capital. Because of his modesty they succeeded to build that small workshop into the biggest glassworks in the region with a shop in Subotica. When my father made inventory in his shop he took a box of matches from his pocket and said while looking at them: “Why do I need to make inventory? I started with these and everything above that is profit.”

My mother Cecilia Merkler, known as Cilika, was born in Cantavir on September 29, 1890. She was the sixth child in the family and my grandmother`s first. She spoke Hungarian and she finished the sixth grade of elementary school. She helped a lot around the house, and was very hard working. Mother knew knitting, and after she finished her school she often used to knit. I think that they met in the same manner that all Jews did back then, a shadchan introduced them. They married in Cantavir on March 17, 1914. in the small synagogue. When the war broke out in the fall, several months after their wedding, father was called for military service. Since my mother was pregnant with me she went back to stay with her parents and waited for him to come back from the war.

Father had three sisters and one brother. The eldest was Jozi, then Franciska, Ida, and Margit. Except for one sister, aunt Fani (Franciska) who was with me in the camp, they were all lost during the war. She was the only one to return. I do not know what she did. One sister, Ida, did not have a family because when she was four years old she was stricken with typhus and remained mentally impaired from that. Everybody else was lost in camps during the war. The only thing I know is that Margita’s granddaughter returned from the camp and she lives in London. We even had telephone contacts, but as the time went by we lost our connection.

Mother had brothers, sisters and step-siblings. Emma, Herman, Zsiga, Janka, Miska were step-siblings and Marton, Karoly, Cilka, Rozika were her brothers and sisters. Only my mother and Zsiga returned from the camps. Zsiga was a tinsmith and he lived in Subotica. He has a daughter Marta, who has two daughters in Israel and 7 grandchildren. The eldest sister Emma lived in Budapest and had four children. Uncle Herman lived in Szeged [Hungary] and had one daughter. Miska was deported to Austria and he did not live to see the liberation. Rozsika lived in Belgrade and had two daughters. She stayed with one daughter in Belgrade and they were executed at Sajmiste camp (a factory yard in Belgrade set up by the Germans for massacring Jews after the occupation of March 1941), while the other came to Subotica. She lives in Israel today with her family and has 8 grandchildren.

I was born in Cantavir on January 3, 1915, but I lived in Subotica. During W.W.I., before I was born, my father had been drafted into the war. Mother returned to her parents where I was born. I lived in Cantavir in my grandmother’s house until I was four years old.

As soon as the First World War ended father, mother and I went to Subotica. Subotica had about 100,000 residents 6,000 of which were Jews. Jews did not have their own special section of the town rather they lived all over the city.

There were two Jewish communities in the city, one Orthodox and the other Neolog. My family was part of the Neolog community. The synagogue, where religious services held, had already been there when we came to Subotica and that is where the religious services were held. The community had its own chazan, rabbi, shochet and the Orthodox community had a mikvah. Our women went to the public bathhouse. At that time there was public health care for children and a communal kitchen for the poor. There was a Jewish elementary school where I went. Orthodox boys went to yeshiva.

My parents were not very religious. We observed Shabbat and the high holidays, but we were not kosher. I remember the Sabbath at home. We used to cook the whole day on Friday only for the evening because my mother never cooked on Saturdays. I used to light the candles with my mother – four of them. Two for her and two for me. The smell of challah defined Friday nights for me. When I was a bit older I always went with my girlfriends to service in Synagogue, and when there was school on Saturdays, there had always been service for children afterwards.

When we came to Subotica Jews mostly worked in commerce although there were a few craftsmen. At that time there was no plumbing, but we had a well and we even had our own motor, which drew the water. Our material status was very good. She [my mother] did not work. She was a housewife. We could go on summer vacations every year especially to the seaside where my mother took my brother and me. My father was unable to come because he could not leave the store.  At one point we even had a villa at Palic2 so we spent a lot of time at the lake and there were even times when we spent the whole summer there.

Proof of our good material standing was that for three years I was educated in a woman’s educational institute because mother had to help father in the store and she did not want to leave me alone. We lived in a big house with four rooms and a hall. The most beautiful part of the house was the living room with plenty of daylight. We used to listen to the radio there and enjoy being together as a family. We had a bedroom where my mother brought the furniture when she married. I also had my own room, a real modern girl’s room with bed closets and a table. The dining room had furniture, which was all carved and beautifully designed. There were also my brother’s room and a bathroom. At the end of the garden we had a separate part of the house, an apartment, which was used for storage. The house had roses, grapevines, and we had a dog. Since we could indulge ourselves we had a full-time housekeeper who lived with us, but she was not permitted to cook because mother did that herself.
We had prayer books as well as secular books. We did not need to use the library because we bought all the books we wanted to read. My brother and I spent all of our pocket money on books. We used to read all the popular books in Hungarian and we always talked over our “shopping,” and all our pocket money was used for books. We collected over 350 books. At that time there were paper-deliverers so my parents used to read newspapers too. We were not very religious but we celebrated every holiday. Friday nights the candles burned, we made challah and ring cakes. We went to the Jewish community on Chanukah and Purim Pesach. We fasted on Yom Kippur. Even today I fast, although it is much more difficult than earlier. For such great holidays, the shop was closed and everything was very festive. After the synagogue we would always go to uncle Maksi`s and celebrate the holiday together with all my uncles and aunts. Mother and father were never involved in politics but my mother’s nephew was a communist. His name was Dr. Imre Ber. He was a surgeon, he wrote books, he taught at the Moscow University, and his textbooks were used. He was liquidated during Stalin’s reign.

Some of our relatives we saw every day. I used to see Aunt Rozsi, as well as mother`s cousin Adam Giza, who often visited us in the shop. When three of them got together, mother had to do at least some handwork, she could not sit and rest. Of course, she did not work on Saturdays or holidays. It wasn`t too fun for me, because they had children much younger than me, and I was the only one to take care of them. On the other hand, other friends we saw only for holidays. Many of them lived in Budapest or Szeged in Hungary, so we did not have many occasions to see them. But since our family was big, we actually have not even had the need to socialize with other people, while friends used to come to shop and they talked there.

I began the Jewish school when I was six-years old. I went to that school until the fourth grade. When I finished I was enrolled in a gymnasium for girls in Veliki Beckerek; there I completed three grades. Since I did not have the patience to be so far from home my parents allowed me to finish the fourth grade in Subotica. When I finished gymnasium I did a two-year stenography course. Since we were well off my family could indulge me in private tennis lessons (I played rather poorly), English and German lessons and piano lessons for three years. Since I had neither a good ear nor talent I bothered my parents and teacher enough so they let me give up on my musical education and my self-improvement.

During my time in school I had several teachers. In the first grade there was an old spinster who hated children, while in the second grade my teacher was Mrs. Hauser. She was really nice to me and she even had a daughter of my age, which I made friends with. In the third grade Mr. Kados was a strict, righteous and a very serious man. After him, in the third grade, Mr. Rosenstein, the school principal was our teacher. In Beckerek [Zrenjanin in Serbian] I had all the best teachers, and the most wonderful time in school. My friends were mostly Jewish, and we used to play together even after school. As far as anti-Semitism in school is concerned I never experienced it nor did anyone ever tease me.

When I finished school I began working in our store because I wanted to be a merchant. I worked together with father; in the beginning my salary was 500 dinars, but I did not have any expenses, and the money was all mine. Father always laughed and asked me, “What do you need a salary for?” I sat at the cash register and whatever I needed I just took. I never had to ask and could buy whatever I needed. The shop had a lot of desks, glass closets and shelves, which were full of glassworks. We had three shop assistants Lajos, Marci and Janos, and one apprentice who learned the trade. Our customers were mostly non-Jewish, but that was not important at all. There were four glass-stores in the town at that time and our worked even on Sabbath.

While in school and after school I socialized mostly with Jews, they were mainly the people I went to school with; I socialized with many of them until they died. I was a member of a Zionist organization Hashomer Hazair, and spent every free minute there. There we learned Hebrew, went to classes and organized classes of History of Judaism. I did all sports like tennis and rowing, halfheartedly, without desire. Since I was very skinny and weak, my parents spared me from physical work.

During the weekends and vacations I went with my friends to the movies from four to six in the evening; from six to eight we went together to the pastry shop. I had to be home by eight because I had to eat dinner with my family. When I grew up my group of friends was still made up of Jews.

During summer vacations my brother Djurika, mother and I went to the seaside. Father always remained behind in the store because he could not leave someone else in charge. Most frequently we went to Crikvenica, Makarska [on the Dalmatian coast of what is now Croatia] and usually for three weeks. We slept in a private accommodation and ate in a hotel. We had a housekeeper to take care of the house during that time. My aunt also stayed at home and took care of the father. My brother often went to camps with the Hashomer Hazair Zionist organization, but parents would not let me go, because I was weak, ate poorly – speaking in general, I was spoiled.

Since some of my father’s customers were restaurant owners, we sometimes went out to dinner with our parents. Most often we went to the Small Garden in Palic whose owner was my father’s friend and a good customer, so we liked to go to his place best.

My brother was named Djordje (at home we called him Djurika). He was born on August 28, 1919. We used to get on well in our childhood, and I remember one interesting occasion. I was very sick because of roundworms, and I started to get better. Father used to get me chocolate and cakes, but mother would not let us eat, because Djurika and I could eat ourselves sick with candies. One time we were left alone in the room, and we tried to get the candies from a two-piece cupboard. Since we tried to do it fast fearing someone might see us, we turned it over on us. Everything inside broke into pieces. Because he was little, Djordje managed to pull out under the cupboard. For a long time after that, he had a habit of crawling under tables and beds. He had more education than I did; he finished medical school and specialization in anesthesiology in Israel. He died there in 1980. He went to Israel after the war in 1948 with his wife Mira [nee Kop] who lives in Israel today. He has two children, Jorama and Nomi, who live there. First he was in a work camp, like all Hungarian Jews, and later in Mauthausen, Gunskirchen.

We did not keep kosher but the holidays were observed as the religion prescribes We separated milk and meat; I even remember we had different color dishes so that we would not mix them up. There were special dish towels which were used to wash and dry the meat and milk dishes. The candles burned on Shabbat, we went to synagogue. As a young girl, after school and Saturdays I went to synagogue because there were mandatory religious services for students. When I finished school I went every Friday evening to the religious services with my girlfriends.
We had religious studies classes. Unfortunately it did not last long, but what was important was that I had a Bat Mitzvah with all of the girls my age. Concerning religion and traditions I learned the most from my parents, especially from my father, since he was a little more religious. My favorite holidays were the ones when we received presents – mostly toys, candies and books, and they included every Rosh Hashanah, every Chanukah and Purim. So that we would not feel like we did not have Christmas we received presents for Chanukah. Later I taught my daughter that Jews did not have Christmas but they did have Chanukah.

I met my husband, Dr. Vladislav Rozenberg, through one of my uncles who studied with my husband`s father. After his studies my future father-in-law lived in Senta where my husband was born on September 21, 1908. Since they remained good friends they frequently visited one another. One time he came with his son and I happened to be there and we liked each other. We never learned whether our meeting was arranged and my husband and I have never spoken about it. We married first in a civil wedding on June 27, 1940, then in a religious wedding on June 30. Since at that time the pre-war waves of fear were felt in the air - the wave of anti–Semitism, so we had the wedding in our house. There was a chupah and the rites were preformed as dictated by the religion and religious law. After the wedding we lived in Velika Kikinda (Banat), which was one of the ethnic German speaking regions, for seven months before my husband went into the army, then he was taken prisoner. I went back to stay with my parents in Subotica where I remained until deportation.

My husband was an eloquent man. He spoke German and French. He finished medical school and then specialized in dentistry.

My father-in-law, that is my husband’s father, was Emil Rozenberg, and his mother Zseni Rozenberg [nee Broder]. His father was a teacher and later the school principal. His mother, as was the practice then, was a housewife. At the time the custom was that men earned money and worried about the family finances while the women took care of the children and the house. I can only say the nicest things about his family. They were exceptionally tolerant and good people. They always considered me to be their daughter; I was especially fond of his mother.

When I was young I did not experience anti-Semitism, but I heard my parents talk about it. There was no anti-Semitism among those in power, rather it appeared among the people. It was a period when many people sang patriotic songs, military parades passed through the city. The first wave of anti-Semitism appeared at the time of the Hungarian occupation; the residents themselves were more tolerant, or maybe I did not feel anything because my friends were Jewish. However the Hungarian government was not as tolerant as the Yugoslav government. They enacted laws, which caused our material and psychological decline. When Hitler came to power we could not possibly dream what was going to happen to us. Even when the war broke out and we were taken to the cargo station and when the German coaches arrived we still did not think we were going to be deported.

My first experience with anti-Semitism was when we started to wear yellow stars. I could not imagine that in the 20th century something was happening that I had only read about and talked about with my mother. I was not embarrassed and I never concealed the fact that I was a Jew; today whenever someone asks me officially or unofficially I always say I am a Jew.

When the anti-Jewish laws were enacted my brother lost his right to study and had to stop halfway through. Only after the war did he manage to finish. At that time my husband was already a prisoner of war in Germany so when he came home he did not have a chance to experience the humiliation, but he knew only what we wrote him in our letters. Since we had our own shop no one could fire us, blackmail us or the like. Unfortunately, later they managed to take the store from us. They took our house when they took us to the ghetto.

When they took us to the camp on June 16, 1944, from in front of the cargo station, the first stop was Bacsalmas where we spent about two to three weeks. There I learned the meaning of friendship. When we arrived the camp was full. They put us in a mill on the first floor where it was impossible to breathe, and my friend and my mother’s friend who were already waiting there for us made a place for us so that we would not be out in the open.

Afterwards we were transferred by wagons to Strashof bei Wien, which was the second stop. We were there for a week, and since we were of no use to anyone they put us in three or four camps so that in the end they would put us in one. We went to Kimber bei Gaming where there was a bomb factory and there we worked as street workers and cleaners. We painted the pipes, swept the streets, and cleaned the Russian prison camp. That was an awful work, because the Russians were dirty and they made the mess deliberately sometimes. One day we would have had it cleaned and the next day it would already be a pig barn. Russians once complained to the camp warden that we had not done any work in their barracks, so we went to him, and since he was a relatively fair man, we asked him to come with us to see for himself. Even if it rained or snowed we were on the street.

In mid-December they took us to Bergen-Belsen. What is hell? It is called Bergen-Belsen. Cold, hunger, dirt and fleas were all the characteristics of Bergen-Belsen. I spent four and a half months there. I was there with my mother, aunt, nieces, mother’s brother and his wife, daughter, grandchild, friends with their children. I was in the same barracks with them. From this camp, they wanted to send us to Theresienstadt in three groups. We were the first. We were “lucky” because we were traveling two or three weeks. On one side there were Germans, on the other side there were Americans and we were in the middle; they took us 40 kilometers on one side and then on the other. On April 13, when we were all, especially me, sick, they called us to the rifle range. As we got out of the wagon, someone yelled “Kids, American tanks are on the road.” Then unrest broke out, the Germans ran and people got back on the wagons.

A young soldier appeared out of the confusion. It was something that I would never forget. He went from wagon to wagon and told us, “Be patient, it is the end. Peace is coming. We are a fighting unit but peacemakers are coming, they will take care of you.”  We simply knew this soldier was a Jew. Tears were running down his face as he went from wagon to wagon, he did not have the words to console us. Then we heard the sad news that Roosevelt had died. We knew he was crying for two reasons, for losing his president and finding us in the condition we were in.

The first place we went was a Siemens hangar. They emptied it out to turn it into a recovery area. The Americans took care of us there; they fed us just a little at the beginning so that we would not die, but there were people who ate so voraciously that they died. Afterwards they gave us heavier and heavier food and care. Then they put us in a place near Hanover, in Magdeburg. That zone was taken over by the English and then the Russians. Under the Russians, unfortunately, we did not live well. We got some bread much of which was not baked so we ate elder plants. We were there from April until the September 8, 1945. We arrived in Velika Kikinda on Rosh Hashanah. Only once we arrived did we realize it was holiday. We arrived home with a group of prisoners of war. Jews from there waited for us, there were two or three families who had returned. We were in Velika Kikinda four or five days; I do not remember exactly. There I heard that my husband had returned, that my brother was alive and that he was at home in Subotica. One beautiful morning they appeared and took us home.

Unfortunately, many of my relatives, like my father, never returned. I never learned where he died. I know he was taken to Backa Topola, then to Auschwitz and that he died of hunger. My dearest aunt Rozika, her daughter Lucika, her husband, my uncle Karoly and his wife Ilonka were all asphyxiated by gas at Sajmiste (the Germans used gas vans then). Only my mother, my father’s sister, the grandchild Klarika who lives in London, my aunt Rozika’s daughter who lives in Israel and my brother returned home from the camps.

After having survived, my uncle Zsiga went to Israel and died there at the age of 95. My aunt Ema survived too, but she lost her two sons while two daughters and a son in law returned. We have been in touch and been visiting sometimes. One daughter died two years ago.

When we arrived home I did not find anything. We received one part of our house; after some time we got the whole thing back. We got the store which was sold out and which only had a little bit of merchandise in it. Later we gave the store up because we did not have the capital to start everything from the beginning. It was nice to see our neighbors who were very happy when we returned, they gave us bread and fruit. But there were those who said “And you returned too?”

There was a period when we had to start from the beginning. We started from the little bit of merchandise we found. The most important thing was the baby. We had a daughter, Mira, in 1946. My husband started to work as a civil-mobilized doctor in Macedonia. After that we returned to Subotica, my husband opened a practice and we started to gain property. We wanted to immigrate to Israel. We submitted a request and were on the list, but doctors were not granted permission at that time. We tried two or three times in 1948, and eventually when we lost the will to go, we found out that the next attempt would have been successful but at that time in 1952 we no longer wanted to go. My brother went with his family. When my brother immigrated to Israel, I visited him and spent more than 3 months there. I must say I felt good there for some reason.

After the camp, life had to go on. We hoped for some time that the father will return but he never did, neither have my in-laws. Lacika, my husband died in 1964. As a doctor he contracted infectious hepatitis from one of his patients. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery. After my husband`s death I did not work, because I was getting his pension and I could live fairly well on it. At the time of communism I was living well without any repercussions and difficulties, maybe because I was never politically involved.

After the end of the war when we returned home we still observed the religion and holidays. The reason was probably that not many of my family members returned from the war, and those were the days we most often were able to get together. We also got together in the Jewish community, a place of refuge, where we had fun, a place where all the Jews gathered. I took my daughter there too. Today she goes more infrequently to temple, because of her obligations, but naturally we go for the high holidays and Maskir.

In forced labor in Austria I made friends. Unfortunately they died but I am still in contact with their children. Our relationship was stronger than friendship, one could even say we were “relatives”. Concerning friends, that changed a lot after the war. Intermarriages started to appear so that the nationality of our circle of friends changed. Unfortunately, my relatives were scattered around the world, two of my nieces that I was close with lived in Budapest, and we rarely saw each other. My husband had one niece, she was married to a Christian who converted and became a better Jew than any Jew I ever met. She was my best friend. I socialized with the rest of my girlfriends until they died. Today I am almost the only remaining person from my generation.

My daughter was a very sweet girl. She was going to kindergarten from an early age, without knowing a word of Serbian. After only six weeks she was constantly babbling in Serbian. From elementary school on she was always one of the best in the class all the way to her graduation. I put a lot into her education, especially foreign languages, so today she fluently speaks German and English. She used to go to piano lessons but she tortured the teacher and me for so long until we finally gave up. My daughter finished law school and works as a lawyer in Subotica. She has two daughters and one granddaughter. The older daughter lives in Israel with her daughter and the younger in Subotica.

I systematically taught my daughter from childhood about Judaism. Since she was born after the war, she did not live through or see the horrors of war. Nevertheless, according to my own principles, what happened to the Jews should not be forgotten and must be told to future generations. I handed this down to my daughter. I told her about the terrible things but also about the friendships that I created in the camps. As long as I am alive I will talk about it to everyone so that this will never happen again.

Despite all of these tragedies, I still believe in God. At one time I did not believe, I did not light candles. However, when my daughter, my greatest happiness, grew up and I saw her succeed in life, I reconciled with God. Until recently I was very involved in the Jewish community. Now, I am old and I just come when they organize something. I was one of the founding members of the Subotica Women’s Section. Of the founding members only my friend Ela Vajs and I are still alive. Our section was very active. We held lectures, but during Tito’s time it was not very popular so we had to publicize them very discreetly. I can’t say we were afraid, but simply the things we celebrated were not popular. The communist party was a god and its own religion but we believed in the real God. I kept telling my daughter that the things we talked about in the house should not be discussed outside. We lived much more modestly than before the war, because we had lost most of our property, but I cannot say that we were harassed. Our goal was to fix the house to its pre-war condition.

I kept going to the Jewish community, same as before the war and I was not scared because of it. We helped poor people, visited the sick, cooked food according to the religious requirements for the Seder, for Purim, for Chanukah, and made packages for the children. Even today Ela and I make matzah dumplings for the Seder.

Tomas Kraus
Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Dagmar Greslová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: březen 2005

JUDr. Tomáš Kraus se narodil 19. března 1954 v Praze. Již v době středoškolského studia se věnoval práci v kulturním životě Prahy, působil zejména v Jazzové sekci Svazu hudebníků. Zajišťoval produkci Pražských Jazzových Dnů a dalších hudebních festivalů, přispíval články a recenzemi do Jazz Bulletinu a dalších časopisů. Vystudoval Právnickou fakultu University Karlovy v Praze. Po vysokoškolském studiu pracoval v zahraničním oddělení podniku SUPRAPHON, od r. 1984 jako vedoucí oddělení Music Video. Od roku 1985 Dr. Kraus pracoval ve společnosti ART CENTRUM, kde nejprve spolupracoval na projektu EXPO 86, později působil jako asistent generálního ředitele a posléze jako vedoucí obchodního oddělení, zabývajícího se audiovizuálními prezentacemi, reklamou, výstavami a architekturou. Od roku 1991 je dr. Kraus tajemníkem Federace židovských obcí. V této funkci se, vedle vybudování nové infrastruktury celé organizace, zabýval zejména otázkami restitucí židovského majetku a odškodnění obětí holocaustu, a to jak na vnitropolitické, tak na mezinárodní úrovni.

Rodina
Dětství
Reflexe holocaustu
Glosář

Rodina

Dědeček z matčiny strany, Otto Flusser, pocházel z Teplic ze Šanova. Žil zde se svojí manželkou, mojí babičkou, Elsou Flusserovou, rozenou Hackelovou, a svými dětmi. V Teplicích tehdy žilo šest tisíc Židů, byla to po Praze druhá největší židovská německy mluvící obec. Teplice ležely v Sudetech a česky se zde vůbec nemluvilo. Dědeček byl vyučený řezník, vlastnil svoje řeznictví, ale je zajímavé, že to nebylo košer řeznictví, nýbrž obyčejné řeznictví, protože ve velké konkurenci by se neudržel, neboť zde bylo košer řezníků hodně. Měl krám naproti hotelu Ditrich, což když dneska řeknu Tepličákům, tak říkají, že to je úplně nejlepší místo, které může být. Maminka Alice Krausová (rozená Flusserová) měla šest sourozenců, dva bratry a čtyři sestry. Jedna z matčiných sester, Luisa, byla dokonce subretou v teplické operetě, což byl v té době pojem – Teplicím se tenkrát pro svoji kulturní proslulost přezdívalo „malá Paříž”.

V roce 1938 těsně po Mnichovu 1 se celá rodina Flusserova odstěhovala do Prahy. V Teplicích nechali úplně všechno – byt, krám, majetek, sebrali se a utekli do Prahy. Zvyknout si a uchytit se v Praze bylo pro ně hodně těžké, protože se nedomluvili česky. Pražská společnost je vnímala jako Němce. Nakonec se ale v Praze etablovali. Maminka se zde roku 1938 seznámila s otcem. Takže já vždy říkám, že nebýt mnichovské zrady, já bych se vlastně nenarodil.

Máma s celou svojí rodinou šla do Terezína 2 pár měsíců potom, co se tam táta dostal s transportem AK1. Bohužel jeden z matčiných bratrů, tedy můj strýc, byl zařazen do prvního likvidačního transportu do Polska, myslím do Trawniků. Nepřežil. Na místě je vyložili z vlaku a všecky je postříleli.

V Terezíně celou rodinu Flusserovu zařazovali postupně do transportů, tatínek je nebyl schopen všechny ochránit. Byl schopen chránit před transportem akorát maminku a babičku. Rodiče šli nakonec v roce 1944 z Terezína do Osvětimi společně. Museli odjet po návštěvě Červeného kříže, kdy se většina tábora likvidovala, i ti, kteří tam přežívali celé tři roky, museli potom jít do Osvětimi. V Osvětimi byli rodiče rozdělení. Oba dva měli štěstí, v uvozovkách, že byli zařazeni na práci. Můj táta byl zařazen přímo do kmenového tábora v Osvětimi v Birkenau, a dostal číslo. Číslo má hodně lidí, ale mluvil jsem s lidmi z muzea z Osvětimi, čísla dostávali skutečně jenom ti, kteří byli už předem určeni na práci. Nikoliv k likvidaci.

Máma číslo nedostala, ačkoliv šla na práci, ovšem byla hned po příjezdu poslána do nějakého pobočního tábora. Nevím přesně, jak dlouho byla v pobočních táborech v Osvětimi. Jeden se jmenoval Märzdorf, byl mezi Osvětimí a Katovicemi. Potom se dostala do pracovního tábora, který byl v Kudowě Zdroji (Lázně Kudova), které dnes leží v Polsku hned za česko-polským hraničním přechodem Náchod – Běloves. V Kudowě Zdroji se dočkala osvobození – v květnu 1945 sem přijeli Rusové a transportovali odtamtud vězně.

Jsou dva typy přeživších holocaust. Jedni, kteří chtějí všechno popsat a vypovědět do detailů – jakou měly barvu rukavice, které měl esesák, který ukazoval napravo nalevo, prostě vše vylíčit do největších podrobností. Takový případ byl můj táta, ten to skutečně popsal naprosto do detailů. Jednak to uměl, protože byl reportér, ale hlavně to chtěl napsat – jako memento, varování. Na druhé straně je druhý typ lidí, kteří mlčí, neřeknou ani slovo. Tím, že o tom nemluví, zážitky obrazně řečeno vymazávají z paměti, protože vzpomínky jsou příliš bolestné. Příkladem takového postoje byla moje máma.

Jediné, co vím o tom, co se s maminkou dělo za války, vím od jedné její kamarádky. Vyprávěla mi historku, že když se vracely z tábora v Kudowě Zdroji, vezli je Rusové na náklaďáku. Jednou, když Rusové chytili nějaké Němce, přišel k mámě a její kamarádce ruský voják, podal jim pušku a povídá: „Teďka s těmi Němci uděláte to samé, co dělali oni s vámi,“ a ony jenom říkaly: „Jestli je chcete potrestat, tak je ostříhejte dohola.“ Protože maminka o svém věznění nikdy nehovořila, je toto jediná historka, kterou z té doby znám.

Z rodiny Flusserů kromě mé matky holocaust nikdo nepřežil. Ještě roku 1947 dávali rodiče do novin inzeráty, jestli náhodou o Flusserových někdo něco neví, zda náhodou nepřežili – protože se nevědělo, co se s nimi stalo a žádná evidence k dispozici tehdy nebyla.

Po válce maminka působila ve školství, dělala v organizačním oddělení na Karlově universitě v Praze. Zemřela v roce 1988.

Můj dědeček z otcovy strany, Robert Kraus, pochází z Uhlířských Janovic. Rodina Krausova žila u Sázavy, ve Vlašimi, v Kácově. Dědeček měl hodně sourozenců, bratry i sestry. Rodina vlastnila v Uhlířských Janovicích poplužní dvůr.

Byl jsem se v Uhlířských Janovicích podívat za komunistů, někdy v roce 1981, zašel jsem na hřbitov a objevil jsem tam náhrobek mých praprarodičů. Potom byl za komunistů tento hřbitov zlikvidován tím způsobem, že všechny náhrobní kameny byly zakopány na jednom místě a zbyl z něho vlastně jenom trávník. Hroby tam samozřejmě jsou, nikdo s tím nic nedělal, není to ovšem ohrazené, je tam nějaká lavička a pamětní deska. Aby se o to nemuseli starat, tak to prostě zakopali. Což je v podstatě podle židovského náboženství, pokud jsou náhrobní desky hodně poškozené a nemá se o hřbitov kdo starat, všechno se zakope.

Dědeček Robert Kraus se už jako hodně malý dostal do Prahy, takže se dá říci, že byl vlastně Pražák. Stal se obchodním cestujícím, hodně tedy cestoval, je proto příznačné, že s babičkou se seznámil někde ve vlaku. Zajímavé je, že se dědeček s babičkou rozvedl, což v té době nebylo vůbec obvyklé. Dědeček se potom znovu oženil, vzal si nějakou Marii, celé její jméno neznám, ale vím, že nebyla Židovka. To mu během války zachránilo život, protože ona se s ním nerozvedla, naopak se snažila jejich manželství udržet. Marie ho držela po celou válku v Praze až do ledna roku 1945, kdy musel odjet do Terezína, ovšem tam byl vlastně jen čtyři a půl měsíce a pak se hned vrátil zase do Prahy.

Jakob Kollmann [otec Matyldy Krausové, rozené Kollmannové] pocházel z Českých Budějovic. Byl jemným mechanikem a měl krámek, kde prodával hodiny, barometry a všelijaké takové přístroje. Měl krám přímo na náměstí, pod krásným podloubím. Získal jsem nedávno fotky, kde je pradědečkův krám zachycený, dokonce je vidět, jak tam po náměstí jezdila tramvaj, a pradědeček tam stojí pod štítem svého krámu.

Babička se jmenovala Matylda Kollmannová a pocházela z Českých Budějovic. Po rozvodu s dědečkem Robertem Krausem se znovu vdala, vzala si nějakého pána, Žida, který se jmenoval Alexandr Straschnow. Můj otec tohoto pana Straschnowa de facto adoptoval jako svého nevlastního otce a měl ho strašně rád. Považuji jej za svého nevlastní dědečka. Zemřel roku 1941 ještě před deportacemi.

Otec dokázal svoji mámu, mojí babičku, uchránit před transportem až do roku 1944. V roce 1944 musel z Terezína sám, to souvisí s propagandou, která byla okolo návštěvy Červeného kříže, kdy nacisti zlikvidovali prakticky celý Terezín. Ovšem babička měla to štěstí, že v Terezíně zůstala a přežila. Je to velice vzácný případ, že oba moji prarodiče přežili, což je skutečně výjimka, protože většinou to tak nebývalo. Babička přežila díky tomu, že můj táta byl v AK1 a dědeček díky tomu, že byl ve smíšeném manželství.

Otec František Robert Kraus se narodil 14. října 1903 v Praze v rodině obchodního cestujícího. Poměrně idylické dětství prožil, jak sám kdysi napsal, na asanačních pláckách a zbořeništích Židovského města, tehdejší pražské páté čtvrti. Jak bylo v té době časté mezi tzv. lepšími židovskými rodinami, základní vzdělání získal v piaristické klášterní škole v Panské ulici, pak pokračoval na „reálce“ v Jindřišské a maturitu složil na klasickém gymnáziu v paláci Kinských na „rynku“, na Staroměstském náměstí. Po rozvodu rodičů zůstal s matkou a musel začít finančně přispívat na chod domácnosti. To sice znamenalo na dlouho konec úvahám o akademické kariéře, ale přivedlo jej k novinářské dráze.

Tatínek se s maminkou seznámili v roce 1938 krátce poté, co maminka s celou rodinou přišla z Teplic do Prahy. Otec byl už v té době rozvedený, z prvního manželství měl syna, Ronalda Krause. Moji maminku si bral v roce 1939, což už byl poměrně malér, ale sňatky u normálních úřadů byly ještě možné.

Táta byl novinář a spisovatel. Sepsal záznamy o rodině Krausových ve formě knih, ve kterých vzpomíná na svoji rodinu a dětství. Ačkoliv psal i cizí příběhy, v jeho díle je přítomno hodně autobiografie. Za první republiky 3 začal pracovat v německých židovských novinách, namátkou pro slavný Prager Tagblatt 4, Prager Presse 5 a další. Měl kontakty na české intelektuální prostředí. Znal skutečně všechny slavné postavy tehdejší doby. Znal se s Franzem Kafkou [Kafka, Franz (1883 – 1924): pražský německy píšící prozaik židovského původu – pozn. red.] či Jaroslavem Haškem 6. Jeho literárním vzorem, rodinným přítelem a životním učitelem zároveň byl „zuřivý reportér” Egon Erwin Kisch [Kisch, Egon Erwin (1885 – 1948): pražský německý spisovatel a novinář židovského původu – pozn. red.]. Jeden čas otec u Kische dokonce bydlel a hodně se spřátelili. Později v roce 1948 se však názorově rozešli, protože táta byl přesvědčený levicový sociální demokrat, zatímco Kisch zůstal i po roce 1948 komunistou a schvaloval převrat 7. Od této chvíle spolu táta s Kischem nepromluvili.

Otec byl u toho, když se zakládal Československý rozhlas 8. Dělal rozhlasáka, vysílal cizojazyčné vysílání v němčině, v angličtině, ve francouzštině, dlouhou dobu působil také v Československé tiskové kanceláři (ČTK) 9. Spolupráce s berlínským časopisem Die grüne Post otce zaváděla často do zahraničí. To se však již hlásil k moci nacismus. Otec se snažil proti nástupu nacismu v Československu, zejména v Sudetech, vystupovat ve svých pravidelných rozhlasových reportážích a relacích. Vyvolal tak hněv henleinovců 10, kteří proti němu dokonce interpelovali v parlamentu – čímž se ocitl na černé listině. Za osudovou považoval mobilizaci (toto téma zpracoval v povídce “Přilba v poli“) a následné události, vrcholící mnichovskou kapitulací (reportáž „Runciman u Henleina“), která měla tragické důsledky nejen pro něj.

Otec se ocitl na černé listině, byl párkrát na výslechu, ale nezavřeli ho, nýbrž místo toho ho zařadili do úplně prvního transportu, který šel do Terezína v listopadu 1941, to byl transport číslo AK1, což znamenalo Arbeits Komando. Tato skupina se měla podílet na přestavbě města Terezína na židovské ghetto. Tento první terezínský transport jel ještě normálním klasickým vlakem, nikoli dobytčáky, kterými se jezdilo později. Dojeli vlakem do Litoměřic, vystoupili v Bohušovicích, měli před sebou a za sebou četníky, dohromady jich bylo asi 340 lidí. To byl celý vlak, normální klasický vlak se vším všudy, dokonce mi někdo říkal, jak to všecko opravdu do sebe zapadá, že to je přesně tak, jak to táta popisuje ve svých knížkách. Ten člověk našel záznam od četníků, že skutečně tento vlak doprovázeli, dokonce v tom záznamu je přesně, v kolik hodin vlak odjel z Masarykova nádraží v Praze, ti četníci předtím byli ve službě, protože odtud předtím vypravovali cirkus. Četníci vlastně ani nevěděli, proč transport doprovázejí. Dojeli tedy do Bohušovic a odtamtud se šlo ještě tři kilometry pěšky do Terezína.

Když se to vezme z historického hlediska, z dnešní perspektivy, tak ta příšerná tragédie, že otec byl zařazen do úplně prvního transportu, mu v podstatě zachránila život. Protože AK1 v Terezíně mělo zvláštní statut, nelze říct, že by byli privilegovaní, nebyli prominenti, tak jako byla třeba rada starších, ale nebyli zase úplně na úrovni ostatních vězňů. Díky tomu otec například dokázal svoji mámu, mojí babičku, uchránit před transportem až do roku 1944. V roce 1944 musel z Terezína on i moje matka odejít, což souviselo s propagandou, která byla okolo návštěvy Červeného kříže, kdy nacisti zlikvidovali prakticky celý Terezín. Ovšem babička měla to štěstí, že v Terezíně zůstala a přežila.

Z Terezína byl otec transportovaný spolu s mou matkou 17. 3. 1944. Po příjezdu do Osvětimi byli rozděleni. Otec z Osvětimi jezdil na denní práce do IG Farben a do Buny, kde vyráběli syntetický benzín. Jednoho dne se měli přihlásit kováři a tesaři – můj otec, který v životě neměl v ruce kladivo, se přihlásil. Byl tedy zařazen do pracovního pobočního tábora v Hlivicích, Gleiwitz, kde opravovali železniční vagóny, což byla příšerná práce, na kterou byli většinou vybraní vězni z Terezína. Potom otce přeřadili někdy na přelomu let 1944 a 1945 do další fabriky na práci do Blechhammeru (Blachovnia). Asi v březnu 1945 začali nacisté poboční pracovní tábory likvidovat a organizovali pochody smrti. Z  Blechhammeru taky vypravili pochod smrti, ovšem mému tátovi ještě s pár lidmi se podařilo odtamtud utéct.

O osudech mého otce v období konce války píše Arnošt Lustig [Lustig, Arnošt (nar. 1926): česko – židovský prozaik – pozn. red.]:

„On zatím putoval jako Odysseus územím, kterým se valily armády i proudy utečenců, z Polska přes Podkarpatskou Rus do Budapešti. Cestou od brigádního generála Svobody 11 získal doklad, že je novinář, kterým se stejně cítil všude, kudy byl hnán. Chtěl vydat svědectví. Nebyl totiž nikdy sám. Byl s mrtvými, které přežil. Byl s ozvěnami zabitých, které nemohl vyhnat z uší. Nemohl se vzdát paměti, kterou vnímal jako základní podmínku příští existence. Byl se svými mrtvými, s nimiž prožil čtyři roky války v nejrůznějších lágrech. Zůstával s předválečnými kolegy z novin, jejichž popel rozvál polský vítr po evropském světadílu a řekách a mořích stejně jako popel Ottly Davidové, sestry Franze Kafky, kterého znal a která také musela podniknout tu dalekou cestu přes Terezín do komína v Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Nesl si v sobě zkušenosti, jež se mu propálily na dno duše. Některé z nich se chtěl zbavit. Té, která ponižovala i dodatečně. Té, která mu drala duši, jako by to byla ojetá pneumatika. Ozvěny méněcennosti a bezcennosti života, jakou mu dali okusit nacističtí Němci a Rakušané a všichni, kdo se jim dali do služeb.
Připadal si jako stárnoucí had, který, navzdory tomu, kolikrát už to udělal, ze sebe musí na jaře svléct starou kůži.” (o F. R. Krausovi Arnošt Lustig)

Otec se dostal díky partyzánům přes Polsko a Podkarpatskou Rus 12 v dubnu 1945 do Budapešti, která už byla osvobozená. Tam se jakžtakž začal dávat dohromady. Přes novinářskou profesi znal v Budapešti pár lidí. Kontaktoval je tedy, sehnali mu základní pomoc, pronajali mu malý byteček. V  Budapešti si sednul a všechny zážitky, co měl ještě čerstvé v sobě, sepsal. Takže když v květnu 1945 přijel do Prahy, měl už hotovou celou knížku. Jelikož byl reportér, napsal knihu-reportáž. Tato kniha „Plyn, plyn… pak oheň“ mu vyšla v září 1945 a byla to úplně první reportáž o lágrech, která byla v Československu vydána. Vydal ji starý nakladatel Chvojka, se kterým jsem dokonce ještě mluvil. Rozdělili tuto reportáž na dvě části, jedna kniha se jmenovala „Plyn, plyn… pak oheň“, a druhá část se jmenuje „A přiveď zpět naše roztroušené“. Jedná se o pokračování, ale trošku z jiného úhlu, důraz je zde na líčení období v Terezíně.

Když se táta vrátil z Budapešti do Prahy, neměl kam jít. Napadlo ho jít do bytu druhé ženy mého dědečka, Roberta Krause. Dědeček přežil válku v Terezíně, jelikož byl ze smíšeného manželství. Tato teta, která nebyla Židovka, byla schopná během celé té doby udržet jeho byt v Maislově ulici. Hned po osvobození si pro dědečka dojela do Terezína a přivezla ho zpátky do jejich bytu. Když pak přijel do Prahy táta, napadlo ho jít do dědova bytu a dědečka tam našel! Když se z koncentráku vrátila moje máma, nevěděla vůbec co má dělat, poněvadž taky neměla kam jít, řekla si, že půjde tam, a oni se tam všichni sešli! Myslím, že by stálo za to napsat o tomto setkání román.

„Poslední choroba byla nevyléčitelná nemoc ledvin, kterou nemohl svádět na alkohol, jen na hlad, žízeň, bití a poslední krutou zimu 1944– 1945. Na neviditelné bolesti duše, nezbadatelné rány, které se nikdy nezahojily, na puchýře a omrzlé ruce a oteklé nohy z pochodu smrti, než se dostal do Prahy s neutichající ozvěnou masakrů, bez pětníku v kapse, bez střechy nad hlavou… K cíli dorazil v hadrech, rozbitých botách, s průkazem Repatriačního úřadu, než dostal občanskou legitimaci. Pociťoval palčivé zadostiučinění; vítězství těhotné prohrami, porážkami a zoufalstvím; radost podobající se plameni, který hasí neviditelné vody“ (o F. R. Krausovi Arnošt Lustig)

Problematiku války zachytil otec také v knize „David bude žít”. Původně jej pod názvem „Šemarjáhu hledá Boha“ věnoval Janu Masarykovi 13, vyšel však až v prosinci 1949 a tak vydavatelé změnili nejen název, ale přidali i nový konec. Román, vzniklý na podkladě skutečné události, líčí osud židovského lékaře, který prochází Terezínem a posléze Osvětimí, kde je jeho rodina násilně rozdělena. Se svým synem, o němž se domnívá, že nepřežil, se pak shledává až mnoho let po válce jen velkou shodou náhod. Z Davida se totiž mezitím stal světoznámý houslový virtuóz. Jednou David hraje na koncertě a v první řadě sedí člověk, který si všimne, že houslista má na předloktí vytetované číslo. Po koncertě za Davidem přijde a říká, že má také číslo. Zjistí, že ta čísla jdou přesně po sobě, že musí být otec a syn – poznají se jen díky číslu vytetovanému na předloktí. Tenhle příběh se opravdu stal. Ovšem oproti původnímu závěru, odehrávajícímu se v tehdejší Palestině, se v komunisty přidané poslední kapitole upraveného vydání stává David horlivým komunistou a hraje dělníkům v továrnách.

Obdobný osud stihl i další román „Proměněná země“, vydaný až v roce 1957. V něm se otec již nevěnuje koncentračním táborům, ale vrací se k tematice Sudet 14. Kraj kolem České Lípy, který si zamiloval již před válkou, se mu stal dějištěm událostí a lidských osudů před a po Mnichově, během války a těsně po ní. Otec vycházel nejen ze svých zážitků, nýbrž i z mnoha historických pramenů a dochovaných materiálů, které pečlivě prostudoval. I tady však zasáhli vydavatelé, přidělili otci spoluautora (Jaroslava Pecháčka), který knize dodal patřičně budovatelské vyznění – scény, kdy dělníci v továrně organizují komunistický odboj. Celá kniha takto vyzní jako oslava komunistického antifašistického odboje, tedy tak, jak to táta absolutně neměl v úmyslu. Otec původně v té knížce chtěl ukázat, že sudetští Němci byli vlastně obětí nacistické ideologie, ovšem v době, kdy kniha vyšla, nic takového veřejně nemohl prezentovat.

Únor 1948 7 měl vliv nejen na osudy otcových děl, ale i na něj samotného. Po válce totiž nastoupil zpět do České tiskové kanceláře a do Československého rozhlasu, kde se stal zakladatelem a vedoucím krátkovlnného zahraničního vysílání. Působil zde také jako hlasatel v anglické, francouzské a německé redakci a komentátor pro střední Evropu. To vše však skončilo počátkem padesátých let Slánského procesy 15. Otec ztratil ze dne na den místo jak v ČTK, tak v Rozhlase. S výjimkou vydání „Proměněné země“, která mohla vyjít jen za cenu drastických zásahů do textu, se od té doby mohl živit jen příležitostným psaním. Zaměřil se tedy na své zážitky z dětství. Povídky ze staré Prahy se záhy staly vděčným námětem, po kterém sáhly mnohé noviny a časopisy, včetně zahraničních. Čas od času se objevila i povídka s tematikou druhé světové války a koncentračních táborů (pojem holocaust se tehdy ještě neužíval).

Otec se stal také jedním z hlavních pravidelných přispěvatelů Věstníku Židovských náboženských obcí. Byl šéfem komise, která na Pražské židovské obci pořádala večírky. Večírky se organizovaly v Maislově ulici dvakrát ročně – vždy na chanuku a purim. Díky otci na Obec chodil v šedesátých letech výkvět české kultury – táta měl mnoho kontaktů ještě z doby první republiky. Byl schopen sezvat na tyto akce mnoho známých lidí – Jana Wericha 16, Miloše Kopeckého [Kopecký, Miloš (1922 – 1996): český herec židovského původu – pozn. red.], Miroslava Horníčka [Horníček Miroslav (1918 -2003): český herec, prozaik, dramatik a režisér – pozn. red.], zpěváky Karla Gotta [Gott, Karel (nar. 1939): nejvýzn. český interpret populární hudby v 20. století – pozn. red.] a Waldemara Matušku [Matuška, Waldemar (nar. 1932): český spěvák – pozn. red.] a spoustu dalších umělců. Lidé z těchto večírků byli nadšení – po zážitcích z koncentračních táborů a po událostech politických procesů s Rudolfem Slánským to pro ně představovalo alespoň trochu uklidnění a Obec pro ně představovala náhradní rodinu. Organizovali také přednášky pro mladé lidi, o něž byl poměrně velký zájem.

Tyto akce a kulturní život na Obci fungoval bezvadně až do roku 1968 , kdy přišel zásadní zlom a devadesát procent mých známých emigrovalo. Z generace mých kamarádů tady nezůstal prakticky nikdo. Srpnová okupace v roce 1968 17 těmto lidem zásadním způsobem změnila život – před tímto zlomem by většinu z nich vůbec nenapadlo emigrovat. Většina z těchto emigrantů se v cizině velice dobře uchytila a už dnes vůbec neuvažují, že by se vrátili zpátky do České republiky – jejich děti už z Prahou nemají vůbec nic společného. Po roce 1989 18 napadlo jednu moji vrstevnici, že zkontaktuje všechny kamarády, kteří se účastnili kulturního života Obce – vznikla skupina „Děti Maislovky“ [Děti Maislovky: židovská mládež, která se před rokem 1968 stýkala a sdružovala na základě své příslušnosti k pražské židovské obci – pozn. red.] a už se uskutečnilo několik setkání.

Román „Kat beze stínu“ vznikal počátkem 60 let 20. století. Otec se v něm vrací ke svým autentickým válečným zážitkům, které dává do protikladu se svéráznými staropražskými obrázky, hemžícími se spoustou figurek a místopisných detailů. Jak sám píše v předmluvě, chtěl napsat „… o událostech, které se od začátku až dokonce opravdu odehrály na této planetě, uprostřed jejího kulturně nejvyspělejšího světadílu, v srdci Evropy …a vylíčit osud celkem bezvýznamného človíčka ošklivé tváře, který … dlouhá léta žil u nás ve staré Praze …To, čím se nakonec stal, z něj udělali jen a jen lidé …“. Román byl o terezínském židovském katovi, který provedl jediné dvě popravy, ke kterým v Terezíně došlo. Všichni lidé ho obviňovali, že byl zrůda, že i jako zrůda vypadal, jelikož byl hrbatý. Táta se jej snažil vylíčit takovým způsobem, že ten člověk byl ve skutečnosti také chudák, oběť, že si tímto chováním léčil jakési vlastní komplexy. Dokázal celé líčení propojit se scénami a atmosférou staré Prahy – staropražskou idylku postavil do kontrastu atmosféry Terezína. O knihu však tehdejší česká nakladatelství neprojevila velký zájem, většinou s poukazem na to, že tematika nacistické perzekuce je již vyčerpána. Sám si ještě pamatuji, že s rukopisem táta obcházel nakladatelství a nikde mu knihu nechtěli vydat s odůvodněním, že druhá světová válka už je pasé a nikoho již tato tematika nezaujme. Román „Kat beze stínu“ jsem roku 1984 vydal v samizdatu v Jazzové sekci.

Obdobně se dařilo i dalšímu románu „Tři pušky“, vzniklému na popud Adolfa Branalda jakožto psychologická sonda do nitra tří důstojníků SS, a novele, určené dětem „Píseň o Lée“. Námět románu „Tvář číslo 5“ o nacistickém zločinci, který si po válce nechá změnit identitu a podobu, byl sice použit v barrandovském filmu „Ztracená tvář“, ovšem bez toho, aby bylo jakkoli uznáno otcovo autorství.

Otec František R. Kraus zemřel v Praze 19. května 1967. Stačil ještě přivítat „tání ledů“ po liblické konferenci o Franzi Kafkovi, což považoval za zlomový okamžik v kulturním a politickém životě, Pražského jara se však již nedočkal.

Dětství

Já (Tomáš Kraus) jsem se narodil v roce 1954, tedy až po druhé světové válce – zajímavé je, že moji rodiče, jako jedni z mála, oba přežili holocaust. Lidé mojí generace většinou pocházeli z manželství, která byla druhými manželstvími, protože jejich původní partneři nepřežili. Takoví lidé přišli o partnera, dalšího si našli až po válce a teprve tehdy založili nové rodiny.

S židovstvím jsem se setkával prakticky od malička – jelikož táta aktivně fungoval na Pražské židovské obci, bylo pro mě naprosto přirozené, že jsem na Obec pravidelně docházel. Chodil jsem na Obec na večírky, později jako student na obědy. Nepociťoval jsem nikdy žádné rozpolcení identity – židovství jsem chápal jako jakousi tradici, ovšem nenábožensky. Jako dítě si vzpomínám, že jsme o v době Vánoc měli doma stromeček, abychom jako děti o nic nepřišly. Stromeček je takovým symbolem, který vlastně dokládá soužití a překrývání tradic, nikdy jsem vánoční stromeček nechápal v náboženském kontextu.

Pražská židovská komunita po roce 1945 sestávala z malé části z původních pražských Židů, kteří se sem po válce vrátili. Větší část komunity tvořili lidé, kteří se do Prahy dostali až po válce z Podkarpatské Rusi a ti sem přinesli cosi, co bylo naprosto cizorodé, co tady absolutně nemělo tradici – tedy ortodoxii. Praha nebyla nikdy ortodoxní, hlavní proud zde byl neologický – lidi zde praktikovali spíš kvůli zachování kontinuity, než kvůli náboženství samotnému. Obec jako taková samozřejmě náboženská byla, dodržovala veškeré předpisy, ale většina lidí před válkou i po válce, i ti kteří se vrátili, byli sekulární.

Rodiče se mi snažili udělat pěkné dětství, tak jsme hodně cestovali, abych nevyrůstal v Praze, ve městě – pravidelně jsme jezdili na určitá místa. Navštěvovali jsme dědečka, který bydlel v Mařenicích, v Sudetech. Velkou část dětství jsem trávil v oblasti okolo České Lípy – červenec a srpen ve Starých Splavech u otcova známého; podzim jsme trávili v Dubí u otcovy známé, spisovatelky Markéty Reichmanové. V březnu jsme zase pravidelně jezdili na rekreaci do Svatého Petra. V prosinci okolo Vánoc jsme navštěvovali lázně Karlovy Vary. V Karlových Varech měl otec hodně známých na Židovské obci, která se tam udržela velmi početná až do roku 1968. Jezdili jsme do lázní až do konce šedesátých let, táta se zde setkával s přáteli z celého světa. Jeden tatínkův přítel byl generálním ředitelem hotelu Pupp [Grandhotel Pupp], což byl nejlepší hotel v Karlových Varech – takže jsme bydleli vždy v nejlepších apartmánech a moc jsme si dovolenou v lázních užívali. Rodiče se tam také zotavovali z následků války, ačkoliv to na nich nebylo vidět, po zdravotní stránce se na nich léta strávená v koncentračních táborech podepsala. Tatínek byl nemocný a brzy zemřel – v roce 1967.

Rodiče měli známé v západním Berlíně, a ti občas přijížděli za námi do Prahy, my jsme na Západ samozřejmě moc nemohli. Když mi bylo čtrnáct let, v srpnu 1968, se nám s matkou podařilo za těmito známými vycestovat na návštěvu. Shodou náhod jsme byli v západním Berlíně zrovna v době, kdy do Prahy vtrhli Rusové 19. My jsme hrozně dlouho nevěděli, co máme dělat. Jestli se máme vrátit, nebo zůstat v Německu. Všichni říkali: „Neblbněte, tam nemůžete jít zpátky. Tam teď bude velkej malér.“ Nám se nechtělo zůstávat v úplně cizím prostředí, moje máma už byla přeci jenom starší a říkala, že sama už nechce začínat úplně od začátku v cizím prostředí. Mně bylo čtrnáct let, neměl jsem ještě rozum. Oficiální propaganda z Československa tvrdila, že se nic vážného neděje, že tu sice jsou Rusové, ale vše se v Moskvě dohodlo, vše je v pořádku, obrodný proces pokračuje. Zůstali jsme v Berlíně asi tři měsíce a pak se vrátili do Československa. Skutečně to ještě chvíli potom vypadalo, že situace není tak zlá, hranice byly otevřené – zavřely se až v dubnu 1970. Ovšem nastoupil Gustáv Husák 20, přišlo období normalizace 21, skrytého antisemitismu a „spadla klec“.

Reflexe holocaustu

Reflexe holocaustu v českém prostředí prošla značnými proměnami. První reakce na podrobnější informace a popis toho, co koncentrační tábory představovaly, byl naprostý šok – přirozená reakce na hrůzy a zvěrstva, ke kterým za zdmi lágrů docházelo. Toto vnímání trvalo od konce války do roku 1948. Postupně se však od padesátých letech začínal tento obraz měnit – díky politické situaci, která v socialistickém Československu byla a díky obrazu odboje, který tehdejší komunistická moc propagovala. Původní obraz odboje byl spojenecký, jak dokládají filmové dokumenty, které zachycují přehlídku spojeneckých armád na Staroměstském náměstí, kde pochodují Angličané, Američané, Francouzi a Rusové všichni společně. Ovšem od padesátých let nic takového nepřipadalo v úvahu – komunistická doktrína prosazovala svůj vlastní výklad historie: Československo osvobodila Rudá armáda a jediný antifašistický odboj, který existoval, byl komunistický. Svým způsobem je pravda, že komunistický odboj byl jediný, který byl více méně organizován. Ovšem málo se ví například o tom, kolik Židů bylo do odboje zapojeno a také nebývá zmiňován fakt, že mnoho Židů bojovalo v zahraničních armádách, mnoho jich padlo na východní i západní frontě. V Československu byly židovské oběti komunisty „znárodněny“ – nemluvilo se o židovských obětech, ale o obětech československých.

Reflexe holocaustu se začala nepatrně měnit v šedesátých letech v souvislosti s novou vlnou v literatuře a filmu. Spisovatel Arnošt Lustig napsal krásné a zajímavé knihy o holocaustu. Mnohé tyto knihy byly zfilmovány a toto téma se tak dostalo do obecného povědomí. Tematika koncentračních táborů a holocaustu začala být zpracovávána i lidmi, kteří s válkou neměli tak úzké spojení jako přeživší holocaustu. Holocaust se tak určitým způsobem dostal do povědomí národa, neboť lidé cítili potřebu se s tím tématem vyrovnat.

Zásadní zlom však přišel s normalizací. Přelomovým byl rok 1967, kdy byly přerušeny diplomatické styky se státem Izrael. Na příkladu událostí v pražské Pinkasově synagoze lze sledovat jakým způsobem přistupoval komunistický režim k židovským obětem holocaustu. K úpravě interiéru Pinkasovy synagogy došlo v letech 1954-1959, kdy byla přeměněna na památník obětí nacistické perzekuce. Akademičtí malíři Jiří John a Václav Boštík vepsali na její stěny jména a životní data 77297 protektorátních Židů, kteří během holocaustu zahynuli. Roku 1968 byl však památník uzavřen, což bylo oficiálně zdůvodněno tím, že do stěn synagogy vzlíná spodní voda. Ve skutečnosti byly však hlavní motivy politické povahy. Památník byl vnímán jako propagace Izraele. Židovské oběti holocaustu neměly být zmiňovány – připomínání holocaustu se stalo politicky nežádoucím. Československá politika byla tehdy ovlivněna politikou SSSR a jeho vztahem ke státu Izrael, který byl zpočátku kladný, neboť SSSR se domníval, že nový stát zahrne do sféry svého vlivu. Od roku 1952 se však vztahy mezi SSSR, jeho satelity a Izraelem zhoršovaly. V SSSR a jeho satelitech ve střední a východní Evropě byl od této chvíle silně propagován antisionismus. Z Ruska k nám byl importován i antisemitismus a negativní protižidovské stereotypy sociální, zatímco v českém prostředí dříve byly přítomny spíše stereotypy církevní – antijudaismus.

Příkladem přístupu komunistů k holocaustu byl Památník Terezín. Bývalá dětská ubytovna L410 [Mädchenheim: ubikace mladých dívek – pozn. red.] byla vystavěna jako muzeum policie Severočeského kraje. O Židech nikde ani památka – jedinou výjimkou byla kamenná menora, která byla v šedesátých letech vztyčena u hřbitova. To bylo vše. Veřejnosti neměly být židovské oběti prezentovány. Památník Terezín měl sice interní terezínská studia, seriózně a bez nánosu ideologie se v něm bádalo, ale například žádné výstupy nesměly být publikovány.

V postoji k představování druhé světové války a holocaustu převládl politický moment, byly připomínány válečné oběti – českoslovenští občané, kteří zahynuli kvůli svému politickému přesvědčení a účasti v komunistickém antifašistickém odboji. Fakt, že v koncentračních táborech i mimo ně existoval i nekomunistický antifašistický odboj, nebyl zmiňován. Navíc do oficiálně uváděného počtu československých obětí byli započítáni čeští Židé a vlivem normalizace se postupně povědomí o židovských obětech ztrácelo. Židovské oběti byly pro rétoriku KSČ nepohodlné. Komunistická propaganda židovských obětí zneužila ke svým cílům a vydávala je za československé oběti.

Tento postoj k židovským obětem holocaustu dodnes ve společnosti částečně přetrvává – jak dokumentuje stanovisko Českého svazu bojovníků za svobodu v otázce odškodňování. Když začala FŽO [Federace židovských obcí] vyjednávat odškodnění obětem holocaustu, bylo ze strany ČSBS [Český svaz bojovníků za svobodu - pozn. red.] na tyto oběti pohlíženo optikou odboje: údajně nelze srovnávat židovské oběti, které trpěly vězněním v koncentračních táborech a partyzány, kteří bojovali se zbraní v ruce na frontě.

Zlom přinesl rok 1989. V devadesátých letech se otevřely archivy a začalo se solidně bádat. Dnešní percepce holocaustu je ovlivněna mimo jiné tím, že žijeme v „global village“ – ačkoli v povědomí národa jakési povědomí o holocaustu bylo již dříve, zájem o holocaust se k nám vrací přes Spojené státy americké. Přelomovým dílem byl Spielbergův film „Schindlerův seznam“, který byl celosvětově nadšeně přijat. Pro české prostředí je však postava Schindlera velice kontroverzní, jelikož byl součástí Abwehru, jednotek, které se podílely na likvidaci Sudet. Přes Ameriku se k nám dostává klezmer, jidiš literatura – lidé si ale neuvědomují, že v pražském prostředí nic takového před válkou neexistovalo. Často se mylně uvádí, že v Praze před válkou spolu žily tři kultury – česká, německá a židovská – ovšem takto to vůbec nefungovalo. Pražská židovská komunita byla více méně odnoží rakouské a německé. Židovská kultura jako taková v Praze před válkou neexistovala – židovští protagonisté byli jednak v českém okruhu, na druhé straně byli i v německém okruhu, ovšem tvořili spíše jakýsi můstek, spojnici mezi českou a německou kulturou.

Dnešní informovanost o holocaustu není v českém prostředí dostatečná – mnoho lidí označuje holocaust za genocidu, to je ovšem mylná klasifikace. Holocaust byl doprovázen obrovským majetkovým lupem, který byl svého času hlavním motivem. Pokud by se mluvilo o genocidě, tak holocaust byl genocida prováděná na základě zákonů – a tím právě je holocaust jedinečný. Proto je holocaust naprosto ojedinělý.

Glosář:

Friedrich Falevich
Slutsk
Belarus
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: January 2006

Friedrich Falevich was having a hard time at the time of this interview. His wife was severely ill. Their sons live in another town, and there are just the two of them to take care of each other. Friedrich has to take care of the household work and of his wife.

This requires a lot of time and effort. I didn't have a chance to visit him at home. Such visits would not be appreciated considering that there is a severely ill member of the family at home. I conducted this interview at the hotel where I was staying.

Fortunately, Friedrich lives across the street from this hotel. He could come for the interview a few times a day. He did everything he had to at home, and then found an hour and a half to come to see me at the hotel before he rushed back to his wife.

Friedrich's life has never been cloudless, but he has never lost optimism and his sense of humor. Friedrich is a stout man of average height. One can tell he spent a lot of time doing sports when he was young. He has very kind eyes.

It was very hard for Friedrich to speak about all the horrors he went through in his childhood during the war. He was prisoner of two ghettos in Slutsk.

His family was among the few survivors. In his childhood Friedrich understood that the main value in life is doing good things for other people, and he's lived his life according to this principle. He still follows this principle and finds possibilities to help people despite his own hardships.

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

• My family background

My father's family lived in Lyakhovichi, Brest region [about 100 km from Minsk], a small town in Belarus. My paternal grandmother and grandfather came from Lyakhovichi. I hardly know anything about my grandfather Isroel Falevich. He was a cabman. My grandfather died in the early 1930s, and my father didn't tell me much about him. I knew my grandmother Rieva. I don't know my grandfather of grandmother's dates of birth. I sometimes wish I knew more about my family. I would like to know more details of our ancestors' life, now that I've grown old enough. I think it would be interesting to know, but there is nobody to ask.

My father was the youngest of four children. I know that my father had two sisters, but neither my brother nor I can remember even their names. All I know is that long before the Great Patriotic War 1 one of them moved to Vilnius, Lithuania, and another one moved to Tallinn [today Estonia]. They were married. The one from Vilnius visited us once and wrote a few letters, but then our communication stopped.

We have no information about her or any of her family or children. As for another sister, I've never met her. I knew my father's older brother Yakov. I think he was born in 1902. My father Iosif was born in 1905. I know nothing about my father's childhood. My father had some education. I think he finished seven years. My father's family spoke Yiddish at home.

It's hard to say how religious the family was before the revolution [Russian Revolution of 1917] 2. At least, when I knew grandmother Rieva, from what I remember, she didn't observe Jewish traditions. Or maybe, I just didn't know that she did. I was too young to understand things of this kind.

Lyakhovichi was one of many such towns in Belarus. Jews constituted almost half of its population. I've never visited my father's home town, but that's what my father told me about it. The origin of the Falevich surname is interesting. There is a small Belarus village by the name of Falevichi not far from Lyakhovichi.

Almost all villagers have the surname of Falevich, but there are no Jews among them. Once, when I was in the Naroch recreation center in the vicinity of Minsk, I met Faina Falevich, a plain village girl. She worked as a medical nurse in the recreation center. Her father's name was Iosif, like my father's. Perhaps, one of my kin came from this village. I don't know. I don't think my father would have known. My father didn't tell me about Lyakhovichi, his home town either.

When Yakov and my father grew up, they left Lyakhovichi for Slutsk, Minsk region [about 100 km from Minsk]. Slutsk was a bigger town, and it was easier to find a job in a bigger town. Yakov went to work as a firefighter. He married Anastasia, a Russian girl. They had four children. Their older son's name was Vladimir.

This was a very popular name at the time. This was the name of Lenin, the leader of the Soviet proletariat. The second child's name was Raisa, then came their son Anatoliy and their daughter Ludmila. My grandfather and grandmother moved to Slutsk. They lived close to our house.

My father was very enthusiastic about the revolution and establishment of the Soviet power. This is so natural, considering that he came from a poor family, and the Soviet regime gave him all he had. My father joined the Communist Party when he was very young. This happened in 1925 when he was 20.

Having no special education, he was appointed to managerial positions when he became a party member. These people were called promoted workers. It meant that the Soviet regime promoted and supported them. They were fit considering their social origin and class of origin.

My mother came from Kopyl, Minsk region [about 100 km from Minsk], a small Belarusian town. Her father and my grandfather, Girsh Abramovich, was also a cabman and Grandmother Sarah was a housewife. I remember my grandfather and grandmother's house. This was a big and stable wooden house.

There was a big yard and household structures in the yard: a cow shed and stables where Grandfather kept his horses. There was an orchard and a vegetable garden near the house. My brothers and I often visited and stayed with my mother's parents. Kopyl is not far from Slutsk, and often one of our acquaintances gave us a lift or our father took us there by car.

I remember my grandmother and grandfather well. Grandfather Girsh was a tall and strong man. He had no beard, but from what I remember he hardly ever looked shaved. I remember him standing by his tackled up horse with a whip in his hands. I remember my grandfather slapping on his bootleg with the whip. Then he usually got into his cab and left for work. He came back after dark, when we were asleep, for the most part. I thought this was the way strong men should have looked. My grandfather was a bit rugged and taciturn, but he loved his grandchildren and was happy, when we were visiting. My grandmother was a nice, short, snub-nosed and round-faced lady.

I remember her wearing a dress and an apron. Her sleeves were always rolled up. When we were naughty, my grandmother pretended she was yelling at us waffing her hands as if she was chasing away flies. In summer we liked sleeping in the hayloft on the fragrant straw, stored for the cow and horses. We played in the garden and ran around in the yard. My mother's parents only spoke Yiddish at home.

I don't know if my grandmother and grandfather were religious. I don't remember ever seeing my grandfather pray. In the morning he had breakfast, gave everybody an errand to be done before he was back and left. He didn't pray after coming back home in the evening either.

I know that there were five children. My mama was the youngest. I've never seen Mama's two brothers and don't know anything about them. I know that Mama also had a sister named Masha [affectionate for Maria], but have no information about her. I only knew Mama's sister Rishe. She was ¾ years older than Mama. My mother was born in 1906. She was given the Jewish name of Judes.

Later Mama started to be addressed by the Russian name of Yulia [common name] 3, and this was the name that she had in her passport. However, she had the name of Judes indicated in her birth certificate. Neither Mama, nor her sister Rishe managed to get any education. They were illiterate, and the only thing they could manage was writing their names.

Mama and my father met in Slutsk. Mama left Kopyl for Slutsk looking for better job opportunities. I don't remember the details of their acquaintance.

All I can say for sure is that this wasn't a matchmaking process since there were no matchmakers left at the time. They got married some time in 1924-1925. Undoubtedly, they didn't have a traditional Jewish wedding. I don't know, maybe they organized a party for their families.

Mama didn't work after getting married. My father occupied a rather responsible position at the time. He was director of the Slutsk vegetable storage base Belplodoovoshsch and was a member of the bureau of the Slutsk district party committee. The salary he was paid was quite sufficient for the family.

• Growing up

Our family lived on Komsomolskaya Street in the center of Slutsk. There were several wooden houses in the street - each for two families. There were two different entrances to each apartment. We lived in one of those houses. There was a big garden in the yard, and there was also a Forpost sports ground. Forpost was something like a sports ground and a club at the same time. Children liked it and spent a lot of time there. My brothers and I were no exception.

My oldest brother Igor was born in 1926. He was the only one who didn't have a brit milah. I don't know if my brother has a Jewish name. In his documents his name is stated as Igor, while Grandmother called him Izia at home. Izia was affectionate for Isaac or Israel. My next brother, Boris, was born in 1929. Both of them still knew Grandfather Isroel, our father's father.

He died shortly before I was born. I was born on 1st May 1934. The 1st of May was a Soviet holiday. My father selected a name for me from the communist calendar. One day in late April was Friedrich Engels' 4 death anniversary, and that's how it happened that I had the name of Friedrich given to me. This is what Mama told me.

I remember the house where we lived before the war. We had three or four rooms in our quarters and a big kitchen. There were high ceilings and big windows. There was a big living room. The living room was called a hall at the time. The family sat in this room on holidays and also, we received guests in it.

On two walls of this room, from the floor to the ceiling, there were big portraits of all members of the politburo of the Central Party Committee in frames behind the glass. I guess all party members had such portraits. These portraits were sacred to my father. Our apartment was always clean and well-maintained. Mama and Grandmother kept our home very clean. Mama was very particular about cleanliness. Everything, including the dishes, was shiny.

We were a well-respected family in the town. We were the family of a top level official. Nevertheless, one of my childhood memories is that Mama often took piglets for fattening. We had sheds behind the house, and that was where Mama and our neighbor kept pigs. Our neighbor fattened pigs to 20 poods of weight [1 pood = 16kg].

They couldn't even move and waited there till the food was brought to them. We didn't have such giants, but still, when my parents slaughtered a pig, the family had pork fat and meat that lasted for months. We didn't observe Jewish traditions at home. The party struggled against religion 5 and relics of the past in people's minds, and my father was a dedicated communist.

The Jewish population prevailed in Slutsk before the war. There were 14,000 Jews out of 22,000 residents. For the most part, we had Jewish friends. Our father or mother never told us that we shouldn't play with Russian or Belarusian children. My father was a convinced internationalist and just couldn't teach us things like this, but it happened so that we played with Jewish children. We didn't disassociate ourselves from Russian children, and played with them whenever they came to our yard. Never in my prewar childhood did I hear the word 'Jew' or 'zhyd' from a child or adult.

There was no such national segregation or anti-Semitism. We spent almost all of our time in the yard. We did sports in the Forpost or played in the yard or in the garden. We did our own things. Mama checked that we were in the yard every now and then. We weren't supposed to go to the street, but we really didn't have to.

There was sufficient entertainment for us in the yard. My older brothers spent time with their own friends, and I played with my friends. There was sufficient space in the yard. On weekends our parents and we went to swim in the Sluchanka River not far from our house. Sometimes I went to the river bank with my older brother. I had a happy childhood.

Our grandmother Rieva, my father's mother, also lived in Slutsk. She had a house on Volodarskaya Street not far from our house. My grandmother seemed very old to me, but now I understand that she was probably younger than I am now. My grandmother was bow-backed under the load of her years. She wore a large warm checked shawl with tassels. Grandmother put it round her head, and it fell onto her shoulders and back like a mantle. Many old Jewish women in Slutsk wore such shawls.

My grandmother loved her grandchildren dearly, and we loved her as well. Grandmother didn't bore us with moral teaching and understood us. My grandmother was very easy-going and loved talking to us. She listened to what we had to tell her and gave us her advice. She would have called us to order when we were naughty, but this didn't happen often.

My grandmother spent almost all of her time at our home. She only went home to sleep. I don't think my grandmother was religious, at least she wasn't when I knew her. Considering my father's position, my grandmother's religiosity might have done him harm in his party-wise and work career. I hardly ever visited my grandmother's home on Volodarskaya Street. My grandmother might have had a book of prayers and she might have observed Jewish traditions, but I know nothing about it.

All I can say is that we didn't have a kosher household. Mama didn't separate meat and dairy products and moreover, we often had pork or pork fat. I cannot be sure that my grandmother ate pork fat as well, but she joined us for meals and ate from our non-kosher dishes. I remember Mama pouring wine into Grandmother's glass, and Grandmother dipped a bun into it and ate it. I wish I knew more about my grandmother, but in those years I had different interests and I wanted to spend more time with my friends, rather than communicate with my grandmother.

My grandmother taught us a lot. She taught me and my brother Yiddish. We couldn't read or write in Yiddish, but we can still speak it fluently. We also spoke Yiddish with Mama's family in Kopyl. We haven't forgotten the language and today it is still our mother tongue, the language we speak. My older brothers went to the Jewish elementary school.

I think there was more than one Jewish school in Slutsk before the war. Igor, the older one, finished three or four years in the Jewish school, and Boris, the middle brother, finished two grades. From what I remember, the Jewish schools in Slutsk were closed in 1938 or 1939, and the students went to Russian schools.

Mama and Grandmother raised us. We rarely saw our father. He went to work early in the morning and returned home late at night. However, we waited till Father came back home in the evening. We looked forward to his coming home, but he often came later than usual, and work was the usual excuse he had. We often went to bed before he had returned from work.

We rejoiced so much, when Father found some time for us. When Father came home from work, the three of us humped onto his neck. Father laughed at us, calling us his tank crew. We were very proud when he did. I remember my father well, though we have no photos of him. He was tall and slim. He was well loved and respected in Slutsk.

My father was very kind and helped many people. Some people in Slutsk, who are over 80, still remember Iosif Falevich. We didn't just love him. We adored him. Of course, we missed his love and care. When we grew older, our father started treating us more strictly. However, I was the youngest in the family, and my father spoiled me, paying more attention to me. In 1940 my younger brother Grigoriy was born.

We didn't celebrate Jewish holidays at home. I don't even remember if we celebrated birthdays. However, we did celebrate Soviet holidays: 1st May, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 6, and they were festive holidays. There were parades in Slutsk, and all enterprises participated in them. My brothers went to parades with the school.

I was too young for school, and my father, Mama and I went to parades with my father's colleagues. Mama gave us neatly ironed white shirts, and my older brothers wore their red pioneer neckties [see All-Union pioneer organization] 7. People were carrying flags, flowers and slogans.

The town was nicely decorated. There were red flags and slogans on red cloths. People were rejoicing and smiling. Everything was very festive, and patriotism and inspiration could be felt. People didn't come to parades to get an extra day off or following their management orders, but because their heart dictated them to be there. I think people were different then.

They were able to believe and knew how to rejoice. I particularly liked the 1st May holiday, because it was also my birthday. After the parade there were concerts and festivals. Mama made festive dinners and we had guests. Our relatives and my father's friends were visiting us. They danced and sang Soviet and Ukrainian songs, and it was a lot of fun.

In 1937, during the period of mass persecution in the USSR [see Great Terror] 8, my father was arrested. I was too young to understand what was going on, and all I know about it is what my mother and brothers told me. My father was arrested following a mendacious accusation. My mother didn't leave it at that.

She went to the district party committee and NKVD 9 office, and her effort was a success. My father was released two or three days later. We didn't know any details, which is natural, and we might never know any, but the most important thing was that my father was free, and was no longer accused of anything.

The officers found out that my father was belied and left him alone. He came from a poor family and was a dedicated member of the Party and it must have been true that there was no reason to persecute him. He wasn't even expelled from the Party, and no reprimand was issued to him.

Upon release my father was appointed to the position of director of the Slutsk guild of invalids 'Red Star.' This was a service provision enterprise. It included a shoe shop, a tailor's shop, and there were various services provided, including fixing and repair works. My father kept this position till the beginning of the Great Patriotic War.

I often visited him at work, and he gave me a ride in his car. I remember this. Of course, some of my father's acquaintances weren't so lucky, but really I was too young to take any notice of these occurrences. I know that my father was helping many people. When my father was director of Belplodoovoshsch, Voinilovich, a Belarusian man, whom my father knew, addressed him. In the early 1930s Voinilovich was dispossessed [see kulaks] 10 of his property and imprisoned.

When he was released, he came to see my father, telling him that he needed help and wanted a job. He couldn't find any job. Employers feared to employ a former prisoner. My father gave him a job as a worker, and he kept this job till before the war. Now I understand that my father was facing a risk, employing a former prisoner, an enemy of the people 11, and Voinilovich valued my father's attitude a lot. During the war Voinilovich and his family gave us a lot of support in the memory of my father, but I'm going to describe this later.

• During the War

When in 1939 Hitler's army attacked Poland [see Invasion of Poland] 12, our family wasn't concerned. My father wasn't recruited to this war, and it was over when the Soviet troops came to Poland. Western Belarus was annexed to the USSR, and this gave us even more confidence in the strength and invincibility of the USSR. Probably, things weren't so quiet near the Belarusian border with Poland, but we lived in the rear of Belarus, and there were no Jewish refugees from Poland coming to our town.

They went past where we were: from Baranovichi to Minsk. Shortly after the war with Poland, the war with Finland [see Soviet-Finnish War (1939-40)] 13 began, and my father was recruited to the army. We were very much concerned about my father, but he returned home pretty soon. The war didn't last long, either. We were sure there would be no more wars, and Hitler realized he was no good at fighting the Soviet Union. Our family stayed calm.

Mama's sister Rishe also lived in Slutsk. She was married to Simche Ongiberg. Simche was a cabman, and Rishe was a housewife. I remember Rishe's husband well. He was an arrogant and showing-off man and always wanted to insist on his own ways. They had six children. The three older children's names were Lubov, Mikhail and Asia. I don't remember the other three. The oldest of the girls was a little older than me, and the others were younger. Rishe's family lived not far from where we lived, and we were friends with their children.

In spring 1941 the tension was growing in Slutsk. Even the children could feel it. There is a heating power plant in Slutsk. The boiler's stacks were high and could be seen from afar. We started seeing some weird strangers near the power plant. Even militiamen often chased them away. Pioneers and schoolchildren were taught to be observant at school and watch strangers, since they could be spies or diversionists.

We were on guard and could tell that those people were sort of looking for something. Adults also were suspicious about them. Our windows faced the plant, and we could see many things. These people were coming there more and more frequently. They looked like diversionists, but this subject wasn't allowed to be discussed aloud.

There was a ban on spreading rumors and having discussions that might cause panic. However, the town officials were discussing things like that. They knew there was something dangerous about them. My father knew more than the others, being a member of the district party committee. I don't know whether he shared what he knew with my mother, but he didn't mention this subject to his children.

The 22nd of June 1941 was a Sunday, one of those rare Sundays, when my father was at home. We were happy about it and were making plans for the day. We were in the garden, when one of our neighbors told us that Molotov 14 was going to speak on the radio. We rushed into the house, and were there just on time to hear the speech.

What he was saying was that the German/fascist invaders had attacked the Soviet Union without declaration of war. He also said that we were standing for the right deed and that we were going to win. A few minutes after his speech the German air force attacked Slutsk.

German bombers were heading to our power plant, but then our fighters fought them, and the bombers flew away after having dropped a few bombs. That day they caused no damage to the plant, but the town suffered losses. German bombers fired their automatic guns on the houses. There was an air fight right above our house.

We rushed into the garden hiding behind the trees. My friends and I ran under the car trailer with no wheels in our yard. When the fight was over, we went back into the house and saw that all portraits of members of the politburo had been knocked off from the walls by the fire burst. The broken glass pieces were all over the floor, and there were bullet holes in some portraits scattered on the floor. This was scary. This is how the war began for us.

On the first day of the war my father left us and went to the front. He was a tank man, a reserve lieutenant and commanding officer of a tank platoon. When we were saying 'good bye' to him, he said to Mama, 'Yulia, take care of the children!' He kissed us and went away. That was all.

This was the last time we saw him. We know very little about what happened to Father. My father's brother Yakov Falevich was a firefighter in Slutsk. When the fire brigade evacuated, Yakov happened to be in Mogilyov. Somebody told him that his younger brother Iosif was in hospital in Mogilyov.

Yakov found the hospital and our father was there. My father was there after he had been burnt in a tank in a battle. Yakov left him there and this is all information we have about our father. We have no idea where else he fought or where he died. At the end of the war we were notified that he was missing. At that time, if, for example, they couldn't identify a dead man on the battlefield, they identified him as a missing person.

It was two days after the war began when we decided it was time to leave Slutsk. We shouldn't have delayed our departure till it was too late. If we had left at the very beginning, we would have reached Bobruysk or Minsk, and then we would have had a different life. But then, what happened was what we had.

We left Slutsk on 24th June 1941. I remember Mama discussing this subject of departure with her sister and her husband. Grandmother Rieva bluntly refused to leave home. She said she was too old to change anything in her life and be whatever there would be. Mama and her sister took their time thinking and considering how we should leave everything behind and face the unknown future.

Rishe had six children and there were also four of us. Rishe's older children Lubov, Mikhail and Asia, and my older brother Igor decided to move ahead. The adults were still in the course of discussions until Rishe's husband finally harnessed his only horse, and we left.

There was a lot of luggage, though we only had the necessary clothes and some food for a start. The children were sitting in the wagon, and the adults walked beside it. We stopped every now and then to feed the horse and give it a chance to rest. The highway was bombed by German planes, and we took the back roads.

We reached Bobruysk on 27th June. It was quiet, and this was different. When we were on the way, there was never ending roar of firing and explosions, but not in the town. We came to the central street of the town and saw a German soldier sitting on a bench by a fence. Soviet troops blasted all bridges across the river after leaving the town. There was no way for us to move ahead, and we went back to Slutsk. On our way back Germans stopped us occasionally. They arrested Mama's sister's husband Simche, and we returned home without him. We never heard back from Simche. The Germans must have killed him. We returned to Slutsk. We reunited with Grandmother and settled down in Rishe's house.

Right from the start the Germans started arresting and killing communists, Komsomol members 15, and activists. On the first day they killed 26 people. The Germans didn't act on their own. There were traitors, who thought the Soviet regime had mistreated them. All this mud had come up.

They were former prisoners in jails or camps [Gulag] 16, or those who had been exiled and had been hiding their attitude towards the Soviets regime. These people served the Germans and worked in the police. They helped the Germans to make the lists and showed them the right houses where communists or Jews lived. This was the first time I heard the word 'zhyd.'

During the German occupation it became a steady part of our everyday life. We stayed at home as if it was a cage expecting to be arrested or killed. Everybody in Slutsk knew we were the family of a communist and that we were Jews. However, people helped us even in this critical situation. Some policemen knew and respected my father. They helped us to survive; otherwise we would have been killed.

There was a ghetto established in Slutsk in early July. There were military residential developments on Volodarskaya Street, not far from where my grandmother lived. The area was abandoned, but there were wooden barracks left. The policemen fenced the area with barbed wire, and established the first ghetto.

The first inmates were old people and women and children, ill and disabled people. Policemen made the rounds of houses, sending the tenants to the ghetto. Chief of police Afanasenko visited us. Afanasenko knew my father before the war. He was also in prison, and my father had his part in his imprisonment.

I don't remember whether my father was prosecutor or witness of the prosecution at the trial. All we knew was that Afanasenko wasn't the one to show us mercy. He asked our surname and tried to remember whether he knew this surname. There was another Falevich, a Jewish man. He had his right arm injured, and he was lame. Afanasenko remembered him and asked us whether we were the family of that very man. We shouted that, 'yes, we were.' Afanasenko made a sign to the policemen and they left.

We were taken to the ghetto. Jews were convoyed there like cattle. Nobody had any luggage. There was no time to pack. Rishe's family, my grandmother and Mama with three children came to the ghetto. There were 30-40 inmates in each barrack room. There wasn't sufficient place for all on the plank beds, and the other inmates had to find a space they could fit in.

There were old people, women and children in the ghetto. The men who could go to work stayed in town for the time being, unless they were communists or Komsomol members. Initially they took only those people to the ghetto that were subject to extermination. The memories of the ghetto are very hard, but I know that I have to talk about it for people to know what fascism was like and to prevent this horror from happening in the future.

Adults and teenagers had to go to work every day from the ghetto. My mother and twelve-year-old brother had to go to work every day, and my younger brother Grigoriy and I stayed with our grandmother and Aunt Rishe. My grandmother grew very weak in the ghetto. She stayed on her plank bed. I walked with other children around the ghetto. There were severe restrictions in the ghetto. The gates were guarded by policemen and Germans with weapons. Inmates went to work through this check point. Children were allowed to run around the ghetto with no restrictions.

I don't know whether we would have survived, if it hadn't been for the kind people supporting us. They brought potatoes, beetroots or even a piece of bread, some milk and cereals to the fence around the ghetto. They shared whatever little they had with us, though their children were no less hungry.

They knew they were going to get no compensation - where would we have got money from? We had nothing to offer these kind people, but they didn't do it for the money. There were many nice people. Voinilovich found us in the ghetto. He lived not far from the ghetto. He started visiting us, bringing some food and clothes and did whatever he could for us.

This man had a great heart. I believe he rescued us. He mentioned once that my father gave him a hand, when he was having a hard time, and that now he was glad to be helpful to us. He passed away a long time ago, and so did his wife Anna. Their son Edward, who is the same age as I, lives in Slutsk. We are childhood friends and we still see each other. I've mentioned Voinilovich as an example that a kind action is paid back one hundred times more than the effort it took. Goodness generates goodness, that's what life stands on.

Inmates of the ghetto had no warm clothes. We were given no time to pack when we left our homes. Fall brought cold weather. It was cold and hard in the ghetto, but those who had to go to work suffered more. The winter of 1941-42 was very cold. Inmates were freezing and dying from diseases or the cold.

Once Mama found a ragged cotton wool coat in the street and she wore it during the war. Voinilovich also brought us some old clothes. Mama's acquaintances gave her food, when she saw them in town. I stayed inside the barrack, having no warm clothes.

My brother, who had to go to work, wore a few rugged shirts and trousers. The boots had almost fallen apart, and inmates had to tie them with some rags and ropes to keep them from falling apart, and that was how it was. It's very hard to tell about what we lived through and saw. I've forgotten many facts: the human memory is made so that it keeps good memories and dumps the bad ones. However, when my brother and I start recalling how it was, we cannot really understand how we managed to survive. These are horrible things to recall.

Mama and my brother had to clean the streets and apartments where the Germans and policemen were staying. They were also involved in loading activities. One day in October 1941 they were sent to clean barracks in the military quarters at the entrance to Slutsk. This military area was to be prepared for the arrival of German military units.

They had to remove broken pieces of furniture from barracks, clean them and wash windows and floors. All of a sudden they were brought together and ordered to run back to the ghetto across the town. Nobody explained to them what the rush was all about.

I was wandering about the ghetto with other children. There was a smaller building housing a kitchen in the yard, and inmates could cook there if they had things to cook. We ran into this kitchen, when policemen came inside. They kicked us out of the kitchen and took us back to the barrack.

Then the inmates were ordered to leave the barracks. They were encircled by German soldiers and policemen, who sorted them out by lists, segregating the weakest inmates, women with babies, who couldn't go to work. The inmates were divided into two groups. I ran to my mother and she held me tight. A German soldier called the name, the person came out of the crowd, and the soldiers assessed the person telling him or her, which group they should join.

Then they called the name of the man, standing beside us. I don't remember his name, but I remember that he was a tailor. He was sent to those that were to live. When they told him where to go, he took Mama and me by our hands and took us with him.

Then the group in which my brother Boris was returned from work. Boris saw us in the group of inmates who were to live and tried to get through to us. Our rescuer told the German soldier, responsible for sorting people out, that Boris was his son, and the soldier allowed him to join us. My grandmother and little Grigoriy stayed in the group to be exterminated.

This was happening before our eyes. The doomed ones were taken onto trucks. My grandmother couldn't climb the truck. Policemen took her by her feet and hands and threw her into the truck. They did it to all those, who couldn't get there on their own. When all inmates were there, they were taken to the place where they were to die. The others were ordered to go back to the barracks.

The doomed ones were taken to the Selishche ravine eight kilometers from Slutsk. ?here was a beautiful birch grove there. The pits were already there, and the people were killed in this ravine. Some died immediately, and others were buried alive. There are few such graves there. In the 1990s our Jewish community, supported by the Slutsk executive committee [Ispolkom] 17, installed a monument to innocent victims on one grave.

There is an engraving on the black marble, reading 'To the memory of the living.' We visit the place every year on the anniversary of the shooting. We clean up the place and bring flowers. There is a chicken farm in the vicinity, and its employees take care of the graves, and local schoolchildren also help them.

I have another horrific memory associated with that day. During the sorting process an open car drove into the ghetto. There was a tall and handsome German man sitting in it. He stopped the car, watching silently for some time, and then stood up in the car and addressed us in Russian, 'What sin could you, Jews, have done to be killed so mercilessly?' He had a 'God be with us' sign on his uniform cap. This was terrifying. Then we were ordered to go back to the barracks.

Life in the ghetto followed its usual routine, when all of a sudden, in April 1942, a policeman, who had known my father before the war, came to the ghetto, approached my mother and said to her, 'Yulia, you'll be done with tomorrow. You must run away.' He helped us to escape. We went back to Aunt Rieva's house and settled down there. The following day the inmates were taken to the Selishche ravine where they were killed. Mama's sister Rishe and her children were killed then. We survived, and again, kind people helped us.

There were still Jews in Slutsk, and the Germans established another ghetto in the center of Slutsk, not far from the building of the executive committee. This neighborhood was called Shkolische before the war. This was a Jewish neighborhood with adjoining wooden huts. There was Respublikanskaya Street and Paris Commune Street that formed the neighborhood called Shkolische.

The area was fenced with barbed wire and there was always a guard at the gate. All the remaining Jewish population was taken to this ghetto. They were chased away from their homes, and there were three thousand of them taken into the ghetto that time.

When we came to the ghetto, we managed to settle down in a small wooden house with 40 tenants in it already. The Germans established the Jewish committee [Judenrat] 18, to manage life in the ghetto. I remember the chairman of the Jewish committee. I didn't know his surname, but I can still see him before my eyes: he was a tall man with his head shaved, wearing the breeches type of trousers, boots and walking with a stick.

It goes without saying that the Jewish committee couldn't care less about the inmates of the ghetto. All they cared about was their well-being. All inmates of the ghetto were bound to wear yellow hexagonal stars pined to their clothes. People wearing such stars weren't supposed to walk on pavements.

We, boys, used to run away from the ghetto every now and then. We left our stars behind and ran away through a trap-way. What we saw in the town was horrifying. There were wooden gallows posts installed along the central street in Slutsk, a circa 200-meter stretch along the street, and there were always dead bodies hanging on them. People were hanged for whatever fault, and not only Jews.

People were hanged even for trying to give a piece of bread or some flour to inmates of the ghetto. Jews were hanged, if they were noticed walking without a star. The gallows made a horrible sight, and we returned to the ghetto exhausted by what we had seen. I really don't know how our children's hearts could bear all this!

I will tell you another episode of our life in the ghetto. It is imprinted on my memory. This is one of the most horrifying memories. I would be happy to forget, but this scene is just there before my eyes. The boys were running around the ghetto. We were in the Paris Commune Street. Aunt Rishe's husband's relatives lived in this street. I think that was his aunt.

This woman's daughter-in-law was sitting on the porch breastfeeding her baby, when two German soldiers came around. They were walking along the street looking inside the houses. They came along to the house where the woman was sitting with her baby. The Germans approached her. One of them took her baby from her and threw it aside like a log.

Then he kneeled before this woman and tried the milk from her breast. He must have liked it, because he started sucking her breast till it was empty. The baby was screaming all this time. There were five of us standing still there. We were shocked and couldn't move. Another German soldier was standing there waiting. The one that was sucking the breast stood up, brushed off the dust from his knees and burst into laughter. They left, and we were standing there for a long time before we could move.

The Germans started building four houses not far from the ghetto. They made the pits and started working on the foundations. All men from the ghetto worked at this construction site. They were forced to carry gravestones from the Jewish cemetery for the foundations. There was a Jewish cemetery a few kilometers from the site before the war.

Men were to carry those huge and heavy granite and marble slabs, and moreover, they had to run carrying them. Policemen or the Germans were following them, and when one of them stopped, they whipped him on his head, neck or back. If a man fell and couldn't stand on his feet, they killed him. These houses are still there, standing on Jewish gravestones, and the cemetery was eliminated.

The inmates of the ghetto also had to do other work. They were taken to farther sites by trucks. When they returned, there were a few missing. Occasionally, they sorted out families with many children, weak and ill inmates and drove them away on two or three trucks. None of them ever came back. Conditions of living in the ghetto were severe. Life was easier in summer.

At least, we didn't suffer from the cold. In winter we tried to take advantage of any chance to warm ourselves up. We broke furniture or fences for wood: anything to stoke the stoves. We weren't allowed to pick wood anywhere outside and had to do with what we had at hand. However, we ran out of this opportunity pretty soon.

Mama went to work at the power plant. The power plant operated on turf produced at the turf factory in Slutsk. The factory also dried the turf supplied to our boiler. Turf was delivered by rail from Radichevo to Slutsk. Mama worked at the loading/unloading ramp at the factory. She also took my brother and me to work. We were digging the turf with sharp knives.

The knives were so heavy that I could hardly hold one, but there was no alternative to it. We were working at turf quarries standing knee-high in water. We loaded turf sheets onto the train that was called 'cuckoo' train and sat on top. Then we unloaded the turf at the boiler and went back to Radichevo.

In the evening we delivered the turf back to Slutsk and returned to the ghetto. It was a lot of luck that Mama had this job, since they only involved strong men, prisoners-of-war, in these operations. There were also Jewish men working there, and Mama was acquainted with them.

In August 1942 one Jewish prisoner-of-war told Mama that they were plotting an escape to the woods from Radichevo where they were hoping to find partisans. This man promised Mama that the three of us would also join them. They were planning an escape for the end of August. On the set date we arrived at Radichevo and found out that the group had already gone leaving us behind.

This was mean of them, to do this to us. We had to think it over. When working at the turf factory, Mama met a woman from the village of Ulanovo near Radichevo. This woman, Uliana, also worked at the factory. Uliana told Mama to find a way to get to her house in the village, and then she would try to take us to the woods, but at that time Mama decided it was better for us to run away with those men to eliminate any risk for Uliana.

After the men were gone, Uliana was our last hope. Mama found her in Radichevo and told her our story. Uliana said she would think about what to do. In the evening we went to Uliana's home. This was Sunday. In the evening my mother and Uliana ran a bath for my brother and me and shaved our heads.

On Sunday morning Uliana brought embroidered shirts that farmers used to wear, and we put them on. Mama also put on a peasant dress and a white kerchief that Belarusian women wore. Uliana harnessed the horse, and we climbed the wagon and moved on. We were riding in the middle of the day and nobody paid any attention. We stopped every now and then to feed the horse or have some water to drink. People were going back from the church and there were policemen all around, drinking and enjoying themselves.

We reached the woods in Kopyl district before dark. Uliana halted the horse and told us this was the farthest she could take us and that she had to go back home. So she left wishing us good luck. It was dark and we didn't know the way in the woods. Uliana gave us some food. We went farther into the woods and had a meal.

Then we picked some pine tree branches for makeshift beds and fell asleep. We had to sleep over it, in order to know what to do. At dawn we heard some noise and people's voices. We took shelter in the bushes and watched. We saw men with guns and a woman among them. We knew they were partisans and approached them. They encircled us and asked us where we came from.

The woman asked Mama our surname. When she heard it was Falevich, she asked if Mama was Falevich's wife. This woman happened to be the secretary of the district party committee of Slutsk and she had known my father well. Then the partisans felt easier about us knowing that we hadn't been sent by the Germans. So we joined the partisan unit and were free.

Mama joined the unit, but it was not for my brother and me to be there. There were civil refugee family camps a few kilometers from the partisan unit. My brother and I were sent to this camp. People in the camp had escaped from the Germans and left their villages. When people in the villages heard about the German raids, they escaped to the woods, and partisans took them under their protection. The camps were located five to ten kilometers from partisan bases. There was communication established since the Germans could attack any time.

People in the camp made earth huts and tents from pine branches. They also had pine and fur tree branches on the floors to keep their lodgings warm. My brother and I made a fire, and when the ground was warm enough, we put the fire down, covered the ground with pine tree branches and slept on them before we learned to make an earth hut.

We also covered ourselves with branches to keep warm. Food was a bigger problem. In fall and winter we looked for potatoes in the fields left after harvesting. In fall potatoes were all right, but they were frozen in winter. We also begged for food in villages. Some people gave us food and others chased us away. My brother and I always knew the whereabouts of the partisan unit, and occasionally we managed to get there to see Mama. We needed to be close to her and she needed us...

About a year passed. In 1943 the leadership of Kopyl district decided to send us across the frontline to the rear on a plane. The partisans helped us to get to the partisan air field in Luban district, Minsk region. It was a long distance away. We walked from Kopyl district across the woods and swamps to Luban district. It was over 200 kilometers away.

This was a very hard trip, but we managed. However, then the leadership decided it was unreasonable to take such high risk for the sake of one family, and we stayed in Luban district. There were no family camps there, though there were partisan units. We lived in villages trying to be closer to partisan units. We lived in the villages of Kalinovka and Polichin. This was a partisan controlled area, and Germans were rare there. The locals knew who we were, but nobody reported on us to the Germans.

So we lived there until March 1944, when the Germans started to blockade this area. The villagers were running away taking whatever shelter they could find. Mama, we and three locals were hiding away in the bushes in a swamp. We had no food or water for five days. The Germans were finishing their blockade.

They marched in a row across the woods and the swamp, when they came across us. They captured us and took us to a village with irrigation channels on the swamp. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. We stayed in the village. There were Germans in the village, and there was no way to escape.

We sat there and then I could bear it no longer and told Mama I would ask the Germans for a piece of bread. Mama didn't mind. We had nothing to lose. I approached a group of five or six Germans. They were sitting around the fire having dinner. They were having tinned meat and cocoa. I can still remember the smell of this cocoa.

I approached them with the words, 'Mister, give me some bread!' They could understand the words bread, milk or eggs. They looked at me. Of course, I didn't look well. One of them went to their tent and brought a loaf and a half of bread that he gave me. He also poured some cocoa into his pot. I returned to Mama and my brother and we feasted. We could have half a loaf of bread each plus cocoa. We had dinner, cuddled up and fell asleep.

In the early morning we were ordered to get up and move to Kalinovka where the German staff was located. About six of us were taken to a house and ordered to stand with our faces to the wall. I saw that Boris took a piece of bread from his pocket and started eating it. I don't know how long we were standing like this before the German soldier told us to turn. We saw that there were Vlasov 19 soldiers in the house besides the Germans. We got scared. Vlasov soldiers were said to be more cruel and merciless than the Germans. A Vlasov soldier came in with a rope in his hand.

We knew this was the end and they would hang us, but instead, they started asking where we came from and how we happened to be in the swamp. We were telling them stories, of course, since we couldn't possibly tell them the truth. We were convoyed to Polichin, another village, where we were taken to a house stuffed with people. They were people from this and other villages.

There was no space left to even stand there. When we heard that this was Polichin, we got scared. We used to live in this village, and the villagers knew us and knew that Yulia's family was hiding from the Germans. However, again nobody reported on us, neither in Polichin nor back in Kalinovka. They could have easily whispered a word to a policeman that we were Jewish, being evil or just seeking favor, but none of them did.

The Germans left us in this hut and walked away. All those in the hut probably had just one thought knowing that this was probably our last night and we would be killed in the morning. This was a long and painful night. At dawn we were surprised by the silence. There were no steps or voices heard. Those who were stronger moved closer to the window. Everything was very still. We walked outside. There were no guards around. We knew we were free. The villagers ran back to their houses.

We returned to the old man and the old woman we had stayed with in Polichin before. We stayed there till Slutsk was liberated by the Soviet troops on 30th June 1944. We left Polichin for Kalinovka and saw our troops moving from the area of Mozyr. The Germans were no longer holding the blockade of Slutsk since our armies were advancing.

On the highway a military truck heading to Slutsk gave us a lift. On 3rd July 1944 we got off the truck on the main street in Slutsk near the government building. The moment we got off a German plane appeared all of a sudden and dropped a few bombs before flying away.

The war was over for us, and for the most part, it was not too bad for us thanks to my father. He did a lot of good to people, and they were helping us in the memory of my father. These people helped us to survive, and even policemen were helping us. Yes, these policemen were our neighbors before the war, and they knew my father and remembered that he had been of service to them.

None of them reported on us or told the Germans that we were the family of a communists and a Jewish man. The phrase 'Beauty will save the world' is very popular nowadays, but I disagree. I get angry hearing this. Kindness, not beauty, will save the world. If you do a good thing for a person, it will come back a hundred times to you. My father probably knew this, and his kindness saved our family.

The town was ruined, almost all of it. Lenin Street, the main street in Slutsk stretching all across the town, was in ruins. One could see the street from one end to another, see the destruction and everything the Germans had done. Slutsk burned down twice: when the German troops were advancing and when they were retreating.

The houses were wooden for the most part, and hardly any of them survived the fire. It's interesting that 11th July Street, where Mama's sister Rishe's house was, was hardly destroyed. All houses were there except Rishe's house, which must have been set on fire on purpose. Somebody must have known there were heirs to it. Hers was the only house in the street that had burnt down.

We were thinking of it as our temporary lodging, but there were only ashes that we saw, when we came there. After the war Rishe's daughters and son returned, but alas... They stood there by the site of the fire for some time before they left the place.

Mama went to the district committee that was already open to find out if there was news from Falevich. We had no information about my father or my older brother Igor. All of a sudden Mama was told that there was a letter from Falevich at the district committee. When they wanted to find it, it wasn't there. It just vanished into thin air. Somebody must have torn and thrown it away, and that was it. They never found it. We left the district committee feeling very sad. There was no information about my father or brother and we had no place to live. We stopped in the square and didn't know where to go, when this woman we knew approached us.

She lived near Aunt Rishe and her name was Pasha. She invited us to her house. She said since we had no house of our own, she could share hers with us till we found a place to live. She gave us shelter and shared whatever food she had. Mama kept visiting the party district committee and the municipal executive committee requesting a place to live until they finally gave us one room in the house where the owner was still in evacuation. The 3rd secretary of the Slutsk district party committee was accommodated in two other rooms of this shared [communal] apartment 20. We celebrated Victory Day, 9th May 1945, in this apartment.

This was so much joy, and a true holiday in the town. People came out into the streets rejoicing, hugging each other and crying. There was a monument to Lenin in the center of Slutsk, in front of the executive committee. When the Germans occupied Slutsk, they pulled the monument down, but the pedestal was still there. It was decorated with red banners and flowers on 9th May, and in the evening people danced and sang there.

When we were in the partisan unit, we heard about what happened to the second ghetto in Slutsk that we had left. Few people survived: the ones who left the ghetto and joined the partisans. They told us what they had seen. When we returned to Slutsk, local residents, eye-witnesses, told us the whole story in detail.

The ghetto was scheduled for elimination in February 1943. Fascists and policemen encircled the ghetto from all sides. The Latvian SS Legion 21 arrived there to be involved in the elimination. The inmates were ordered to get on trucks to be delivered to the shooting site. The inmates were actually prepared for this. I can't imagine where they got weapons, but they happened to be quite armed. When the Germans came to the ghetto, they were met with firing from houses and roofs. The inmates of the ghetto decided to charge a high price for their lives. There were several Germans and policemen killed.

The German units retreated and set the houses on fire from all sides. The houses were burning like candles, but people continued to shoot. They were dying while on fire, jumped from windows and roofs, but kept firing. They were fired at as well and fell dead from the roofs. The people who were doomed to die didn't want to die resignedly.

They decided to resist. They knew they wouldn't be able to kill all Germans and escape, but they didn't want to die like cattle to be slaughtered. There were screams heard from all houses. Women and children were burning alive. This lasted for three days. Three days the ghetto was on fire.

The dead bodies of inmates of the ghetto were there till the snow melted. The Germans didn't allow burying them. The Germans also had taken some inmates away to shoot them beyond the borders of the ghetto. The ones in the ghetto were there till spring. When the snow melted, the Germans allowed local residents to bury them. They were buried in the former ghetto in the center of Slutsk.

My older brother Igor found us. We received his letter and started corresponding with him. Igor was in evacuation with Rishe's older children. They went to some place in Stalingrad region, and when German troops started advancing, they moved to Central Asia. From there Igor was regimented to the front in 1944. After the war Igor wasn't demobilized, but stayed for mandatory service in the army. He served in Lithuania. So we knew where and how he was doing. Igor returned to Slutsk after his demobilization in 1950.

When we were already living in our new apartment, Mama received notification that my father was missing. We didn't lose hope that we would find him, but this hope was vanishing in the course of years. Since I was underage, I received a small pension for my deceased father, which I was to receive till I turned 18.

This was all the income the family had. Life was hard after the war, and this money was far from enough to cover all expenses. Mama couldn't work. She became very ill after we returned. It goes without saying that the sufferings and everything we had gone through, including hard work at the turf factory, often involving standing knee-deep in water, were the cause for this. It often happened that Mama couldn't leave her bed for days in a row. My brother and I had to take care of ourselves and Mama.

• Post-war

In September 1944 a school was opened in Slutsk. The former school building had burnt down, and another house was used to house the school. I went to the first grade. I wasn't the only overage pupil in my class. There were many others like me. Our teachers knew how much we had missed and did their best to help us catch up with the curriculum.

We covered the curriculum of two grades in one year, and in fall 1945 I went to the third grade. We started studying German in the third grade. I thought it was weird. The war had just ended and the Germans had caused so much grief for us, and then we were to learn their language? In protest I just ignored the subject and didn't attend German classes. However, this didn't cause much trouble. The teachers showed understanding to my attitude.

My brother had finished five or six grades before the war, but when he returned home, there was no chance for him to continue his studies. He had to think about earning money for the family. Boris became an apprentice to a locksmith at the Slutsk foundry. He was 15 then. The three of us had to make do with my miserable monthly allowance and the stipend of an apprentice.

These were hard years; even the memory of them is horrible. When my brother went to the army in 1949 life became even harder. Our main product was potatoes, but then we didn't always have it. In the morning the unheated house was as cold as a cellar. I got up early to stoke the stove. Whenever we had potatoes, I used to boil some in their skin.

I gave Mama her breakfast, put a potato into my pocket and rushed to school. It often happened that I ate the potato before I reached my school, and then I had nothing to eat at school and was hungry. Mama was also hungry at home. On my way home from school I was thinking of whatever food I could give to Mama and what I would eat myself. There was no hope for the better or any opportunity to earn some money. I don't know how Mama and I lived through these years before Boris returned.

When my brother returned home, he didn't even take a day's rest. When he saw how we lived, he was terrified. The following day he went to the plant he used to work at. When I finished school in 1953, Boris went to the evening school, and quit his studies after finishing the eighth grade. He never gave up his job at the plant where he worked 50 years less three-year service in the army.

My brother and I were raised to be patriots of our country. We were Soviet children: the pioneer organization, Komsomol and the Party were sacred to us. I was an active pioneer at school. When I turned 14 in 1948, I joined the Komsomol. I was an activist at school. I was an active member of the Komsomol committee of my school.

[Editor's note: Komsomol units existed at all educational and industrial enterprises. They were headed by Komsomol committees involved in organizational activities.]

I've never lost my child's love of Soviet holidays. Even after the war, during this hard and hungry period, our country and our town celebrated Soviet holidays like we used to do it before the war. I always went to parades with my school on holidays. I can still remember how overwhelmed with joy I was, when I marched in the column of parade makers, and there were flowers and flags around, and the sound of appeals:

'Long live the Soviet pioneeria and the Komsomol!' I remember how wonderful this was! This was great, beautiful, active and patriotic! Even now, when people of my generation get together and recall these parades on 1st May, October holidays, and Victory Day 22, tears fill our eyes. The people were living in it spiritually, and this was passed on from one year to the next. This was wonderful, just wonderful!

In 1948 the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 23 began, and anti-Semitism became apparent. People were changing. I didn't quite know these people before the war, but I understand that they changed at the end of the war, and the next stage was after the war. There was a lot of talking about cosmopolitism, but smart people understood what was going on, while the fools accepted it from the positions it was presented to them: these Jews, what else could one expect from them!

However, this was the adult world, while we, children, didn't care much about it. We had our own problems to deal with. When the period of the Doctors' Plot 24 began, this was a noted case, schoolchildren were also aware of it. All of us were Soviet people and we were the followers of Stalin. All were indignant about those who dared to raise their hands on our Stalin. I remember the day of 5th March 1953, when we heard about Stalin's death.

Our school gathered in the conference hall. Everybody was crying, making no effort to conceal the grief; teachers and schoolchildren were wiping away their tears. It was so fearful to be left without Stalin that we had a feeling that this was the end of the world. This was so sincere that one would even lack words to describe how hard we took it. It was a terrible loss for me, too.

Our relatives returned to Slutsk after the war. Rishe's older children Lubov, Mikhail and Asia returned. My father's older brother Yakov and his family returned from the evacuation. He lived in Slutsk with his children, and only Raisa lived on Sakhalin [Island, in the sea of Okhotsk, about 9,000 km east of Moscow] with her husband. Uncle Yakov died about 15 years ago [1990].

He had a tumor on his neck, and he died. They lived near us. When he died, we went there and helped to bathe and dress him. His children, except Ludmila, have passed away. She still lives in Slutsk. Mama's parents died in the ghetto in Kopyl during the war. Asia is the only one living of Aunt Rishe's family. She lives in America now. Lubov died in Israel recently. Mikhail left Slutsk for Kharkov [today Ukraine] after the war. He died a long time ago.

After finishing school I entered the Finance and Economics College in Minsk. After my first year there I was regimented to the army. I was entitled to continue my studies after my mandatory service in the army. I served in Uzbekistan, at the Soviet-Afghani border in Termez settlement. I did very well in the army. Everything was fine. I was assistant commander of a platoon. There were 30 of us in the platoon.

I went in for sports in the army: sprint, football and handball. My supervisors favored me. There were no complaints or demonstrations of anti-Semitism during my service. I joined the Party in 1955, and went to study at the evening party school 25. I was elected a member of the regiment party committee. I have nothing to complain about. Everything was just right. I would wish everybody to have such smooth army service as I did.

The only burden was the climate. Termez was known as the hottest spot in the Soviet Union. The splitting summer heat was hard to bear. This was the only saddening thing at the time. In 1956 I was granted a month's leave and went to Slutsk. I got married during this leave, and I was a married man when I returned to my unit.

I've known Dora Liefshiz, my wife, since school. We were in the same class and we were friends. Dora was a Jew and also came from Slutsk. Dora's father, Boris Liefshiz, was a notary in Slutsk, and her mother, Hana Liefshiz, was an accountant at the Zagotzerno grain stocks company. Dora's older sister Galina was born in 1927. Dora was born in 1933.

During the war Dora's family evacuated to Kazakhstan. After the war they returned to Slutsk. After school Dora also entered the Minsk College of Finance and Economics. When I was in the army, Dora and I corresponded and sent pictures to one another. When I came on leave, we registered our marriage at the registry office and arranged a modest dinner for our close ones. One month's leave flew by and I went back to my military unit.

I returned from the army in 1957, worked till the academic year began, and in 1958 resumed my studies in the college. Dora had finished college before I did. She returned to Slutsk. She worked as an accountant. Our older son Boris was born in 1958. Slutsk is not far from Minsk, and I visited my family on weekends. I finished college in 1961.

I had a job appointment [see mandatory job assignment in the USSR] 26 to Slutsk. I worked as a dispatcher at the motor depot in Slutsk for about six months, and in November 1961 I went to work as an economist at the Slutsk Municipal Financial Department where I worked for eleven years. I was deputy department manager and department manager. In 1962 our second son was born. We gave him the name of Grigoriy after my younger brother who died in the ghetto in Slutsk. I finished another evening party school at the district party committee in Slutsk.

I was a communist, when the Twentieth Party Congress 27 was held. Initially, the speech by Khrushchev 28 in which he denounced Stalin wasn't published in newspapers. It was only read at closed party meetings. So, I knew what it was about before other people got to know about it. Of course, it was a surprise for all of us.

I wouldn't say I took every word Khrushchev said seriously. I was cautious about it. It's hard to say anything unambiguous about it. We, common communists, knew little about what was actually happening in the country. Therefore, I cannot give my assessment of how fair Khrushchev was about Stalin. One thing I can say is this: people keep saying that if Stalin was alive, there would be power and order, and the Soviet Union would be a strong and powerful state. Whatever there was, the events of the Twentieth Party Congress didn't shatter my attitude towards the Communist Party. I have always been an honest communist.

Our family couldn't share one room with Mama. We lived in a small wooden house that belonged to Dora's parents. The living area was about 20 square meters, and it was shared by six tenants. We enrolled in the queue for apartments at the executive committee, but it was such at the time that the priority was given to those, who had no place to live whatsoever.

Our house was small, damp and tumbledown. There was mould everywhere caused by dampness. There was even mould on the clothes in the wardrobe. There was no sufficient space to sleep or breathe. In 1963 an inspection commission from the executive committee visited us to inspect our living conditions. They looked at where we lived, and soon we received an apartment in a new building near the center.

Mama received an apartment in the house next to ours. I received the key to our new apartment, and when my wife and I came there, we started crying from joy. After we moved in there, we were overfilled with joy for a long time. I often went to see Mama. I supported her as much as I could.

My wife and I were working and raising our sons. We wanted to have a daughter very much, and we thought that we would have one, when our younger son grew a little older, but we didn't dare to have another child. Life was hard, and we decided that we had to raise our two sons, at least. I was raising my sons like my father had raised my brothers and me, to be true Soviet children.

They grew up to become good Soviet citizens. I'm very happy with what has become of them. They were members of the Party and dedicated communists before the breakup of the USSR [in 1991]. My wife and I spoke Yiddish at home. Our sons cannot speak it, but they can understand the language. I think it is very important that the Yiddish language is a living language in our family.

I felt the need to continue my education, since my education was no longer sufficient. I entered the extramural department of the Belarus Agricultural Academy, the Faculty of Economics. I went to Minsk to pass my exams twice a year. It wasn't easy to study, but I didn't fear hardships. I haven't been spoiled since childhood. After finishing my studies I received a diploma.

I have no complaints about the Soviet regime. The Soviet regime gave me an opportunity to study at college and the Agricultural Academy, and in evening party schools. Education was free of charge for all then. I also held good positions and had positive records at work. The regime gave us an apartment and a decent life.

In 1971 I left the executive committee. The chairman of the executive had left, and a new one was appointed to replace him. I was to be appointed financial manager of the executive committee, but the Chairman didn't approve me for this position. I had an argument with him before. The secretary of our party organization had quit and I was acting secretary.

The chairman recommended an incumbent for this position at the portback election meeting of the committee. Half of the staff voted for this new incumbent and the other half voted for me, and the chairman of the executive committee told me we wouldn't get along. I decided to quit.

This had nothing to do with my national identity. It was just this incident. I went to work at the construction trust. I started in the position of planning department economist and later I was promoted to financial manager of the trust. From there I was promoted to planning manager, and assistant trust manager for economics. In 1995 I retired at the age of almost 62.

My oldest brother, Igor, didn't stay long in Slutsk after his demobilization. He was proposed to marry a Jewish girl from Osipovichi, a Belarusian town. Igor married her and moved to Osipovichi. He had a son. His name was Yefim. Igor had no education and was a construction worker. They left Osipovichi for Slutsk, and some time later they moved to Minsk. From Minsk they moved to Israel and settled down in Nathania.

My second brother, Boris, lived in Slutsk. When I was in the army, he married Zina, a Belarusian girl that came from Slutsk. My brother had two children. His older son Iosif, named after our father, is the same age as my older son, and his daughter Maria is the same age as our younger son. There's a couple of months' difference between them. Boris has three grandchildren.

Iosif is married to Galina, a Russian woman. They have two daughters. The older one is Tatiana, and the younger one is Anna. Maria married a Jewish guy. Her marital name is Kulesh. Maria has a daughter. Recently Maria and her family moved to Israel. I hope they will manage well. My brother and his wife live in Slutsk.

My brother is very ill. He used to be a strong and healthy man, but life has overburdened him so much that he is fearful to look at. There is nothing to do about it. This is what life is like... There is only he and I of our family left in Slutsk. Mama died in 1986.

After finishing school my older son Boris entered the Heat Engineering Faculty of the Belarusian Polytechnic Institute in Minsk, currently the Belarusian National Technical University. Upon graduation my son got a job assignment to Latvia. I can't remember which town it was. Boris worked as a mechanic and then as director of a weaving mill. Before his departure to Latvia he married a girl from Slutsk. They were school-friends. My daughter- in-law, Yelena, is Russian, but what does it matter? It is important that they love each other and get along well. They have two sons. 

The older, Alexey, was born in 1983, and Oleg was born in 1985. They were born in Latvia. My grandchildren are true Latvian citizens. They studied in a Latvian school and speak the Latvian language. They are students now. My son is commercial director of a company, and his wife works in a trade company. She monitors the trade sites of her company. This is all I know about her job.

Life in Latvia became more difficult after the breakup of the USSR, but my son and his family have no complaints about life. They learned the Latvian language and passed their language exams. They've obtained the Latvian residence permit. They've lived in Latvia for 36 years. My son and his family are happy with their life in Latvia and have no intention to leave it. They visit us once or twice a year, and I can see that they are doing well. God grant them everything good in the future: when the children are happy, their parents are always happy about it.

After finishing the tenth grade in Slutsk, my younger son Grigoriy entered the Higher Military Financial College. After finishing the College he moved from one military unit to another in the USSR. He was a military financier and also served in the Soviet army regiment in Germany. After returning from Germany he served in Belarus.

Now my son is senior lecturer at the Military Faculty of the Department of Finance of the Belarusian National Technical University. He is a lieutenant colonel. Grigoriy is married. His wife Lilia is Russian. They have two sons. Their older son, Boris, was born in 1986. The younger, Alexandr, was born in 1988. They are students at university. So our surname of Falevich shall not vanish.

My four grandchildren have inherited it. Grigoriy cannot visit us often. He has his job and his life, but he calls us almost every day. He cares about us and supports us as much as he can. Even a kind word is a good support for parents. I'm happy that my sons have their own way in life and that my wife and I have our part in it. Our sons also get along well with one another.

When the Jewish state of Israel was established in 1948, I was too young to realize the significance of this event. Later, when the Soviet Union terminated all diplomatic relations with Israel, I also had a rather reserved attitude thereto. However, when I saw that this country was getting stronger and kept improving despite everything, I changed my attitude.

The state is a state. If there is the Jewish people, why shouldn't they have a Jewish state? Of course, I wish this country were not surrounded by hostile neighbors. Now that our older brother, his son's family and my brother Boris' daughter and her family live in Israel, Boris and I often talk about this country, and we are concerned about the life of Israel and its people. It's not by hearsay that we know about the horrors of war, and we are very concerned about Israel and our relatives.

Whatever country surrounding Israel you take, they are against Israel. This is alarming. There is some balance while America supports Israel. If it weren't for this support, nobody would know what it might end with. Of course, one can never tell what's going to be, but I think that Israel of today is a seriously developing state having its scientific and military potential.

Besides, an Israeli state is a guarantee of support to many Jewish people living in the former Soviet Union. Israel means protection of Jewish interests by our state. There are frequent demonstrations of anti- Semitism in some CIS countries nowadays. There were attacks on the synagogue in Moscow and in Riga. Israel responds sharply to this speaking out its protest and making statements. It's a good thing to do.

In the 1970s Jews were allowed to leave the USSR for Israel. Since then many Jews left Slutsk for Israel. There were fewer Jews left in Slutsk after the war, but there was still about one third of their prewar number. According to the statistics, there were only 165 Jews left in Slutsk in 2002. Many Jews have left, and older people died. There are few of us left here.

Many people condemned the Jews that decided to leave the USSR. I didn't approve of the people leaving their own country where they were born and grew up, and the country that gave them education and cared for them. I didn't consider departure for this very reason. I couldn't understand those who were committed to make this step.

However, later, when Jews started moving to Germany besides Israel and the USA, I changed my attitude towards those who left for Israel. I told myself that it was better that they moved to Israel, rather than moving to fascist Germany, this country that had caused so much grief to us. I cannot imagine, how I, a person who had seen all horrors of fascism and had suffered from them could move to Germany now, particularly in view of the fact that fascists started raising their heads there, and I'm personally very much concerned about it.

How can Jews venture to make this step? Whoever tried to explain this to me, I would disagree with whoever that is. There is an association of former underage prisoners of fascist concentration camps and ghettos. And there, the chairman of this association has moved to Germany. He was a skilled surgeon and a respected man here. And he gave it all up and left for Germany. Who can explain to me what he was driven by? I cannot forgive this, and I shall not forgive anybody.

Therefore, I believe that if Jews decide to leave their Motherland, I'd rather they went to Israel. Even though there is nothing sweet there and they have to adjust and find their place in the new life.

My niece Maria, Boris' daughter, left for Israel a couple of months ago. She attends a course of Ivrit. She attends to two lonely women. She doesn't earn a lot of money, but it is still some support for the family. It is no shame to do any job, only one must know how important and needed it is.

Our older brother has lived longer in Israel. He is doing well. He is a war veteran and has been granted benefits. Igor hasn't worked one day there, but he receives a sufficient pension and has an apartment. It is true that pensioners have a good life in Israel. It's too bad that my brother is alone there.

Four months ago his wife died after a severe and lasting disease. His son and his family live elsewhere. After his wife's death Igor's son Yefim visited Slutsk. He came to see us and told us about the life of the family in Israel. He also brought photographs. Igor looks well, at least in his pictures, and he feels all right. Being our age, one comes to understand that health is the most important thing.

I didn't face any anti-Semitism during the Soviet regime. I got secondary and higher and special education, and both times I entered the educational institutions on the first try. I studied in party schools, was a party member and held important positions. I never kept my Jewish identity a secret, and it never impeded my life or career.

Of course, there was everyday anti-Semitism, and it appeared in the postwar time. When the Germans were here, it was allowed to exterminate Jews besides abusing them. This penetrated into some people's consciousness. Of course, I faced anti- Semitism, but I never kept quiet when hearing abuses.

Once I even hit a man on his face for calling me a zhyd. Yes, it did happen. At work I never faced any anti-Semitism. Perhaps, this was because we were one team, or maybe, the level was different. I don't know. At least, wherever I worked, there was no prejudiced attitude toward me.

I was negative about perestroika 29, initiated by Gorbachev 30, from the very start. Perhaps, our life should have been changed in some aspects, but it should have been done in a very different manner from how Gorbachev did it. Everything was camouflaged with beautiful words while actually, this generated lack of power. 'I do what I want.' It was allowed to speak out whatever one felt like, and write about such things in newspapers that one wouldn't want to read them.

Well, it takes time to discuss this, and everyone would have one's own opinion, but in my mind this wasn't the right thing to do. They started from lack of power, and it resulted in the chaos and breakup of the USSR [in 1991]. During the Gorbachev rule attacks on the Communist Party began while the Party was the force that united our Soviet Union and managed our life.

I was a member of the Communist Party for 40 years, and I'm not ashamed of it. Our father raised my brother Boris and me to be Soviet patriots. We were true and honest communists. We never took advantage of our party membership certificate to have extra benefits, and we didn't join the Party for career's sake.

This was what our consciousness dictated us. Therefore, the Party was sacred to us. For this reason we can hardly understand whatever is happening nowadays. We just cannot accept this. The people have changed, and I wouldn't say this change is for the better. Many people only think about themselves and want to get more for themselves while during the Soviet time we used to help and support each other.

They say many former Soviet republics have gained independence. Belarus is an independent country. Independent from what or who? I don't think Belarus wasn't independent within the Soviet Union. Our republic was wealthy and one of the most active republics in the former Soviet Union.

Our Belarus was ahead of all other republics considering the people's wealth and accomplishments. I don't think we were deprived of anything, when Belarus was a part of the USSR. I don't think the republics that are pouring mud onto the Soviet Union are doing the right thing. During the Soviet regime the Baltic republics enjoyed everything good we gave them, in all respects, when now they call Soviet people occupants.

I think many things happening now are horrifying. I still find the breakup of the USSR a painful thing to have happened. God, what a pity it is that the Soviet Union broke up! When this powerful state was still there, it was the world's base, and the world's progressive community could rely on it.

The Soviet Union provided tremendous assistance to the world's socialist and communist parties. And had the Soviet Union lasted, it would be strong and powerful like it had never been. America wouldn't threaten us, and Belarus wouldn't have listened to all those foul things from America. They wouldn't teach us how to live.

Take the Baltic republics or Poland, or all worthy and unworthy countries, they tell whatever they want about Belarus and they scold us! Terrible! They fund anti-government organizations in Belarus and try to shake our country from the inside. And it would never have happened, had the Soviet Union lasted.

These courtiers are eager to destroy present-day Belarus for its friendship with Russia; how they want to arrange the Ukrainian Orange Revolution 31 in Belarus and overthrow the current government! America, Poland and the Baltic republics provoke and finance those Belarusian that stand up against the government, our opposition.

That is why I am against Gorbachev who led our country, the USSR to the breakup. When the Soviet Union existed, Americans were quieter than water or grass. They were facing their rival, the powerful and overpowering Soviet Union. And then Western Europe applauded the Soviet Union, and there was no confrontation. Of course, there were some disagreements, but they feared the Soviet Union and knew that besides ourselves, we could also protect other socialist countries.

This provided balance in the world, but now America rules the world. It does whatever it wants, and there is nobody to stand against it. That is why I valued the Soviet Union, and I find it painful that this powerful country is no longer on the map of the world.

I love my Belarus and I love my Slutsk. I appreciate it that our government cares about us. Life in Belarus is improving with every coming year. Whatever they say about our country, we are happy with our life here. Here is a simple example. Over half of our Belarus has been provided with gas supplies. There are gas supplies to villages and smaller towns. Each week another settlement is being connected to gas pipelines.

The President himself attends each event of this kind. He tells people what is going to be done. These are not sheer words. These are deeds. Many things are done for the people. Perhaps, somebody may not like things, but I'm personally very happy with the government. My wife and I are well provided for. I receive the equivalent of $190, my wife has about $120, and utilities and food products are inexpensive. We can manage all right.

In 1995 the Jewish community opened in Slutsk. I had retired by then and started to work actively in the community. I am assistant of the chairman of our community. There are older people of over 60 in the community. There are some over 80. Young people take a little part in the life of our community, unfortunately.

We have a few young people, but mostly from mixed marriages. For example, my nephews: the father is Jewish and the mother is Belarusian. There are many such families and perhaps, this is the reason why they are not so active. However, we have programs for young people: a club for young people, or a family club, and they have gatherings occasionally. There are only men there, about 20 of them. They recite prayers, have tea and discussions. There is also a community of progressive Judaism in our community.

I've already mentioned that there are 165 Jews in Slutsk, based on the 2002 records. I don't know how accurate this number is. I was one of the managers during the census in 1999. There were fewer Jews then, but at that time many Jewish people identified themselves as Russian. Therefore, I don't think the data was accurate then.

Nowadays people are no longer afraid of acknowledging their Jewish identity. Vice versa, it is advantageous to be Jewish nowadays, considering the community assistance. Nowadays people that have identified themselves as Russian or Belarusian come to our community as Jews. There is a woman, for example, her father is Russian, and her mother is Jewish.

The mother determines the national identity according to our rules. She worked as a school teacher and was Russian, but when she retired and came to our community, she came as Jew. And there are many such examples, but we don't send these people away. The Jewish people have survived in the world due to this support that they've provided for each other. We need our community.

At least, it has united the Jews in Slutsk. We used to be disunited. We didn't know each other and didn't socialize, but now we are like a family. We get together three times a week. We celebrate Sabbath on Saturday. People get together to share opinions, joys and problems. About 40 people attend Sabbath each week. They pray, have tea and sandwiches and talk to each other. It's not just the ritual, but an opportunity to talk to each other. There are many lonely people. They meet each other and socialize in the community. They keep seeing each other beyond the community.

Our community is funded by Joint 32. It works in 90 countries all over the world supporting people. The Joint helps us to support many people. We have the charity service in the community. It provides assistance to the needy, and we provide medications for people for free.

They submit their prescriptions, and twice a month we receive medications based on prescriptions and deliver them to people. This is important. We deliver food packages three times a week. This adds about 30-35 thousand Belarusian rubles [?$15] to the pension, which is a significant amount for a pensioner. Our charity service provides assistance to lonely and ill people.

We have four such individuals now. This is a twofold assistance: we support the needy and pay salaries to our employees. So, we also employ people. We visit patients in hospitals, provide assistance with funerals, and this is what the community is responsible for. This is a great support, and people appreciate it.

There is a Sunday school for children at the community. Some 15, 20 and up to 30 children attend it. When a teacher is available, they even study Ivrit. Young families have gatherings about twice a month. We also fund their gathering, so that they can have tea at their meetings.

We have an amateur performers' club. Considering it all, this makes a lot of actual work and apparent support. We have a computer, and youngsters can study to work with it. We have a washing machine, and people can do their washing for free. We pay a salary to the responsible individual. We buy good washing powder. Our Laundromat works three times a week. Our customers are satisfied with the quality.

Since my wife hasn't been feeling well, I also use our Laundromat services. Attending to ill people is very time- consuming. It takes a lot of effort. I know the advantages of being a member of the community.

We also have an emergency service in the community. Nobody knows what surprises await people in life. In the case of an emergency, when people need money urgently, we can help. We also have the so-called 'winter response' assistance, providing boots and warm clothes for people and wood to those that live in private houses. This is not minor assistance, is it?

This is what the Joint does for us, and it undoubtedly does a lot. Formerly the annual Joint budget was 50 million rubles, and they've allocated 30 million this year already. They explained to us that contributions go down all over the world, and there are fewer opportunities, and we need to be reasonable and understand that the Joint does everything possible. Of course, we understand that nobody owes us anything and that we have no right to demand or ask for something. We have to be grateful for what they do for us and for what we are given.

We have no rabbi or synagogue in Slutsk. We often receive letters from Israel or America addressed to the 'Rabbi of Slutsk.' The post office employees already know that they should deliver such letters to the chairwoman of our community. The Orthodox part has no rabbi either. The head of their community recites the prayers.

We celebrate Jewish holidays in the community. We celebrate Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, Pesach and Chanukkah. These are the holidays that we do not miss, and as for the rest of them, we tell people about them during the celebration of Sabbath, and the whole community celebrates the three mentioned holidays.

The community makes some donations, and we collect some money from visitors and celebrate holidays in restaurants. Often rabbis visit our celebrations. They conduct the proper rituals and recite prayers. The Joint Republican leadership of the community visits us. Leonid Levin is the chairman of our Jewish organizations and communities. He often visits us, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by his wife. Life goes on, and our community tries to do as much as possible for the people.

We try to do everything we can to make people remember about the innocent victims of the Holocaust. Of course, many people were lost to this war, and there were many non-Jewish people, but only Jews were exterminated simply for being Jews. We must not forget this. We installed a monument to the victims of the Holocaust in Slutsk.

There are three monuments on shooting sites in Slutsk. Now our community is involved in the installation of the monument where the ghetto was in Slutsk. My brother and I initiated this. We happen to have been the only survivors of the ghetto, eliminated by fascists in February 1943. We are bound to do what we are doing.

We've generated this idea and talked to Leonid Levin. He is an architect. We proposed to install this monument to honor the heroic deed of these doomed people, but not to honor the ghetto established by fascists. Levin supported our idea and took to the development of documentation. Now the documents are under review at the Ministry of Local Lore in Minsk. In the near future representatives of the Ministry will visit Slutsk, and we shall meet with them. The executive committee treated our idea with understanding, and allotted a site in the center of the town, before the central gate to the former ghetto.

There are apartment houses where the former ghetto was located, and there is no way to install a monument there. Anyway, is it important, if the monument would be shifted a little from the location of the ghetto? What matters is that it will be there, and it will remind people of the heroic resistance of the people doomed to die. This will be the monument to their courage. Levin developed the documentation and the design. We have this in place. Now we have to wait till the executive committee transfers this ground to us. This is just a matter of days.

We would like to inaugurate the monument on 9th May, Victory Day, but I don't think we will manage. I hope we will manage to do it on 3rd July, the Day of the Liberation of Belarus from the German fascist occupants, and now we also celebrate the Independence Day of Belarus on this day. We've collected donations for the monument. We had some in Slutsk, America and Israel.

One of our former compatriots sent us 2.5 thousand dollars. An Englishman gave us one thousand. We need 7-8 thousand for the monument and we keep collecting money. On 3rd January the Belarusian Jewish community organized the Chanukkah celebration at the palace of pensioners in Minsk. Attendants were asked to donate 2 thousand rubles each for the monument in Slutsk. We've collected 516 thousand [?240$]. It's not that much, but it is important that the people wanted to help us and took it close to their hearts. I was also invited there.

There was a concert of Jewish amateur performers. The performers came from different locations of Belarus. I was asked to make a speech. I told them the brief history of the ghetto in Slutsk and why we wanted to have this monument installed. I also thanked people for attending that event and for their however little share in the event.

I was given such a hearty welcome that I was really moved. There was lasting applause after my speech, and the audience greeted me with standing ovations. When I was walking off the stage, people were thanking me. I asked them why they were thanking me, and they replied that I deserve gratitude even for the fact that my brother and I have survived, and are involved in such an honorable event.

I was embarrassed and moved at the same time, and I was pleased, since gratitude of people is better than anything else. It's nice when people understand that the memory needs to be kept, that it isn't just a piece of marble, but the tribute of honor to the deceased that gave us an example that even in the most horrific conditions a person can preserve pride and dignity.

•  Glossary:

1 Great Patriotic War: On 22nd June 1941 at 5 o'clock in the morning Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed.

Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

2 Russian Revolution of 1917: Revolution in which the tsarist regime was overthrown in the Russian Empire and, under Lenin, was replaced by the Bolshevik rule. The two phases of the Revolution were: February Revolution, which came about due to food and fuel shortages during World War I, and during which the tsar abdicated and a provisional government took over.

The second phase took place in the form of a coup led by Lenin in October/November (October Revolution) and saw the seizure of power by the Bolsheviks.

3 Common name: Russified or Russian first names used by Jews in everyday life and adopted in official documents.

The Russification of first names was one of the manifestations of the assimilation of Russian Jews at the turn of the 19th and 20th century. In some cases only the spelling and pronunciation of Jewish names was russified (e.g. Isaac instead of Yitskhak; Boris instead of Borukh), while in other cases traditional Jewish names were replaced by similarly sounding Russian names (e.g. Eugenia instead of Ghita; Yury instead of Yuda).

When state anti-Semitism intensified in the USSR at the end of the 1940s, most Jewish parents stopped giving their children traditional Jewish names to avoid discrimination.

4 Engels, Friedrich (1820-1895): Philosopher and public figure, one of the founders of Marxism and communism.

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

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

7 All-Union pioneer organization: a communist organization for teenagers between 10 and 15 years old (cf: boy-/ girlscouts in the US). The organization aimed at educating the young generation in accordance with the communist ideals, preparing pioneers to become members of the Komsomol and later the Communist Party. In the Soviet Union, all teenagers were pioneers.

8 Great Terror (1934-1938): During the Great Terror, or Great Purges, which included the notorious show trials of Stalin's former Bolshevik opponents in 1936-1938 and reached its peak in 1937 and 1938, millions of innocent Soviet citizens were sent off to labor camps or killed in prison.

The major targets of the Great Terror were communists. Over half of the people who were arrested were members of the party at the time of their arrest. The armed forces, the Communist Party, and the government in general were purged of all allegedly dissident persons; the victims were generally sentenced to death or to long terms of hard labor.

Much of the purge was carried out in secret, and only a few cases were tried in public 'show trials'. By the time the terror subsided in 1939, Stalin had managed to bring both the Party and the public to a state of complete submission to his rule. Soviet society was so atomized and the people so fearful of reprisals that mass arrests were no longer necessary. Stalin ruled as absolute dictator of the Soviet Union until his death in March 1953.

9 NKVD: People's Committee of Internal Affairs; it took over from the GPU, the state security agency, in 1934.

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

11 Enemy of the people: Soviet official term; euphemism used for real or assumed political opposition.

12 Invasion of Poland: The German attack of Poland on 1st September 1939 is widely considered the date in the West for the start of World War II. After having gained both Austria and the Bohemian and Moravian parts of Czechoslovakia, Hitler was confident that he could acquire Poland without having to fight Britain and France.

(To eliminate the possibility of the Soviet Union fighting if Poland were attacked, Hitler made a pact with the Soviet Union, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.) On the morning of 1st September 1939, German troops entered Poland.

The German air attack hit so quickly that most of Poland's air force was destroyed while still on the ground. To hinder Polish mobilization, the Germans bombed bridges and roads. Groups of marching soldiers were machine-gunned from the air, and they also aimed at civilians.

On 1st September, the beginning of the attack, Great Britain and France sent Hitler an ultimatum - withdraw German forces from Poland or Great Britain and France would go to war against Germany. On 3rd September, with Germany's forces penetrating deeper into Poland, Great Britain and France both declared war on Germany.

13 Soviet-Finnish War (1939-40): The Soviet Union attacked Finland on 30 November 1939 to seize the Karelian Isthmus. The Red Army was halted at the so-called Mannengeim line. The League of Nations expelled the USSR from its ranks. In February-March 1940 the Red Army broke through the Mannengeim line and reached Vyborg. In March 1940 a peace treaty was signed in Moscow, by which the Karelian Isthmus, and some other areas, became part of the Soviet Union.

14 Molotov, V. P. (1890-1986): Statesman and member of the Communist Party leadership. From 1939, Minister of Foreign Affairs. On June 22, 1941 he announced the German attack on the USSR on the radio. He and Eden also worked out the percentages agreement after the war, about Soviet and western spheres of influence in the new Europe.

15 Komsomol: Communist youth political organization created in 1918. The task of the Komsomol was to spread of the ideas of communism and involve the worker and peasant youth in building the Soviet Union. The Komsomol also aimed at giving a communist upbringing by involving the worker youth in the political struggle, supplemented by theoretical education. The Komsomol was more popular than the Communist Party because with its aim of education people could accept uninitiated young proletarians, whereas party members had to have at least a minimal political qualification.

16 Gulag: The Soviet system of forced labor camps in the remote regions of Siberia and the Far North, which was first established in 1919. However, it was not until the early 1930s that there was a significant number of inmates in the camps. By 1934 the Gulag, or the Main Directorate for Corrective Labor Camps, then under the Cheka's successor organization the NKVD, had several million inmates.

The prisoners included murderers, thieves, and other common criminals, along with political and religious dissenters. The Gulag camps made significant contributions to the Soviet economy during the rule of Stalin. Conditions in the camps were extremely harsh. After Stalin died in 1953, the population of the camps was reduced significantly, and conditions for the inmates improved somewhat.

17 Ispolkom: After the tsar's abdication (March, 1917), power passed to a Provisional Government appointed by a temporary committee of the Duma, which proposed to share power to some extent with councils of workers and soldiers known as 'soviets'. Following a brief and chaotic period of fairly democratic procedures, a mixed body of socialist intellectuals known as the Ispolkom secured the right to 'represent' the soviets.

The democratic credentials of the soviets were highly imperfect to begin with: peasants - the overwhelming majority of the Russian population - had virtually no say, and soldiers were grossly over-represented. The Ispolkom's assumption of power turned this highly imperfect democracy into an intellectuals' oligarchy.

18 Judenrat: Jewish councils appointed by German occupying authorities to carry out Nazi orders in the Jewish communities of occupied Europe. After the establishment of the ghettos they were responsible for everything that happened within them. They controlled all institutions operating in the ghettos, the police, the employment agency, food supplies, housing, health, social work, education, religion, etc.

Germans also made them responsible for selecting people for the work camps, and, in the end, choosing those to be sent to camps that were in reality death camps. It is hard to judge their actions due to the abnormal circumstances. Some believe they betrayed Jews by obeying orders, and others think they were trying to gain time and save as many people as possible.

19 Vlasov military: Members of the voluntary military formations of Russian former prisoners of war that fought on the German side during World War II. They were led by the former Soviet general, A. Vlasov, hence their name.

20 Communal apartment: The Soviet power wanted to improve housing conditions by requisitioning 'excess' living space of wealthy families after the Revolution of 1917. Apartments were shared by several families with each family occupying one room and sharing the kitchen, toilet and bathroom with other tenants.

Because of the chronic shortage of dwelling space in towns communal or shared apartments continued to exist for decades. Despite state programs for the construction of more houses and the liquidation of communal apartments, which began in the 1960s, shared apartments still exist today.

21 Latvian SS Legion: a national voluntary military formation, established by German commandment in Latvia during the Great Patriotic War. In February 1943 Hitler's commandment took a decision to establish the Latvian SS Legion. It included Latvian voluntary units that had been formed earlier and had taken part in combat action.

In late February and early March 1943, men born between 1919 and 1924 received letters at their place of residency in which they were ordered to appear at police headquarters. There, they had to fill out information cards and be inspected by a medical commission.

Mobilized individuals were enlisted, according to their own wishes, either in the Latvian Legion or in the service divisions of the German armies, or they were sent to build defense constructions.

On 28th March 28 of the same year, the 'Legionnaires' took this oath in Riga: 'In the name of God I promise solemnly in the struggle against Bolshevism an unlimited obedience to the supreme commander of the German military forces, Adolf Hitler; and as a brave soldier, I will always be ready to give my life for this oath.' They wore special insignia, were promoted to military ranks of the Latvian army and the orders were given in Latvian.

Of 150 thousand officers and soldiers of the Legion over 40 thousand were killed, and 50 thousand were captured by the Russian army. The rest escaped to the West. Only once the Latvian SS units (the 15th and the 19th) took part in combat action against the advancing Soviet army on 16th March 1944 in the vicinity of the Velikaya River, south-east of the town of Ostrov (Pskov region).

22 Victory Day in Russia (9th May): National holiday to commemorate the defeat of Nazi Germany and the end of World War II and honor the Soviets who died in the war.

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

Many Yiddish writers as well as the leaders of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee were arrested in November 1948 on charges that they maintained ties with Zionism and with American 'imperialism'.

They were executed secretly in 1952. The anti-Semitic Doctors' Plot was launched in January 1953. A wave of anti-Semitism spread through the USSR. Jews were removed from their positions, and rumors of an imminent mass deportation of Jews to the eastern part of the USSR began to spread. Stalin's death in March 1953 put an end to the campaign against 'cosmopolitans'.

24 Doctors' Plot: The Doctors' Plot was an alleged conspiracy of a group of Moscow doctors to murder leading government and party officials. In January 1953, the Soviet press reported that nine doctors, six of whom were Jewish, had been arrested and confessed their guilt.

As Stalin died in March 1953, the trial never took place.

The official paper of the Party, the Pravda, later announced that the charges against the doctors were false and their confessions obtained by torture. This case was one of the worst anti-Semitic incidents during Stalin's reign. In his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev stated that Stalin wanted to use the Plot to purge the top Soviet leadership.

25 Party Schools: They were established after the Revolution of 1917, in different levels, with the purpose of training communist cadres and activists. Subjects such as 'scientific socialism' (Marxist-Leninist Philosophy) and 'political economics' besides various other political disciplines were taught there.

26 Mandatory job assignment in the USSR: Graduates of higher educational institutions had to complete a mandatory 2-year job assignment issued by the institution from which they graduated. After finishing this assignment young people were allowed to get employment at their discretion in any town or organization.

27 Twentieth Party Congress: At the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956 Khrushchev publicly debunked the cult of Stalin and lifted the veil of secrecy from what had happened in the USSR during Stalin's leadership.

28 Khrushchev, Nikita (1894-1971): Soviet communist leader.

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

29 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring): Soviet economic and social policy of the late 1980s, associated with the name of Soviet politician Mikhail Gorbachev. The term designated the attempts to transform the stagnant, inefficient command economy of the Soviet Union into a decentralized, market-oriented economy. Industrial managers and local government and party officials were granted greater autonomy, and open elections were introduced in an attempt to democratize the Communist Party organization. By 1991, perestroika was declining and was soon eclipsed by the dissolution of the USSR.

30 Gorbachev, Mikhail (1931- ): Soviet political leader. Gorbachev joined the Communist Party in 1952 and gradually moved up in the party hierarchy. In 1970 he was elected to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, where he remained until 1990. In 1980 he joined the politburo, and in 1985 he was appointed general secretary of the party. In 1986 he embarked on a comprehensive program of political, economic, and social liberalization under the slogans of glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring).

The government released political prisoners, allowed increased emigration, attacked corruption, and encouraged the critical reexamination of Soviet history. The Congress of People's Deputies, founded in 1989, voted to end the Communist Party's control over the government and elected Gorbachev executive president.

Gorbachev dissolved the Communist Party and granted the Baltic states independence. Following the establishment of the Commonwealth of Independent States in 1991, he resigned as president. Since 1992, Gorbachev has headed international organizations.

31 Orange Revolution 2004: the events which took place in Ukraine between 21st November 2004 and 23rd January 2005, connected with presidential elections. The candidates for the presidency were: prime minister Viktor Yanukovych, backed by the government and the candidate of the oppositional party Our Ukraine, former prime minister Viktor Yushchenko. The name Orange Revolution comes from the orange color which represented the electoral campaign of Viktor Yushchenko.

33 Joint (American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee): The Joint was formed in 1914 with the fusion of three American Jewish committees of assistance, which were alarmed by the suffering of Jews during World War I. In late 1944, the Joint entered Europe's liberated areas and organized a massive relief operation. It provided food for Jewish survivors all over Europe, it supplied clothing, books and school supplies for children.

It supported cultural amenities and brought religious supplies for the Jewish communities. The Joint also operated DP camps, in which it organized retraining programs to help people learn trades that would enable them to earn a living, while its cultural and religious activities helped re- establish Jewish life. The Joint was also closely involved in helping Jews to emigrate from Europe and from Muslim countries.

The Joint was expelled from East Central Europe for decades during the Cold War and it has only come back to many of these countries after the fall of communism. Today the Joint provides social welfare programs for elderly Holocaust survivors and encourages Jewish renewal and communal development.