Travel

Lora Benjamin Melamed

Sofia

Bulgaria

Interviewer: Patricia Nikolova

Date of interview: September 2004

Lora Beniamin Melamed is a considerate and kind person to talk to. Her delicacy and intelligence blend into a strong selflessness towards the interlocutor – a rare quality. Her appearance reminds of a beautiful fragile porcelain figure from the XIX century. Lora is a very affectionate, delicate and interesting woman.

My ancestors came to Spain more than five hundred years ago. [Expulsion of the Jews from Spain] 1 After the Jews were persecuted from Spain, a big part of them settled on the Balkan Peninsula. Some of the Jews were killed by the Inquisition and another part adopted Christianity, but most of them left Spain and moved to the Balkans. The Jews in Greece, Turkey, Macedonia, Bulgaria, a part of former Yugoslavia and a part of Romania spoke a Spanish language from the Middle Ages. It was called Ladino or ‘Spaniolit’ as Bulgarian Jews often call it. My ancestors are Sephardi Jews like most Jews in Bulgaria 2, although some of them are a mixture of Sephardi and Ashkenazi Jews. So, my ancestor’s traditions and rites are Sephardi and they spoke Ladino. 

My paternal and maternal grandparents were born in the beautiful Bulgarian town of Samokov. They were quiet and kind people with a great sense of humor. They dressed in cheap, but clean clothes. They did hard physical labor all day. They were religious, especially grandmother Orucha (the mother of my mother Iafa Beniamin Kohen), who was very lively and talkative. I knew from an early age that Grandma Orucha lost her husband early and that was why she constantly prayed to God to join him as soon as possible.

Grandma Orucha was something like a hakham for the family. She loved gathering all the families of her children on the high religious holidays. She did all the preparations by herself and she also found some free time for us – her grandchildren. I still remember how she taught us a game with walnuts and what songs to sing on the various holidays. She had interesting conversations with the adults and the children. And she had a lovely sense of humor. She could tell us a lot of interesting, important or funny stories. She dressed in cheap, but very clean clothes. She did not stop working for one minute – cooking, cleaning, going to the synagogue where she always sang. She insisted that the families of her children observe both at home and in the synagogue the Jewish traditions on erev Sabbath and during the holidays.

I remember that my maternal grandfather Rahamim Yuda Levi wore simple, but clean suits and a hat, while my grandmother wore a kerchief. They were not educated. My maternal grandparents were not members of a party, although my grandfather adopted the communist ideas before 9th September 1944 3. That is, he believed in social justice and kindness to people regardless of their nationality or culture. About my paternal grandmother Mazal Shemtov Kohen and grandfather Nissim Shemtov Kohen I know only that he was a merchant and she was a housewife. They were both from Samokov, as was my mother’s family. They were both religious, observed kashrut on Pesach, fasted on [Yom] Kippur, celebrated erev Sabbath and all high religious holidays such as Rosh Hashanah, Chanukkah, Sukkot, Lag ba-Omer, Tu bi-Shevat, Simchat Torah.

We lived in a small house in Samokov. We were about 10 people: my parents with their four children, my maternal grandparents, uncle and aunt, and their children. Our house had two rooms and a kitchen. We did not have a bathroom. We did not have electricity, nor running water. We used an ordinary wood-burning stove to warm the house. We got water from the faucet outside, even in the winter. The faucet was quite far from our house. So, my parents decided to build a faucet in our yard. I remember that we, the children, helped a lot to make it. And we did not have to go so far away for water. Besides, my mother wanted us to grow up healthy and strong. She made us wash ourselves with cold water. They made us a special place in the house where we did gymnastic exercises.

We had a small garden, in which my mother sowed vegetables, fruit and flowers. We did not have any domestic animals, nor any maids. But our neighbors – the Bulgarians and the Jews were very kind people. We got along with them very well. They cheered with us if someone from our family managed to sell something in a nearby village, or went to have medical treatment at a bath, which was the practice at that time.

My mother's name is Iafa Beniamin Kohen, nee Levi, and my father's name – Beniamin Shemtov Kohen. They were both born and raised in Samokov. My mother had primary education and my father - secondary high school education. He knew French, because his parents wanted him to go to study in France, which did not happen, because my father was the first born child and his duty was to stay and support the family, who was not very well-off. My father believed in communist ideas, but I did not remember if he was a member of the party or if he was involved in illegal party activities. In this sense my father was more of an idealist and communist in beliefs than an active party member. My mother was apolitical.

My parents spoke in Ladino to each other. Of course, since we had to go to a Bulgarian school and when we were among Bulgarians, we spoke Bulgarian and learned Bulgarian very well. So, we spoke Ladino and Bulgarian equally well, though our Bulgarian vocabulary was richer. My parents did not know Ivrit, though they both were very religious, observed kashrut on Pesach, fasted on Kippur, celebrated erev Sabbath and all other high religious holidays such as Rosh Hashanah, Chanukkah, Sukkot, Lag ba-Omer, Tu bi-Shevat, Simchat Torah. 

I do not know how my parents met. But I know for sure that their wedding took place in 1919, when my father was 37 years old and my mother – 29 years old. My parents' brothers and sisters were kind people. My parents kept in constant touch with them. They met on holidays, weddings, celebrated holidays together, visited the ill relatives. My father's sisters are Ester Beniamin Kohen [her maiden family name] and Victoria Beniamin Kohen, but I do not remember anything else about their families or about them. My mother's sister's name was Rashel Rahamim Levi [her maiden family name] and her brothers' names were Mordehay Rahamim Levi, Leon Rahamim Levi and Ruben Rahamim Levi. I have no information about them.

I remember that my father worked in a small shop owned by him, but did not earn much money. I also remember that we were constantly short of money and my father had to carry goods on his horse to the nearby villages on Sundays. He carried the villagers' hats, which my mother sowed and knitted at home, as well as cotton, or other things they needed. The Bulgarians bought them and provided us with an income. At first my mother sowed clothes for my father's shop. My father often worked as a travelling salesman to the nearby villages so that his children would have enough food and clothes. My parents also insisted that we further our education. When my parents wanted to go for a walk, they asked us to draw or write something interesting, made up a variety of artistic activities, then they came back and pointed out our best works.

There was not a Jewish school in Samokov. But there was a Bet Am [i.e. a Jewish home], where there was a Sunday school. A special teacher from Israel [then Palestine] was invited there and he taught us to read and speak in Ivrit. We learned a lot then, but we could not practice it anywhere so we soon forgot it. I remember that there was only one synagogue with one rabbi, who was also a chazzan. Unfortunately I do not remember his name. Since my father had the Kohen family name, he had to sing in the synagogue as a kohen. When he was not in the shop, he was in the synagogue. He loved singing and he had a great voice.

I was born on 11th November 1924 in Samokov. My sister and my brothers are Milka Beniamin Revah [nee Kohen], born in 1921, Sinto Beniamin Kohen [1923] and Miko Beniamin Kohen [1926]. We have always been best friends. The four of us were born in Samokov where we studied in the same school (there was no other high school). I remember that we all loved going to school and to the Sunday school. Besides, we always had a lot of books at home, on secular or religious topics. We, the children, loved reading aloud sitting together with our parents, which did not happen very often because my parents were very busy.

My sister Milka was the first to start learning to play the violin. She had private lessons, which also affected our family budget. In order to pay the teacher my mother prepared a large table cover, which she gave to her instead of money. My brother Sinto played a mouth the mouthorgan, and later – an accordion. My little brother Miko had inherited my father's talent and sang very well. I also played the violin when I was in high school. So, we made some merry concerts at home, in which everybody took part. 

On the whole, our family was part of the Jewish community in the town of Samokov, which was not big. The high Jewish holidays such as [Yom] Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, Pesach, Purim, Sukkot, Lag ba-Omer, Tu bi-Shevat we always celebrated at home and at the synagogue. Of course, we had the best time when we celebrated them at home. Like all Jewish children, we also loved Purim most. It was most fun then. Usually our parents prepared some cheap things, because they did not have money to buy us expensive gifts. But every time my mother made some nice and colorful purses, in which we put sweets, candies and other sweet things. Then we made a contest who would remain with most sweets in their purse. And whoever won, was considered the most important child.

I studied philosophy in Sofia University ‘St Kliment Ohridski’ 4, but I did not graduate. When I was a student I helped my parents a lot. I went shopping with my mother who was always busy, I helped her in the sewing, cooking, cleaning. I also helped my father who had a hard time earning money from the shop and I sold instead of him the clothes sewn by my mother. Besides the miserable conditions we lived in, I also have other unpleasant memories. I was still a high school student, when I felt anti-Semitism for the first time. On some Bulgarian holiday lots of people gathered in the center of the town, folk music was playing and a beautiful folk ring dance was winding around the central square. We, the three Jewish girls who studied in the Bulgarian school, also joined the dance. Suddenly a tall student came, stood between us and with a strong hit accompanied with dirty and insulting words drove us out of the dance. The three of us also sang in the school choir. We sang patriotic, Bulgarian songs, which I liked very much. Soon after that incident our music teacher, whom I respected very much, summoned us and told us that a higher authority forbade us to sing in the choir. That happened before the Law for Protection of the Nation 5 was adopted in 1942 [Editor’s note: the law was promulgated in 1941].

We had a Jewish youth group in Samokov, we met often and had a great time. At first we gathered in the Sunday school, where we sang and studied Ivrit. My favorite song at that time was ‘Adio kerida’ [Goodbye darling]. We also tried to improvise short plays and theater performances, whose plots we made up by ourselves. My friends then were Stela, Bella, Panka and others (unfortunately I cannot remember their family names). When the Law for Protection of the Nation was adopted, our group disintegrated. We stayed at our homes in Samokov, but it was like living in a ghetto.  We wore the shameful yellow stars, we were humiliated and had to observe a number of limitations, such as the curfew and the ban on Jews to go to social places such as theaters, cafeterias, shops and restaurants in front of which there were the degrading notices ‘Entrance Forbidden for Jews’ or ‘Sale for Jews only’.

In the worst time during the Law for Protection of the Nation, we, the young Jews, had a small Jewish orchestra, including a violin, accordion and other instruments. We gathered, sang and had fun. But suddenly, in 1943, my family learned that we would no longer live in Samokov, because we would have to be sent somewhere else, no one knew where. [Internment of Jews in Bulgaria] 6 At that time some of the interned Jews from Sofia had already been living in Samokov. We had to think about what to pack. Of course, the first thing I thought of was the violin. The rest of the orchestra also packed their instruments. We thought that we were sent to somewhere only temporarily, to some place like Samokov. Gradually my parents learned that something was not right, that things were not as we thought. I remember that my father’s Bulgarian friends supported us a lot, so did the people from the villages to which my father went and sold bread during the Law for Protection of the Nation. They would bring us a little butter, a little yogurt, a little bread. And they would tell us, ‘Don’t worry, we will help you, everything will be okay.’ In the end, they did not send us anywhere, although we never fully realized how nightmarish our journey would have been.

When the scary days came, other friends of my father’s, and some classmates of mine also came to console us, although we were afraid for our lives all the time. We were really very afraid. Germans walked around the town all the time, people shouted at us and threatened us with murder, that they would cleanse Bulgaria from the Jews and horrible things like that. The scariest thing was when a classmate of my sister’s tried to kill her once. She was returning home one evening, when he ran after her with a gun and tried to catch her and kill her. I remember very well how horrified she was when we came home. Then we realized that something very frightening awaited us. And our friends came secretly and told us, ‘We will stand beside you, we will not let those horrible people hurt you.’ The people consoling us were Bulgarians again.

From the articles that I read in the papers at that time (‘Utro’ [Morning] and ‘Zarya’ [Dawn]) I remember that the Law for Protection of the Nation was introduced after the fateful meeting between the monarch at that time King Boris III 7 and Hitler in November 1940 and with the signing of the Trilateral Pact by the Prime Minister Bogdan Filov in Vienna on 1st March 1941. Very few people know that in a strange concurrence of consequences the Hitler forces entered Bulgaria on 3rd March – 63 years after the Russian forces liberated us from Turkish rule 8. In fact, the meeting between Hitler and Boris III introduced a lot of the Nazi ideology and practice to Bulgaria.

In the days before and after the meeting between the king and Hitler in Bulgaria a very energetic anti-Semitic campaign was started, which my Jewish friends and I found very strange for our peaceful country. It was started by a number of Bulgarian pseudo scholars led by Filov and the Interior Minister Petar Gabrovski 9. To our surprise they were fascinated by the Nurnberg laws. And they openly declared that the Bulgarian, was of a pure Aryan type, which had nothing to do with the Slavs. And we, the Jews, were the main enemy of that so perfect Bulgarian. Those speeches supporting Hitler’s ideology led to a kind of a Kristallnacht in Bulgaria. Thanks God that I am not a witness, but we all knew from witness reports that groups of youths in uniforms armed with knives broke down the windows of the Jewish shops. And despite the resistance of the citizens, they stormed the poor Jewish neighborhood Konyovitsa, broke down flats, molested old people and women, painted swastikas on the walls, as well as anti-Jewish and anticommunist slogans.

I remember that all people from Sofia and the country were shocked. But then came a strange lull – no one commented on what happened, probably the people were afraid of the authorities, I do not know. Maybe thinking that the silence of the people was a kind of agreement, the Interior Minister suddenly declared that he was introducing to Parliament a bill called ‘Law for the Protection of the Nation’. We had no idea then that this law would be like the Nuremberg laws. In fact, the only difference between the two laws was that the Law for Protection of the Nation did not say anything about blood or blood differences, but about religion and religious differences. It would have been stupid and laughable if its creators had put in it terms like an ‘Aryan’ and ‘purity of the Aryan race’. But this small difference provided some Jews with the chance to adopt the Christian faith quickly. I do not know such Jews personally, but I have heard about them. My Jewish friends and I did not approve of their hasty act. But then the authorities noticed that omission in the law and hurried to add in a consequent regulation that relationships between Jews and people of Bulgarian origin are forbidden.

There were also some cases of superstitions related to Jews. For example, I remember that during the Law for Protection of the Nation a rumor was introduced that on the Jewish holiday of Pesach Jews would steal a child in order to imprison it in a barrel with nails, can you imagine that, and in this way they would drain its blood, which was necessary for the holiday…. I remember that there were some simple mothers who really believed in these things. And when Pesach approached they were very afraid about their children and told them to run if they see a Jew on the street, run, so that they would not be caught and their blood drained. I have even heard such a pseudo threat used by some women to scare their children when they did some mischief – threatening to leave the child to the Jews, to the ‘blood-drinkers’. There were also cases when a child would disappear and the first thought of those people would be that the Jews had stolen it to drink its blood. For me that was an obvious form of anti-Semitism, but thanks God, it was not very common in the Bulgarian society. I speak only of individual cases, but although they were rare, they did happen.

To be honest, I think that King Boris III carries a political responsibility and he was not the true savior of the Bulgarian Jews. The truth is that at those trouble times, we could really rely on our Bulgarian neighbors. The anti-Semites, with all their cruelty, were only a number of crazy individuals. I remember that both before and after 9th September 1944 opinions were heard throughout the country that the former king Boris III was a democratic monarch. Yet, I think that is not true as far as democracy is concerned, because at that time tens of thousands of people (including many Jews) were sent to prison in the name of ‘His Highness’ and underage girls and boys were executed in the name of ‘His Highness’ with his signature on their sentences.

All of us in Samokov were very happy about the big protest organized by the Jews in Sofia on 24th May 1943 10 against the internment of the Jews from Sofia and the deportation of all Bulgarian Jews. The protest started from the Jewish school, moved past the [Great] Synagogue 11, along Stamboliiski Blvd, where the Jewish Cultural Home [Bet Am] 12 is still located today, and stopped at the Klementina Square. Some of the protesters wanted to go to the palace and ask King Boris III, called by Hitler ‘the fox’ to help them. The Sofia Jews interned to Samokov told us that the police met them with trucks and wagons somewhere along Opalchenska Str. between Stamboliiski Blvd and Vazrazhdane Square. They arrested a lot of the protesting Jews, led by rabbi Daniel 13. It was good that he managed to hide at the place of bishop Stefan [Exarch Stefan] 14, who remained in history as one of the greatest supporters of the Jews in Bulgaria. His protests against the deportation of our Jews played a major role and are still remembered with gratitude by the community.

But in the end of 1943 Italy had already left the war by breaking the alliance with the Germans. The Americans and the English had entered Italy. They started bombing Bulgaria from Italy but not so intensely as Romania, for example. The situation changed fast and contrary to the expectations of the Bulgarian government after October 1943 the Americans started bombing Sofia for real. The reason was that their way to Romania passed through Bulgaria, that was why they bombed Sofia and some other towns. In Samokov we only heard about the bombings, but it was more than enough to increase the fear, which we felt all the time.

My hometown Samokov like most of the big towns in the countryside accommodated a part of the interned Sofia Jews during the Law for Protection of the Nation. I think that introduced some optimistic vigor in us, the young Jews from the country, despite the tragic times. We often gathered together, discussed our situation and always tried to view things from a positive angle. We organized progressively oriented groups (an illegal youth party organization). All the time Jewish chamber orchestras were being formed, in which the accordionists were the center of the company. We read a lot. We exchanged the so-called ‘progressive’ books (books by Gorky, Lenin, Marx etc.) which we were eager to discuss. I found that fascinating! When radio sets were officially banned, we gathered in a small ‘bozadjiinitsa’ [a shop selling boza] 15 on the market street, in which the radio was always on.

It was a great pleasure for us, the Jewish youth, to spend the Sunday mornings there, drinking boza and listening in a daze to the traditional holiday concerts. I do not know if even real musicians could be so impressed by the overture ‘Koriolan’ or ‘year 812’, ‘9th Symphony’ or ‘Pathetic’, Beethoven and Chaikovsky… We would gather around a small table and listen in a trance, lost in a world, which was unreal, and yet belonging only to us, a world, which lifted us above the horrifying present. What we heard, filled us with revolutionary emotions, we were ready to fight so that there would be ‘An Ode to Joy’ for everyone in the world.

The exultation at our unreal world continued until the fateful day. The rumor spread with the speed of lightning: we are going to be interned. Where? Why? Nobody knew. Our parents felt the enormous danger, but tried to save us the worry. The appointed day was coming close with all its terror. Still optimistic, we, the young Jews, went to farewell meetings with our favorite friends, promised that we would write to each other from the new place… At home we packed violins and accordions, my mother cried all the time, while my father, seemingly angry, scolded her. And then came our Bulgarian friends. Everyone brought us something: some fresh butter, bread, yogurt. And they would tell us, ‘Don’t worry! Do not believe that something bad will happen!… Look at us, if necessary, we will protect you! If they touch you, it is as if they touch us. Do you hear, do not be afraid! You will come back, and everything will be like old times...’ It was as if the little butter eased our tense nerves. Well, we were lucky then. After a couple of years, we realized what would have been our fate. Our friend Dr. Buko Isakov (a Jew from Samokov) who had accompanied the echelons of the Aegean Jews to the death camps and had experienced the horror of the doomed people, could not recover from the shock for a long time. [Annexation of Aegean Thrace to Bulgaria in WWII] 16 We did not need any words, his state was significant enough.

9th September 1944 brought my family and me the calmness and the hopes for a completely new and secure life. Then the Soviet army entered Bulgaria not as a conqueror, but as a liberator (except to the fascists). Let’s not forget that at that time there was a strong partisan movement in Bulgaria, which opposed the fascist regime imposed by the Bulgarian government. Naturally the government searched for and killed the partisans, burned their houses, terrorized their families. Many young people died between 1943 and 1944, including a lot of Jews – mostly young people from Plovdiv and Sofia. For example, my future husband, who is from Plovdiv, had been involved in antifascist activities and his life had been in real danger. Unfortunately, I do not know any details about that period of his life, because I met him after 1944.

In 1947 I married Avram Melamed. We met through a group of Jewish friends from Plovdiv. I was in Plovdiv visiting my sister who had just married Rofat Revah from Plovdiv. Friends of his decided that I and Avram Melamed were perfect for each other and made everything possible to convince us in that. The main person ‘to blame’ for our marriage was Morits Assa, the former chairman of the Organization of Sofia Jews ‘Shalom’ 17, who lived in Plovdiv at that time. The story is quite unusual. I was introduced to Avram the day before he left for the USSR, where he was about to spend 5 years at a university (he graduated as an engineer there). At first, I thought I was only one of the many friends who came to see him off. But they had something else in mind, which, after all, I did not mind. While we were talking to each other, I suddenly heard Morits Assa saying ‘Lora and Avram are getting married tonight.’ And everyone started taking out some treats – potatoes, meat. ‘Congratulations! Happy wedding! Have a nice journey, Avram! And Lora will be here, working and waiting.’ At that time I was helping Morits with the administrative work, I was something like his secretary.

The next day Avram told me: ‘I am leaving.’ We left for Sofia where he had to take the plane to Moscow. There we went to marry before the registrar. But we had no witnesses. We went out on the street, looking for people to become our witnesses. We asked one stranger, and we found another acquaintance who agreed. And so, my husband left. But before that he said, ‘We will organize the wedding when I come back. And remember, no going out with other men.’ But a year passed, then a second, a third, a fifth... and we still had no wedding. Meanwhile my elder son Sheni  [Shinto] was born in 1948.

At first I lived with my sister and my brother-in-law in Plovdiv. My sister’s husband advised me not to go to the relatives of my husband, because I did not know them, but I thought the right thing was to go and live with them. So, I went to live together with my parents-in-law in Plovdiv. My husband's sister and brother also lived with them. His brother's name was Samuel Melamed, but I do not remember her name. At that time I was working as a weaver. I gave all my money to them. In fact, everything was for them, even the food. The situation grew unbearable especially in 1948 when they understood that I was pregnant and I was going to have a baby.

Before Shinto was born my husband's relatives moved me from Plovdiv to Sofia. And there, while I was pregnant in the last month, they showed me where I would live. I went upstairs to the third floor and I nearly fell downstairs with the baby.... My husband's mother and brother were coming behind me. When my son was born, I wrote a letter to my husband and his answer was: ‘A boy, something to be proud of!’ He neither asked me how the delivery went, nor how the child was. Very often the money for the baby went for the needs of my husband's relatives. Then my brother Sinto came, took my child and gave him to my parents who had still not emigrated to Israel. They looked after young Shinto. At that time I was working as a weaver in the Slatina factory in Samokov.

I remember very well an unpleasant incident from my work as a weaver. Once a woman got hit (I can't say if it was an accident or done on purpose) and I went to help her, because her hand looked very bad. My decision was spontaneous, I wanted to help her and accompany her to a doctor. Then some boy came, a Bulgarian, and told me, ‘This is none of your business. You are a Jew...’ His words hurt me a lot. That was a very ugly case, which I want to forget, but I can't.

My family dispersed in 1948 when all my relatives except for me emigrated to Israel. 18 In fact, the decision was taken by my brothers and sister and my parents decided that they should follow their children. At that time I was already married. My sister Milka became a social worker in Israel (she had a university education in Bulgaria), my brother Sinto, who was studying medicine in Bulgaria became a famous doctor and my brother Miko (he is the only one of us with secondary education) became a lab chemist. They still live in Israel today and have good families, children and grandchildren. My sister has two boys, my brother Sinto – a son and a daughter, and my brother Miko – a son. All I know about their families is that Milka married before she left – to Rofat Revah in 1940, who was from Plovdiv and I lived with them in Samokov for a while.

My husband returned from the USSR in 1951 as an engineer. He was also a communist so he found a job very fast. In that period I worked a lot, I was a member of the [communist] party, shared their ideas, read a lot. After 9th September 1944 when I went to Plovdiv to live with my sister. I worked as a typist in the propaganda department in the regional committee of the Fatherland Front 19, and later in the Regional Inspectorate on Information and Arts – Plovdiv where I was in charge of cultural information.

So, I was weaver in the 'Slatina' factory in Samokov. After 9th September 1944 – typist in the propaganda department at the regional committee of the Fatherland Front; later in charge of cultural information at the Regional Inspectorate on Information and Arts in Plovdiv. 1947-1998 - headed the personnel department of the City Committee of the Fatherland Front; instructor in the 'Propaganda' department of the BCP City Committee until 1952 ; head of the cultural department of the regional committee of the BCP (Bulgarian Communist Party) after my return to Samokov. 1952-1954 - instructor in lecture propaganda in the 'Propaganda' department of the Central Committee of the Dimitrov Communist Youth Union. 1954-1958 - Ministry of Culture in Sofia, department 'Community, headed the 'Propaganda' sector until 1958, when my department was renamed into 'Cultural and Educational Institutes'. Later I became an assistant in the sector 'Library Control' until 1960. June 1960 - head of the sector 'International Relations' in the Institute for Amateur Art Activities and after I returned from Spain I was once again head of the 'Propaganda' sector. In 1946 I became a head of department in ‘Septemvriiche’ and in charge of propaganda information of the UYW association 20 in the residential district. The same year I became member of the Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP) and head of the Regional Inspectorate on Information and Arts. In 1947 I became a party secretary of the same organisation. I was also in charge of party affairs in the Centеr for Children’s Folklore Art, chaired the trade union committee there, I was a member of the committee on institutions at the Ministry of Education and Culture, member of the party committee at the Culture and Arts Committee, deputy party secretary of the Institute of Amateur Art Activities.

My son Shinto Avram Melamed and my daughter Iafa have an age difference of four years. Iafa was also born in Sofia in 1952. Shinto Avram Melamed has a university education in computer systems at the Higher Mechanical and Electrical Technical Institute in Sofia. My son graduated as a computer engineer (1960-65) and between 1965-71 he worked as an engineer in the Center on Applied Mathematics in the Higher Mathematics Institute; between 1972 and 1974 he was research associate in the Main Information Computer Center of the Ministry of Health; between 1974 and 1979 he headed that center, took part in the research of a national computer system for the health sector. Between 1979 and 1985 he was a director of a computer center, automobile plant 'Sofia' where he designed a control system with five innovations – certificates from the International Federation of Inventors’ Associations (IFIA); from 1985 to 1989 he was chief specialist in the Ministry of Transport in charge of the computerization of transport; from 1989 to 1991 he was deputy director of 'Mikrokom' (a state company) in charge of the computerization of the national post office system; from 1992 to 1994 he was adviser to thе chairman of First East International Bank; from 1993 to 1994 he was a representative of Bulgaria in the English-American Banktrust. From 1996 to 2001 Shinto was president of Geula Fund, and since 1991 he has been a president of the private consultant company 'Annex', in charge of foreign investment, interbank relations, financial and investment projects, their relations with the Bulgarian authorities and financial institutions.

My daughter Iafa Avram (nee Melamed) also has a university education in sociology from the Sofia University. After 9th November 1989 she worked in Bulgaria as a sociologist in the Sociology Institute at the Bulgarian Academy of Science, as a translator, spokeswoman for the Bulgarian National Radio, and in the Embassy of Portugal to Bulgaria. For a while she lived in Madrid, before 10th November 1989 21. Iafa knows French and Spanish.

My children are raised Jewish, so they feel Jews from an early age. My husband and I lived in Sofia and there were suitable Jewish youth groups for both Iafa and Sheni [Shinto] here. They gathered in the Jewish Cultural Home, the so-called Bet Am. They are proud of being Jews. So are their children.

Our family friends during the totalitarian regime were Jews, Bulgarians and Spanish –from our short stay in Spain. We gathered together on all religious Jewish holidays, mostly on Pesach. We had a great time. Now my friends are mostly from the Jewish community in Sofia. We gather often, talking, singing, laughing and dancing. We do not meet only on holidays. We gather daily at the Jewish Cultural Home, housing the administrative department of the Organization of Jews in Bulgaria 'Shalom', the Jewish community house 'Emil Shekerdjiiski', the editors' offices of 'Evreiski Vestnik' ['Jewish newspaper'] newspaper, and the magazine in Bulgarian and English 'Evreiski Godishnik' ['Jewish Year Book'], the Sunday children's school, the rehabilitation center for elderly people, the repatriation service 'Sochnut 22 ', which is the connection of the Bulgarian Jews to Israel, as well as the offices of the ‘Lauder' 23 and 'Joint' 24 foundations. To be honest, I must say that at the start of the democratic changes I received for a while aid from Switzerland and Germany, which helped us a lot.

I have been to Israel three times. I visited my relatives, friends and acquaintances. I remember that when I first arrived in Israel, I was welcomed by a sequence of sunny, bight, fresh and hot days. I was most fascinated by the thriving greenery in Israel, which was everywhere – in the cities, kibbutzim, flats, on the roofs, roads, in the synagogues and parks. I also noticed that the beautiful magnolias, rubber plants, jasmine, hedges, grass and all flowers were looked after with love not only by the common people, but also by municipal employees.

If someone dared to tear a flower from a bush, he would be scolded right away by a child or a passer-by. The terraces and gardens in Rishon le Zion, Rehovot and in the kibbutzim Hazorea, Shvaim, Nevo Betar fascinated me with the wonderful greenery in the midst of the desert where Israel is located. I found the Mediterranean Sea very warm, even in the end of the year. The scenery of Tel Aviv’s seaside is magnificent and inspiring, especially now. One visit of a stranger like me is enough to make him feel at home. The warm ‘boker tov’ [‘good morning’ in Hebrew] used to greet everyone you meet, the cordial ‘shalom’ when parting, the common ‘you’ melt the ice and make you a part of Israeli society. To be honest, I did not find it dangerous there and did not feel afraid of the threat of terrorism. Young children would play tennis, ride bicycles, go swimming, eat and drink and have fun under the watchful monitoring of planes and ships. I remember that one day the sea was a little bit dirty. I was walking along the shore with my husband, when looking at our feet we heard a voice from the loudspeakers saying to us, ‘Don’t worry, sir and madam, next to the changing rooms there is a device, which will wash away the bitumen. The device turned out to be a simple cylindrical brush soaked in petrol.

And the people in Israel really managed to have fun! We were in Tel Aviv during the visit of Luciano Pavarotti. He had to perform together with the Tel Aviv Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by the famous Zubin Meta. The tickets were 400 shekels each, which was quite expensive. But many Israeli were interested in music and the interest in the famous singer was even greater, so the sponsoring companies decided to place an enormous screen on the square, and benches in front of it. Naturally a multitude of music lovers filled the square, there were many people standing or sitting on the ground, all of them clapping and cheering and shouting with joy. I also witnessed the Sukkot celebrations in Israel. The same square was once again overfilled with people dancing, everyone singing, it was really spectacular. Both the young and the old had a really great time.

In the kosher restaurant of 'Shalom' we, the pensioners from Jewish origin, eat together every lunchtime, and on some weekdays some of us do exercises in the 'Health' club. We also meet on Saturdays in the 'Golden Age' club chaired by the former chairman of the Jewish community house Mois Saltiel. We meet various Jews from the area of art and science. I am also a member of the international women's organization 'WIZO' 25, whose meetings are both entertaining and educational.

If 9th September 1944 made my husband and me stay in Bulgaria (because we were communists), then 10th November 1989 made us think whether or not we should emigrate to Israel. Life in Bulgaria became hard, the conditions unacceptable, the country fell into a social crisis, inflation soared, unemployment became widespread. So, firstly Shinto and then Iafa decided to leave for Israel and see how life was there. They went to visit our relatives, stayed for a while and returned. My husband Avram and I had already prepared our documents to emigrate to Israel. But we decided to stay. Our children realized that our life in Israel would not be easy. We had already forgotten Ivrit, the social situation there was different, and Iafa decided that there was no point in emigrating if her child and her work are in Bulgaria. So, we all decided to stay in Bulgaria and I don't think we made a mistake.

Translated by Ivelina Karcheva 

Miriam Patova

Tallinn

Estonia

Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya 

Date of interview: June 2005

Miriam Patova and her husband Henrich Kurizkes live in a two-room apartment in a nine-storied building, which was built in the 1970s. It’s situated in a new neighborhood in Tallinn. Miriam charmed me at once. She is a petite lady with short curly gray hair and amazingly bright eyes. She is very emotional and sociable. Her eyes shine brightly, when she talks about things which she finds interesting, and she looks quite like she does in her childhood pictures. Miriam’s apartment looks like a green conservatory. There are blooming and boosting pot plants everywhere. She is very fond of ceramics. There are pictures on the walls. For the most part they are her older grandchildren’s paintings. Miriam is a terrific housewife. She is a wonderful cook and also arranges her dishes finely. Her sandwiches are like pieces of art. Miriam’s favorite pastime is reading. She has books on medicine, her profession, philosophy and fiction, on her desk. Miriam spends all her free time reading. It’s interesting to converse with her. Her opinions are very different, and she sees common things from a very different perspective. Miriam and her husband make a beautiful couple. They’ve been together for almost 55 years. They are very sincere, kind and intelligent.

My family background

Growing up

Soviet invasion of the Baltics

During the war

After the war

Post-communism

Glossary 

My family background

Unfortunately, I know very little about my dad’s family. All I know about my father’s parents is what he told me about them. My father came from Ukraine. Of course, his parents had no opportunity to keep in touch with us as they lived in the USSR, while we lived in Estonia, a capitalist country. The Soviet regime didn’t approve of any contact with relatives living abroad 1. Regretfully, I failed to ask my father about all I would have liked to know. Now I know that parents must always tell their children about their origin and roots so that their children know who they are. Some people may be ashamed of their parents who were common people or craftsmen. This is wrong. Everything about the family is of interest and needs to be known. I wish I had come to this understanding earlier. 

So, here’s this bit of information that I know about my father’s parents. My grandfather’s name was Isaac Patov, and my grandmother’s first name was Miriam. They had a big family. My father, Beniamin Patov, was born in 1894. I only knew two members of the whole family. I know that in the early 1920s my father visited his family. Everybody knew about how poor people were in the USSR and when my father was preparing for the trip, our acquaintances brought us clothes, gifts and shoes to take to my father’s family. I met my relativesin the 1940s, when Estonia had been annexed to the USSR [see Estonia in 1939-1940] 2. I met my father’s brother, Boris Patov, during evacuation. He also visited us in Tallinn after the war. I also heard something about my father’s two other brothers. One lived in Leningrad [today Russia]. We wanted to visit him after we had been evacuated, but nobody was allowed to visit Leningrad. He died during the siege of Leningrad [see Blockade of Leningrad] 3. The other brother died in evacuation. My father also had a sister. Her name was Sophia. After evacuation we met her son Boris and daughter Raisa. My father’s parents may have lived in Kiev [today Ukraine] for some time before World War II. When Kiev was occupied they were killed by fascists in Babi Yar 4 on 29thSeptember 1941. 

Remembering my father, I think that his family was religious and observed Jewish traditions. At least, my father was religious and knew the Jewish history and traditions well. I think he was well-educated in this respect when he was a child. 

During World War I my father served in the tsarist army at the front. He was involved in combat action and was shell-shocked at the front. Regretfully, I have no idea how my father happened to move to Estonia after the war. All I know is that many of those involved in World War I stayed in Estonia and started their families here. 

I know more about my mother’s family. The history of my mother’s family starts with my grandfather. His name was Moshe Hazan. He was short and had red hair. I know that my grandfather lived in a small town. Somehow I remember that it must have been in Ukraine. His parents sent him for training with a Jewish hat maker called Birbauer. The training course lasted two years and after finishing it my grandfather became this hat maker’s apprentice. He stayed with his trainer’s family. He was also provided meals, but wasn’t paid for his work. The hat maker had no extra money to pay my grandfather. Birbauer had a wife and eight daughters. His was a big family. One day my grandfather lost his temper and informed his master of his strong intention to leave him for not being paid for his work, but he also demanded that his master paid him whatever he owed. The master said he still had no money to pay him, but that he could give him one of his daughters to marry. My grandfather chose the youngest, Hava, who had gray eyes. She must have not turned 16 at that time. I only knew my grandmother’s older sister Ida of my grandmother’s family. She lived in Riga [today Latvia] making men’s clothes. Ida was single.

My maternal grandparents had a traditional Jewish wedding. After the wedding they moved to Riga. My grandfather earned his living by making hats, while my grandmother gave birth to their children. She had ten, but five died in infancy. One of those who survived was my mother’s sister Dora, born in 1894. My mother Sheina was the next child. She was called Zhenny in the family. She was born in 1896. After my mother, her brother Rachmil was born, and the next one was Naum. The youngest in the family was Alexandr, born in 1907. My mother told me that though all the children in the family were different, they were hardworking, cheerful and could sing very well. My aunts and uncles could make their own clothes and cook. Actually, there was hardly anything they couldn’t do. They were very handy and smart. In the early 20thcentury, the family left Riga for Viljandi [150 km east of Tallinn], a small beautiful town in Estonia. A long time ago Viljandi was called ‘little Switzerland’ because of the hills, woods and a beautiful hanging bridge. 

Everybody in my mother’s family spoke Yiddish. I don’t think my grandparents were very religious, but they observed Jewish traditions, went to the synagogue and celebrated Jewish holidays at home. They also raised their children Jewish. 

My grandfather was the breadwinner, and the family was big. My mother told me that they were very poor. To have something for the family to eat in winter, my grandmother cooked red bilberries. She couldn’t afford to buy sugar to make bilberry jam, so she just cooked it plain. In winter they spread it on bread. In winter my mother wore galoshes. However poor the family was they managed to raise their children. [My mother’s sister] Dora was very smart. She did well at elementary school, and Viljandi town authorities granted her a scholarship to continue her studies. Dora finished a gymnasium. My mother did badly at school, but she was also eager to study. Unfortunately, she had no such opportunity. At the age of ten, she had to help my grandmother about the house. She also made hat linings and attended to the younger children. My grandfather had no money to pay for my mother’s education. My grandfather said to my mother, ‘Sheina, you can sign your name, read and count. This is when you have to stop your studies. You’re very handy and will assist me with my work.’ 

My mother sewed hat linings while standing at the table, being too short to sit, and holding little Alexandr [her youngest brother]. She was clever with everything she did. She also taught us that nothing in life is easy. It can never be. She used to say, ‘If you want to accomplish things in life, you have to be quick-witted. You have to pinwheel to have your rear ahead of you.’ I often recall my mother’s witty and wise expressions behind her joking manner. She only finished two years in elementary school, and this was all the education she managed to get. However, she did her best in learning things by herself. She spoke Estonian, German, Russian and Yiddish. She wrote in Russian with mistakes, but she could write well in Estonian. My mother wanted to go to Paris [today France] before she got married. It was quite common for girls from poorer families to go to Paris to learn dressmaking. When the training was over they returned home and opened their own businesses. Local ladies willingly ordered their dresses from dressmakers trained in Paris. This was quite a profitable business. My mother tried to convince my grandfather to send her to Paris, but he said he had no money. Therefore, my mother’s dream to study never came true, and the only thing she had left in this regard was to dream for her children to get a good education. 

Aunt Dora got fond of revolutionary ideas and became one of the first revolutionaries in Estonia. She had the gift of conviction and involved Uncle Naum in revolutionary activities. After finishing the gymnasium Dora left Viljandi for Riga where she took to revolutionary activities. My mother told me about an incident. Dora returned to Viljandi escaping from the Riga police. Shortly afterwards, gendarmes came to search my grandfather’s house. They were looking for leaflets, but found nothing. Later, we found out that Dora had managed to put them in the pocket of my grandfather’s jacket which he was wearing. Of course, it never occurred to the gendarmes to search for the leaflets in the old man’s pockets. However, some time later, Dora was arrested and put in prison in the tower in Tallinn. It houses a museum now. The [Russian] Revolution of 1917 5 liberated Dora and other revolutionaries from prison. Dora and Naum moved to Moscow [today Russia] and lived there ever since. After the war for independence [see Estonian War of Liberation] 6 Estonia gained independence [see First Estonian Republic 7. We lived in different countries and couldn’t keep in touch with our relatives. It was dangerous for residents of the USSR, who could be blamed of espionage or persecuted for keeping such contacts. It’s amazing that we managed to survive the repression [see Great Terror] 8 period which started in the USSR in the mid-1930s. However, we lost contact with them for a long time and had no information about them. 

[My mother’s brother] Rachmil received training in tailoring and in due time he started to work on his own. Alexandr, the youngest brother, learned to make hats and worked in my grandfather’s shop. My mother also assisted my grandfather before she got married. 

I don’t know how my parents met. I think they got married in 1919. Since their families were religious, I think my parents had a traditional Jewish wedding. I don’t think it could have been otherwise at that time. After the wedding my parents resided in Viljandi for some time before moving to Rakvere [100 km from Tallinn]. I don’t know what made them move. Unfortunately, I shall never get answers to these questions. 

Rakvere was a small beautiful town. It was an old town with a ruined castle. Its old name was Vezenberg. It was a clean and tiny town. Its residents led a quiet life. They didn’t even lock their houses as there was no theft. Owners of houses cleaned the pavements in front of their houses and everything was very clean. 

The Jewish community was established in Rakvere at the end of the 19thcentury. There was a synagogue in Rakvere and also a shochet. There was a cheder for boys. There was a Jewish cemetery with beautiful gravestones and tombs. Cantonists 9 were the first people buried in the cemetery. However, there was no Jewish general education school there. Children studied in a German gymnasium and an Estonian school with advanced studies of German. All Jewish families in Rakvere were religious, observed Jewish traditions and raised their children religiously. My parents settled down in a small house with a garden. My father made hats and my mother assisted him. She also took care of the house and children. My sister Rachil [see Common name] 10, Rokhle-Leya in her documents, was the oldest. She was born in 1920. Then came my brother Beines, born in 1923, and I was born in 1929. I was named Miriam after my paternal grandmother. 

Growing up

My father made nice hats and had his customers, but he was slow. My mother did her best in assisting him. She was the center of our lives. She was very quick and did several things at a time. Despite her hard life my mother was cheerful and never drooped. She was good at sewing, knitting and embroidery. She could even make fur clothing. I loved her dearly and never missed a chance to be with her. When sewing with her knitting machine my mother used to sing Jewish songs, and she did it well. I used to sit or stand besides her listening to her singing. I can’t remember the songs, but when I hear them on the radio, I recall my childhood. 

My parents spoke Yiddish to one another and German to the children. We all spoke fluent Estonian, living among Estonians and communicating with them. My parents also knew Russian, but we didn’t speak it at home. 

My mother brought us up to be hardworking. She often repeated that she would be happy if I didn’t have to work hard in my life, had nicely groomed hands, different from her worked out hands. However, she wanted me to know everything and to be able to do things. I wasn’t so good in handicrafts, and was jealous about my older sister who could do everything including sewing, knitting, embroidering and cooking. There was hardly anything which she couldn’t do. She was very pretty. She was slim and had thick black wavy hair and beautiful features. Rachil was very smart and was as quick as my mother in doing things. I admired her, but Beines and I were closer. I loved him dearly, and he spent a lot of time with me. I was often ill as a child, and I was tiny and weak, and my older brother wanted me to grow stronger. He did sports and involved me in various sporting activities. 

In winter we went skiing, and he taught me to ski down the hill. Before we went home, Beines undressed me to rub snow onto my body, and then at home put me in hot water. My mother didn’t object to this, and his efforts had their results. I stopped catching a cold so frequently. In summer we rode bicycles, and my brother taught me to climb trees. I didn’t fear anything when my brother was with me. Beines taught me to love nature. We had a jar with a wide neck, and there were frog eggs in drift weed at its bottom. Beines and I used to watch tadpoles emerge from their eggs. When they grew a little bigger, we used to let them go into the river. We had dogs and cats at home. My brother and I loved animals. I was the youngest and everybody spoiled me, but I remained a cheerful and easy-going child. I was loved and loved everybody in return. 

My parents observed Jewish traditions at home. On Saturdays and Jewish holidays they went to the synagogue and the children always went with them. My mother always asked me whether I wanted to go to the synagogue with them, and I always accepted. I found these Jewish gatherings interesting, and children also talked with other children. My mother and I went to the upper tier where other women were praying. My brother stayed with my father on the ground floor. My father was a member of the Jewish community of Rakvere. On Saturdays they had meetings to discuss their issues. We also celebrated Jewish holidays at home according to the traditions. My mother had special dishes for Pesach. My father bought matzah for Pesach at the synagogue. We only ate matzah through the whole duration of the holiday. There was no bread at home. My father conducted the Pesach seder. Everything was in accordance with the Jewish traditions. On Yom Kippur my parents fasted. I always looked forward to Chanukkah. 

Uncle Rachmil and his wife also lived in Rakvere. My uncle was a tailor, and owned a clothes store. He was very business-oriented and was doing quite well. He and his wife had no children of their own, and they cared about me. They were much better off than our family, and on Chanukkah my uncle always gave me a whole crone for [Channukkah] gelt. My brother taught me to read at my early age, and I liked it a lot. However, books were expensive, and my parents couldn’t afford such expenses. I used to buy a book after receiving a crone from my uncle. This was a lot of money at that time, considering that a pair of shoes cost two crones. My mother told me that Uncle Rachmil and his wife wanted to adopt me, but she didn’t agree to that. Uncle Rachmil owned a house and even a car, which was a luxury at that time. They always invited me over on Saturdays and we went for a ride out of town. 

Rakvere was a small town, and there was no Jewish school. My sister and brother studied in a German school. Rachil finished twelve years of the gymnasium. She knew Russian and English. They also got vocational education. Rachil could do typing, file keeping, sewing and knitting. After finishing the gymnasium my sister moved to Tallinn. She wanted to live in a bigger town, and believed she would have more opportunities in Tallinn. However, there was an economic recession during this period, and it took her a while to find a job. She finally found a job as a shop assistant. 

My brother was very talented. Everything came easy to him. He had a beautiful baritone and he was very musical. He took singing classes. He was strong, tall and handsome. He was growing fast and couldn’t wait till he could start working. He liked dealing with technical things. He always fixed bicycles, though nobody taught him to do it. After finishing the seventh grade, Beines left school. My mother was very disappointed. She had always wanted her children to get a good education, particularly considering that she never had a chance. However, my brother insisted on having his own way. At 17 he went to Tallinn where he became an apprentice car mechanic. My mother went with him to find him a place to stay. When my brother started working he went to an evening school. 

Beines had his bar mitzvah at the age of 13. There was a big celebration in the family. He was given a tallit for his bar mitzvah. It was different from the tallit of an adult man: woolen and white and black. His was a silk one with tassels and blue edges. His tallit was in a little silk bag with a hexagonal star embroidered in gold. There was also a scroll on thin parchment, an extract from the Torah. My mother had this bag with her during the evacuation. It lived through all the hardships of our lives and even its owner. I kept it for a long time not knowing what to do with it. Later, I gave it to our granddaughter Rosa. She lives in Israel and keeps this family sanctity. 

I went to the Estonian school. We studied all the subjects in Estonian. We also had German classes every day. The school was accommodated in a small wooden house. There was one teacher for two classes. I was the only Jewish student in my class, but in all those years I can’t remember one single incident of unkind attitude towards me or any emphasis on my origin. When the rest of the class had a religious class, my teacher didn’t force me to study the Orthodox religion. She gave me a Bible, a thick book with pictures, and I looked at the pictures. Every morning there was a prayer before our classes started, but I was allowed to go to school after the prayer. On the eve of Jewish holidays my teacher told me that I could stay at home. This respectful attitude to a different religion during the period of the first Estonian independence 11 was absolutely natural for us. Our uniform was a dark blue dress with a little white collar and an apron. On holidays we wore a bigger white collar, which we tied in a bow, and no apron. We were raised in strictness. I liked running along the streets, and when I saw a policeman, I slowed down and greeted him making a curtsy before him. This was the rule considering that he guarded the nation. If a boy and a girl walked together, the boy was to let her pass before he went through the door. We were taught this in our childhood: this was the way things should have been. Later, after the Soviet occupation [see Occupation of the Baltic Republics]12, when Estonia was annexed to the Soviet Union in 1940, our school was closed, and all the schoolchildren were sent to the Municipal Estonian school. I never faced any anti-Semitism in my old or new school. This subject was never discussed at home either. I had Jewish and Estonian friends. They visited me at home, and my mother always treated them nicely. 

My mother wanted me to study music. I had classes with a music teacher, and was successful. My mother hoped that I would go to the conservatory in Tallinn after finishing school. 

We often saw my mother’s parents. My grandfather opened his own hat shop after some time. Alexandr worked with him. He had a difficult life. He was a student of the Medical Faculty of Tartu University. Then he fell in love with a girl. His fiancée was from Riga. Alexandr was going to marry her, but being a student, he couldn’t provide for her, and Alexandr had no intention to wait till he finished his studies. He left university and went to my mother in Rakvere. She raised him and was like a mother to him. Alexandr got married and started his own business. However, he didn’t have a business-oriented mind and went bankrupt. At that time he already had a son. His wife left him and went to Riga with their son. Alexandr returned to his parents in Viljadi. He went back to work with my grandfather, and his life improved. He remarried. In late 1940 Alexandr’s son Adir was born. When the war started, he was seven months old. 

I remember my grandparent’s house well. There was a small store on the ground floor, a small room. The front door led to this small room, and there were shelves with hats on them starting right from the entrance. There was another door which led to the living quarters. There was a big dining room, my grandparents’ bedroom, a staircase to the second floor where Alexandr and his family lived. 

I loved my grandmother and she was my role model. One wouldn’t have said she was beautiful, but she radiated dignity and nobility. My grandmother was always nicely dressed. She wore dark blue or gray gowns with snow-white collars. Her hair turned gray when she was young, but it was always nicely done. My grandmother had no education, and signed papers with three crosses. However, she was good at discussing various subjects. She went to concerts and listened to the radio. She was very tolerant, smart, and never imposed her own opinion. Even when I asked for her advice, she always told me to do what I believed was right, but only after thorough consideration. She said she could give me no advice since another person can just listen to me, but the decision was to be mine. I remembered this through my whole life. And when I happen to get angry with my dear ones for not doing right in my opinion, I always tell myself to stop and recall my granny. And then my irritation disappears.

Soviet invasion of the Baltics

I couldn’t give thorough consideration to the annexation of Estonia to the Soviet Union considering my age. All I remember about it is that Rachmil lost his store. He went to work as a tailor in a state owned shop. Our lives didn’t change as much. However, there was also a great joy in our life. My grandparents could finally see their daughter Dora and son Naum who lived in Moscow. Dora invited her parents to visit them. She was the director of a textile factory. She was also a deputy and was awarded an order for her work. When Dora turned 40 she went to study in the textile college. She was a strong-willed person. The factory employees respected her a lot, though she was strict and demanding. Dora dedicated her life to her work at the factory. She took great care of the employees. They were women, and there were many single women after the war. Many had children, and my aunt opened kindergartens and nurseries at the factory. Dora and Naum were altruistic and idealistic people. They believed in communist ideas and wanted everybody to have a good life. 

Uncle Naum was very talented. He wrote poems, liked and understood music, and had artistic talents. His friend was Solomon Mikhoels 13, a famous Jewish actor, who tried to convince him to act in a theater. However, the [Communist] party sent uncle Naum to study in Germany, which he did. He believed it was the duty of a communist to do what his country told him to. When he returned from Germany, he was appointed as the director of Mosgorenergo, a huge power company, where he worked in this position till the Great Patriotic War 14began. 

During the war

On 22ndJune 1941 we heard that Germany had attacked the Soviet Union. Molotov 15 spoke on the radio. He finished his speech with the words, ‘We will win since our cause is right.’ We believed that the war wasn’t going to last long. However, the Germans were advancing fast, and my parents decided to evacuate. Uncle Rachmil and his wife wanted to stay in Rakvere, but my mother insisted that they went with us. She did so as if she had some kind of premonition. Finally they joined us. Uncle Alexandr and his family also joined us. My grandparents were visiting Aunt Dora at that time. I think this trip saved their lives. They stayed with my aunt in Moscow after the war. 

Beines went to Leningrad [today Russia] on business before the war. He was to deliver a vehicle there. My mother was very worried, but she hoped Beines would take care of himself, and we couldn’t stay any longer in Rakvere waiting for him. We packed a few things and went to the railway station. The trains were leaving, filled with people. The station was overcrowded. The crowd separated our family. My father and I failed to board the train whereas my mother and sister managed to get on. My father decided to go to Leningrad where his brother lived, but the train went past Leningrad. We stopped at a station in the suburb for a long while. There we met with my brother, who was on his way back to Tallinn. We told him to join us, but Beines said he had his orders and had to go back to Tallinn to report the completion of his task. This was the last time I saw my brother alive. 

When he returned to town, German forces were close to the town. Beines was captured by Estonians. They executed him in the Tallinn jail. In 1962 I obtained a certificate of his death from the archives. It’s strange that all the archives were kept, but this was only because of the Estonian love for order. According to this certificate and the documents of the central state archive, Beines Patov, a car mechanic, was arrested in Tallinn during the German occupation on 1stSeptember 1941 for being Jewish. Based on this charge Patov was to be executed before 6thOctober 1941. When my husband and I were in Israel, we visited the Yad Vashem 16. I was given documents to fill out. I filled them out in Ashdod, Israel, and sent them to Yad Vashem. About a month after that, Yad Vashem sent me a letter saying that they had my brother’s data. 

My father and I were sent to Yaroslavl [today Russia] where most of the Estonian citizens were sent. Somehow my father managed to find out that my mother, sister and Rachmil and his wife were in Mariyskaya SSR [about 600 km from Moscow]. My father got in touch with them, and we went to Mariyskaya SSR where we reunited with the family. We didn’t stay long there. Dora managed to arrange for us to go to Cheliabinsk [about 1,500 km from Moscow] where we were accommodated in a small house. Uncle Alexandr and his family joined us. Our family shared one room, Uncle Rachmil and his wife stayed in another room, and Alexandr, his wife and their son lived in the third room. Alexandr went to work at the military plant, which released him from military duty in the army. Alexandr worked from early morning till late at night. When he returned home, he often fell asleep at the dinner table. My father and Rachmil were tailors in a shop. One year later, my father was mobilized to the army. My father was assigned to the Estonian Rifle Corps 17.

Uncle Rachmil had lost one eye, which released him from service in the army. My father served in the army for one year. He fell seriously ill at the front and also, he was overage. He was demobilized and returned to Cheliabinsk. 

We didn’t starve in evacuation thanks to my mother and her abilities. She traded clothes for food at the market. We always had some extra bread besides the ration we received for cards [see Card system] 18 and potatoes. My mother made soup with peeled potatoes. As for the peels, she washed and ground them to make pancakes. She worked about the house all day, but we had sufficient food thanks to her skills. 

I went to school even though I didn’t know any Russian. I had no choice. There were only Russian schools in Cheliabinsk. I was admitted to the sixth grade instead of the seventh grade where I belonged. Because of not knowing Russian, I had to go to a lower grade. I got along well in my class. My classmates sympathized with me and provided assistance. I remember my first day at school. I wore a vinous pleated skirt and a knitted cardigan. I had ribbons in my plaits. The children, who had never seen any beautiful clothes before, crowded around me touching my clothes and even the ribbons. I didn’t know what to do. Of course, I felt like a stranger in my class at first, but soon I made friends with my classmates. However, there were no anti-Semitic demonstrations. I never heard abusive words addressed to me. I remember my first accomplishment in my studies. We were studying the history of ancient Rome. I learned these pages from my textbook by heart. My teacher asked me to tell it, and I told the whole story in Russian. My classmates applauded me. Another time I wrote my name on the blackboard in Russian. These were my first steps, and later things gradually improved. 

In summer schoolchildren went to work at the sovkhoz19. I also worked there. My mother taught me that one had to do any work without waiting to be told. She said, ‘Dirty floors? Don’t wait till someone asks you or till someone else does it. Do it yourself.’ I was raised in this way, and this upbringing helped me in my life. Perhaps, that’s why my life is easier than anyone else’s. 

I remember my 16thbirthday in evacuation. When I turned twelve in Rakvere, before the war, Uncle Rachmil gave me a present and said that for my 16thbirthday he would give me a car. Of course, I forgot this promise. On my 16thbirthday Uncle Rachmil knocked on our door and gave me a big box. I opened it, and there was a smaller box in it, and another smaller box. When I finally opened the last box, I saw a toy car. This was very touching.

I met Uncle Naum in evacuation. We became very close and he influenced me a lot. Naum had forgotten Estonian, and we spoke Estonian with him [so he would learn it again]. He had high blood pressure and was released from military service. He evacuated to Sverdlovsk [Yekaterinburg at present, about 1,600 km from Moscow] with a military plant. He was appointed the director of this plant. Naum’s family life was rather unfortunate. He divorced his wife, and their two sons stayed with their mother. He kept in touch with his sons. Uncle Naum, like my mother’s other brothers, was a success with women. I wouldn’t call them handsome in the common sense of this word. Uncle Naum was bald and had a potato-like nose. However, they all had some charisma. They radiated charm, love of life, tenderness. They were elegant, polite, could dance and sing well, and they were courteous, which was valued much more than physical attraction. 

We followed up the military advancements. In 1944 the liberation of Estonia began. We listened to the radio with great interest. The day when we heard that Tallinn had been liberated from the fascists, it became a holiday for us. And of course, the end of the war was a great event for us. People were dancing, singing, hugging and greeting each other. We could finally go home. Naum and Dora told us to stay in Moscow, but we couldn’t even imagine life anywhere else but Estonia. However, we didn’t return to Rakvere. Rakvere was a small provincial town, and there were no higher educational institutions there as I had to continue my studies. We moved to Tallinn. My father was the first to go there to find accommodation. He managed to find three small rooms in a shared five-room apartment [see Communal apartment] 20. We had a front door leading to our rooms, and another family sharing two rooms had the entrance from the backdoor. We shared a kitchen and a bathroom. We were happy with this lodging. My mother’s brothers also lived in Tallinn after evacuation. Rachmil was a tailor, and his wife worked in an accounting office. Alexandr, his wife and son also lived in Tallinn. 

After the war

When we returned to Tallinn we got to know about the horrific happenings during the war. Estonia was the first European country to report its territory Judenfrei 21, or Jew-free to Hitler. Thinking about it now, I’m trying to remember whether we were scared of living here after the war, what our neighbors thought about us and what we thought about them knowing about what was happening, but these issues never came up at that time. We got along well with our neighbors. We had good neighborly relations. You can say, ‘What kind of people were you? How could you forgive this?’ Then I would ask, ‘And what kind of people are those who move to Germany nowadays? How can they walk the streets that had been flooded with blood? Why don’t they move to Israel instead?’ As for what I think about Estonians, I know these people aren’t to blame for what had happened. Perhaps, a big part of the blame is on the Soviet regime. 

After the deportations in 1941 [see Soviet Deportation of Estonian Civilians]22 many Estonian residents believed the German forces to be their liberators and rescuers from the Soviet threat, so they readily fulfilled orders of the occupants, accepting their rules and hoping for a better life. However, not only the Estonians but also the Jews were looking for ways of escape from the Soviet regime. Many Jews refused evacuation for this very reason. They thought there was nothing to be afraid of regarding the Germans. My parents had a nice friend in Rakvere where we lived before the war. He was a chemical engineer and a Jew. I liked him a lot. He was single and often visited us. He used to read to me while holding me on his lap. My mother had tried to convince him to evacuate, but he said that when the Germans were in Rakvere he would wear a yellow star and life would go on. He was more afraid of having to evacuate to the USSR. Many Jews thought in this way and paid for this with their lives right after the German armies occupied our land.

My grandmother’s older sister Ida stayed in Riga during the war. She was a very beautiful woman. Ida spoke fluent German. However, somebody reported to the Germans that Ida was a Jew and she was sent to the ghetto. Ida survived. When the Soviet army advanced to Latvia, the Germans forced the remaining inmates of the ghetto to march to Germany. The Germans killed those who couldn’t walk. When in Germany, Ida fell from exhaustion and a German soldier shot at her. The bullet was slightly grazing her head, but didn’t affect any vital parts. When the rest of the column left, Ida got to her feet and started on her way back. She stayed with a local German family, who gave her food and sent her to the hospital. A German medical officer treated her in the hospital. He managed to keep Ida there for a week before he released and showed her in which direction she had to go. She managed to get to the Soviet units where she mentioned her niece Dora’s name. Dora was found and she helped Ida. What was amazing was that Ida had diabetes and lived on insulin injections, but she managed without any insulin during the war and she survived. Ida died in Tallinn at the age of 80. 

In Tallinn our family also followed Jewish traditions. We celebrated Jewish holidays and followed the kashrut to the extent that we could, considering the lack of food during the postwar years. The beautiful synagogue in Tallinn [see Tallinn synagogue] 23 was gone. It was ruined by the Soviet air force during their attack on 8thMarch 1944. The Soviet regime struggled against religion [see Struggle against religion] 24, but the Soviet authorities gave the Jewish community in Tallinn a small and shabby wooden house for the synagogue. However miserable it was, people came there to pray and celebrate the holidays. On Pesach they could buy matzah at the synagogue. There was no rabbi in Tallinn, but those who knew the Jewish religion and Jewish traditions performed this ritual. There was also a shochet in Tallinn. My father was a member of the Jewish community and took part in its activities. Members of the community got together every week. There was no Chevra Kaddishain Tallinn after the war. When Jewish people died, they were to be buried in accordance with the rituals. Somebody who knew Jewish traditions usually performed this ritual, and sometimes my father conducted Jewish funeral services. There was a Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. It was amazing that the Germans never ruined one single gravestone in the cemetery. After the war Jews continued to be buried in the Jewish cemetery.

Though my father was a deeply religious person, he must have been shocked with what was happening in Estonia during the German occupation. My father expressed rebellious ideas saying, ‘What kind of God do we have? Is he deaf and blind allowing such horrors and crimes to be committed?’

We were very poor after the war. My mother did her best to feed us, but it was impossible to get shoes or clothes. Everybody wore white tennis shoes cleaning them with toothpaste. Also, if we could buy calico, we made calico dresses. 

Of course, the Soviet regime affected our lives radically. Many things seemed strange and weird to us. However, I don’t think we gave much thought to them at that time. We just lived our lives. Perhaps, this was the only right thing to do. We also adjusted to the ideology since there was no other alternative. Perhaps, things were easier with our family. We never wanted extra riches. We were used to doing things with our own hands and making do with what we had. 

Shortly after the war, my older sister Rachil married Boris Kulman, a violinist of the Tallinn symphonic orchestra. In 1946 their first son Armir was born, and in 1951 Rafail, the second son was born. My sister was a housewife. 

In Tallinn I went to the ninth grade of the Russian school for girls. Children in Estonia studied in school for eleven years. We had more subjects than the rest of the USSR schools. We studied logic, mineralogy, history of arts and other subjects which weren’t taught at schools in the USSR. There weren’t many children at school. In 1944 many people were still in evacuation. There were many children of the military serving in Tallinn. There were also children of the former prisoners returning from Siberia and the Volga [today Russia] areas.

I didn’t join the Komsomol 25 until finally my school friend convinced me to do so. She told me that I had no future after finishing school if I didn’t join the Komsomol. So I did. I have to say I was very serious about it. I had to learn the statute and answer questions about the international situation. I was questioned at the district Komsomol committee [Editor’s note: Komsomol units existed at all educational and industrial enterprises. They were headed by Komsomol committees involved in organizational activities]. I answered all questions and was awarded my Komsomol membership certificate. All new members and I went to a cafe to celebrate this joyful occasion. We had cakes, but no alcoholic drinks. 

In 1948 the struggle against cosmopolitism [see Campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’] 26 began in the USSR. I knew something was going on. My parents discussed something lowering their voices, but they didn’t have any such discussions in my presence. Our family wasn’t involved in anything like this. My sister got married and had a son. We had to take care of our everyday routines and had no time for political issues.

I continued my music classes. I was doing well and was going to enter the conservatory in Tallinn. I had great plans of becoming an art critic. I knew that the career of a performer wasn’t for me. I like peace and solitude and it’s in my character, though I also love people. I got very confused having to perform in front of an audience and there was nothing I could do about it. Uncle Naum helped me make up my mind about my future profession. He said it was all right to know and practice music, but as for the profession, it was better to do something that was in demand anywhere life sent me. He said that considering my character, the best profession for me was medicine. I decided to follow his advice. There was a Medical Faculty at Tartu University, but I wanted to study in a bigger town. I visited Leningrad during my school vacations and I liked the city. In 1948 I finished school and entered the Medical Faculty of Leningrad Medical College. We had outstanding professors and lecturers. Life and study in Leningrad was a never ending festivity for me.

My parents rented a little room for me. There was a narrow sofa and a little desk in the room. The stipend I received was very insufficient. However, students managed to spend it on food and also, visit museums, theaters and concerts. This was a different time. We used to stand in lines for hours to get tickets to a concert in the Philarmonic. Of course, we only bought the cheapest tickets. We didn’t care where we sat. All we wanted was to listen to the music. There were beautiful performers and conductors. Though many people lived from hand to mouth, the concerts were always sold out. The Philarmonic goers knew each other as they attended concerts regularly. I shall never forget postwar Leningrad. I saw all these wonderful places: the suburbs where emperors and nobility resided, the luxurious palaces and fountains, galleries and parks, which were all ruined. They were in the process of reconstruction and restoration. How dedicated those people involved in restoration of these historical monuments working for peanuts, or even driven by their spiritual calls, were. They even weaved upholstery for chairs following the pattern of a little patch which had been miraculously preserved. Restoration of these miraculous palaces, interiors and statutes lasted from 1948 to 1954. This was a miracle and hats off to those people. 

I was an active Komsomol member in my college. I was appointed to the cultural division. Every week I read lectures about outstanding activists of art and also told others about interesting things I had read in newspapers and magazines. I remember my lecture about Tchaikovsky 27. I tried to do my best. 

I had some Jewish group mates and there were also Jewish professors in the college. In January 1953 the Doctors’ Plot 28 began. It was very scary. People were afraid of speaking aloud. They whispered things. Our Jewish professors disappeared, but everything was done quietly and there were no meetings held on this subject. Jewish students weren’t involved, though. 

During my student years, my best friend was Nastia [affectionate for Nadia] from Leningrad. She was half-Estonian and half-Russian. She survived the siege of Leningrad. She had a common family. Her father was a worker, and her mother was a medical nurse. They were nice people. Nadia and I walked in the city and went to theaters and concerts together. We never discussed any nationality related issues. 

I got married when I was a second-year student. I met Henrich Kurizkes in Tallinn, when I was at school. My friend introduced him to me during an interval at a concert in the Tallinn Philarmonic. During the war he served in the Estonian Corps. After the war he continued his service in the Estonian Corps in Tallinn. Henrich was born in Tallinn in 1924. His father, Lazar Kurizkes, was born in Narva. He later moved to Tallinn. Henrich’s mother, Rebekka, came from Tallinn. Henrich’s parents were working. They raised him hardworking. He studied in a private Russian gymnasium and then in an Estonian English college. Henrich went home from school, heated and served dinner to his mother when she came home from work. Henrich studied well, and was offered to give private classes to weaker children. He earned money to buy his first suit by teaching. 

Henrich and I saw each other while I was in Tallinn. When I went to Leningrad, we corresponded and only saw each other when I went on vacation to see my parents. We got married when I went on vacation in 1950. We just registered our marriage and I went back to Leningrad.I gave my mother my word that I would finish my studies and become a doctor. Henrich was transferred to the military recruitment office in Tikhvin [today Russia] near Leningrad, and he visited me on weekends. Our daughter Tatiana was born before my winter exams, when I was in my forth year in college. I had to study and take care of the baby. It wasn’t easy. I passed my exams. When the baby turned three months, I took her to my mother in Tallinn. Thanks to my mother, who cared about my daughter, I managed to finish college. I obtained a degree of a children’s doctor. Henrich was transferred to Boksitogorsk [a small town 200 km east of St. Petersburg], where he received a two-room apartment in a new apartment building. I finished college in 1954. I requested for a job in Boksitogorsk for my graduate assignment [see mandatory job assignment in the USSR] 29. Members of the board were rather surprised that I wanted to go to such a distant town, and I explained that I just wanted to go where my husband was working. I went to work as a children’s doctor in the municipal hospital in Boksitogorsk. I got along well with my colleagues. I also became a member of the Komsomol committee and was involved in their activities. I took my daughter with me, and we’ve always been together ever since. 

In March 1953 Stalin died. He wasn’t my idol. I had no idols. Many people grieved after him, as if he was their dearest person. I felt no grief. I can’t say I was sure about certain things, but my intuition told me that he knew about all these horrors in the USSR and he must have given his orders. At the Twentieth Party Congress 30 Nikita Khrushchev 31 exposed Stalin’s crimes, and I was horrified. It’s one thing to assume, and a totally different thing when you hear the proof. We were hoping for improvement, but nothing of this kind happened. Anti-Semitism didn’t disappear, and we were still separated from the rest of the world. The USSR was still surrounded by the Iron Curtain 32. 

In 1955 the army re-organization began, and Henrich was offered another job. He decided to have it in Tallinn, though his management told him we would have no apartment in Tallinn. We moved into my parents’ apartment. Henrich’s mother lived in one room in a shared apartment while my parents had three rooms. In 1956 our son Alexandr was born. We named him after my mother’s brother. I worked as a children’s doctor in a hospital. Henrich entered the extramural Military Faculty of Moscow Financial College. It was a hard time for our family, when Henrich spent all of his time working and studying, but we managed all right. Henrich finished his studies and obtained a diploma. 

We observed Jewish traditions in our family. My husband and I were never ashamed of our Jewish identity. We believed our children had to know the traditions and follow them. Our people brought them through many centuries of oppression and persecutions, preserved them and we were to convey them to our children. Religion was forbidden in the USSR, but we believed we could do what we thought was right at home. We celebrated Jewish holidays and received guests. On Pesach we always had matzah and conducted the seder. Our children joined in our celebrations. My husband and I told them about each holiday and how it should be celebrated. They knew the history of the Jewish people and their traditions. We also celebrated Soviet holidays: 1stMay, 7thNovember [October Revolution Day] 33, and Victory Day 34. Victory Day was the greatest holiday. It was the holiday for those who had survived this hell. Other holidays were also good since we didn’t have to go to work and could enjoy our free time with the family. We liked this opportunity to spend more time with our children. We spoke Russian to our children. They learned Estonian while playing with the other children in the yard. 

When our children went to school, Henrich’s mother helped us a lot. She picked up the children from school, gave them lunch and helped them with their homework. My mother-in-law was an excellent cook. She made delicious traditional Jewish food. After Henrich’s father died in 1963, my mother-in-law moved in with us. I’m grateful to this wonderful lady for what she had done for us. She died in 1973. We buried her near her husband’s grave in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. 

Our apartment was very cold. We lived on the ground floor of a wooden house with thin walls. In winter the house froze through, it was impossible to stand on the floor with bare feet. We had a stove which heated the house, and my household called me a ‘stoker on duty.’ I got up before everybody else to heat the house. When I came home from work, the first thing I did was stoke the stove. We also cooked on wood or on coal bricks. There was no hot water supply. We had a wood stoked water heater in the bathroom. I dreamed about an apartment of our own with central heating and hot water. When I mentioned this to my husband, he replied that so many people were poor and lived in basement apartments while we were so cozy at our home. What could I say? Many of my acquaintances had moved around several times when we still lived in a shared apartment. My husband was the financial and pension fund manager at the military office and also, chairman of the military housing commission, but he couldn’t take advantage of his official authority to improve our own situation. We received a new apartment 30 years ago [in 1975] before the 30thanniversary of our victory. I remember I was taking a rest after my night-shift at the hospital. Henrich came home, shook a key ring with new keys before my nose and told me to get dressed. I told him to leave me alone. He waited till I got up, and we went to take a look at our new apartment. The first thing I did was taking a hot shower. I was so happy! We’ve lived here since then. However, I never had angina or a stuffed nose, when we lived in the wooden house. The air was different, I guess. 

We had limited possibilities like most of the citizens in the Soviet Union. We lived on two relatively small salaries. Everything was limited. It was next to impossible to buy books or anything else. Only public and trade union activists were allowed to travel abroad. However, we made do with what we had and weren’t unhappy. My work granted plots of land to their employees. I always liked dealing with plants. We also decided to get a plot. We constructed a little house. It was hard to get any construction materials. We had no car and had to use public transportation. Then we had to walk five kilometers. Our son was four, but we always took the children with us. We usually spent weekends at the dacha 35. We enjoyed spending time in the open air, and so did our children. 

My mother died in 1964. We buried her in the Jewish cemetery in accordance with the Jewish traditions. My father died in 1981. He had done a lot for the Jewish community and was buried near the central row of the section where the most respectable members of the community were buried. Aunt Dora also died in Moscow that same year. She was buried in the municipal cemetery in Moscow. 

In the 1950s we met my father’s sister Sophia and her family. My cousin Raisa graduated from the Medical University in Kiev. She was offered a job in a few towns, including Tallinn. She decided for Tallinn knowing that we were there. Raisa went to work and got married after she moved to Tallinn. Sophia and Boris visited her in Tallinn. Raisa has two daughters: Regina and Patz. Her husband works with repatriates in Sochnut 36. Raisa’s second daughter also graduated from the Medical University. She works as a sanitary doctor. She is married and has a daughter. Raisa died, and we rarely talk to her daughters. We only occasionally call them, and rarely see them. 

Tatiana finished school and entered the Faculty of Russian Philology at Tartu University. She married Rimantas Duda, a Lithuanian man, when she was a student. Their older son Matas was born in 1976. Unfortunately, I was working, and couldn’t help Tatiana, like my mother helped me, with her children. Tatiana switched to the extramural department of the university. She worked at the library of the Polytechnic College. Her second son Simas was born in 1978. He had red hair like Grandfather Moshe. Later, Tatiana and her family moved to Vilnius [today Lithuania]. She has a very good family. Our grandsons did his M.A. at the Academy of Arts in Vilnius. The younger one is taking his Doctor’s course. We also have great-grandchildren. Matas has two children: daughter Ione, born in 2000, and son Povilas, born in 2003. Simas has a daughter Leya, born in 2001. 

Tatiana celebrates all Jewish holidays at home. Her sons, their wives and children get together and celebrate holidays in accordance with all Jewish traditions. They also celebrate Catholic holidays. There are no conflicts in the family in this regard. I used to think that children from mixed marriages have problems. Are my grandchildren Jewish or Lithuanian? Now I know I was wrong. This depends on how they are raised. My grandchildren know the Jewish traditions and Jewish history, and their children will also know these. They also have Catholic knowledge. These two religions may only enrich them. We are very close. Our daughter calls us every week. They visit us in summer. My husband and I enjoy having our children here and have the house full of children’s voices. We also visit them every year. 

Our son Alexandr graduated from the Teachers’ Training College in Tallinn. His specialty is Physics and vocational education. He got his job assignment to a secondary school in Tallinn, but when a new vocational school opened, he was offered the position of a teacher of physics and vocation. Alexandr was well loved by his students and their parents. He married Margarita Rubinstein, a Jewish girl from Tallinn. Margarita graduated from the Sanitary Engineering Faculty of the Tallinn Polytechnic College. She was an engineer in a design institute. In 1983 their daughter Rosa was born. In 1990 my son and his family moved to Israel. They settled down in Ashdod. In 1993 their second daughter Esther was born. They are doing well. My son and his wife knew that those who move to a different country have to forget their old self. Nobody owes them anything, and they have to do things by themselves, though they can be supported at the beginning. They have to learn the language. One has to know the language of the new country, because if one doesn’t know it, one doesn’t respect the country. One also has to accept any job. Even if you have to sweep streets or work as a dustman, it’s all right. There are no shameful professions. My son’s family agrees with that, and they’ve adjusted to life in Israel very well. 

Rosa has been independent and hardworking since childhood. At the age of four she helped her mother with cooking and baking, and she could knit sweaters for her dolls. It’s very important to teach children to work. I’ve seen many children that grew up in the USSR. We had guests from Moscow and Leningrad, they came with their children, and I was surprised that their mothers wanted to do the simplest things for their children. They even made their beds after them in the morning. Their children were spoiled and didn’t know much about things when they grew up. I believe that there are no bad children. There are bad parents that do this harm. This is true, and one can’t look for reasons outside. Everything is in the hands of the family. There is a father and mother, and when children grow up in the family where they helped one another and work together, the child grows into a good person. It’s not necessary to tell the child all the time what to do and treat him like a minor. It’s good to tell them about things every now and then, but they need to know themselves what they have to do. I saw how our acquaintances from the USSR didn’t allow their children to do things, and left them sandwiches, when they had to go out. Can’t a seven or eight year old boy make a sandwich or wash a dish? I even felt sorry for these helpless children. I’m not calling to exhaust children with hard work, but children are members of the family, and it must be natural for them to take some family responsibilities. We raised our children in this manner, and they raised our grandchildren in this way as well. 

My older granddaughter Rosa knows Hebrew. She even studied poetic Hebrew. Her parents were at work, and Rosa attended a poetry studio. Their teacher was a poet from Israel. Rosa finished the gymnasium with good grades, and went to the army. In Israel it’s common for a young man or woman to work at a gas station, nurse in a hospital or janitor in a hotel for six months after their army service. The Ministry of defense transfers their pay to a special account. This amount is sufficient for them to enter a university or pay the first installment for an apartment. Rosa worked at a gas station for six months and then entered a university. She passed the entrance exams so well that she was released from payment for her studies. My granddaughter finished her first year. She studies and works. Esther, studies in a gymnasium. Our son often calls us. In summer they sometimes visit us. They visited us last summer. Henrich turned 80, and the children decided to come for his jubilee. It was difficult. They work, and Rosa was still in the army, but they decided to visit us at the end of July. There were 15 of them. It was then that I showed my older granddaughter photos and said, ‘Here are your roots. This is your great-grandfather and great-grandmother, your aunts and uncles. You can take what you want.’ Rosa took many pictures which are the memories of our family. I also gave Rosa our family relics: the scroll of the Torah and the tallit which my deceased brother Beines received for his bar mitzvah. These possessions are more precious than any jewelry for us. 

In the 1970s many Jewish people were moving to Israel. My husband and I were very happy that people had this opportunity. We supported them as much as we could, but we didn’t consider departure. Besides everything else, my husband was a professional military, and had no right to move abroad. There was also another reason. Henrich and I are rather conservative. We like stability. Our home is the best shelter in the world for us. When we travel to Moscow or Leningrad, we enjoy seeing new places and meeting new people, but a week later Henrich and I buy tickets to go home. When we visit our daughter, we enjoy staying with our grandchildren and great grandchildren for a week or two, but then after that we know it’s time to go home. Our home means so much to us, and it’s not only our apartment. My husband and I know that there are more beautiful places on earth. We fret about the nasty cold weather, but we love our country: where we were born and grew up, where our parents and grandparents were buried. We look after many graves in the cemetery. They are of our relatives and acquaintances who no longer live in Tallinn. This is all that we call our home. 

Post-communism

We didn’t travel much. When our children were small, we spent our vacations in Estonia. We never went to the south. I believe that our own climate is better for people. Our woods with mushrooms and berries are very good to go to. We’ve never traveled to Ukraine, my father’s motherland. I have no regrets about it. I admire people who travel all over the world and want to see everything, but it’s too much trouble for us. There is only one exception. My husband and I wanted to go to Israel. We visited it in 1995 and 1997. Israel is a miracle for me. We wanted to visit all the places there. We went to Eilat, the border with Lebanon and a kibbutz. It’s a beautiful country. It’s a country where people can live their full life. We weren’t afraid of walking at night. At home we don’t walk in the evening, fearing hooligans. We had no fears in Israel, but at some point we felt like it was time to go home. I’ve always been proud of being a Jew, but in Israel I even felt stronger about it. I felt togetherness with the people. I admire the people of Israel, and I straighten up thinking about them. I felt that they were my kin in Israel, even if we didn’t know each other. I was proud to tell my neighbors that my granddaughter was serving in the army, and they were surprised and even jealous about it. The girl is in the army and is proud of having this chance to defend her country! However, moving to Israel and changing the way of life would be like relocating an old tree. It will not strike roots in the new place.

I’ve read the Torah to have a clear understanding of what our God is like. I also have a Bible. I found something important in these books. One shouldn’t be religious and only recognize his own religion. This would do no good. One can have no religion, but it’s important for one to know who he is and who is behind him, one’s own origin and his people’s traditions. You know, even if a Jew is baptized or has a different origin indicated in his passport, he remains a Jew. They will anyway call him ‘zhid’ or ‘this damn Jew.’ There are many such examples in life and one shouldn’t pretend that since they’ve eliminated the item ‘national origin’ in our passports, and only indicate our nationality, we have stopped being Jews for the surrounding people or ourselves. If somebody says ‘this Jewish woman’ speaking about me, I don’t take is as an insult. Yes, I’m a Jew, and it’s my identity. I’m not ashamed of it. 

I’m very grateful to Mikhail Gorbachev 37 for initiating a new course in the Soviet Union called perestroika 38. Perestroika granted the Soviet people many rights and freedoms. It gave us an opportunity to travel to other countries and correspond with people living abroad. My husband and I visited Israel thanks to perestroika. The Jewish community of Estonia 39 was established. This was the first Jewish community in the USSR. Estonian authorities supported this idea. The community regained its former building which used to house the [Tallinn] Jewish gymnasium 40. I think this establishment of the Jewish community is very important for all Estonian Jews. It supports people, takes care of those who are ill, and old and helpless people, young people and involves younger people in the Jewish life. My husband was chairman of the community audit commission for eight years. He dedicated a lot of time to this work. 

The Iron Curtain limited our freedom of traveling. It also limited our access to information, and many other things weren’t allowed. I had a good medical education and was a good doctor, but I still believe I missed out on a lot, having had no opportunity to get the necessary education due to these Soviet bans. We had no lectures on genetics when I was a doctor. There was a ban on it in the Soviet Union. The science of genetics was called the ‘venal wench of imperialism,’ and those scientists who dared to study it, were sent to the Gulag 41 or executed. We studied human genitals, while sexual issues weren’t considered, as if they simply didn’t exist. Such things made doctor’s activities very difficult. The thing is, if the genetics specialist identifies inherited diseases and what may jeopardize a patient’s health in the future, it will be much easier to treat or prevent such diseases. It’s very important for a doctor to know his patient. 

I remember the words of an outstanding English cardiologist that if a doctor establishes no contact with his patient during the first hour, it’s better that he doesn’t start his treatment at all. Of course, I did many things based on my intuition in my practice, but it would have been much better if I was absolutely certain about what I was doing. I’m a hesitant person since one can’t know everything in the medical field, while I felt the lack of knowledge in many regards. Nowadays, these books and knowledge are available. One can read and think about it. I continuously discover new things and I like to talk with young people. They are free in their thoughts and deeds, they have knowledge, and it’s always interesting to talk to them. I’m happy that I’ve lived to the days when I can read what I want.

In 1991 the Soviet Union broke up, which was a historical event. There had been hard times before this happened, when perestroika declined resulting in the putsch [see 1991 Moscow coup d’etat]42, arranged by the forces that were no longer the leadership of the country. They were communists and the KGB 43. I think that the breakup of the USSR was an appropriate and right thing. The announcement of Estonian Independence was the right step[see Reestablishment of the Estonian Republic] 44. Of course, some people believe life was better in the USSR. One can understand this position. Freedom is a hard thing to maintain. It’s hard to be free and have to make one’s own decision, choose one’s ways and take responsibilities. It’s easier to have no freedom. One doesn’t have any cares and only needs to be led. 

This wish to have the USSR back is nothing but this longing for non-freedom. We are given and we accept it. We didn’t earn our salaries, we just received them. We were given some things paying for them with our freedom. Freedom is the most important right. I want to be free. It can’t be that one can’t have his own mind. I want to live my life following my rules rather than some forced ideology. Nobody gives me or Henrich anything. We receive our pensions which we earned. I have 44 and Henrich has 43 years of work experience. We earned the money which we are paid and try to manage with it. We handle it appropriately. We can’t afford long telephone discussions of leaking taps, this is too costly. We also had to get used to the new order of things after the Soviet times, when things were cheap and uncontrollable. I think now things are right.

Of course there were good things in the USSR, one has to admit. Somehow, they don’t mention what was good in the USSR these days. Of course, it was a paradox of the country. During the war everyone who could hold weapons stood up to defend it, but during the peaceful times they forgot about it. Good things also happen in peaceful times.

I often listen to the radio. Every now and then they start anti-Semitic campaigns and publish articles in newspapers and then things calm down again. This happens in Estonia and other Baltic republics. I’m sure it has to do with politics. Somebody benefits from it. These politicians don’t hate Jews. The reason is, if something goes wrong with industry or agriculture or policy, anti-Semitic articles serve as a distracting maneuver. Otherwise they would have to talk about their mistakes. If the government fails in some area and they discover corruption, or when something goes wrong, they initiate hostile nationalistic articles blaming Jews or Russians for their problems. However, this has to do with policy while people have a friendly attitude toward Jews. We are friends with our Estonian neighbors. We respect their traditions and rituals, and their holidays are our holidays. We speak the language of the country we live in. Jews and Estonians live on this land together, loving it. 

Our home, our nature, the seashore that I love, even our disgusting climate give us our strength. We feel well in Estonia, and this is what matters. Of course, we wish our children lived nearer. Sometimes we grow very sad missing them. The older one gets, the more he wants to be surrounded with young people, but Henrich and I are happy. We raised good children. They are decent, intelligent, they have moral values and nice families. They have their traditions. We are happy that our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren stay together, need each other and that we are truly one big family. 

Glossary:

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

My granddad, Ilija Aron Moyshevich Falkov, was born in Ludza in 1867. [Ludza: a town that belonged to the province of Vitebsk until 1917, now it belongs to Latvia]. He completed two grades of a provincial elementary school. He knew ancient Hebrew, Ivrit, the Talmud, Jewish history and Russian literature well, or so my father told me. I was named Elina after my grandfather. My grandfather dealt with timber processing, first for private owners, and then for the management of the Moscow-Vindava [today Ventspils] railroad. It appears that he then peddled metalwork, traveling from village to village, selling his hardware to peasants. My grandfather died of a heart attack while sitting at the table in Ludza in 1924.

His wife, Goda Peisahovna Falkova, nee Gordina, was born in 1870, but I don’t know where. She was a housewife, she sew and knitted. I don’t know anything about her siblings. My father’s parents got married in 1895 in Ludza; they lived on 31, Ostrovsk Street. Grandmother Goda Peisahovna lived with us in Riga, but I don’t remember her. She simply wasn’t allowed to be with me. She died of tuberculosis in Riga in 1939 and was buried in the Jewish cemetery.

My father, Mikhail Ilyich Falkov, was born in Ludza on 23rd December 1899. It is difficult to say how strictly Orthodox his family was. Ludza was a Jewish settlement; there all was colored with Jewish religion and Jewish culture. Papa left his parents’ house at the age of 14 for Pskov [today Russia], where he studied at an institute. He returned home in 1918 before moving to Riga. In all probability, he entered the Faculty of Mechanics of the Latvian University in 1919. My father studied at university for about ten years. He studied, as a matter of fact, with my mother; they were from the same city. As soon as they finished university, they got married. They were unusual students in that they signed up for individual courses. That’s why their education took so long. Papa, while he studied at university, taught Hebrew, the history of the Jewish people, mathematics, electro-technology and physics at a Jewish gymnasium in Riga. Until 1940, my father worked as an engineer in the factories of a paper and veneer company. He held a high-ranking post. As far as my father’s biography is concerned, I would like to add that Papa served in the Latvian army. When his tour of duty was finished, he resigned his post, probably sometime in the 1920s.

Growing up

My parents got married in 1929. When I was born, they already lived in Riga, on 14, Shkolnoi Street. We were lucky enough to return to this very same apartment after our evacuation to Sverdlovsk region. After our return my father found, in different apartments, the remains of the wonderful furniture made from Karelian birch and redwood that had been in our apartment before the war. The story of how we left during the evacuation I only know from the memories of my mother and grandmother. That summer we were at the dacha [cottage] in Yurmala with my grandmother. Papa stormed in and cried, ‘Anna Abramovna! War!’

My grandmother sewed backpacks for me and my brother and around our necks we wore little bags for our documents. I remember that I had a striped housecoat that survived the war and came back to Riga with us. And, when echelons overtook us during the bombing, my grandmother would cover me and my brother with that housecoat. ‘To save us’, I thought at the time. But then, when I was already a grown-up, I understood that she covered us up so that we couldn’t see anything.

During the war

Papa, when the war started, probably expected someone to come for him. But in our courtyard in Riga lived a captain or a major, a pilot who had a son that was friends with my brother. This pilot ran up to us and shouted, ‘Get in here!’ He threw us in a truck and took us to some unknown place. After, I remember, we were walking and Papa held me under his arm. We went on foot towards Sebezha [a city on the border of Latvia and Russia], while many people passed us heading in the opposite direction, saying that behind them were Germans and we should go to Riga. Grandmother said, ‘We will only move forward!’ From those who returned to Riga, nothing has ever been heard of again.

As to my father’s views on Orthodoxy: he was a secular man, but he knew and understood everything. When we returned from evacuation, from Tovda in Sverdlovsk region, my father set me on his knee and told me all about Jewish holidays, traditions and history. These were something like my father’s fairytales for me.

After the war

The most interesting thing was that Papa taught me how to read and write in Yiddish. I might not know certain words, but I can basically write in Yiddish. And when, not long ago, it was time to learn Hebrew, everyone was amazed at how easily it came to me; I didn’t even mix up the letters. In 1948 Papa brought home the big children’s book, Kvitko 1, in which, for each word, there was a poem in Yiddish. Of course I speak less and less now, but I understand songs. I simply have no time to study and keep up the language. In fact, even today, in the Jewish school where I work, there isn’t a teacher of Yiddish. But when, in the 1980s, everything changed, when everything became possible, then it seemed that I was ready for it because inside I knew a lot already. My Papa simply told me about everything without a religious overtone.

After the war, when we lived in Riga, my family didn’t observe Jewish religious traditions. Did the Soviet government influence us? No. It was simply that my parents were very intelligent, educated people who were also democratically inclined. They were well versed in Jewish culture and writers. Our house was often filled with interesting people; there were meetings that took place even before the war.

When, at the beginning of the 1950s, the attacks against cosmopolitans [see campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’] 2 and the Doctors’ Plot 3 began, my father was forced to leave his work; he was probably asked to leave. By this time Papa had become the head of a large corporation. He was dismissed from the Communist Party. During these days, in one of the rooms of our big, seven-bedroom apartment from before the war, there was a stove, which we ‘fed’ all 30 volumes of a pre-war edition of Dubnow’s 4 body of work. I can still see Mama, or Papa, I don’t remember who, throwing volumes into the stove. The cover of that edition was white and someone had cut out the title and author so that, if the NKVD 5 should happen to come by, they wouldn’t know the author. We had many, many books in Russian, Yiddish and Hebrew.

When the Doctors’ Plot had calmed down, Papa worked at the ministry and then, in 1955, he began to work at a timber processing plant in Elgava. He went to work there in order to receive a pension. He was the head engineer. He retired about six months before the official retirement age because he had heart problems. This was about 1959, when I finished university. In general, the Falkovs are known to have weak hearts.

One of my father’s sister was called Raisa, Rasel or Raisa Ilyichna as was the proper way of saying it in Russia. She was born in 1895. She graduated from the Institute for Foreign Languages in Moscow, and she taught English in technical schools in Moscow. She spent all her life in Russia, and she died there, too.

My father’s second sister, Mina, was born in 1897. She was a very impressive personality. During one of her marriages she even managed to live in the Kremlin. Aunt Mina’s son, Mihail Falkov, lives in Riga.

My father’s third sister, Ljuba, was born in 1898. After the war she ended up in Ukraine and worked in a textile workshop in Kiev for a very long time. She didn’t have a family.

My father’s youngest sister, Polina, born in 1906, was the most active, most combative woman. She lived in Moscow. But then the end of the 1930s came, when everybody who was from Latvia began to be looked at as a spy. She was accused of spying for Japan and was sent to a camp in Kolyma [region in the Northern part of Russia where the infamous Gulag 6 camps were located]. After the camp she ended up in Udmurtia, next to Izhevsk, where my father’s youngest brother, Uncle Yasha, served his sentence. While in the camp, Uncle Yasha was saved by a simple woman, whom he later married and had children with. That’s where our Udmurtian line of relatives comes from.

My maternal grandfather was Isidor or Israel Borovik. He died around 1924. He was from Vilnius [capital of Lithuania]. He was sent to be a teacher in Ludza. I don’t know whether there was a Jewish or a Russian school there. He was even a rabbi in Ludza for a while. As he was a teacher, he had beautiful handwriting; he drew the letters one by one. There are many stories about my grandfather. He wasn’t from this world, even as a teacher. The children could behave as badly as they wanted in class. He is said to have been reading newspapers or books until the candle or the paraffin lamp went out by itself. My mother probably resembled him in that respect. She simply worshiped him. Perhaps because she also lived in some kind of fantasy world.

My maternal grandmother, Hannah Abramova Borovika, was born in Lithuania in 1873 and died in Riga in 1958. She was probably the main carrier of tradition in our family. She was a very interesting woman. She was really raised in the Jewish tradition. She was permeated with it through and through. I remember her explaining that eating pork was forbidden because it is written in the Torah, and because pigs eat their piglets. My grandmother was a unique personality. It is maybe thanks to her that we survived the war. We wrote down my grandmother’s life. What I wrote down back then helped me a lot later in my life. She told us about the family in which she grew up, about her life in a small village.

When my grandmother was ill, my mother used to go to the cemetery to collect medicinal herbs. And when she recovered, she was given a new name. She had about seven names altogether; the ones I remember were Hannah, Anna and Maria. My grandmother was a tailor. She had her own tailor school. Not in the traditional sense, but a school where she was teaching. My grandmother invented her own curved ruler. She was able to teach anyone any kind of tailoring in two or three lessons.

I was lucky that she lived for so long. I learned much from her. The most important thing is sobriety. Sobriety with respect to origin. At the time she said to me, ‘All right! You may marry a Russian. But don’t forget, it may happen that one day, when you need help most, you will be reproached for being a Jew.’ I wrote down the story of her life but unfortunately I don’t have that book anymore.

Despite her religious upbringing she was a progressive woman. She kept telling me, ‘Why does the whole town have to know when I sleep with my husband and when I don’t’. That was in Ludza. And then she stopped going to the mikveh. ‘If you go there, it will be clear to everyone why you are going there’, she explained. Well, she was such a granny! When my grandfather died she was around 40 and was left alone with a bunch of children.

Later, in Riga, she tried to open a sewing workshop, like Vera Pavlovna [heroine of the novel What Is To Be Done by Chernyshevsky] 7, but, of course, the needlewomen stole everything from her. The whole thing ended like that. She sewed during the war too, but being paid in cash was out of the question; she was given food for her work.

On Pesach 1955, while my grandmother got special dishes and spoons, I went to our acquaintances to buy a kosher chicken and I cooked meat soup with dumplings on the stove in her room. Once, at Jewish New Year, when my grandmother was still able to walk, we went to the synagogue together. I know the synagogue because I remember it from that time. At the time the balcony was still screened, there were some small holes, and women weren’t allowed to go downstairs. The synagogue is different now.

My mother, Dina Isidorovna Falkova, nee Borovika, was born in Ludza on 23rd May 1899. She was called Dulce in her childhood. She, just like my father, left her home when she was young. After finishing elementary school in Ludza, she gained admission to a high school in Daugavapils [until 1917 it belonged to the Province of Vitebsk, now it belongs to Latvia]. My mother was admitted, and although she was sent some money, she earned a living by teaching and by darning socks very artistically: she got one kopeck for each hole she mended.

My mother graduated from a teacher training course in Orsha [until 1917 it belonged to the Province of Vitebsk, now it belongs to Belarus]. She was small with long braids. My mother’s class-mates told me about her first teaching practice – the school-inspector looked into the class-room and went to the principal in indignation. ‘Why do you leave a class without a teacher?!’, he said. In that class, my mother was the teacher. My mother was more of a teacher than a mathematician. She transmitted a love of her subject to the children. She nurtured the human side of the children. After the war my mother worked in regular and evening schools and gave lectures at the Teacher Training Institute. She was elected – with no scientific degrees – an associate member of the Academy of Pedagogical Sciences of the Soviet Union.

My grandmother, Hannah Abramova, had three children according to the documents – Yasha, Moisey and my mother. I knew Moisey Borovik. He was a furrier. His wife was from a wealthy Jewish family. When the war began, they were transported to a transit camp and he never saw his wife again. He went through many camps. He didn’t like to talk about his experiences. When the first film about Auschwitz was shown, he didn’t want to see it, but eventually he went to see it. He came back and said, ‘What they showed there was paradise. But to us, it was horrible.’ Uncle Moisey was an educated man, or more precisely, a self-educated man. My mother’s other brother, Yasha, went to try his luck in Brazil.

I have one brother, Israel Mikhailovich Falkov. He was born on 1st January 1935 in Riga. He graduated from the Moscow oil institute and drilled holes for water and oil in Latvia. Now he is retired and lives in the USA.

I was born in Riga in November 1938. We had a loving and happy family. In the summers we would rent a dacha in Yurmala as was proper in the years before the war. I devoted my entire life to pedagogy, and worked in many schools in Riga as well as at the Institute for Teacher Training. For the last ten years, however, I’ve been working in Riga’s Jewish school. I was this school’s vice-principal, in charge of academics, and the deputy director. Now I teach mathematics. To be honest, I’ve always been more interested in the work of a pedagogue than mathematics.

I finished school in 1954, right after the dethroning of Stalin’s cult of personality [see Twentieth Party Congress] 8, when we were all in a very strange state of mind. I finished secondary school at the age of 16, and I had enough time for serious thought. I already knew that I would go work in a school; there were no other thoughts in my mind. I began to add everything up: first, there was no place in Riga to obtain a qualification in elementary school education. Secondly, I was always adept at learning history and literature, but I decided it wasn’t possible for me to associate myself with history or literature. Because, what was I to tell children in three or four years? Chemistry and physics, I felt, should only be taught by men. All that was left to me was mathematics because, no matter what happens, 2 times 2 is 4.

To be honest, I did well in all subjects. I was the best student in our school. I chose mathematics, not literature, for which I had a gift. The same gift, in fact, that my mother had. I graduated from the Latvian University in physics and mathematics. My mother tongue is Russian but I also speak Latvian and English. I have a PhD in pedagogical sciences.

My husband, Yevgenii Mikhailovich Falkenshtein, was born in 1931. He is from Rezekne, [until 1917, it was part of Pskov region, today it’s in Latvia]. He is Jewish, a radio engineer and former officer in the Soviet army, although now retired.

I have two children. My daughter Marina was born in 1957. She graduated from the Latvian University, the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics, with a degree in programming. She now works as an elementary school teacher in the Jewish school in Riga. My son Leonid was born in 1959. He also graduated from the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics of the Latvian University. Now he has his own business: a sales firm.

My grandmother Hannah was Marina’s nanny. It was very frightening. She would take Marina in her arms and could see nothing. Marina was named after either my grandmother’s aunt or sister. The name was either Marianna or Marian. That’s why she became Marina. We named our son Leonid because one can hear the sound Anya in his name. [Editor’s note: The interviewee probably refers to the commonly used name for Leonid, Lionia, which sounds a bit like the common nickname for Anna, Anya.] My children live in Riga. I also have four grandchildren: Karina, who is 14, and Polina, who is 13, are Marina’s children. Dina, who is 20 and a student at the International School of Economics, and Roman, who is 17 and a student at the Latvian Musical Academy, are Leonid’s children.

My children know very well that they are Jewish and don’t turn away from their Jewish roots. Marina, of course, is much more interested in her background. My son is more neutral. Marina’s children study at a Jewish school and my son’s children, although they finished a Russian school, still consider themselves Jews.

My father died in Riga in December 1964 and was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Shmerli. My mother died in Riga on 25th March 1969.

I have lived an interesting and satisfying life with my husband. We traveled much around Russia, but we always remembered that our roots lay in Latvia. As a matter of fact, when our children were teenagers, we often took them to Lutzin and Rezekne so that they would know where their ancestors came from. My husband and I try to keep Jewish traditions in our household, remembering and celebrating every Jewish holiday.

Glossary

Menachem Mayer
Jerusalem
Israel
Tanja Eckstein
03.09.2017

Im September 2017 flog ich nach Israel zu Menachem Meier, der in Jerusalem, nahe dem Herzlberg und nahe der größten Holocaust Gedenkstätte Yad Vashem in einem wunderschönen Pensionistenheim eine Zweizimmerwohnung bewohnt. Er empfing mich sehr freundlich und erzählte mir an drei Tagen, je vier Stunden lang, seine Geschichte. Es fiel ihm nicht leicht. Viele Ereignisse hat Menachems Gehirn als Schutz ausgeblendet, denn er musste sich nach dem Krieg ganz allein, ohne Familie, ein neues Leben aufbauen. Manches erzählte ihm sein Bruder Fred, der drei Jahre älter war als Menachem, zum Zeitpunkt unserer Begegnung aber nicht mehr lebte. Ende Oktober besuchte ich Menachem mit seiner Geschichte im Gepäck, hier ist sie.

Anmerkung: Menachem Mayer nennt seinen Bruder Fred Raymes, der 2013 starb, in seiner Biografie bis 1945 Manfred, danach Fred. 

Klicken Sie hier, um das Filmscript anzuschauen

Meine Vorfahren lebten seit Jahrhunderten in Baden (Anm.: Baden-Württemberg). 

Mein mütterlicher Großvater, mit Namen Meir Wertheimer, wohnte in einem Dorf, nicht weit von Hoffenheim, mit Namen Neidenstein. Er war Schuhhändler und besaß ein Schuhgeschäft. Meine biologische Großmutter hieß Hannah. Meine Mutter Mathilde, Hilde wurde sie genannt, war ihr einziges Kind. Sie ist 1898 in Neidenstein geboren. Die Großmutter starb 1902, da war meine Mutter gerade vier Jahre alt. Der Großvater heiratete ein zweites Mal eine Frau Mina (Wilhelmina), geborene Kaufmann, die ich als meine Großmutter kannte. Sie war eine sehr gute Großmutter! Ihr Sohn Emanuel, der Stiefbruder meiner Mutter, wurde 1903 geboren. Meine Mutter und Emanuel wuchsen sicher wie Geschwister auf. Der Großvater starb, glaube ich, 1920. 

Der Onkel Emanuel war nicht verheiratet, höherer Beamter in einer Ofenfabrik und finanziell besser gestellt als wir. Manchmal kaufte er meinem Bruder und mir neue Kleidung. Außerdem besaß er ein Auto. Wie es im Judentum üblich ist, besuchten wir jedes Jahr vor den hohen Feiertagen die Gräber unserer Verwandten auf dem Friedhof im nahe gelegenen Waibstadt. Kinder dürfen zu Lebzeiten ihrer Eltern den Friedhof nicht betreten, und so warteten Manfredund ich im Auto, und wir fürchteten uns immer ein wenig vor dem dunklen und geheimnisvollen Wald. 1974 kehrte ich, nach ungefähr 40 Jahren, das erste Mal dorthin zurück. 

Meine Großmutter Mina und der Onkel Emanuel wurden mit uns am 22. Oktober 1940 nach Gurs in Frankreich deportiert. Großmutter Mina ist in Gurs umgekommen, Onkel Emanuel ist in Auschwitz ermordet worden. 

Meine väterlichen Großeltern wohnten in Hoffenheim, ein kleines Dorf damals, seit 1972 ein Teil von Sinsheim. Heute hat Hoffenheim eine berühmte Fußballmannschaft. Aber damals war es ein kleines Dorf inBaden. Gegen Ende des 19. Jahrhundert lebten 48 jüdische Familien in Hoffenheim. Das waren Kaufleute, Händler, Ladenbesitzer und Viehhändler, wie mein Vater. Die Großmutter Klara, geborene Heumann, starb 1926, ich konnte sie nicht mehr kennenlernen. 

Mein Vater, Karl Mayer, ist 1894 in Frankfurt am Main geboren. Warum in Frankfurt, weiß ich nicht, denn sein Vater, Albert Mayer, er war von Beruf Maßschneider, war aus Poppelsdorf, einem Ort, der 1904 in die Stadt Bonn eingemeindet wurde. Warum die Familie dann, als mein Vater zwei Jahre alt war, nach Hoffenheim kam, weiß ich nicht. Aber vielleicht dadurch, weil die Frau meines Großvaters eine geborene Heumann war und Heumanns, Onkel und Tante meines Vaters, mit ihren Kindern in Hoffenheim lebten. Ich weiß nicht, welche Schulbildung mein Vater hatte, aber er wurde Lehrling in der koscheren Metzgerei seines Onkels Hermann Heumann in Hoffenheim. 

Als mein Vater 20 Jahre alt war, begann der 1. Weltkrieg. Er hat es bis zum Unteroffizier gebracht, war bei den Engländern in Gefangenschaft, und am Ende des Krieges bekam er das Eiserne Kreuz als Auszeichnung.

Mein Vater hatte einen Bruder, der hieß Moritz und eine Schwester, die hieß Elsa. Moritz Frau war die Tante Alma. Sie hatten eine Tochter, die Ingrid, Inge genannt, hieß. Inge wurde, wie mein Bruder und ich, auch aus Gurs gerettet und von der französischenFamilie Eisenreich, die katholisch war, versteckt. Nach dem Krieg wurde sie von ihren Tanten gefunden und in die USA geholt. Die Familie Eisenreich wurde 1995 von Yad Vashem für die Rettung meiner Cousine als „Gerechte unter den Völkern“ geehrt. 

Tante Elsa, die Schwester meines Vaters, war Näherin und nicht verheiratet. Und da war Helmut,ein Junge,der auf einem der Fotos zu sehen ist. Geboren wurde er 1920, er war wie unser Bruder. Die Tante Elsa schaffte es, als Hausangestellte, 1939 nach England zu flüchten. Während sie in London war, hielt sie so lange es möglich war, brieflich den Kontakt zu ihrer Familie und unterstützte uns auch finanziell ein wenig. Ich fragte sie viele Jahre nach dem Krieg: Wer war Helmut? Sie sagte mir, dass Helmut der Sohn von einer Verwandten war, den sie angenommen und aufgezogen hatte, weil etwas in dessen Familie nicht in Ordnung gewesen wäre. Sie schämte sich, die Wahrheit zu sagen. Aber später habe ich es herausgefunden: Helmut war ihr unehelicher Sohn von einem nichtjüdischen Nachbarn. Die erste Zeit nach ihrer Flucht nach England hatte sie noch brieflich Kontakt zu ihm und wusste, wo er sich aufhielt. Ich habe einmal im Internet die ausgefüllten Gedenkblätter von Yad Vashem durchgeblättert. Da habe ich seinen Namen gefunden. Ich hatte auch ein Gedenkblatt ausgefüllt für ihn, aber jemand anders hatte ebenfalls ein Gedenkblatt für ihn ausgefüllt. Dadurch habe ich erfahren, dass er Mitglied war in ein Kibutz. Das waren junge Leute, die vorhatten nach Palästina zu gehen, und sie waren in einem Vorbereitungslager, auf Hachschara nennt man das. Aber 1941 wurden diese Initiativen aufgelöst, und er wurden von Paderborn 1943 nach Ausschwitz deportiert. Die jungen Männer wurden nicht sofort vergast, sie kamen in ein Außenlager des KZ Auschwitz, um dort zu arbeiten. Eine Woche vor Ende des Krieges ist Helmut gestorben. Er wurde nur 25 Jahre alt. Ich glaube, dass seine Mutter, meine Tante, das nie so genau gewusst hat. Das habe ich erst viel, viel später erfahren. Meine Tante Elsa ist ungefähr 1975 gestorben. 

Meine Eltern haben 1927 in Neidenstein geheiratet. Ich weiß nicht, wie und wo mein Vater meine Mutter kennengelernt hat. Sie war ja vom Dorf nebenan, aus Neidenstein, acht Kilometer von Hoffenheim entfernt. Mein Vater war Viehhändler, er hat wahrscheinlich mit den Heumanns zusammen gearbeitet, solange er noch seinen Beruf ausführen konnte. 

Soweit ich mich erinnern kann, waren meine Eltern nicht sehr religiös, aber sie waren traditionell. Vielleicht war meine Mutter religiöser als mein Vater, denn sie kam aus einem etwas mehr religiösen Haus. Mein Vater hat auch als Hilfskantor in der Synagoge gearbeitet. Pfarrer Ludwig Streib, mit dem ich befreundet bin, welcher auch aus Hoffenheim stammt, hat 1989 eine Seminararbeitüber die „Israelitische Gemeinde in Hoffenheim von 1914 bis 1945“ geschrieben. Und er erzählte mir, dass sein Großvater gegenüber der Synagoge gewohnt hat. Und falls kein Minjan zusammenkam am Schabbat, während der Woche war sicher keiner, hat man seinen Großvater gerufen, um den Minjan vollständig zu machen. Also, es war eine sehr gute Beziehung bis zur Hitlerzeit zwischen einem Teil der Bevölkerung und den Juden. Der andere Teil war immer antisemitisch. Ich bin 1932 in den Antisemitismus reingeboren. Mein Bruder Manfred war drei Jahre älter. 

Ich bedaure es sehr, aber was meine Kindheit betrifft, habe ich eine schwarze Wand vor meinen Augen. Ich kann mich an fast nichts erinnern. Oft weiß ich nicht, ob das, was ich weiß, persönliche Erinnerungen sind oder ob das Sachen sind, welche mir mein Bruder Manfred erzählt hat oder andere Leute mir erzählt haben. Ich möchte deshalb auch die Ereignisse schildern, die ich von meinem Bruder weiß. Ich kann mich an Wanderungen durch den Wald erinnern. Mein Bruder erzählte, dass wir an Samstagen, am Shabbat, unsere Großmutter Mina in Neidenstein besuchten und alle vier die ungefähr acht Kilometer von Hoffenheim nach Neidenstein durch den Wald gingen. Ich erinnere mich an Gerüche, und ich habe mich damals im Wald vor Geistern sehr gefürchtet.

Ich erinnere mich, dass ich Spinat nicht gern hatte und dass meine Mutter mir nachgelaufen ist mit dem Spinat. Ich kann mich erinnern an einen Feiertag, an dem man in der Synagoge den Kindern eine Tüte mit Süßigkeiten gegeben hat. Wahrscheinlich war es zu Simchat Tora. Aber woher die Leute kamen um mitzumachen an diesem Gottesdienst, ich habe keine Idee. In Hoffenheim selber wohnten noch in der zweiten Hälfte von 1938 sechs oder sieben jüdische Familien. Wir wohnten in der Dienstwohnung der Synagoge nahe dem Ortszentrum, in der Neuen Strasse 2A. Tante Else wohnte mit uns zusammen. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich bei meinem Vater auf dem Schoß saß am Schabbat und er Geschichten erzählte. 

Zuerst wohnten wir in einem Haus gegenüber der Synagoge. Tante Elsa bewohnte die Hausmeisterwohnung, die an die Synagoge angrenzte. Später zogen wir zu Tante Elsa in ihre Wohnung. 

An die Beziehung zu meinem Bruder in dieser Zeit kann ich mich eigentlich auch nicht erinnern. Es gibt einige kleine Geschichten, und an diese Ereignisse konnten wir uns beide erinnern. Aber wie es genau war, weiß ich nicht, denn seine Geschichten sind ein wenig anders als meine, den die Erinnerung ist eine Verwandte der Warheit. Zum Beispiel, als ich drei Jahre alt war und mein Bruder war sechs Jahre alt, hat er mich zum Friseur genommen und mir eine Glatze schneiden lassen. Wahrscheinlich weil er neidisch auf meine sehr schönen blonden Locken war. Und ich erinnere mich, dass es meine Initiative gewesen ist, dass ich zum Friseur wollte. Oder eine andere kleine Geschichte: ungefähr im selben Alter bin ich eine Treppe heraufgeklettert, vor mir stand ein Hund, und ich habe ihn am Schwanz gezogen. Und der Hund hat sich umgedreht und mich ins Gesicht gebissen. Und mein Bruder meint, er hätte den Hund am Schwanz gezogen. An solche Kleinigkeiten, an die nicht wichtigen Sachen kann ich mich erinnern. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich mit meiner Mutter vor dem kleinen Schaufenster einer Bäckerei stand, und vor mir lag ein Mohrenkopf,so nannte man damals ein Gebäck, das mit Schokolade überzogen war, und dieses Gebäck wollte ich so gerne haben, und meine Mutter konnte es mir nicht kaufen. Ich kann mich aber auch an Zeiten erinnern, als mein Vater uns, wenn wir die Großmutter in Neidenstein besuchten, jedem eine Bretzel kaufte.

Aber ich kann mich nicht erinnern, dass wir zu Hause mit unseren Eltern zusammen sitzen an einem Tisch. Dass wir zusammen essen, uns unterhalten; alles ist verlöscht. Es war eine liebende Familie, und als Kind habe ich nicht gemerkt und sicher nicht verstanden, was passiert. Und niemand konnte sich vorstellen, was sich da entwickeln wird.

Im Frühjahr 1935 wurde mein Bruder als einzig jüdisches Kind zusammen mit allen sechsjährigen nichtjüdischen Kindern in die Grundschule des Dorfes eingeschult. Der Schulweg war für ihn schrecklich. Viele Kinder wurden gegen Juden aufgehetzt. Sie sollten auch nicht mehr mit den jüdischen Kindern spielen. Manfred wurde oft schikaniert und verprügelt. Er lief weg, musste den nach ihm geworfenen Steinen ausweichen und sich verstecken. Es gab zu dieser Zeit nur noch Nazis-Lehrer, die anderen waren aus dem Schuldienst entfernt worden. Freds Lehrer, das habe ich herausgefunden, war ein  Nazi. Nach dem Krieg saß er deshalb im Gefängnis. Die Erwachsenen haben den jüdischen Kindern nicht geholfen, sie kamen Ihnen nicht zu Hilfe. Wir hatten gute Beziehungen zu mehreren Nachbarn, bis es zu gefährlich für sie wurde, mit uns Umgang zu haben.

Eines Nachts, im  Jahre 1935, sind Heinrich Bender, der NSDAP-Ortsgruppenleiter von Hoffenheim, Ratsschreiber Karl Wilhelm Gilbert und Emil Hopp, Lehrer und Truppführer der örtlichen SA, in die Synagoge eingebrochen. Unser Vater hörte den Lärm und ging hinaus, um nach dem Rechten zu sehen. Es kam zu einem Handgemenge, und Vaters Nasenbein wurde dabei gebrochen. Uns erzählte er, das Nasenbein sei gebrochen, weil er von einem Wagen gefallen sei. Tante Else, die mit uns lebte, flüchtete in den Garten, von wo aus sie sich im Keller versteckte. Ich erinnere mich noch an den Garten, wo Tante Elsa sich versteckt hatte. Es war ein wunderbarer Garten mit Obstbäumen, in dem auch Gemüse angebaut wurde. 

An heißen Tagen paddelten wir oft und gern im kühlen Wasser der Elsenz, das ist ein kleiner Fluss, der durch Hoffenheim fließt.Wenn „unsere Feinde“ uns entdecken, griffen sie uns an und schrien: Ersäuft die Judenbuben! Sie drückten meinem  Bruder einmal den Kopf unter Wasser ließen ihn erst im letzten Augenblick los. Seit diese Zeit hatte er Angst vor tiefem Wasser, obwohl er schwimmen konnte. Einmal schaffte ich es nicht ihnen zu entkommen, sie verprügelten mich und stießen mich in einen Brennnesselbusch, der am Ufer stand.

Es gab immer mehr Gesetze gegen Juden. Nach und nach wurden ihnen alle Bürgerrechte genommen. Auch ihre Berufe durften sie nicht mehr ausüben. Jüdische Geschäfte wurden geschlossen und mussten zu Schleuderpreisen an Nichtjuden verkauft werden. Mein Vater, der Viehhändler war, damals gab es viele jüdische Viehhändler in dieser Gegend, wurde arbeitslos. Er und die anderen männlichen Juden wurden zur Zwangsarbeit verpflichtet und mussten Steine für den Straßenbau in der Umgebung klopfen. Die obere Schießmauerstraße in Hoffenheim war eine dieser Straßen, an denen die Juden arbeiten mussten. Für die schwere Arbeit erhielten sie einen Hungerlohn, der an der Grenze zum Existenzminimum lag. Nach und nach hat sich die Situation für Juden immer mehr verschlechtert. Ab 1. Januar 1939 wurden alle jüdischen Geschäfte geschlossen, dadurch hatte niemand mehr Arbeit. Die Führerscheine wurden ihnen weggenommen, sie durften keine Wertpapiere, keinen Schmuck und keine Kunstgegenstände besitzen. Es gab eine Ausgangssperre, im Sommer 21 Uhr, im Winter 20 Uhr. Die Rundfunkgeräte mussten abgegeben werden.

Alle wollten das Land verlassen, auch unsere Eltern. Sie stellten einen Antrag für ein Visum in die USA, um zu unserem Verwandten, Adolph Heumann, zu ziehen. Die Einwanderungspolitik der USA war zu jener Zeit außerordentlich restriktiv. Für jedes Land gab es eine bestimmte Quote. Unser Antrag hatte eine Nummer im Bereich von 1 600.000. Zum Zeitpunkt unserer Deportation hatte das amerikanische Konsulat die Nummer 900.000 aufgerufen. 

Seit dem September 1935 war der Ausschluss der jüdischen Schüler vom Unterricht an deutschen Schulen vorbereitet worden. Das Reichsministerium für Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung gab ein Rundschreiben (Anm.: entnommen der Seminararbeit von Ludwig Streib „Israelitische Gemeinde in Hoffenheim 1918 bis 1945) heraus, in dem es hieß: 

Eine Hauptvoraussetzung für jede gedeihliche Erziehungsarbeit ist die rassische Übereinstimmung von Lehrer und Schüler. Kinder jüdischer Abstammung bilden für die Einheitlichkeit der Klassengemeinschaft und die ungestörte Durchführung der nationalsozialistischen Jugenderziehung auf den allgemeinen öffentlichen Schulen ein starkes Hindernis. Die Herstellung nationalsozialistischer Klassengemeinschaften als Grundlage einer auf dem deutschen Volkstumsgedanken beruhenden Jugenderziehung ist nur möglich, wenn eine klare Scheidung nach Rassenzugehörigkeit der Kinder vorgenommen wird. Ich beabsichtige daher, vom Schuljahr 1936 ab für die reichsangehörigen Schüler alle Schularten eine möglichst vollständige Rassentrennung durchzuführen.

Manfred besuchte die Schule in Hoffenheim zwei Jahre, dann wechselte er in die jüdische Schule nach Heidelberg. Er fuhr jeden Tag mit dem Zug eine Stunde nach Heidelberg und eine Stunde nach dem Unterricht zurück. Der Weg dorthin war ungefähr 25 km. Im März 1938 wurde ich 6 Jahre alt, und am 20. April kam ich in die Volksschule in Hoffenheim. Da war ich bis zum 10. November. Damals wurden die Kinder in Deutschland im April eingeschult. An diese insgesamt ungefähr drei Monate in der Schule in Hoffenheim kann ich mich leider nicht mehr erinnern. 

Endlich lieferte das Attentat von Herschel Grynszpan auf den Legationssekretär der deutschen Botschaft in Paris am 7. November 1938 dem Reichsministerium für Wissenschaft, Erziehung und Volksbildung den entscheidenden Handlungsvorwand dafür, jüdische Kinder von staatlichen Schulen auszuschließen. Sein Erlass vom Schulunterricht an Juden von 15. November 1938 befand: Nach der ruchlosen Mordtat von Paris kann es keinem deutschen Lehrer mehr zugemutet werden, an jüdische Kinder Unterricht zu erteilen. Auch versteht es sich von selbst, dass ist für deutsche Schüler unerträglich ist, mit Juden in einem Klassenraum zu sitzen. Die Rassentrennung im Schulwesen ist zwar in den letzten Jahren im Allgemeinen bereits durchgeführt, doch ist ein Restbestand jüdischer Schüler auf den deutschen Schulen übrig geblieben. Ich ordne daher mit sofortiger Wirkung an: Juden ist der Besuch deutscher Schulen nicht gestattet. Sie dürfen nur jüdische Schulen besuchen. Diese Regelung erstreckt sich auf alle mir unterstellten Schulen einschließlich der Pflichtschulen (Anm.: entnommen der Seminararbeit von Ludwig Streib „Israelitische Gemeinde in Hoffenheim 1918 bis 1945). 

(Anm.: Am 7. November 1938 hatte ein jüdischer Student polnischer Nationalität, der 1921 in Deutschland geborene 17jährige Herschel Grynszpan, den deutschen Diplomaten Ernst vom Rath, in Paris erschossen. Grynszpans Eltern, die seit 1914 in Deutschland gelebt hatten, waren zusammen mit weiteren 50.000 polnischen Juden in das Niemandsland zwischen Deutschland und Polen ausgewiesen worden. Die Polen weigerten sich, die Menschen ins Land zu lassen, während die Deutschen sie an der Rückkehr hinderten. Es gab weder Unterkünfte noch Verpflegung, die Lebensbedingungen waren entsetzlich, und die Menschen befanden sich in einem furchtbaren Zustand. Als Grynszpan, der aus Deutschland zum Studium nach Paris gegangen war, davon erfuhr, ging er zur Botschaft, um sich für die diese Menschen einzusetzen. Als sein Antrag abgelehnt wurde, zog er eine Handfeuerwaffe und erschoss vom Rath. Dieses Ereignis nahmen die Deutschen zum Vorwand für ihre folgenden Handlungen). 

Am Morgen des 10. November 1938 ging Fred wie immer zur Schule, aber als er dort ankam, sagten die Lehrer, er solle sofort nach Hause zu gehen. Als er vom Bahnhof in Hoffenheim nach Hause kam, sah er unsere Mutter mit einem mit Kleidern und Bettzeug beladenen Karren, den sie vor sich herschob. Sie erzählte ihm, dass die Synagoge und unsere angrenzende Wohnung gerade zerstört werden. Möbel und Haushaltsgegenstände lagen auf der Straße. Unsere Mutter war auf dem Weg zum Haus unserer Verwandten, der Familie Heumann. Fred rannte zu dem Platz, auf dem unser Haus stand und die Synagoge. Viele Leute waren dort. Einige Nazis aus dem Ort, darunter auch jene, die mit meinem Vater zur Schule gegangen waren, seine Waffenbrüder während des Ersten Weltkriegs, standen oben auf dem Dach, dass sie mit großem Enthusiasmus abdeckten. Es war für unseren Vater schmerzlich anzusehen, mit welchem Vergnügen sie das taten. Nach einigen Stunden war von der 1750 erbauten Synagoge nur noch ein Haufen Schutt übrig. Zehn Jahre später wurde der örtliche SA- Truppführer zusammen mit dem örtlichen Parteiführer und mit dem Obersturmbannführer, der die Zerstörung der Synagoge angeordnet hatte, vor Gericht gestellt. Ich stieß auf die Prozessunterlagen in Yad Vashem: 

Am Donnerstag, den 10. November 1938 um 7:00 Uhr wies Eugen Laule, Bürgermeister von Waibstadt und SA- Obersturmbannführer, den örtlichen SA- Truppführer Lehrer Emil Hopp und fünf oder sechs weitere SA-Männer aus dem Ort an, sich in Uniform zur Synagoge zu begeben, wo unser Vater mit ihnen zusammentraf. Die Nazis befahlen ihm, unsere Wohnung zu verlassen, da sie jetzt die Synagoge zerstören würden. Sie konnte nicht niedergebrannt werden, da die Gefahr bestand, dass das Feuer auf benachbarte Häuser übergreifen würde. Die Nazis warfen Möbelstücke aus dem Fenster im ersten Stock. Ein SA- Mann wollte uns beim Heraustragen unsere persönlichen Habe helfen, wurde aber von seinem Vorgesetzten daran gehindert, der sagte: Kerl, dir trete ich in den Arsch, wenn du den Juden hilfst auszuziehen! Und zu einem anderen: Jetzt können Sie zeigen, ob Sie nationalsozialistisch sind oder nicht. Dann drangen die Uniformträger, unterstützt von Dorfbewohnern, in die Synagoge ein und begannen, sie systematisch zu zerstören. Der große Kronleuchter krachte zu Boden, Thorarollen und heilige Bücher wurden zerrissen, und das Dach des Gebäudes wurde zerstört. Nachdem alles kurz und klein geschlagen war, wurden die Überreste auf einen Wagen geladen und auf ein offenes Feld Richtung Sinsheim gebracht, wo sie verbrannt wurden. 

Meine Familie und andere Juden des Ortes standen weinend vor ihrer Synagoge, die Kinder der Familien waren aus dem Bett gerissen worden und standen im Schlafanzug auf der Straße. Die Frage einer verärgerten Nachbarin an die Übeltäter, ob sie sich nicht schämen, wurde mit der Drohung einer Verhaftung beantwortet. Am Ende dieses Tages voller Ausschreitungen wurde Vater abgeführt und einen Monat lang im KZ Dachau gefangen gehalten. Bei der Ankunft wurde den Häftlingen der Kopf rasiert, und sie wurden in Gefängniskleidung gesteckt. Um die 300 Männer wurden in Baracken gezwängt, die für 40 Menschen vorgesehen waren. Gequält und gedemütigt waren sie den Launen der SS ausgeliefert. Vor nicht allzu langer Zeit haben wir in Yad Vashem den Bericht von Vaters Einlieferung ins KZ Dachau entdeckt. Er wurde aufgrund von Konzessionen gegenüber deutschen Veteranen aus dem Ersten Weltkrieg früher als andere entlassen.

Nachdem ich, ich war gerade mal 6 1/2 Jahre als, Zeuge der Zerstörung der Synagoge geworden war, wohnten wir bei den Heumanns, Kirchstraße 10. Das Haus stand neben der Evangelischen Kirche. Unsere Mutter, die einen mit unserer Habe hochbeladenen Karren vor sich her schob, ging voraus, und wir zogen noch am selben Tag bei Ihnen ein. Wir schliefen alle in demselben Zimmer, Mutter und wir Kinder. Vater kam am 8. Dezember aus Dachau zurück. Er war in einem furchtbaren Zustand, er trug nur einen Schuh, und am Bein einen Verband. Er erzählte uns nicht viel über seine Erlebnisse der vergangenen Wochen. Er war damals 44 Jahre alt. 

Mein KinderfreundPaul Gehrigkonnte sich sogar daran erinnern, wie meine Mutter angezogen war am 10. November 1938 bei der Zerstörung der Synagoge. Ich habe nur ein Bild vor meinen Augen, wie man unsere Möbel vom zweiten Stock heraus geworfen hat auf einen Misthaufen. Noch heute befindet sich eine Kommode meiner Eltern im Haus der Nachkommen der damaligen Nachbarn, und sie sind nicht bereit, sie herzugeben oder sie mir zu verkaufen.

Die zwei letzten Jahre vor unserer Deportation haben wir zusammen mit Hermann und Ida Heumann in ihrem kleinen Haus in der Kirchstrasse 10 gewohnt. Wir lebten sehr eng beieinander, die Heumanns, unsere Mutter, Tante Elsa und wir Kinder. Dann kamen noch mein Onkel Moritz, der Bruder meines Vaters und seine Frau Alma mit ihrer Tochter Inge, die ein Baby war, aus Saarbrücken zu uns. Sie hatten ihr Haus an der französischen Grenze verlassen müssen. Beheizt wurde das Haus der Heumanns mit einem Holzofen, im Winter war der wärmste Ort die Küche. Einmal verbrannte sich Manfred ganz schrecklich mit heißer Suppe. Ich werde niemals den deutschen Arzt vergessen, der uns schon früher, vor dem Kontaktverbot behandelte. Er riskierte sein Leben, als er heimlich bei Nacht und Nebel kam, um Manfreds Verletzungen zu untersuchen. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war es deutschen nichtjüdischen Ärzten bereits verboten, Juden zu behandeln.

Aber ich war glücklich. Man hat alles von mir ferngehalten. Die Heumanns hatten Kinder, die nach Amerika und Argentinien ausgewandert waren. Eine Urenkelin von diesen Heumanns, wurde auf der Universität in den USA gefragt, ob sie weiß, warum ihre Urgroßeltern nicht zu ihren Kindern nach Amerika gekommen sind. Also ich habe keine persönlichen Erinnerungen, aber mein Bruder erzählte mir, dass Hermann Heumann Epileptiker war. Er litt unter epileptischen Anfällen. . Deshalb bekam er keine Einreisegenehmigung für die USA. Deswegen wurden sie ermordet. 

Nach dem 10. November sind mein Bruder und ich jeden Tag zusammen mit dem Zug in die jüdische Schule nach Heidelberg gefahren, in die Kinder aus Heidelberg und verschiedenen Ortschaften der Gegend kamen. Erinnern kann ich mich aber weder an die Zugfahrt noch an die Schule. Bis zur Deportation am 22 Oktober1940 war ich mit meinem Bruder in dieser Schule. 

Noch eine Erinnerung von zu Hause: Am Morgen der Deportation kamen zu uns zwei Männer von der Gestapo oder von der Polizei oder der eine so und der andere so in Uniformen mit dem Befehl, dass wir in zwei Stunden reisebereit sein sollen. Da hat mein Vater eine Schublade aufgemacht und das Eiserne Kreuz heraus genommen, das er als Auszeichnung im Ersten Weltkrieg bekommen hatte. Er hat es auf den Boden geworfen und hat geschrien: dafür habe ich während des Krieges gekämpft!

Jeder Erwachsene durfte 50 Kilo und jedes Kind durfte 30 Kilo Gepäck mitnehmen. An die Fahrt nach Gurs kann ich mich erinnern. Ich erinnere mich nicht an die Fahrt in einem Lastwagen von Hoffenheim nach Heidelberg. Ich erinnere mich, dass wir in einem Zug waren, und wir wussten nicht, wohin der Zug fahren wird. Und ich erinnere mich sehr gut an das Schreien von SS- Leuten, dass man nicht den Kopf aus dem Fenster des Zuges stecken darf, wer das macht, wird erschossen! Ich war damals acht Jahre alt, ich war klein, und ich lag im Gepäcknetz. 

Pfarrer Ludwig Streib beschreibt die Deportation wie folgt: 

Am Nachmittag mussten sich die letzten 18 Mitglieder einer einst viel größeren Gemeinde im Saal des Rathauses versammeln. Die meisten von ihnen wussten wohl, was auf sie zukommen sollte (Anm.: Menachem Mayer sagt, sie wussten es nicht!) ebenso gewusst hat es wohl auch Hermann Heumann. Eine Frau, die im begegnete, als er und seine Frau mit ihren Koffern auf das Rathaus gingen, erzählte folgendes: “Ich habe zu ihnen gesagt: auf Wiedersehen, Frau Heumann! Auf Wiedersehen, Hermann!” Mit ihm war ich per Du, weil ich ihn schon als kleines Kind kannte. Darauf sagte er, und seine Frau heulte, und ich heulte auch: “Verrecken sollen sie, alle auf einem Haufen!” Worauf Frau Heumann meinte: “Hermann, sei doch still, du kannst doch nichts ändern.” “Das ist mir ganz egal, wir gehen ja doch nichts Gutem entgegen”, erwiderte Hermann darauf. Nur wenige Nachbarn begleiteten die Juden zum Rathaus. Die LKWs kamen und Uniformierte schoben und stießen die Juden hinauf. Ein Hoffenheimer, der dabei stand, sagte zu einem Nazi: “Geht hinaus in den Krieg, dort könnt ihr dies machen! Aber die hier haben euch doch nichts getan!” Der Uniformträger antwortete: “Recht haben Sie, aber wenn Sie nicht ruhig sind, dann kommen sie nach Dachau.” Sonst ist nichts weiter über die Reaktion der Einwohner bekannt. Pfarrer Streib fährt fort: die Hoffenheimer jüdischen Einwohner wurden zusammen mit weiteren Juden aus dem Nachbarorten nach Heidelberg gefahren, wo sie in den bereitgestellten Sonderzug gesperrt wurden. Von Heidelberg ging der Transport am selben Abend über mehrere badische Städte ins französische Mühlhausen; dort wurden die 100 RM in Franc umgetauscht, doch zuvor wurden die Juden durch SS-Männer aufgefordert, falls Sie mehr Geld hätten, dies abzuliefern, anderenfalls würden sie erschossen. Auch wer den Zug verließ, sollte erschossen werden. 

Nach mehreren Tagen Fahrt in den insgesamt neun Sonderzügen ohne viel Wasser mit geringer Verpflegung und in eine ungewisse Zukunft, kamen die Züge in Gurs, in der Nähe der Pyrenäen, an. Der Gauleiter von Hoffenheim war ein fanatischer Nazi. Sein Entschluss, die Juden so schnell wie möglich zu deportieren, rettete uns sogar das Leben, weil wir statt in den Osten nach Westen geschickt wurden. Zwei Jahre später wurden alle anderen Verwandten nach Ausschwitz transportiert und dort umgebracht. Nur wir überlebten wie durch ein Wunder.

Abends oder Nachts kamen wir in Gurs an. Ich erinnere mich an den ersten Tag und den tiefen Schlamm. Es gab keine Gehsteige, kein Pflaster, keine Vegetation. Wir haben in einer Baracke mit unserer Mutter gewohnt. Die Männer waren getrennt von den Frauen in verschiedenen Blocks. Ilots (Anm.: franz. kleine Inseln: Das Lager war eingeteilt in diese Ilots, die jeweils 25 Baracken mit je 60 Schlafplätzen umfassten. Jedes Ilot war mit Stacheldraht umzäumt. Zuerst gab es nur den nackten Boden zum Schlafen, dann bekamen die Gefangenen einen Sack, in den sie Stroh füllen konnten)hießen die. Ich erinnere mich an die sogenannten Toiletten. Die kleinen Kinder und die alten Leute saßen die ganze Zeit einfach nur da, sie warteten und weinten. Nach einigen Tagen begannen die Erwachsenen zu begreifen, in welch ausweglose Situation sie geraten waren. Der Winter war außerordentlich streng, an manchen Tagen -20°. Es kam häufig zum Ausbruch von Diphtherie, Durchfällen und anderen ansteckenden Krankheiten. Eines Morgens stand ich neben dem Zaun, sah einen Pferdewagen, der die Toten, über die Decken gebreitet waren, aus dem Lager fuhr. Ich sehe noch die Beine vor mir, die herausschauten. 

Die Essensrationen waren minimal, völlig unzureichend. Wir hatten immer Hunger. Unser Vater bemühte sich um eine Arbeit und durfte in der Küche arbeiten. Die Küche war ein Provisorium, ein paar Pfosten mit einem Blechdach darüber. Bei unseren heimlichen Besuchen schnitt Vater uns von einem runden Brotlaib eine dicke Scheibe ab, röstete sie über der offenen Flamme und bestrich sie mit einer dicken Schicht Fett. Dann gab er braunen Zucker darauf. Er hätte seinen Söhnen kein schöneres Geschenk machen können. Diese Ergänzung, die wir durch unseren Vater bekamen, half uns zu überleben. 

Wir verbrachten den ganzen Tag damit, auf dem Gelände umher zu streifen. Ich erinnere mich, wie ich hinter einer Baracke Zigarettenkippen rauchte, die ich aus dem Matsch aufgelesen hatte. Wir erforschen auch das Gebiet außerhalb des Lagers. Wir kamen bis zu dem nahe liegenden Dorf. Die französischen Polizisten hielten uns nie an, sie wussten, dass wir zurückkommen werden. Es waren französische Polizisten, die das Lager Gurs bewacht haben. Und wenn es nötig war, konnten auch die Erwachsenen aus dem Lager heraus: zum Doktor, zum Einkaufen oder etwas ähnliches. Es war ja kein Vernichtungslager, es gab Möglichkeiten zu flüchten, aber wo hätten meine Eltern hingehen sollen? Wo konnten sie hin, was konnten sie machen? Meine Eltern sprachen kein Wort Französisch, hatten kein Geld, und Niemand hat sich in dieser Zeit vorstellen können, was passieren wird. Wenn sie das gewusst hätten, wären sie alle wie die Hasen verschwunden. So vermute ich! Aber niemand wusste es! Was haben sie gedacht: Wir sind jetzt hier, aber in ein paar Monaten werden wir wieder zurück nach Hause kommen. 

Ich hatte einen guten Freund, mit dem ich viele Jahre zusammen war. Das war Alfred Stein. Alfred habe ich im Lager in Gurs kennen gelernt. Er war zusammen mit seiner Mutter mit den Juden aus Baden und der Saarpfalzdeportiert worden. Sie kamen aus Schwetzingen, glaube ich. Alfreds Vater war kein Jude. Das wusste ich damals nicht. Der Vater hatte sich getrennt von seiner Frau und seinem Kind. Das bedeutete, dass sie nicht mehr geschützt waren. Alfreds Mutter ist, wie meine Familie, nach Ausschwitz deportiert und dort ermordet worden. 

Alfred war die vielen Jahre in allen Heimen mit mir zusammen. Auch er ist nach Israel eingewandert, schon 1947. Ich bin hierhergekommen 1948,  habe ihn gesucht und nicht gefunden. Vor ungefähr 15 Jahren erzählte mir Pfarrer Lohrbächer, einer meiner Freunde in Deutschland, dass Alfred Stein gestorben ist. Und er erzählte mir, dass es Alfreds Wille war, dass man ihn verbrennt: so wie man seine Mutter verbrannt hat in Auschwitz.

Wir waren vier Monate in dem Lager, mein Bruder und ich, von Ende Oktober 1940 bis Februar 1941. Dann haben unsere Eltern beschlossen, als das Angebot bestand, uns in ein Waisenhaus zu geben, damit wir in besseren Verhältnissen existieren können. Die meisten Eltern waren nicht bereit dazu, ihre Kinder weg zu geben. Unsere Eltern waren ja bereit, und deshalb kann ich heute diese Geschichte erzählen. Denn die Eltern, die nicht bereit waren sich von ihren  Kindern zu trennen, wurden mit ihren Kindern 1942 nach Ausschwitz deportiert und ermordet. 

Wenn ich an die Abreise aus Gurs denke, habe ich zwei Bilder von mir. Wahrscheinlich wurde den Eltern gesagt, sie sollen ihre Kinder an einen Platz auf der Hauptstraße des Lagers bringen um eine bestimmte Zeit. Mein Vater war da, und er hat mich auf den Lastwagen heraufgehoben. Das einzige Bild was ich von ihm habe, sind seine blau-grauen Augen, sehr traurige Augen. Traurige große blaue Augen! Das ist das einzige, woran ich mich an seinem Gesicht erinnere. Es war das letzte Mal, dass ich ihn sah. Von meiner Mutter habe ich mich nicht verabschiedet, sie war nicht dabei. Das Lastauto ist abgefahren von dieser Hauptstraße, welche durch das ganze Lager ging. An einem Platz war eine Holzbrücke, und als das Auto über die Brücke gefahren ist, stand meine Mutter auf der Brücke und hat irgendwelche Zeichen mit ihren Händen gemacht. Entweder sie hat gewinkt oder war erschrocken, ich weiß nicht, was es war. Das war das letzte Mal, dass ich sie gesehen habe. Wir sind mit dem Lastauto zu einer Zugstation gefahren und von da aus vielleicht noch mit dem Zug 100 km. Wir kamen in ein Heim in Aspet, das war ein Waisenhaus von französischen Kindern. Zuerst waren wir nicht versteckt, weil jeder wusste, dass wir da sind. 

Unsere Gruppe bestand aus 48 Kindern, welche aus Gurs herauskamen. Ein kleiner Teil der Kinder wurde in die USA geschickt ,und wir sollten auch dabei sein. Das habe ich später aber erst erfahren, damals nicht. Wir sollten auch zu unserer Tante Elsa nach England, aber auch das hat nicht geklappt. 

Ich weiß, dasswir hungerten, nicht genug zu essen hatten, aber wir waren nicht die Einzigen, auch alle Anderen hungerten. Ich habe angefangen Essbares zu stehlen. Und ich war sehr geschickt dabei. 

Ich erinnere mich nicht, dass ich damals, in Aspet, viel mit meinem Bruder zusammen gewesen wäre. Mein Bruder hatte seine Freunde, und ich hatte meine Freunde. Das war für mich wahrscheinlich genug.

Nur zwei Wochen, nachdem wir uns von unseren Eltern getrennt hatten, wurden sie in das Lager Rivesaltes, nahe Perpignan, gebracht (Anm.: auch dieses Lager befand sich in der „freien Zone“, unter dem Vichy-Regime. Ab November 1942 wurde aus Rivesaltes ungefähr 2300 Juden, unter ihnen auch die Eltern von Menachem und Fred, in das Sammellager Drancy bei Paris gebracht und von dort nach Auschwitz deportiert und ermordet). 

Viele Jahre später, es war 1959, bekam ich eines Tages ein Paket mit Briefen, die mir mein Bruder Fred aus Amerika nach Israel schickte. Er schrieb mir: Ich ziehe jetzt um und habe diese Briefe die ganzen Jahre bei mir behalten. Jetzt schicke ich sie dir, mach mit den Briefen, was du willst. 

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt wusste ich erst, dass es überhaupt Briefe gab. Mein Bruder hatte sein Deutsch aus seinem Gedächtnis gestrichen, er hat die Briefe nicht mehr lesen können. Damals habe ich diese Briefe nicht aufgemacht. Ich habe sie in eine Schublade gelegt.

Erst Mitte der 1970er Jahre habe ich begonnen, sie zu lesen. Ich musste so lange warten, bis ich psychisch in der Lage war, um in die Vergangenheit hereinzuschauen. So erkläre ich mir das. Ich habe mich die ganzen Jahre vorher nicht für meine Kindheit interessiert. Ich habe auch nicht nachgeforscht, nicht gesucht. Ich war beschäftigt damit, meine Zukunft aufzubauen und wahrscheinlich nicht reif genug für die Vergangenheit. Heute habe ich sehr wenige Erinnerungen, jetzt möchte ich mich erinnern, aber alles ist verdrängt. Vielleicht ist es besser so, ich weiß nicht! 

Meine Kinder wollten wissen, was in den Briefen steht. Das erste Mal kam ich 1972 nach Hoffenheim und etwas später habe ich dann die Briefe aufgemacht. 

Camp de Gurs, den 1. März 1941

Meine lieben Kinder! 

Mit Euren Zeilen haben wir uns sehr gefreut, besonders, dass es euch gut gefällt. Der Transport von hier nach Rivesaltes wurde verschoben auf 10. März; ob wir da mitkommen, wissen wir noch nicht, da nur Leute mit Kindern in Frage kommen. Da habt ihr aber gute Sachen bekommen. Was bekommt ihr zu essen, und wie ist es sonst bei Euch? Hattet Ihr mich eigentlich noch gesehen? Als Euer Auto vorbei fuhr, stand ich gerade auf der Holzbrücke und winkte. Es ging aber sehr schnell ab bei euch. Die liebe Inge ist im Krankenhaus wegen ihrem Keuchhusten. Oma ist noch in der Internen. Seid herzlich gegrüßt und geküsst, Eure euch Liebende Mutter.

Lieber Manfred und Heinz, mit Euren Zeilen haben wir uns sehr gefreut, besonders dass ihr gesund seid und so schön aufgehoben seid. Wann wir hier wegkommen, weiß ich nicht. Hoffentlich schreibt ihr bald einen großen, ausführlichen Brief. Lieber Manfred und Heinz, seid recht brav, dass die Schwester sagt, ihr seid brave Jungens und passt gut auf in der Schule, dass ihr etwas lernt. Sonst weiß ich nichts. Seid recht herzlich gegrüßt und geküsst von 

Euren Vater.

Liebe Kinder, 

mit Deinen lieben Brief freuen wir uns sehr. Inge ist noch im Hospital, aber bedeutend besser. Bin froh, dass es euch gut geht und gefällt. Bleibt weiter gesund und gebt bald wieder gute Nachricht. Grüße und Küsse von Tante, Onkel, Alma, Inge, Moritz

Rivesaltes, den 14.3.1941

Meine lieben Kinder, 

Ihr werdet erstaunt sein, dass wir nicht mehr in Gurs sind. Wir sind seit 11. März hier. Oma und Onkel Emanuel ist nicht dort. Lieber Manfred und Heinz, habt Ihr schon Schule gehabt? Sicher ist es bei Euch auch sehr schön, seid froh, dass ihr dort seid und Euch eingewöhnt. Lieber Manfred, grüße auch Heinz, auf dass er etwas lernt, denn Du bist älter wie Heinz, horcht dem Lehrer, dass ihr was lernt und brave Jungens gebt. 

Seid gegrüßt und geküsst von euren Vater

Rivesaltes, den 30.6.1941

Meine innig geliebten Kinder! 

Eure beiden Briefe haben wir erhalten und uns damit gefreut. Ich war der Meinung, wir hätten euch Antwort geschrieben - vor lauter Arbeit scheinbar vergessen. Denn ich war vorige Woche noch in der Küche und machte zweimal in der Woche Nachtwache in der Infermerie (Anm.: Krankenstation). Da bekomme ich 1/2 l Milch und ein Achtel Brot dafür. Von abends 8:00 Uhr bis morgens 8:00 Uhr, dann wasche ich, um etwas zu verdienen. Vater ist bei den Pferden zum Füttern. Diese braucht man für die Abfälle fortzuführen usw. Nun ist es hier auch sehr heiß. Nachmittags in den Baracken sehr, trotzdem sie aus Stein sind. Was machen die anderen Jungs? Dachte, ihr schickt ein Bild von Euch? Würde euch gerne etwas Geld zur Aufnahme senden. Warum hat Heinz nicht den letzten Brief geschrieben? Theo ist Nummer 99, Hof B. Die Männer und Frauen sind in einem Ilod. Bleibt gesund und der liebe Gott sei bei Euch und schütze Euch. Vertraut ihm nur betet zu ihm, dass er Euch gesund lässt, denn das ist die Hauptsache. 

Seid für heute herzlich gegrüßt und geküsst, Eure Euch liebende Mutter

Mein lieber Manfred und Heinz! 

Warum haben wir von Euch diese Woche keinen Brief erhalten? Hoffentlich hat es keinen Grund und Ihr seid gesund, denn wir machen uns Gedanken darüber, weil Ihr jede Woche geschrieben habt. Hoffentlich seid Ihr gesund, was für von uns auch mitteilen können. Mutter hat Euch geschrieben, dass ich woanders arbeite, bei den Pferden. Ich bin froh, dass es Euch gut gefällt. Wenn Ihr auf das Feld geht, setzt ja etwas auf den Kopf. Sonst weiß ich nichts neues. Heinz soll im nächsten Brief auch etwas schreiben. Lieber Manfred, Du musst den Briefbogen so nehmen wie wir. Nochmals Grüße und Küsse, Euer Vater

Rivesaltes, den 8. November 1941 

Meine lieben Kinder! 

Euren Brief haben wir gestern erhalten und daraus ersehen, dass Ihr, Gott sei Dank, gesund seid. Gibt nur acht bei der Kälte und zieht euch warm an. Habt ihr auch noch warme Strümpfe und Heinz seinen Pullover noch? Das dunkelblau – und -rote Anzügle wird zu klein sein. Und warum schreibt Heinz immer, er musste daheim bleiben, da er keine Schuhe hatte. Habe ihm doch drei Paar Stiefel, Halb - und Gummischuhe mitgegeben. Wo sind sie denn alle? Schade, dass keine Wolle habe, sonst hätte ich Strümpfe gestrickt. Hätten wir nur die warmen Strümpfe von zu Hause mitgenommen, die langen. Bekommt ihr warme Strümpfe und Pantoffeln und warme Pullover? Soll ich Euch den blauen Wintermantel schicken; ein Schloss für Heinz haben wir gekauft. Zu deiner Frage, Manfred, weiß ich auch nicht, was ich dir raten soll bezüglich Heinz. Frage, ob du Deinen Bruder mitnehmen darfst. Ich meine, beisammen bleiben ist besser als das eine da, das andere dort. Von der OSE höre, dass bald jemand wegen der Amerika -Sache nach Aspet käme. Auch Frau Salomon , die eben hier ist, hätte gesagt, sie fahre bald nach Aspet. Hätte euch schon gerne etwas gesandt. Aber es geht ein solch starker, eiskalter Sturm schon einige Tage, dass man noch nicht zur Post konnte, welche in einem anderen Ilot weit weg ist. Ich hatte ein geschwollenes Gesicht. Auf der einen Seite hatte Eiter im Zahn. Er muss gezogen werden. Immer etwas anderes. Muss mich sehr in Acht nehmen, sonst habe sofort Durchfall. Tante Else hatten wir Post vom 15. August. Sie schrieb, sie hatte von uns im August einen Brief erhalten. Hatten noch einige andere geschrieben. Theo ist weg von hier und Kurt Altstädter, weiß nicht, ob im Heim oder so zur Erholung. Theo ist in einem Restaurant. Vater arbeitet auch im Militärcamp mit dem Clo-Auto. Die beiden bekommen etwas mehr Brot und mehr Suppe. Von Gurs hatte Onkel Emanuel Eure Impfscheine geschickt. Habt ihr Ofen und Feuer? Bei uns sind keine da. Eine sehr große Baracke, und 90-100 Personen reingehen. Hatte das letzte Mal Marken reingelegt. Waren sie noch drin? Manfred, meinst Du, dort (Anm.: Amerika) ist es besser? Vielleicht kannst Du Heinz mitnehmen. Es wird besser sein, wenn ihr beisammen bleibt. Man muss die Kennkartennummer auf unseren Brief schreiben: 5273. 

Alles Gute, Küsse von Eurer Mutter.

Ein Brief meines Onkel Emanuel:

Gurs, den 12. März 1942

Hallo lieber Manfred und Heinz! 

Deinen so schönen und lieben Brief, lieber Manfred, habe ich erhalten und danke Dir bestens dafür. Leider konnte die liebe Oma solchen ich nicht mehr lesen. Denke dir, die liebe Oma ist nicht mehr bei uns. Ich habe in den letzten Wochen Furchtbares durchgemacht und erleben müssen. Aus diesem Grunde konnte ich Euch, meine lieben Buben, auch nicht schreiben. Wie hätten wir uns mit Deinen Eltern gefreut, wenn wir Dein Fest desBar -Mizwa hätten erleben können beziehungsweise zusammen hätten feiern können. Ich gratuliere Dir nachträglich besonders herzlich und wünsche Dir alles erdenklich Gute, und lass uns Freude mit dir erleben, besonders, dass Deine lieben Eltern an dir

 Stütze haben. Schreibe mir bitte bald wieder, denn du kannst dir denken, dass mir nicht so sehr ums Schreiben ist. Aber Post möchte ich doch gerne haben. Ich bin ja jetzt so alleine hier. Sage an Heinz auch besonders herzliche Grüße, und er soll mir auch schreiben. Für heute nun viele herzliche 

Grüße und Küsse, Euer Onkel Emanuel 

Rivesaltes, den 19. Mai 1942

Meine geliebten Kinder! 

Hoffentlich seid ihr gesund, was bei uns soweit auch der Fall ist. War ganz erstaunt über das Paketchen, welches heute erhielten. Wir freuten uns sehr damit und können die Sachen gut gebrauchen. Es waren darin: zwei Schächtelchen Käse. Das eine war beinahe leer und offen, etwas Kullererbsen, fünf harte Eier, hätten sie auch roh schicken können. Frau Levy, die neben mir liegt, bekommt oft, die Frau von Levy, der bei Vater in Küche war, ist die. Neben ihr liegt Frau Kayem, die Mutter von Irene, und neben dieser Irmie Hermann. Diese drei Frauen bekommen wöchentlich sehr viele Pakete, aber gaben nie etwas davon her, haben aber das Glück auf der guten Seite. Neben mir liegt Frau Kahn mit Irene aus der Baraque 20 in Gurs. Essen in Essbaracke, und dort servieren Spanierinnen. Es gibt Dienstag, Mittwoch, Donnerstag und Sonntag etwas Fleisch und dann eine Lusche (Anm.: Kochlöffel) Suppe, 1/8 Brot, manchmal ein Stückchen Käse und manchmal etwas Wein. Auch haben wir in letzter Zeit etwas Schokolade oder Kirschen bekommen. Morgens bekomme von der Secours Suisse (Anm.: Wohlfahrtsorganisation) zwei Luschen Erbsmehlsuppe, da ich nur 86 Pfund wiege. Vater bekommt auch eine Lusche dort. Er wiegt 102 Pfund noch. So schlägt man sich durch. Die zwei weißen Pferde, mit denen Vater fährt, sind sehr wild. Habe immer Angst, dass ihm nichts passiert. Haben von Elsa einen Brief erhalten. Nun kamen gestern einige 100 Francs durch die Quäker hier an. Fragt mal bitte Herrn Wildström, ob er mir, wenn ich ihm etwas Geld einschicke, etwas senden könnte. Aber sendet die Eier dann roh. Da kann ich eine Einlaufsuppe oder sonst etwas davon machen. Habe schon zweimal an Ludwig nach Les Milles (Anm.: ein anderes Lager) geschrieben, aber keine Antwort bekommen. Auch Herr Levy (Toulouse) gibt mir keine Antwort mehr. Will nochmal schreiben. Hat einmal 50 Fr geschickt. Was macht Heinz? Bin froh, dass es ihm in der Schule gut gefällt. Vater ist jetzt nicht da. Der Brief soll fort. Herzlich küsst Euch Eure Euch liebende Mutter

Der letzte Brief:

Rivaltes, den 10. August 1942

 Meine lieben Kinder! 

Will Euch schnell vor der Abreise einige Zeilen schreiben. Habe gestern Abend den großen Schließkorb mit viel Wäsche an euch abgesandt, da wir jetzt abreisen und dürfen nur Handgepäck mitnehmen. Wenn ihr nach Amerika kommt, so seht zu, dass ihr was mitnehmt davon. Vielleicht kommen wir mit Gottes Hilfe auch noch nach dort. Grüßt Tante Elsa, wenn ihr an sie schreibt. Weiß nicht, ob wir Euch schreiben können, vielleicht durchs Rote Kreuz. Bleib brav und gesund, Eure Euch liebende Mutter 

Meine lieben Kinder, 

ich will noch vor der Abfahrt einige Zeilen schreiben, weiß nicht, wo wir hinkommen. Wir haben euch gern zurückgelassen. Ihr seid besser aufgehoben. Ihr hört vielleicht alles. Bleibt gesund und seid herzlich gegrüßt und geküsst von Euerer Mutter (Anm.: Er wollte schreiben: Euerer Vater)

Vertragt Euch, Manfred und Heinz, das sind meine Sorgen.

Frankreich war ja geteilt in den nördlichen und südlichen Teil. Der nördliche Teil war beherrscht von den Deutschen und der südliche Teil von Frankreich durch die Vichy Regierung. Gurs, Aspet und Rivesaltes befanden sich unter der Vichy Regierung im südlichen Teil von Frankreich. Am 11. November 1942 haben die Deutschen auch den südlichen Teil besetzt, und da wurde es dann langsam gefährlich für uns, denn es war den Behörden bekannt, wo wir uns aufhielten. Die OSE (Anm.: jüdisches Kinderhilfswerk) beschloss, uns woanders zu verstecken. Im Februar 1943 wurden wir von den Quäkern an andere Plätze in Frankreich gebracht. Wir waren 48 Kinder aus dem Waisenhaus in Aspet und 5 000 Kinder aus anderen Waisenhäusern, die zerstreut auf verschiedenen Plätzen untergebracht wurden. Fred und ich kamen mit anderen Kindern aus Aspet in ein spanisches Waisenhaus in Toulouse, das sich in einem Schloss befand und umgeben war von Feldern und Bäumen. Dieses Kinderheim gehörte der katholischen Kirche. Es war ein Kinderheim für Kinder, die aus Spanien nach dem Bürgerkrieg oder während des Bürgerkriegs nach Frankreich geflüchtet waren. Auch Alfred, mein Freund, war mit mir in Toulouse, von Februar 1942 bis Mai 1944. 

Nach einem Monat wurde Manfred wegen seines Alters, er war 14 Jahre alt, nach Moissac, zuerst in ein Heim für Jugendliche gebracht, das von den jüdisch-französischen Pfadfindern betrieben wurde. Nach einigen Monaten suchten die Behörden nach jüdischen Kindern und Fred musste mit den anderen Kindern in den Untergrund. Er bekam einen französischen Namen, besuchte eine Schule und wurde in den Sommerferien in den Bergen von Zentralfrankreich bei Bauern untergebracht. Er hat mit den Bauern gearbeitet und ist mit ihnen zusammen sonntags in die Kirche gegangen. Was sie den Nachbarn erzählt haben, ob er ein Neffe ist, das weiß ich nicht. 

Wir Aspet-Kinder sind in Toulouse schon am nächsten Tag in die Schule gegangen. Die Schule war in der Nähe des Kinderheims. Ich war ein guter Schüler, bin gern in die Schule gegangen. Ich wurde auch viel gelobt, und das war für meine spätere Entwicklung sehr wichtig. Lob ist immer viel wichtiger als Tadel. Mein offizieller Name in Toulouse war Henry. Ich wusste auch, wie ich aus dem Schloss fliehen konnte, wenn die Gestapo oder die französische Miliz erscheinen sollte. 

Vor 15 Jahren bin ich mal in die Schule gefahren und habe erzählt, dass ich da einmal Schüler war. Sie haben eine Dokumentation von damals und da stand: Heinz Mayer! Das ist komisch, und ich verstehe das nicht! Sie haben unsere Identität in den Dokumenten preisgegeben. Die Lehrer wussten, wer wir sind. Also, wir waren versteckt da, andererseits waren wir eingeschrieben in die Schule mit unseren deutschen Namen. 

Eines Nachts, im Mai 1944, wurde ich aus dem Bett geholt, und man hat mich in die Schweiz geschmuggelt. Wir waren 15 Kinder. Wir sind mit dem Zug bis Lyongefahren, und dann fuhren wir mit dem Autobus oder mit einem Lastauto weiter. Ich weiß es nicht genau. Dann sind wir durch einen Wald gelaufen. Irgendwann wusste ich, dass ich angekommen bin in der Schweiz. Später hat sich herausgestellt, dass die Gestapo, da habe ich eine Dokumentation gefunden, auf unsere Spuren war. Die Vichy-Regierung wusste von dem Versteck der jüdischen Kinder. Das wurde den Leuten, die für uns verantwortlich waren, mitgeteilt.Und dann war alles Zufall; wo ich hingekommen bin und wo die anderen hingekommen sind. Nur Alfred blieb immer bei mir. 

Ich war 12 Jahre alt. Man fragte mich, ich habe das Protokoll davon, das sind nicht nur Erinnerungen, ob ich zu einem religiösen Platz will oder nicht. Ich habe geantwortet: Das ist gleichgültig, das ist egal! Ich sprach damals französisch, ich hatte überhaupt nicht die Frage verstanden. Es war mir ganz egal. Und dann bin ich in orthodox religiöse Hände gefallen. Ich war in der Schweiz vier Jahre, bis ich weggelaufen bin. Ich bin weggelaufen, die Schweizer suchen mich bis heute! 

Während der vier Jahre, bis September 1948, war ich in zehn verschiedenen Kinderheimen. Es gab eine jüdische Organisationen, welche die finanzielle Hilfe gab. Ich fühlte mich allein, aber ich war schon lange daran gewöhnt, allein zu sein. Das war nicht neu für mich. Ich war seit dem Lager Gurs allein. Mein Freund Alfred war aber die ganze Zeit bei mir. Einer von diesen Erziehern sagte zu mir: Alfred hat einen schlechten Einfluss auf dich! Ich meine, es wäre gut, wenn ich Alfred woanders hinschicke. Aber was du entscheidest, werde ich machen. Ich sagte ihm: Lass ihn hier! 

Alfred hatte einen sehr negativen Charakter. Ich war ein Lausbub, er war ein sehr großer Lausbub! Nach der Erziehung, die wir hatten, wäre mir nie eingefallen, wieder in Deutschland zu leben, obwohl ich die Möglichkeit gehabt hätte. Alfred ging zurück nach Deutschland, er ist verhältnismäßig jung gestorben. Aber man darf niemanden beurteilen. Er hat in Deutschland etwas Technisches gearbeitet, genau weiß ich es nicht. Alfred war seit Gurs immer mit mir, in Aspet, Toulouse und allen zehn religiösen Heimen. Aber 1947 sah ich ihn das letzte Mal. 

Ich erinnere mich sehr gut daran, wie mein Bruder in die Schweiz kam, das war in Engelberg, einer Kurstadt, ein Platz an dem ich relativ lang war. Manfred blieb ungefähr eine Woche da, und dann ist er wieder weg. Ungefähr einen Monat später ist er nach Amerika ausgewandert. Das ist die Tatsache! Also er sagte, dass er kam, um mich zu überzeugen, dass ich mit ihm nach Amerika komme. Und er sagte, dass ich nicht dazu bereit war. An was ich mich erinnere ist, dass er nicht kam, um mich zu überzeugen, sondern er wollte sehen, dass ich untergebracht bin und dass er frei sein kann mit seinen eigenen Flügeln. Wir waren bereits drei Jahre getrennt, und das war damals eine lange Zeit. Ich kann mich nicht erinnern, dass ich das Gefühl hatte, mein Bruder wäre meine Familie. Woran ich mich erinnere, ich war 14 Jahre alt und streng religiös.  Ich war nicht Deutsch, ich war nicht Jekkesch, ich trug Pejes und eine Glatze, war also richtig Chassidisch. Und ich betete dreimal am Tag. Es kam die Gebetszeit, wo man nicht allein, sondern zusammen mit allen betet, und ich schlug ihm vor, dass er mit mir zum Gebet kommt. Er sagte mir, nein er betet nicht, er will mir nichts vormachen, er glaubt nicht, er betet nicht und er wird meinetwegen auch nicht so tun. Ich war sehr beschämt, dass ich so einen Bruder habe, daran erinnere ich mich. Und nachdem mein Bruder weg war, um sein Leben in Amerika aufzubauen, war ich aber auch erleichtert. In Yad Vashem sagte eine Frau, zwei Brüder nach dem Holocaust sollten alles getan haben, um zusammen zu bleiben: Und ihr habt euch getrennt. Viele Jahre später, die letzten 15 Jahre seines Lebens, haben wir eine gute Beziehung aufgebaut. 

Nachdem Manfred mich besucht hatte, war ich noch zwei Jahre in der Schweiz in verschiedenen anderen Heimen. Unter anderem in einer Jeschiwa, in einer Thora-Hochschule. Das war das einzige Mal, während meines Aufenthalts in der Schweiz, dass ich etwas studierte. Ich wurde nie zur Schule geschickt. Ich habe keine Erklärung dafür, ob das die Schweizer waren oder diese Organisationen, ich weiß es nicht. Vier Jahre lang bin ich nicht zur Schule gegangen. Oh, es war ganz angenehm nicht in die Schule zu gehen. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich mal nachgefragt habe. Ich war das gewöhnt, vier Jahre lang, bis zum Alter von 16 Jahren, als ich die Schweiz verlassen habe, hatte ich eigentlich nur dreieinhalb Jahre gelernt. Und das in verschiedenen Ländern, in verschiedenen Kulturen. In Deutschland einige Monate in Hoffenheim, dann ungefähr zwei Jahre in der jüdischen Schule in Heidelberg, dann in Frankreich, in Französisch natürlich. Ich habe gerne gelernt! Und war auch ein sehr guter Schüler. Es steht sogar im Zeugnis in Toulouse, dass ich begabt bin. Aber das war meine offizielle Erziehung, dreieinhalb Jahre. 

Nach Engelberg kamen während des Krieges in die Hotels keine Touristen, deswegen waren dort Flüchtlinge untergebracht. Nach dem Krieg kamen 16/17jährige, welche KZs überlebt hatten, und die erzählten Geschichten und zeigten Bilder. So konnte ich ahnen: Was da passiert war, war auch meinen Eltern passiert. Aber offiziell habe ich damals nichts gehört. Viel später habe ich Dokumente bekommen über die Deportation meiner Eltern. Damals wusste ich noch nichts! 

Israel wurde im Mai 1948 gegründet und ich kam im September 1948. Damals war noch der Unabhängigkeitskrieg. Warum ich unbedingt nach Israel wollte, diese Frage werde ich oft gefragt. Ich werde auch gefragt, warum bist du nicht mit deinem Bruder gegangen? Warum ist dein Bruder nach Amerika gegangen und du nach Israel? Ich werde eine Geschichte erzählen über Brüder. Da ich besser über die Bibel Bescheid weiß, als über die griechische Mythologie werde ich über die Bibel erzählen: Die ersten Menschen nach der Bibel waren Adam und Eva. Sie hatten zwei Söhne Kain und Abel. Wie werden sie beschrieben in der Bibel: Der eine war ein Gerechter und der andere wurde ein Mörder. Sie sind im selben Haus aufgewachsen. Gehen wir weiter zu Abraham. Abraham hatte unter anderem zwei Söhne Isaak und Ismael. Der eine war so und der andere war so. Isaak hatte zwei Söhne, Jakob und Esau. Die waren sogar Zwillinge! Jeder hatte einen ganz anderen Charakter. Dann gehen wir weiter in der Geschichte: Jakob hatte zwölf Kinder unter anderem Josef, den die Brüder verkauft haben. Man kann immer fragen, warum der eine so und der andere so ist, und es gibt keine Antwort. Mein Bruder Manfred hat mir viel, viel später erzählt: Als ich nach Amerika gefahren bin, war ich 16 Jahre alt. Als ich erfahren habe, was passiert ist in den KZs, habe ich gesagt: Gott ist tot! Ich glaube nicht an Gott, es ist unmöglich, dass Gott soetwas erlaubt hätte. Er sagte mir auch, dass es gefährlich sei ein Jude zu sein, und er wollte weg von dem allen. Er hat sich entfernt. Nicht nur vom Judentum, auch von Europa. Er hat sich ein neues Leben in Amerika aufgebaut. Und er wurde Weltraumingenieur, und ich sage auch, dass er das ausgewählt hat, um sich von unserer Welt zu entfernen. Das ist etwas für Freud (Anm.: Psychoanalytiker Sigmund Freud). Manfreds erste Frau war eine Jüdin, Zufall oder nicht, das weiß ich nicht. Er hat sie in einem Klub für jüdische Studenten kennen gelernt. Also war es nicht ganz Zufall. Viel später, als wir wieder Kontakt aufgenommen haben, hat er wieder versucht, sich dem Jüdischen zu nähern. Er gehörte zu einer Jüdisch Humanistischen Gesellschaft. Das sind Juden, die die jüdische Kultur anerkennen und die jüdische Geschichte, aber ohne religiöse Vorschriften. Sie heiraten auch gemischt. Sie fühlen sich aber als Juden. Manfreds zweite Frau war keine Jüdin, seine Kinder haben nichtjüdische Ehepartnergeheiratet.

Drei Jahre nachdem Manfred nach Amerika ausgewandert ist, ich war auch 16 Jahre alt, ging ich aus der Schweiz nach Israel.

Am 14. Mai 1948, nach der Unabhängigkeitserklärung des Staates Israel, wurde dieser einen Tag später von Ägypten, Syrien, Libanon, Jordanien und dem Irak überfallen. Noch während dieses Krieges, habe ich mich sehr interessiert, was da vor sich geht, und ich fühlte damals das erste Mal, dass ich genug habe von diesen Heimen, und dass ich selbstständig sein will. Ich vermute, es gab verschiedene Eindrücke, die ich unbewusst in meinem Kopf hatte. Das eine war ein zionistisches Lied, 

Dort, wo die Zeder schlank die Wolke küßt,

Dort, wo die schnelle Jordanwelle fließt,

Dort, wo die Asche meiner Väter ruht,

Das Feld getränkt hat Makkabäerblut:

Dieses schöne Lied am blauen Meeresstrand,

Es ist mein liebes Vaterland

das mir durch den Kopf ging. Ich glaube, das habe ich in der Zeit in Hoffenheim, als wir bei der Familie Heumann wohnten, gehört. Und ich erinnere mich an eine blau-weiße Keren Kajemet- Büchse, die dort auf irgend einer Kommode stand. Ob das damit zu tun hat oder nicht, weiß ich nicht. Meine Eltern, wollten nach Amerika auszuwandern, nicht nach Palästina. Also sie waren keine Zionisten. Ich glaube, viele von den Jekkes, die her kamen, kamen nicht weil sie Zionisten waren. Es war das einzige Land, in welches sie herein konnten. Deshalb sind doch einige nach dem Krieg wieder zurück, nicht viele, aber doch einige. Sie hatten eine stärkere Beziehung zu ihren Heimatländern als ich. Sie waren älter als ich, sie waren dort aufgewachsen. Ich war also sehr interessiert an dem Krieg und verfolgte, was da passiert. Ich wollte ein Teil sein von etwas Neuem, es mit aufbauen, und ich wollte weglaufen aus den Heimen, in denen ich die ganzen Jahre war. Und eines Tages war es soweit, und ich bin illegal aus der Schweiz nach Frankreich geflüchtet, ganz allein. Ich hatte einen Schweizer Flüchtlingspass, und sonst keine Papiere. Der Flüchtlingspass sah von außen dem Schweizer Pass sehr ähnlich. Vorher hatte ich meine Pejes abgeschnitten, ich wollte meine Vergangenheit abschneiden. Die Glatze war immer noch da, die Haare wuchsen erst langsam wieder. Ich habe niemandem Bescheid gesagt und bin weg. Die Schweizer waren ja froh, die Flüchtlinge los zu werden. Also bin ich über die Grenze nach Frankreich, und bin nach Paris gefahren. Woher hatte ich Geld? Ich glaube, meine Tante Elsa aus London hatte mir Taschengeld geschickt. Und ich hatte das gespart. Ich konnte mir also eine Zugfahrkarte kaufen. Ich hatte allerdings die ganze Zeit das Gefühl, dass die Polizei mich sucht. Immerhin sprach ich Französisch, aber ich sah aus wie ein Flüchtling! Ich weiß nicht mehr, woher ich die Adresse in Paris hatte von der Jewish Agency. Das ist eine schöne Geschichte: Viele, viele Jahre später, 1985, war ich in demselben Büro der Direktor dort. Vonder Jewish Agency wurde ich nach Marseille geschickt, da war Israel schon fünf Monate alt. Ich kam 1948 am Tag nach Rosch Hashanah mit dem Schiff „Azma’ut“ an. Dieses Schiff, „Pan Crescent“, hatte illegale Emigranten nach Israel gebracht. Am 14. Mai 1948 war sie umbenannt worden, sie bekam den Namen „Azma’ut“, das bedeutet Unabhängigkeit. Ich habe noch auf dem Schiff alle meine Papiere zerrissen, um mich ganz von der Vergangenheit zu trennen und ihn ins Meer geworfen. Ich wollte ein neues Leben anzufangen. So bin ich im Hafen von Haifa angekommen mit 16 Jahren und ganz allein. 

Ich hatte keinen einzigen Verwandten, es gab niemanden. Zumindest weiß ich nichts davon. Vielleicht gibt es Verwandte, aber ich habe nie etwas über sie gewusst. Ich hatte also niemanden. Zuerst war ich in Tel Aviv und habe Arbeit gesucht. Ich wohnte bei einer Familie, Familie Bar Or ( Breuer) in Jaffa, welche mir vermittelt wurde durch eine Organisation und arbeitete in dem Reisebüro Petra in der Nahalat-Binyamin-Straße als Botenjunge. Ich sprach Französisch, Deutsch und, ich sprach Hebräisch hier. Ob mein Hebräisch gut war oder schlecht, weiß ich nicht. Es gab so viele Neueinwanderer damals, die die Sprache nicht konnten. Nach ungefähr einem Jahr habe ich mich einer Gruppe junger Leute angeschlossen, welche sich vorgenommen hatten, einen neuen Kibbutz aufzubauen und in die Armeezu gehen. Zuerst waren wir auf Hachschara. Wir wohnten in einer Abpackhalle und arbeiteten auf den Obstplantagen. Als der Winter kam, zogen wir in Zelte in Herzlya in einer verlassenen Abpackanlage, halfen den Bauern und pflastertenmit Beton die Küstenstrasse bei Herzlya. Im Sommer 1950 sind wir zusammen in die Armee gegangen. Ich war Sergeant, wurde zum Kommandanten ausgebildet und war Kommandant von einer Einheit von 30 Soldaten, Frauen und Mädchen, die später auch einen Kibbutz gegründet haben. Wir waren stationiert in einem Kibbutz im Süden. Wir haben in den Feldern gearbeitet, und wenn es nötig war, wurden wir angerufen und mussten militärisch eingreifen.  

Nach zwei Jahren in der Armee, zu dieser Zeit waren es zwei Jahre, haben wir einen neuen Kibbutz gegründet, der sich an der Grenze des Niemandslandes, im Ayalon-Tal bei Latrun, am Weg nach Tel Aviv, befand. Heute ist dort keine Grenze mehr. Ich habe für unsere Kibbutz -Zeitung damals einen kurzen Artikel geschrieben über das Dilemma, wie man sich verhalten muss, wenn man in die Situation kommt, dass wir angegriffen werden. Ich habe diesen Artikel nach fünfzig Jahren gefunden, und heute frage ich mich: wie ist es möglich, dass ich als 22jähriger Neukömmling im Land, nach vier Jahren, so prinzipielle Fragen gestellt habe. 

Ich war in dieser Gruppe junger Leute, aber ich fühlte mich die ganze Zeit allein. Auch im Kibbutz fühlte ich mich ziemlich allein, trotzdem ich Freunde hatte. Wenn ich überlege, ich habe zu Niemandem von denen noch eine Beziehung. Ich war immer einsam. Ich habe damals auch Tagebuch geschrieben, wenn ich das heute lese, dann verstehe ich überhaupt nicht, wie ich das schreiben konnte. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich traurig war, aber ich war allein, ohne Familie. Während ich in Jaffa / Tel Aviv war, wohnte ich bei der Familie Breuer. Und zu denen hatte ich ein wenig ein familiäres Verhältnis. An manchen Wochenenden bin ich zu ihnen gefahren. Aber eigentlich hatte ich niemanden. Mein Bruder und ich schrieben uns manchmal. Nicht oft, vielleicht einmal im halben Jahr. Jeder wusste, wo der andere ist, aber nicht mehr als das. Und dann, 1955, kamen am Wochenende junge Leute, um im Kibbutz mitzuhelfen für eine Woche oder zwei Wochen, und unter anderen war Chava dabei. So habe ich meine Frau Chava kennen gelernt. Wir haben nach einem Jahr geheiratet. Chava Van Cleef ist 1936 in Köln geboren. Die Familie ihres Vaters emigrierte 1496 aus Portugal nach Holland, zuerst nach Amsterdam und später kamen sie nach Emden. Ihr Vater wurde dort geboren, aber die Großeltern sind umgezogen nach Köln. Sie waren sehr reiche Leute, sie  haben mit Eisen gehandelt. 1939, vor dem Krieg, ist es ihnen allen, gemeinsam mit den Großeltern, gelungen, nach England zu flüchten. Bis 1950 waren sie in England und gingen dann als Zionisten nach Israel. Am Anfang hatten sie ist sehr schwer. 

Der Kibbutz, den ich mitgegründet habe, heißt Kibbutz Shal’avim. Wir wollten uns im Kibbutz eine Schafherde anschaffen. Nach meiner Grundausbildung über Schafzucht im nahe gelegenen Kibbutz Gezer, kauften wir 200 Schafe. Ich wurde Experte für Schafzucht, ich hütete die Herde und kannte viele Schafe mit ihrem Namen. Ende 1955 absolvierte ich neun Monate eine Ausbildung im Fach Agrarverwaltung. Endlich lernte ich wieder. Ich beobachtete das Verhalten der Schafe und hatte Erfolg, sie vermehrten sich. Ich war ein guter Schafhirte und wurde Experte für Schafzucht. Ich kannte viele Schafe mit Namen oder nach der Nummer, die in ihre Ohren tätowiert war. Jedes Tier hatte seine eigene Persönlichkeit. Das wichtigste an den Schafen war die Milch, durch Kreuzungen vermehrte sich die Milchproduktion beträchtlich. Natürlich wurden sie auch geschoren. Zuerst haben wir die Schafe noch mit der Hand gemolken, dann hatte unser Kibbutz aber die zweite Melkmaschine Israels. 

In diesem Kibbutz ist 1957 Jonathan, unser erster Sohn, geboren. Damals war es noch üblich in den Kibbutzim, dass die Kinder in Kinderhäusern untergebracht wurden. Das hat mich sehr gestört, denn ich wollte nicht, dass mein Kind ohne Eltern in einem Kinderheim aufwächst, so wie ich aufwachsen musste. Ich wollte, dass er ein richtiges zu Hause hat. Darum haben wir den Kibbutz verlassen. Ich hatte eigentlich keinen richtigen Beruf. 

Nachdem wir den Kibbutz verlassen hatten, fand ich Arbeit in Yemin Orde, einem Kinderheim auf dem Carmel. Es war ein sehr schöner Platz in einer wunderschönen Umgebung. Wir bekamen eine Wohnung, mussten nicht dafür bezahlen, denn wir waren beide dort angestellt, bekamen Gehalt und so haben wir langsam unser Leben aufgebaut. Ich wurde Lehrer in diesem Kinderheim, bekam eine offizielle Ausbildung. Damals gab es einen großen Mangel an Lehrern, darum hat man auch Leute angestellt, die offiziell noch keine Lehrer waren. Die Kinder die dort wohnten, waren ohne Eltern nach Israel gekommen oder waren nicht gut in ihren Familien aufgehoben. Neben meiner täglichen Routine Arbeit studierte ich mehrere Jahre lang. Zweimal wöchentlich besuchte ich Kurse an der Akademie für Biologie in Haifa. Ich marschierte fünf Kilometer bergab bis zur alten Straße nach Haifa, wo ich in einen Bus zur Akademie stieg. Spät in der Nacht ging es dann auf dem gleichen Weg wieder zurück. Arbeiten und studieren habe ich deshalb geschafft, weil das Bedürfnis etwas zu lernen so groß war. Ich erwarb das Diplom als Lehrer für Naturwissenschaften.

1959 wurde unsere Tochter Michal geboren. 

Als 1963 Chavas Vater in Jerusalem gestorben ist, sind wir, damit ihre Mutter nicht so allein ist, nach Jerusalem gezogen. Ich bekam Arbeit in einer guten Schule und gleichzeitig, nach einem Jahr, wurde ich, auch ohne Abitur, von der Hebräischen Universität angenommen als Student. Das Lernen hat mir großen Spaß gemacht, und ich habe dann 13 Jahre studiert und immer gleichzeitig auch gearbeitet. Zuerst habe ich meinen Bachelor in Erziehung und Zoologie gemacht. 

1965 haben wir unsere Sohn Zvi bekommen. 

Dann, 1967, war der Sechstagekrieg. Ich war in der Reservearmee der Jerusalem Brigade. Diese Brigade war auch vor dem Krieg für die Bewachung an der Jerusalem-Grenze zuständig. Ägyptische Panzer und Soldaten bedrohten gemeinsam mit Jordanien und Syrien die Existenz Israels. Als der Krieg ausbrach, war mein Regiment positioniert im Süden von Jerusalem, am Herzl Berg, in Ramat Rachel. Die jordanische Armee beschoss die Häuser im Westen von Jerusalem. Ich verteidigte in diesem Krieg mein eigenes Haus und meine Familie. Wir konnten die Dächer unserer Häuser sehen. Wenn die Granaten einschlugen wussten wir nicht, ob unser Haus getroffen war. Nach sechs Tagen war der Krieg vorbei. Wir hörten im Radio, dass die Altstadt eingenommen worden war. Das erste Mal konnten wir zur Klagemauer. Das war ein besonderer Moment. Da stand einmal der jüdische Tempel vor Tausenden Jahren, das war die Hauptstadt des jüdischen Staates. Es war eine große Freude, dass sich alles geändert hat. Mein Bruder schrieb mir: Das erste Mal bin ich stolz, ein Jude zu sein, und er erwog ernsthaft, nach Israel zu ziehen. Dass er das dann doch nicht realisiert hat, hatte andere Gründe. Es hat sich wirklich alles geändert, zum Guten und zum Schlechten. Es hat sich entwickelt zu den Problemen, welche wir heute haben. Aber wir müssen damit leben, und keiner kann wissen, wie es weitergeht, wie sich die Sachen entwickeln. Wir hoffen das Beste, wir hoffen, dass wir Frieden haben werden mit unseren Nachbarn.

1972 besuchte mich mein Bruder das erste Mal in Israel. Wir hatten uns 26 Jahre nicht gesehen. Ich hatte ein wenig Angst vor der Begegnung, aber wir verstanden uns sehr gut, waren uns in unseren Ansichten und Interessen ähnlich.

Der Yom Kippur-Krieg war mein letzter Krieg, mein Gehör wurde durch Detonationen beschädigt, und ich absolvierte dann meinen Reservedienst beim militärischen Nachrichtendienst. Nach 35 Jahren schied ich aus.  

1974 erwarb ich an der Hebräischen Universität von Jerusalem den Master of Science mit Auszeichnung für das Lehrfach Naturwissenschaften. Ich erarbeitete Lehrpläne, verfasste ein Lehrbuch und erhielt einen Preis des Weizmann-Instituts.  Vier Jahre später machte ich meinen Doktor(PhD) an der Hebräischen Universität. Ich besuchte Abendkurse und studierte an der Universität. Es hat mir immer Spaß gemacht zu lernen, aber es fiel mir manchmal nicht leicht. Meine Frau Chava hat mich immer unterstützt. 

1981 wurde ich Superintendent für naturwissenschaftliche Fächer an allen Schulen in Jerusalem und Umgebung. Ab 1985 war ich einige Jahre, als Gesandter der Jewish Agency, Leiter der Abteilung für jüdische Erziehung in jüdischen Gemeinden in Frankreich, Belgien und der Schweiz. Da saß ich dann genau in dem Büro, in das ich als 16jähriger, aus der Schweiz geflüchteter Flüchtling, um Hilfe bat. 

Meine Frau Chava war mit mir, unsere Kinder waren schon groß. Zwei waren verheiratet und Zvi, der Jüngere, kam gerade aus der Armee. Sie haben uns besucht, das war für sie eine gute Gelegenheit Frankreich kennen zu lernen. Für meinen Beitrag zur Förderung der französischen Kultur verlieh mir die französische Regierung 1996 die Auszeichnung Chevalier dans l’ Ordre des Palmes Academiques (Träger der Auszeichnung für Verdienste um das Bildungswesen). Was für Gedanken und Gefühle hatte ich bei dieser Auszeichnung? Ich dachte, dass mehr als fünfzig Jahre zuvor meine Familie gefangen war in diesem Land. 

Aus Frankreich zurückgekehrt, wurde ich in die Leitung des Erziehungsministeriums als Spezial Abgeordneter berufen, wo ich verschiedene Tätigkeiten ausübte. Unter anderem war ich zweimal Abgeordneter bei der UNESCO. Und so habensich meine beruflichen Tätigkeiten immer geändert. Der Schwerpunkt während meines Studiums war die Biologie und die Pädagogik. Ich habe auch Bücher geschrieben für den Unterricht der Naturwissenschaften. Aber immer, nach einer bestimmten Periode, das waren ungefähr sieben Jahre, habe ich meine Arbeit gewechselt, damit ich mich nicht wiederhole.

Ich habe auch als Zeitzeuge ab und zu in Schulen meine Geschichte erzählt, heute immer weniger, aber ich gehe noch. Ich sage zu den Lehrern: Gebt den Kindern eine Chance, vertraut den Kindern! Wenn man sich mir gegenüber genau nach den Vorschriften benommen hätte, wäre ich vielleicht im Gefängnis gelandet. 

Meine Kinder haben mich immer wieder nach meiner Lebensgeschichte gefragt. Besonders Michal, meine Tochter, wollte alles wissen, aber ich habe ihnen nichts erzählen wollen, habe das immer abgewendet: nicht heute, ein andermal! Ich war noch in der Verdrängungsperiode. Ich wollte vergessen und mein eigenes Leben aufbauen. Als meine ersten Enkel ungefähr sieben oder acht Jahre alt waren und in der Wohnung herum getobt sind, ist mir plötzlich eingefallen: genauso alt war ich, als mein Leben zerstört wurde. Und ich bin das erste Mal wieder zurück in die Kindheit gegangen, und da habe ich begonnen zu suchen in Archiven, in Paris, in der Schule in Toulouse, in der Schweiz. Ich habe an die Schweizer Polizei geschrieben, weil ich gehört hatte, dass es Akten über die Flüchtlinge gab und dass diese Akten auch heute noch in den Archiven lagern. Da habe ich nachgefragt. Ganz langsam habe ich eine Dokumentation zusammen gesammelt.

Zurück in Hoffenheim

Ich kann mich noch gut daran erinnern, wie das alte Hoffenheim aussah. Ich weiß, wo die Mitte des Dorfes war, wie die Straßen ausgesehen haben, wo wir wohnten. Es gab viele Obstbäume, es gab die Weinberge, ich denke an Beeren: Stachelbeeren, Johannesbeeren und Himbeeren. Ich kann meine Gefühle aber nicht teilen zwischen dem Bild der Natur, das ich in meinem Kopf von Hoffenheim habe und der Beziehung zu den Menschen. 

Das erste Mal war ich 1974 wieder in Hoffenheim. Ich war in einer Gruppe von israelischen Erziehern, welche von der deutschen Regierung eingeladen worden waren. Die deutsche Regierung damals war interessiert daran, mehr Kontakt zu dem Land Israel zu haben. Ich hatte mit mir gerungen zu fahren oder nicht zu fahren, ich wollte eigentlich nie wieder nach Deutschland. Die Entscheidung zu fahren war schwer, aber ich habe mich dann entschlossen: Ich fahre mit! Wir haben uns die Aktivitäten verschiedener Schulen angesehen in Baden-Württemberg und in Hessen. Und an einem Tag habe ich mich von der Gruppe getrennt und bin mit dem Zug von Heidelberg nach Hoffenheim gefahren. Im Zug fragte ich den Schaffner: Wann gibt es wieder einen Zug zurück von Hoffenheim nach Heidelberg? Da hat er ein Heft heraus genommen, einen Kopierstift angeleckt und auf einen Zettel geschrieben: der Zug fährt weg um 7:00 Uhr, kommt an um 8:00 Uhr. Fährt weg um 8:00 Uhr kommt an um 9:00 Uhr, der Zug fährt weg um 9:00 Uhr kommt an um 10:00 Uhr. Ich habe zu ihm gesagt: Es genügt mir nur am Nachmittag. Da hat er die Hacken zusammen geschlagen und gesagt: Sie haben mir einen Befehl gegeben. Er war ein älterer Mann. Das war eine der ersten Begegnungen. Dann stand ich in Hoffenheim, ich war aufgeregt! Ich ging durch die Straßen, ging zum Wald, durch den ich mit meinen Eltern und meinem Bruder so

oft gegangen war, um die Großmutter Minain Neidenstein zu besuchen, ich erkannte die Gerüche und Farben und sehnte mich nach dieser zerstörten Welt. Sehnte mich nach meiner Kindheit. Ich bin zu dem Platz gegangen, wo damals die Synagoge stand. Statt der Synagoge stand da eine Scheune. In einem Hof gegenüber war eine Frau. Ich fragte sie, ob sie eine Familie Mayer gekannt hat. Ja, ja! Da habe ich gesagt: Das war eine jüdische Familie. Nein, sagte sie, die habe sie nicht gekannt. Das war meine erste Begegnung! Ich sprach eine jüngere Frau an, sie war vielleicht Fünfzig, sie muss damals ein kleines Kind gewesen sein. Als ich gesagt habe, wer ich bin, hat sie angefangen zu weinen und sagte: Ja, ich erinnere mich ganz gut, wie ihr die Koffer geschleppt habt und weg musstet. Danach bin ich zur Kirchstraße gegangen, wo wir die zwei Jahre vor der Deportation nach Gurs im Haus der Heumanns gewohnt hatten. Auf der anderen Seite des Hauses war ein Geschäft, da bin ich reingegangen. Eine junge Frau, die dort arbeitete, hat ihren Vater gerufen. Der Mann sagte mir: Ja, natürlich, ich erinnere mich ganz gut. Er wusste nicht, ob ich der Manfred bin oder der Heinz, aber er erinnerte sich an unsere Familie. Ich fragte ihn, ob es möglich wäre in dieses Haus gegenüber zu gehen. Er sagte: Ja, warum nicht! Da bin ich rüber gegangen, habe an die Tür geklopft und eine ältere Frau hat aufgemacht. Ich habe ihr gesagt, wer ich bin. Das erste, was sie mir gesagt hat, war, dass sie viel Geld in das Haus gesteckt haben, um es zu verbessern. Ich habe einige Schritte hinein gemacht, dann ist die Haustür aufgegangen, da standen zwei große Männer. Sie haben mich nur angesehen. Ich habe Angst bekommen und bin raus- und weggegangen. Ich vermute, dass der Mann in dem Geschäft, den ich fragte, ob ich das Haus besichtigen kann, jemanden angerufen hatte. Das war meine erste Begegnung mit Hoffenheim. Ich habe gedacht, ich werde nie wieder dahin zurückkommen. Danach bin ich aber noch einige Male nach Hoffenheim gefahren, und jedes Mal sagte ich mir, das ist das letzte Mal! 

Das zweite Mal war ich mit meiner Frau Chava in Hoffenheim. Inzwischen hatte ich den Pfarrer Albrecht Lohrbächer kennengelernt. Albrecht Lohrbächer kommt jedes Jahr mindestens zweimal nach Israel. Ich glaube er war schon über achtzig Mal in Israel. Er wurde 2017 mit dem Ehrenbürgerrecht von Ramat Gan ausgezeichnet.  

Und in den letzten Jahren bringt er einmal im Jahr eine Gruppe von Journalisten nach Israel, um ihnen das Land, das er kennt und liebt, zu zeigen. Einen Abend kommen sie dann immer zu mir. Wir sehen zusammen den Film über meinen Bruder und mich und haben danach ein Gespräch mit den Journalisten. Das ist sehr wichtig, aber je älter ich werde, umso mehr bin ich danach ganz zerstört.

Albrechts Frau Ulrike suchte damals Bücher, um Hebräischzu lernen. Ich habe ihr geholfen, ich war damals noch im  Erziehungsministerium. Heute spricht sie sehr gut Hebräisch. Wir wurden Freunde! Die beiden wohnen in Weinheim. Das ist im Norden von Heidelberg. Und Albrechterzählte mir, dass es in Hoffenheim einen jungen Pfarrer gibt mit dem Namen Matthias Uhlig und dass dieser Pfarrer einen anderen Pfarrer erwähnt habe, einen Ludwig Streib, welcher über die jüdische Gemeinde in Hoffenheim eine Dokumentation schreibt. Ob ich ihm helfen will? Zu dieser Zeit war ich in Paris. Ich fragte, ob er zu mir kommen könnte nach Paris. Viele Erinnerungen hatte ich nicht, und damals war das Buch, das ich später mit meinem Bruder zusammen schrieb,  noch weit entfernt, nicht mal die Idee dazu war geboren. Pfarrer Streib schätzte es sehr, was ich ihm erzählte, und ich gab ihm einen Teil der Briefe meiner Eltern. Und so ist der Kontakt entstanden. 

Seit meinem ersten Besuchs in Hoffenheim, zieht es mich immer wieder an. Ich möchte da sein, aber dann wieder weg. Ich bin einmal mit Chava mit dem Auto von Paris hingefahren, und als wir da waren am Nachmittag habe ich zu Chava gesagt: Ich muss von hier weg, ich muss über die Grenze, um mich zu waschen. Etwas ganz Emotionales! Also heute frage ich nicht mehr nach einer Dusche. Hoffenheim gehört zu meinem Leben, es hat mit meiner Kindheit zu tun, andererseits wurde dort meine Kindheit zerstört. Und es gibt ein großes Loch in meinem Bewusstsein, ein schwarzes großes Loch. Und es fehlen die einfachsten und wichtigsten Erinnerungen: ich kann mich nicht an einen Kuss von meinen Eltern erinnern oder eine Umarmung, wie haben wir gewohnt, was haben wir gegessen? Wenn ich die Briefe lese, weiß ich, dass meine Eltern uns liebten, aber ich habe alles verdrängt, wahrscheinlich um zu überleben. 

Auschwitz

Eigentlich wollte ich nicht nach Auschwitz, aber Fred hat mich 1990 aus Amerika angerufen und gesagt, dass er von seiner Gesellschaft geschäftlich nach Warschau geschickt wird, das war nach dem Fall der Mauer. Und er sagte mir, er möchte nach Auschwitz,aber nur, wenn ich mitkomme. Ich selber wäre bis heute nicht nach Auschwitz gefahren, ich habe es nicht nötig für Erinnerungen, Erziehung oder so etwas. Für Fred habe ich das gemacht! Wir haben uns in Warschau getroffen und sind zusammen nach Krakau gefahren. Ich war aufgeregt, ich weiß, ich konnte nicht gut schlafen. Ich versuche immer eine Wand um mich zu bauen. Von Krakau sind wir  mit einem Taxi nach Auschwitz gefahren. Zusammen nebeneinander und jeder für sich.

Eigentlich sind wir nur auf den Schienen gegangen zum Krematorium, wir haben auch einige Baracken gesehen. Aber das war alles. Nicht die Ausstellung und die grausamen Filme, diees da gibt.

Als ich im Ruhestand war, habe ich beschlossen, meine Geschichte aufzuschreiben. Bis dahin hatte ich eine große Sammlung von Dokumenten, und nun wollte ich das bearbeiten. Das war in der zweiten Hälfte der 1990er Jahre. Ich traf damals meinen Bruder in Kanada, wir haben einen gemeinsamen Spaziergang gemacht, und ich erzählte ihm darüber, und er sagte, er hätte auch vor, seine Geschichte aufzuschreiben. Da habe ich ihmvorgeschlagen, dass ich glaube, dass es eine große Ehre für unsere Eltern ist, wenn wir jetzt etwas Gemeinsames machen würden. Er war einverstanden, da haben wir beschlossen, gemeinsam eine Biografie zu schreiben. Was sehr schwer war, er sprach und schrieb kein einziges Wort in Hebräisch. Also habe ich meine Texte Hebräisch geschrieben, er hat mir seine Texte in Englisch geschickt, und ich habe die Texte ins Hebräische übersetzt. Es gibt gemeinsame Texte,und es gibt seine Kapitel und meine Kapitel. Was ich geschrieben habe, habe ich ihm in Englisch geschickt, und so haben wir das zusammen aufgeschrieben und nicht an Publikation gedacht. Es war gedacht für unsere Enkelkinder, aber ein Freund, der das gelesen hat, sagte, das wäre sehr gut auch für das allgemeine Publikum. Da ging ich nach Yad Vashem, und man hat es sofort genommen. Und das Buch wurde auf Hebräisch gedruckt. Das war die 1. Ausgabe im Jahre 2001. Ein Jahr später wurde das Buch ins Englische übersetzt, und es kam die englische Edition. Damals kam Fred hierher für die Buchpräsentation.

Der damalige evangelische Pfarrer in Hoffenheim war Matthias Uhlig. Ich kannte und schätzte ihn schon viele Jahre und habe ihm nach Erscheinen der englischen Ausgabe ein Buch geschickt. Er hat das Buch sofort gelesen und sagte, dass es sehr wichtig sei, das Buch in deutscher Sprache herauszugeben. Einige Monate später hatte er eine Übersetzerin gefunden und die Familie Hopp als Sponsor. Der Name Hopp war Fred und mir bekannt. Emil Hopp, SA-Führer, Lehrer in Hoffenheim und beteiligt an der Zerstörung der Synagoge, hatte drei Kinder, Karola, Rüdiger und Dietmar. Dann bekam ich eineMail der Geschwister Hopp, in dersie schrieben: Wir haben das Buch gelesen, wir wussten nicht, dass es noch Überlebende von Hoffenheim gibt. Es ist furchtbar, was damals passiert ist. Unser Vater war ein Nazi, und man muss alles dafür tun, um zu verhindern, dass so etwas wieder passieren kann. Sie fragten, ob wir bereit wären, dass sie die deutsche Übersetzung des Buches finanzieren. Und unter anderem schrieben sie, ob es möglich wäre, den Namen ihres Vaters in der deutschen Übersetzung nicht zu erwähnen. Wir haben überlegt, und ich habe ihm geschrieben: Nein, wir sind nicht bereit, wir möchten das Buch so lassen, wie es ist: denn so wie die Opfer Namen haben, so haben auch die Täter Namen. Sie antworteten: Wir verstehen das, und wir sind trotzdem daran interessiert. So kam der Kontakt mit den Geschwistern Hopp zu Stande. 2005, vor zwölf Jahren, erschien die deutsche Übersetzung, und sie haben beschlossen, eine große Zeremonie zu machen und haben uns alle einzuladen, uns, unsere Kinder, unsere Enkel und unsere Urenkel und auch andere Überlebende von Hoffenheim, nicht nur unsere Familie. Es gab noch zwei Kinder, die noch leben. So hat sich langsam die  Freundschaft entwickelt, die Freundschaft zwischen den Geschwistern Hopp und uns. Danach haben sie uns wieder eingeladen, und ich habe sie hierher eingeladen. Sie waren zweimal hier. Das erste Mal war Dr. Rüdiger Hoppmit seiner Frau hier und das nächste Mal waren alle hier, die ganze Familie. Ich habe Ihnen das Land gezeigt, wir sind wirkliche Freunde. Auch Fred hatte sich in Florida mit den Brüdern Hopp getroffen und sie zu sich eingeladen. 

An der inneren Mauer des Friedhofs in Hoffenheim, dort, wo niemand hinkommt, gibt es eine Gedenktafel. Auf der Tafel sind einige Kreuze und eine Menorah. Zum Andenken an die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus steht auf dieser Tafel. Da habe ich den Pfarrer Uhlig gefragt: Was ist das, wer kommt hierher, wer sieht das? Und was soll die Mischung zwischen den Kreuzen und der Menorah? Und warum eine Menorah und nicht ein Davidstern? Wer kennt denn eine Menorah? Niemand! So kann man nicht erziehen! Das ist nicht die Wahrheit, das ist ein viertel Wahrheit! Ein Kreuz für die Zigeuner, ein Kreuz für die Homosexuellen, eines für die Katholiken und so weiter. Das war die Erklärung damals. Und ich habe ihm gesagt, so kann man Kinder nicht erziehen. Und er fragte mich, ob ich bereit wäre, in die Schule in Hoffenheim zu gehen. Ich habe gesagt, wenn das nicht geändert wird, komme ich nicht in die Schule. Das war 1990. Er hat diese Geschichte den Brüdern Hopp erzählt, und da haben sie sich entschlossen, eine neue Tafel am Eingang vom Rathaus von Hoffenheim mit den Namen aller Deportierten anzubringen. Auch das war ihre Initiative. Das ist die zweite Tafel. 

Bei der Einweihungsfeier der Gedenktafel in Hoffenheim und der Präsentation der deutschen Übersetzung unseres Buches

-“Aus Hoffenheim deportiert Menachem und Fred“ der Weg zweier jüdischer Brüder-, kam zu mir eine Frau, sie war Mitte Fünfzig, mit Tränen in den Augen und fragte mich, ob ich bereit wäre etwas von ihr zu annehmen. Ich habe nicht verstanden, worüber sie spricht. Dann sagte sie: Wir haben zu Hause eine Kommode, und da gibt es eine Schublade, die niemand öffnen wollte, als ob sie verzaubert wäre. Darin ist eine Gabel. Als ihr von der Synagoge weg musstet, fuhr deine Mutter mit einer Schubkarre, in welcher Kleider waren und verschiedene Sachen. Da ist diese Gabel auf den Boden gefallen. Und einer meiner Geschwister hat die Gabel nach Hause gebracht. Möchtest du sie haben? Und ich habe gesagt, ja, natürlich! Ich war sehr überrascht und aufgeregt. Sie hat mir das Besteck geschickt und sagte, als sie die Schublade aufgemacht hat, war nicht nur eine Gabel darin sondern ein ganzes Besteck. Und sie schrieb mir: Besteck, welches zu uns mit Unrecht kam. Ein Messer, ein Löffel und eine Gabel.

Heute gibt es fünf verschiedene Mahnmale in Hoffenheim. Es gibt auch den Menachem und Fred - Wanderweg, der 2012 zwischen Hoffenheim und Neidenstein zum Gedenken an unsere Familie eingeweiht wurde. 

Ich erkenne den guten Willen all dieser Leute an, weil man durch diese Initiativen über die Geschichte der jüdischen Gemeinde erfährt, darüber erfährt, was passiert ist, und dass es überhaupt Juden gab. Aber alle die Gedenktafeln sind durch private Initiative entstanden, nie von der Stadt, nie von der Stadtverwaltung. Das erste Mahnmal auf dem Friedhof war von Werner Zuber, der mich auch treffen wollte, aber wir sind uns nie begegnet. Die Gedenktafel am Rathaus, auf dem die Namen aller Deportierten aus Hoffenheim stehen, war 2005 auf Initiative der Geschwister Hopp entstanden, der Wanderweg ist 2012 unter anderem durch den Sinsheimer Lehrer Michael Heitz, Jugendspielern der TSG 1899 Hoffenheim und dem Verein Jüdisches Leben Kraichgau e.V. entstanden. Sie haben sich alle mit der jüdischen Geschichte intensiv beschäftigt. Da gibt es seit 2010 einen großen Stein als Mahnmal der Deportation der Juden aus Baden nach Gurs, gemacht und behauen von Schülern der Albert-Schweitzer-Schule Sinsheim. Und es gibt seit 2012 eine Gedenktafel am Platz wo die Synagoge war, eine Initiative von Werner Rudisile aus Hoffenheim.

Eine Befriedigung ist das für mich nicht, ich kann nicht befriedigt sein, denn man kann die Vergangenheit nicht ändern. Aber es gibt Menschen, die sich darum kümmern, dass diese Vergangenheit nicht vergessen wird.

Vor einigen Jahren hat mich Rüdiger Hopp mit dem Auto in die schöne Umgebung von Hoffenheim geführt. Die Bäume, die Wälder, alles ist grün, die Blumen sind wunderschön, wirklich es ist wunderbar. Und er sagte zu mir, Menachem, manchmal sagt er zu mir auch Heinz: Bist du nicht begeistert, ist es hier nicht schön? Da habe ich gesagt: Ja, ich weiß, dass es schön ist, aber du sprichst mit einer rationalen objektiven Sprache, ich antworte mit einer emotionalen Sprache, und ich kann mich nicht gut fühlen in dieser Schönheit. Und ich verstehe nicht das Benehmen von Menschen in so einer ästhetischen Schönheit, die das Benehmen von wilden Tieren hatten. Nicht einmal Tiere benehmen sich so, wie sich diese Leute benommen haben. Und deshalb fühle ich mich sehr unwohl.

Während der Buchpräsentation der englischen Ausgabe in Jerusalem im Jahre 2002 begegneten wir einer Regisseurin. Sie sagte uns, dass sie einen Film machen möchte über unsere Geschichte. Da waren wir einverstanden. Viele Jahre haben wir nichts gehört, dann sagte sie, dass sie eine Finanzierung gefunden hat und der Film wurde eine israelische/deutsche Koproduktion. Und drei Jahre später war der Film fertig, das war im Jahre 2008. Ein Jahr später wurde der Film „Menachem & Fred“ ausgezeichned von Cinema for Peace (Anm.: Berlinale) als: the Most Inspirational Movie of the Year.

Nach der Premiere gab es eine Vorführung in Heidelberg, an der mein Bruder und ich teilnahmen. Währen des Gesprächs mit dem Publikum wurde ich gefragt, ob ich die Deutschen hasse? Meine Antwort war, dass das Gefühl von Hass mir fremd ist, dass ich aber differenziere zwischen der älteren Generation, die es kaum noch gibt und der jüngeren Generationen, welche die Vergangenheit anerkennen und die Verantwortung für die Zukunft übernehmen will. Eine Frau aus demPublikum stand auf mit Tränen in den Augen und sagte zu mir:

Vergeben Sie mir bitte!  

Ich antwortete ihr: Ich kenne Sie nicht und habe Ihnen nichts zu vergeben. Sie wiederholte das noch zweimal.

Nach dem dritten Mal sagte ich zu ihr: Wenn Sie mich bitten, dass ich etwas vergeben soll, was Ihr Großvater oder Ihre Eltern getanhaben, dann kann ich nur sagen, meine ermordeten Eltern in Auschwitz haben michnicht dazubevollmächtigt, ihren Mördernzu vergeben. Daraufhin war es ganz still im Kino.

Im Jahre 2012 erschien die französische Übersetzung unseres Buches. Aber wer liest das Buch? Das ist doch kein Harry Potter, weit weit weg davon. Ich weiß, es ist wichtig und deshalb haben wir das auch gemacht.

Es gibt einen jungen israelischen Fußballspieler, Ilay Elmkies der für die U19 der TSG 1899 Hoffenheim spielt. Er besucht in Sinsheim die Albert-Schweitzer-Schule. Ich habe mich mit ihm unterhalten, ich habe ihm meine Geschichte erzählt, und er hat auch meinen Film gesehen. Was möchte ich Ilay und jungen Leuten auf den Weg geben?Das ist eine schwere Frage. Meine Antwort ist: Man darf sich auf niemanden verlassen. Es tut mir leid, das ist die Tatsache. Das jüdische Volk besteht aus Erinnerung. Wenn wir unsere Identität behalten wollen, funktioniert das nur über die Erinnerung. Alle unsere Feiertage beruhen auf Erinnerung, und wenn ich jetzt in Bezug auf den Holocaust spreche, muss alles dafür getan werden, um nicht zu vergessen. Damals hat man vielleicht den anderen Völkern vertraut. Niemand kam zu Hilfe, Niemand! Ich spreche nicht von einigen persönlichen Helfern, es gab solche! Ich meine Völker, Regierungen. Niemand wollte die Juden aufnehmen. Man darf sich auf Niemanden verlassen! Verträge sind das Papier nicht wert, auf das sie geschrieben sind. Zum Beispiel der Vertrag zwischen Ribbentrop und den Russen oder später der Vertrag zwischen Vichy und der deutschen Regierung. Wir dürfen uns nur auf uns selber verlassen. Es tut mir leid, das ich so pessimistisch bin, aber andererseits glaube ich, dass ein Teil der jüngeren Generation in Deutschland oder in Österreich die Verantwortung erkennt und übernimmt und sich dafür engagiert, damit so etwas nie wieder passiert. Solchen Menschen soll man positiv gegenüber treten. Aber wer verspricht mir, dass morgen nicht das gleiche passieren kann? 

Ich vermute, dass ich wieder nach Hoffenheim fahre, es zieht mich immer wieder an und ich gehe wieder in den Wald, der um Hoffenheim herum ist, und ich hole mir die Gerüche meiner Kindheit zurück. Und immer suche ich, unter einem Stein, vielleicht werde ich etwas finden und mir meine Kindheit irgendwie zurückholen. Ich weiß, dass das Unsinn ist, aber so ist der Mensch.

Eine besondere Erinnerung an das Leben und Schicksal der Familie Mayer ist der 2012 eröffnete Menachem & Fred – Wanderweg.

Dieser führt auf rund acht Kilometern von Hoffenheim über Zuzenhäuser und Eschelbronner Gemarkung nach Neidenstein und ist Fred und Menachem gewidmet. 

Den Menachem & Fred – Wanderweg sind beide in ihrer Kindheit regelmäßig mit ihren Eltern gegangen, als sie ihre Verwandtschaft in Neidenstein besuchten. 

Sowohl Fred als auch Menachem sind diese Wanderungen in bleibender Erinnerung geblieben und noch viele Jahre später erinnerten sie sich an Details, wie z.B. an die Stimmen der Vögel im Wald, die Vieherden auf den Wiesen oder die auf der Wegtrecke verzehrte Brezel.

Drei Tafeln, am Anfang, in der Mitte und am Ende der Wanderstrecke, informieren den Nutzer über das Leben von Fred und Menachem, die jüdische Geschichte von Hoffenheim und Neidenstein sowie über regionale Besonderheiten der an der Wegstrecke liegenden Orte.

Der Wanderweg ist darüberhinaus mit Geocaching-Stationen ausgestattet, die den Nutzer ebenfalls über die Lebensgeschichte von Fred und Menachem, die jüdische Geschichte und Besonderheiten der Umgebung informiert.

Der Impuls des Wanderweges ging von Werner Diefenbacher aus Neidenstein aus. 

Bei der Umsetzung waren neben Anpfiff-ins-Leben e.V. und den Heimatvereinen aus Hoffenheim und Neidenstein, der Verein Jüdisches Leben Kraichgau e.V., der Odenwaldclub e.V., die Agentur für Jüdische Kulturvermittlung Altenburg&Graf und das Erlebniszentrum Mühle Kolb beteiligt.

Die Jugendspieler der damaligen U14, U15 und U16 der TSG 1899 Hoffenheim führten mit ihren Trainern und Betreuern von Anpfiff-ins-Leben e.V. die umfangreichen Markierungsarbeiten der Wanderstrecke sowie die Ausstattung des Wanderweges mit Geocaching durch.

Die Jugendspieler wurden zuvor in Workshops von Manja Altenburg, Dr. Esther Graf, Michael Heitz und Michael Winter über das ehemalige jüdische Leben in Deutschland und der Region Kraichgau im Besonderen informiert und erarbeiteten gemeinsam mit ihnen die Inhalte der Geocaching-Stationen. 

Die offizielle Einweihung des Wanderweges erfolgte am 12. Juli 2012 unter Beisein von Fred und Menachem sowie den beteiligten Jugendspielern der TSG 1899 Hoffenheim und stieß auf großes öffentliches Interesse.

Im Fernsehen (SWR) sowie der regionalen und überregionalen Presse wurde umfangreich über dieses besondere Ereignis berichtet. 

Quelle: Heitz, Johanna: Fred Raymes und Dr. Menachem Mayer. In: Heitz, Michael; Röcker, Bernd (Hrsg.): Jüdische Persönlichkeiten im Kraichgau. Verlag Regionalkultur Heidelberg, 2013. S. 199ff.

Ladislav Urban

Iza

Slovak Republic

Interviewer: Martin Flekenstein

Date of interview: February 2007

Mr. Ladislav Urban was born a few years before the outbreak of World War II, into a financially secure family. He didn't get to enjoy much of the carefree childhood that would have awaited him under normal circumstances. First of all came the persecution of Jews, which directly affected him and his family. In 1942 he lost his mother. The remainder of his family spent the following years in hiding and as inmates of concentration camps. After the war, he studied and graduated from a technical university. For almost his entire life, he worked as a manager in a company that concerned itself with the building of hydro projects and dams. He is currently in retirement, and thus has more time, which he devotes among other things to the study of history, especially in relation to the Holocaust.

My paternal grandfather was named Sigmund Urban. He was born in Piestany in 1858. His wife was named Terezia. She was born in 1863. I don't remember my grandparents the Urbans at all; they died before I was born. My grandfather in 1931, and my grandmother in 1925. They're both buried at the Jewish cemetery in Piestany. My grandfather had a textile store in the town, which my father then took over. The store is still there. But our family no longer runs it. My grandmother was a housewife.

My grandparents the Urbans had 13 children. All were born in Piestany. Their names were Alexander, Emanuel, Eugen [Jenö], Gizela [Gizi] Helena [Ilus (pron. Ilush)], Johana [Hana], Jozefina [Jozka (pron. Jozhka)], Julius [Gyula], Rudolf, Sidonia [Sidka], Tibor. I don't remember the names of the rest at the moment. Emanuel died in childhood of tuberculosis.

Eugen Urban was the oldest of the siblings. His wife was named Janka, informally Jeany. They had a son, Robert. They lived in Bratislava. Uncle Eugen was the owner of Kohlengrüben Urban. The company offices were on what is today Hviezdoslav Square in Bratislava, across from the American embassy. The lived in an apartment house in Na Palisadoch St. They owned two whole buildings there. They also owned a villa in Na Cervenovej St. Currently that villa is home to ether the Austrian or Italian Embassy. He also owned a villa on a large piece of property across from Slavin. My uncle's buyer, Dr. Banhegyi, rented it from him. Later they built a Jewish hospital on part of the property. He donated the property, where it was later built. Besides this, he also owned properties that were on what were back then the outskirts of Bratislava. Recently there was a large central market there. In the past there was a coal railway station there. They used to transport coal there from mines in Austria, and it was then further distributed and sold.

Uncle Eugen was what today we could call a workaholic. He wore terribly thick glasses and worked from morning till night. It was a large company, with many employees. All of my uncle's employees were Jews. His office buildings and staff were in Februarka [February Victory Street]. The buildings are still there. His two chauffeurs lived there too; they drove his cars, which were parked in garages there.

My uncle's wife, Aunt Jeany, was born in Zlate Moravce. I remember one comical incident that happened in the family. During the beginnings of World War II, the entire family used to get together for lunch at my parents' place. My father's sister Jozefina [Jozka] Deutschova would cook for us. When the weather was good, we'd eat out in the garden. First the kids would eat, then the men, and finally the women. Jeany was a vegetarian. My father [Alexander Urban] yelled at her: "Jeany, come eat already, or your lunch will wilt!"

Jeany used to go picking herbs with her son Robert. She'd then dry and monnkey around with them. This family couldn't stand physical work, couldn't handle it, to be more precise. They weren't capable of physical work. Without his glasses, my uncle was completely blind. Robert was the same. I was there when he got a slap and his glasses flew off. He really couldn't see a thing without them! During the war, they were hiding out in Piestany. They caught and deported them. Probably to Auschwitz, or Lublin. Only Robert survived the Holocaust. They nationalized all their property 1. So nothing was left of it.

During the war, he lived with us for a certain time. My father adopted him, along with our cousin Ludevit [Lulo, Louis]. After the war, Robert graduated from high school in Piestany. In time he left with Joint 2 to Canada. Finally he graduated from law. After the revolution, in 1989, he wanted to move in with us. We couldn't agree with it. His personality can be illustrated with the following anecdote. At one time he was working in Prague. Once during the night, my phone rang. It was Robert. He says: "Imagine, I bought an apartment in Prague, and the can doesn't work. It won't flush." No one wanted to come and fix it for him, and he asked whether I wouldn't come to Prague , to fix his toilet. That shows his strange way of thinking. I'm not saying that he wasn't normal, but he had ideas that bordered on abnormality.

Gizela Klinger, née Urban. We called her Gizi neni [Aunt Gizi in Hungarian]. She was married to Mr. Klinger, who was a watchmaker. They lived in Budapest. They had a daughter, Maria, Marcsa. After the war, Maria moved with her husband to Paris. When Mr. Klinger died, Gizi neni left for France to live with her daughter.

Helena Quittner, née Urban. In the family we called her Ilush neni. Her husband was named Ignatz Quittner, and owned a store with lumber and construction materials. Her husband died before I was born. Aunt Helena owned and operated a well-known and notorious restaurant in Piestany. It was named Kominar [Chimneysweep]. She employed two cooks and a barman. The barman, besides pouring beer, also took care everything that was necessary. One of the rooms in the restaurant was decorated with hunting trophies. There were antlers, heads of wild boar, deer, and so on. The food was excellent there. We used to go there often. We'd always get something sweet. In the restaurant courtyard, there was a large icehouse. In the winter, when the Vah [River] would freeze over,  they'd organize ice-cutting. The ice would then be stored, and that's where they'd chill beverages. There weren't any refrigerators. Everything that needed to be chilled, or frozen, was chilled with natural ice. Aunt Helena was childless. Alas, she didn't survive the war. They took her to a concentration camp, where she was murdered like almost all the women in our family.

Johana Lichtensteinova, née Urban. We called her Hana. For many years, she worked as a member of the Piestany city council, where she was in charge of the social commission. Her husband, Erno Lichtenstein, was the superintendent of a large farm belonging to Count Erdody. The farm was located in the municipality of Rakovice, about eight kilometers from Piestany. They had one son. His name was Leo. He was quite a bit older than I. In the second half of the 1930s, Leo finished his medicine studies in Prague. He was then in hiding there during the entire war, and managed to survive. Before the war, he changed his name to Leo Liska. He helped us a lot then, and when we were returning from the concentration camps as well. He examined me in Prague. Back then, we were there for about two weeks, but I'll get to that later. Later I used to play competitive basketball, among others for Slovan Bratislava. When our team went to Prague for a league game, I'd always call him. "Leo, I'm here, do you have time?" When he had time, he always came to see me. He was accustomed to slipping me a hundred, so that I'd have some money to "see the town". His mother was murdered in a concentration camp.

Jozefina Deutschova, née Urban. For everyone in the family, she was Jozka. Her husband was named Julius [Gyula] Deutsch. They lived in Bratislava, and were childless. Aunt Jozka used to cook for the entire family at the start of the war. They were in hiding at our place. Uncle Guyla used to sit in just one room. He couldn't go anyplace, as he didn't have papers. I used to go there to visit him and talk to him.

Julius Urban lived in Paris. He has a daughter, Tereza. I'm not in touch with her. They survived the war, they were in hiding someplace. I was at their place for a visit about 30 years ago. They were living in very bad conditions. In the 19th District, in one old building that was in horrible shape. Tereza worked in health care all her life. She was a CT [Computer Tomography] operator.

Rudolf Urban had two sons. One was named Tibor, and the other Imre. Imre left with the Aliyah for the Palestine in 1938. There he joined the army, and worked his way up to colonel. He was in the Israeli army his whole life. When he retired from the army, he moved to Australia. His brother Tibor survived the Holocaust and moved to Israel to be with his brother. He started a tailoring business in the town of Ramat Gan. He employed around 50 people. They've both since died.

Sidonia Sohnenfeldova, née Urban. In the family we called her Sidka. Mr. Sohnenfeld was a traveling salesman. They had a son Ludevit, Lula. They lived in Bratislava, on Vysoka St. Lula's parents were also killed during the war. After the war, my father adopted him. At that time Lula also changed his surname to Urban. He did his basic army service in the Czechoslovak Army. They put him in with the Black Barons 3. So he served his time in the army as a lumberjack by Ruzomberk. He studied civil engineering. He worked for the Civil Engineering Research Institute. Once he went with Cedok [The official Czechoslovak state travel agency during Communist times] to Cannes for a week-long holiday. He never returned home from France. He settled down in Paris. He never married. He worked as a chief engineer at water and waste treatment plants. He died last winter [2006].

Tibor Urban lived in Samorin. He had a house on the main square. He sold textiles there, just like my father. Tibor and his family survived the war. They've all since died, though. Most of them are buried at the Jewish cemetery in Budapest.

The youngest of the Urbans' sons was my father. My father was named Alexander Urban, and was born on 22nd November 1901. As he was the youngest of the entire bevy of children, his uncle, who lived in Alexandria, took over his upbringing. His uncle owned a hat shop, and my father grew up with him. He attended school there for about four years. Thus he also learned languages. He knew seven world languages, both spoken and written. He spoke English, German, French, Spanish, Arabic, Hungarian and Slovak, and could of course read Hebrew. He then began studying business in Vienna, and eventually at a school for diplomats in the Swiss town of Schafhausen. It's still there. It's one of the oldest schools of its type in the world. Many of his classmates later held important political functions, and during their diplomatic visits to Czechoslovakia they'd to visit my father as well. After his father died, my father returned to Piestany to take over the family business. That was around 1931. He lived in Piestany after the war too. He died in the hospital in Bratislava in 1984. He's buried at the Piestany Jewish cemetery, in his parents' grave.

My father also served in the Czechoslovak army. He joined up in Trencin. He told me that they even promoted him. He worked as a laborer in the kitchen. A local Jewish merchant used to supply them with meat. Well, and once it didn't smell good, and they refused to cook it. By the barracks there was an alley with plum trees. They ordered some soldiers over to pick the plums, and made plum dumplings from them. They cooked them out in the courtyard. Their superiors liked the lunch so much that they promoted the cooks. The second time was when they drafted my father during the mobilization in 1938 4. But he stayed there for only a short time.

The whole family on my father's side was religious. On Friday they attended synagogue, and observed all holidays. They'd take poultry to be slaughtered to the shachter [shachter: ritual butcher – Editor's note]. Bread we'd take to the Jewish baker. The bakery was by the old, Orthodox synagogue. There they also baked matzot for Passover [Passover: commemorates the departure of the Israelites from Egyptian captivity and is characterized by many regulations and customs. The foremost is the prohibition of consuming anything containing yeast – Editor’s note]. As I child, I used to take bread there every week. I had a little wagon, and in it would be two or three loaves of bread in a basket. I'd take them to the baker in the morning, before school, and on the way back from school I'd pick them up.

My mother's parents [Alzbeta Urban, née Grünfeld] lived in Trnava. My grandfather was named Bernat Grünfeld. He was a tall, strong man. He wore a mustache that had a bit of a curl. I don't remember my grandma's name. They were both deported. First they were in the collection camp in Zilina, and from there they took them to Poland. They killed them in Majdanek 5.

My grandfather owned a pub. It was called 'Zeleny strom' [The Green Tree]. To this day, there's still a pub in that location in Trnava. The pub was by a sugar refinery, and served as a "travelers' inn". It was mainly for the coachmen who used to bring sugarbeet to the refinery. They'd also bring it from Rakovice, where my uncle Erno Lichtenstein was the superintendent. Because the coachmen came from far away and couldn't return the same day, they'd stay there. They also had a water trough for the horses in the courtyard. It was all at their disposal. They also cooked at the pub. The food wasn't kosher 6. They cooked for everyone. It was a very nice, clean inn. On the counter, beside the beer taps, stood a beautiful, shiny cash register. It would ring when it opened. Beside the register were pretzels on a stick. They cost 10, maybe 15 hellers [in 1929 it was decreed by law that one Czechoslovak crown (Kc) – 1 Kc = 100 hellers, was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold – Editor's note], and when they were making change, the guests would get a pretzel instead of those few hellers. As kids, we'd always come and take those pretzels. I also remember that once, right before Christmas, some carolers came to Grandpa's pub. They were wearing masks. It was very nice. They sang carols, and also put on performances. That was the first time I'd seen anything like that in my life. Then my grandfather gave them gifts, and they went on. We didn't ever stay too long in Trnava. When we did go there, it was only for the day. We'd eat something, my parents would talk a bit with our relatives, and right away we'd go back home again. It was a question of several hours. I don't even remember how my grandparents lived, how their house was furnished.

My mother's name was Alzbeta Urban, née Grünfeld. She was born in Trnava in 1913. I don't know how many siblings she had. We knew only one of her brothers. He appeared at our place after World War II. It was a very hectic time. I can't even tell you anything more about him.

I don't know how my parents met, but before my brother and I were born, they used to go on various outings and vacations. I've for example got a ton of photographs from trips and vacations in Georgia and Italy. Of them bathing, and on a motorboat. My parents had two sons. First I, Ladislav Urban, was born in 1934, and in 1938 my brother Tomas. Our mother tongue is Slovak, but in our family everyone also spoke German and Hungarian. Before the war we didn't have a chance to play much together, as my brother was still little. Here and there, we'd go for a walk in the park. I used to attend Maccabi 7 with my older friends. We used to play ping-pong, or go on outings. We used to go into the hills around Piestany, and in the winter there'd be skiing on Cervena Vez [The Red Tower]. We were of various ages. I was still quite small, and there were even 20-year-olds among us.

I attended a Protestant school. Actually first a Catholic one, but they threw me out of there. They didn't allow Jews to attend it. For about two months, I was at home. So that I could continue my studies, my parents had me baptized. I attended this course, where we studied the Bible. The parson's name was Dr. Alexander Barica. I've still got the baptism certificate he gave me, which later was of no use to me after all...

When I was in Grade 3, our teacher was Alica Zelienkova. She was a real Xanthippe [a reference to Socrates' wife who was said to be domineering and sharp-tongued – Translator's note], who beat me. One anecdote occurs to me in relation to her. It was my birthday, and my father's sister, Aunt Ilus Quittnerova had bought me a soccer ball. I took it to school, and almost the entire school was playing with it. There were about 50 students there. We were all chasing the ball around. Someone kicked it into the latrine. I had two good friends. One was Ivan Stankovic, and the other Dusan Goljer. They were Protestants. They held me by my feet, and I pulled the ball out of the john. It was all covered in shit. We washed it off, and Dusan took it to class. It was sitting in the corner, and smelled awful. When class began, this teacher came in. She asked whose ball it was. I admitted to it. She took a cane, and beat me so badly that I had to go see a doctor. The next day, Aunt Ilus went to complain to the principal about her, and that was even worse. After the war, I had one more incident with this teacher. I was studying in Bratislava, and I'd run into her every day on the way to school. She walked at the same time on the same sidewalk as I did. I said to myself that I won't say hello to her. She got so angry that once on Sunday she set out from Bratislava to see my father in Piestany, to complain about me.

The soccer ball didn't have a happy end either. When I returned from the doctor's, Ilus neni sent me to play with some children near the Vah [River]. Because it was my birthday, I invited them to come play soccer in a field. Ilus neni had prepared a basket full of cakes and some cocoa in a thermos for us. I didn't play, because I was so sore from the beating I'd gotten from my teacher. So I didn't get anything out of the soccer, plus the ball got all torn up, as there was gravel there. With us there at that time was my classmate Judita Goldbergerova, who they later murdered in Auschwitz.

The building where we lived had been finished in 1842. I know this because a few years ago we found a cast-iron plaque walled-up there that said this. Our apartment was upstairs, and downstairs my father had his textile store. We always had running water as well as electricity. The building belonged to our family. The store is there to this day. We recently enlarge the building. We added another floor. Currently some of the space is being rented to the companies Allianz and Home Credit. During my youth, there was a warehouse behind my father's textile store, and then a tailor's shop, where Mr. Goldsteinova sewed; later she changed her name to Galova. Mrs. Goldsteinova sewed custom shirts and men's underwear. Her daughter graduated from medical school, and after the war worked as a doctor.

We used to go on vacation with our parents regularly. Every year we'd go to the High Tatras, to Tatranska Lomnica. We'd go there both in the summer as well as during the winter. Most of the time we'd stay at the Grand Hotel. The last time we were there was in 1941, I think. I've also got photos from those times. I remember that the trains were so high that we children weren't able to get on. The trip lasted quite long, for us. In the Tatras we'd go sledding, and in the summer we'd walk around and play. Chasing squirrels and so on. Our parents would also take us to restaurants. We used to go there together with friends. Mainly our father, who used to play soccer in Piestany. He'd begun back when he was a student in Vienna. He even played defense for some team there.

We observed holidays mostly at home. For the high holidays my father would go to synagogue, and as a little boy I used to come see him. As children we didn't last long just sitting there, and so we'd run around and play in the courtyard. We attended the new, Neolog synagogue 8. The Maccabi clubhouse was close by too. Karol Grünwald and Pavol Blum used to go there too, for example. Pavol was the Czechoslovak cultural attaché in Rome, and Karol was the Israeli ambassador in Prague.

Before the war, my father bought a villa near Piestany from Janko Alexy [Alexy, Janko (1894 – 1970) was a Slovak writer, painter and publicist – Editor's note]. The villa was in the direction of Cervena Vez. Before that, Janko Alexy had had a studio there. Trainees, painters, used to come visit him. We lived in that villa for some time. I used to go to school from there on a bicycle. Together with my father; he'd go to work, and I to school. I'd leave the bicycle at my father's work, and after lunch we'd got home together.

The villa was by the Vah River. We had a kayak stand by the river, along with a dock. My mother used to go kayaking with Mrs. Majercakova a lot. Her husband, Dr. Eugen Majercak, was a lawyer for the Piestany spas. When the anti-Jewish laws 9 began coming out, we had to give up the villa. My father came to an agreement with Mr. Alexy that he'd buy the villa back from us. It then became a conspiratorial house for partisans. We'll come back to this chapter, as during the war we hid out here for a long time.

How did the anti-Jewish laws affect me? At that age I didn't understand them yet. In the first place, we had to move out of our villa and return to the house in the city, where we'd lived before. But by then we were only living in the rear part of the house, because the architect Alfred Perl from Vienna and his wife had moved into the front part, which faced the park. He was an Austrian, and wore a swastika pinned to his suit. He had his studio in Vienna, where he'd sometimes disappear, but in two or three days he'd be back. We got along well with him. They used to have my brother and I over. I think that was sometime in 1941. We had only one room that had windows facing the park. There all the men in our family would meet. My father had a Lorenz brand radio, which he hadn't turned in, and there they'd illegally listen to broadcasts. I later used this same radio too, when I was a university student in Bratislava.

The Aryanizer [Aryanization:  the transfer of Jewish stores, businesses, companies, etc. to the ownership of another, non-Jewish person – the Aryanizer – Editor’s note] of my father's store was a young German woman. Her name was Lea Klostemann. She might have been about 24 years old. She was a woman of lighter morals. The Germans had garages nearby, and already in the morning she'd be sitting around there with them. Benko's Garages they were called. These days there's a shopping arcade there. There were still Jewish salesmen working there [in the store]. Those that my father had employed. There were two women in the office. In the front, in the store, there were two or three men. One of them was named Oskar Stern. Alis [Alica Urbanova, née Haasova], who my father married after the war, worked there too. Alis worked for us as a helper. She cleaned, brought the mail, basically whatever. After the war, when they returned the store to us, she worked at the till. When the store was being Aryanized, my father tried to hide some of the goods. He had a lot of ready-made clothes, and so he and my cousin, Lulo Urban, "stole" it and walled it up at the rear of the attic. The made an entrance through the roof. You had to prop up a ladder, and that's how you got in. There was a large quantity of clothes there, coats, but also textiles and similar goods. Later part of these goods was distributed to partisans. The rest stayed there, and when we returned from the concentration camp, my father quickly got the store running again. It was painted, cleaned up, and these hidden goods formed the foundation of the newly opened store. After the war my father also bought a truck, which he used to drive to Brno to get goods.

Back then you didn't know who you could trust. For example, before the harsh anti-Jewish laws began, my father liked to fish. He used to go fishing with his friends, and once he ran into some man who worked at the SS headquarters in Piestany. His name was Jan Isachenko. After the war he turned out to be a Russian agent. His real name was Alexander Alexandrovich Isachenko. He became the head of the Russian language department in Bratislava. My father already knew that he was an agent in 1941, when they moved us out of the top floor of our house into the rear part. Back then they also stole our piano. Ten soldiers were carrying it down the stairs. One officer had come with him, which was him. So he'd actually come to introduce himself. He said to my father in German, you're Mr. Urban? We'll be seeing a lot of each other yet. He was friendly to us. He hinted that if we wanted to play the piano, we can come to his place. He was living at the Royal Hotel. Later this hotel was renamed to Slovan. After the war we could've taken the piano back, but who would have wrestled with it?

During the war, my father became the head of the Jewish religious community in Piestany. His deputies were Mr. Faber and Alexander Spronc. Shortly upon that they put him in jail. He was an irritant – he was very enterprising and that got in a lot of people's way. They took him to a jail in Bratislava. From there they helped him escape. It was apparently organized by my uncle, Ernest Lichtenstein. The jail was across from a brewery. The escape was perfectly prepared and timed. Here's what happened: there was a railway track next door. His escape was coordinated with the arrival of the train. It made noise, and thus the guards didn't hear anything. By the jail the train slowed down so that my father could jump on. They took him to Rac, where he jumped onto another train, which was heading in the direction of Prague. Past the tunnel in Lamac he jumped off, and there some railway worker was waiting for him. Then they hid him for some time. In time they arranged a Tiso exception 10 for him, and so he was able to return home. He got the exception in 1942.

That same year, they rounded up all the Urban women. They were looking for my father, and set up some sort of financial maneuvers to get at him. They didn't find him, so they took all the women, except for Gizi Klinger. She alone wasn't in Piestany. They took them all to Ruzovy Mlyn [The Pink Mill]. It was a big mill where they were gathering all the Jews from Piestany and its surroundings. From there they transported them to the collection camp in Zilina. My father and I set out to go look for them. They tried to have them released in all manner of ways. In Zilina we booked into Hotel Polom. There we hid out. My father tried to make some contacts and get my mother and his sisters out of jail. That same night that they were supposed to set them free, a different event took place. Partisans broke into the jail in Ilava, and freed about a hundred prisoners. The same night, they also broke into the collection camp in Zilina. They got in over the fence, and were pressed for time. They looked for them there, but there were lots of people there. The mission was unsuccessful. My mother's parents were there at that time. In the end they all ended up in the Majdanek concentration camp in the town of Lublin. My mother and her parents were murdered in Majdanek in 1942.

After the unsuccessful liberation mission, we got on a train and traveled to Nitra. There we booked into the Hotel Löffler. The owner, Mr. Löffler, was a Jew. He was still running his hotel. You know how it is, a hotelier like that knows lots of people. Lots of people helped him in exchange for money. After everything that had happened, my father said something which he then maintained until the end of his life: "You won't find a single decent person in Zilina." Always, when after the war someone mentioned Zilina, he'd just give a wave of his hand and say: "You won't find a single decent person there."

Then we returned to Piestany. My father had an exception, which protected us for a certain time. The we had to hide again. We hid out in Alexy's villa, which had belonged to us before the war. There was a phone there, and when there was supposed to be a raid, his brother always let us know. He'd call, and the code was: "let out the pigeons, because there's bad weather coming." Which meant that we were supposed to leave. The Germans chased me as well. An entire squad was running after me, but didn't catch me. I ran all the way to a huge haystack. There were deep holes dug into that stack. Into one we used to put bags, and in the second we slept. Often I slept there all night alone. I'd stay there until someone came and told me that I can come out. In 1944 partisans started gathering there.

Mr. Alexy had a beekeeper's cottage at Havran, about five or six kilometers from Piestany. We had a key to this cottage, and when they notified us that "you have to let out the pigeons...", we'd usually go there. After the partisans arrived, things began to get bad. As I've already mentioned, by the villa there was a dock, with a couple of boats. One night, the partisans "borrowed" them, and paddled to the other side of the Vah, to Piestany. In the town they pilfered some grocery stores, and returned. It was clear that the next day the Germans would be searching the surrounding area. They increased the sentries on the bridge. We were about 300 meters away from the bridge, so we had a good view of it. They were checking the ID of everyone crossing the bridge.

Michal Wagner had a mine nearby, where they mined painters' clay. It would be then ground up and sold to painters as pigment. My father dug a tunnel above the shaft, where we could hide in an emergency. You couldn't stand up in it, but it had benches dug into the walls, on them hay, and you could sit there. You could even sleep there. It wasn't cold in there. Mr. Wagner also helped us a lot. When we needed to send someone a message and things like that. He behaved quite insolently, which was an advantage during those times.

In time searches in the surrounding area became a daily occurrence. That's why we decided to go to the cottage that was further away, at Havran. Alexy's villa had two cottages in the yard. One was for trainee painters, and in the second lived the gardener and his family. We occasionally met in that gardener's cottage, and sometimes also slept there. The gardener's wife, Mr. Pelikanova, used to help us. The trainees were two young painters, during the war lieutenants in the Slovak State army. They'd both deserted from the army. One of them was Josef Dubravsky, who after the war lived in the town of Soporna, and the second Ladislav Snajdar from Piestany. Ladislav Snajdar rode horses and was the connection between us and the partisans. But mostly he stayed with the partisans. Leading up to the cottage at Havran, there were I'd guess about a hundred steps. The steps were quite high. One morning I went to empty out the basin I'd been washing in, and suddenly I looked and saw an SS helmet and heard a metallic clodding. A guy with a submachine gun was going up the stairs. There were four of us hiding there, my father, brother, I, and Alis, who was taking care of us. She cooked for us, did the laundry and so on. That was in October of 1944.

The day before there'd also been a raid, but that time we'd spotted them. It had been too late to escape. My brother and I hid underneath some duvets. Alis hid in the pigsty, and my father hid behind the door. Already at that time we had incredible luck. The first one to enter was a Guardist 11, and two steps behind him a German with a submachine gun. The Guardist entered, and saw my father behind the door, recognized him, and started. He yelled: "There's nothing here!" and they left. From what people told us we learned that the Germans were suspicious as to why the Guardist had run out of the room so quickly without searching it at all. That's why they returned the next day. They weren't rude to us. They told us to come with them. When we'd packed out things, they sent us down to wait for them by a truck. There wasn't anyone by the truck, and the keys were even there. In a while the Guardist that had been there the day before appeared. My father asked him: "What would happen if I started it?" He says to him: "Where do you want to go? You can't go to the bridge, because I have to fire off a shot, and if I suddenly fire one off, they'll make mincemeat of you down there. There's no use going in the other direction, because it doesn't lead anywhere." Because in that direction we would've left the forest, and they would've easily caught us. They drove us off to the jail of the district court in Piestany.

They kept us in the jail for about 10 to 14 days. My brother, Alis and I were in one cell. In another were Mrs. Terezie Kollmannova and her son Juraj, and my father was in a third. There were also 3 or 4 captured partisans there. Today the building houses the Electrical Technology High School, where a friend of mine teaches. Once I met him on the street and asked him for a favor. I explained to him that I'd like to recall what it looked like, and whether he wouldn't show it to me. Now there are labs there. From there, they took us all to the camp in Sered 12.

After about three days, they separated us from our father. The men went to the right, and the women and children to the left. We stayed together with Alis. Mr. Spronc, who'd been with my father on the board of the Jewish community in Piestany, was already in the camp. He even had some sort of a position on the organizational committee. He helped us arrange various  things. We knew that we'd be deported further onwards. All we had were suitcases, which were impractical. We needed a knapsack, or something similar. He rounded up some potato sacks, and we braided some straps together from string. So my brother, Alis and I had these sort of "knapsacks". One day a big commotion suddenly broke out, and they told us that we'd be going further onwards. They were loading us onto wagons. It was about 3:00 p.m. Into each wagon they also loaded paper bags full of bread and some little things to eat. It was so full that we could barely sit down. Mr. Spronc told us that we should sit by the door, and when they'd be opening the sacks, we should take the bread on top. Baked inside it were tools for opening up the wagon doors. Our father had the same thing in the other wagon. They'd prepared our escape. Everything had been arranged ahead of time. Ladislav Snajdar was supposed to be waiting for us.

The train departed the station in Sered around 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. The train crawled at almost a walking pace from Sered to Leopoldov all night. Then from Leopoldov to Puchov, the driver drove it like a racecar. But something in the organization of that escape had gone wrong. Because the partisans were waiting for us by Horna Streda, so on the second section, which we flew through. There we were supposed to all jump out and then continue on the Vah by boat. Most likely the engine driver had been given the wrong information.

In Puchov we turned in the direction of Morava. Then we saw the station at Cesky Tesin. We thought that we were going to Poland. The second morning, we were suddenly at the station Ceska Trebova. They turned the train around, and sent it on the tracks to Prague. At around lunchtime that day, we were in Kolin. We were standing there about 30, maybe 40 meters from the first platform. People were walking by us. As I was standing right by the door, every time they opened, I had to jump up, so that they wouldn't scrape me. I was glad to get up, at least I could straighten up. In the wagon we had one pail, which was dirty. The pail was being poured out, and a German handed it to me, saying: "See that tap? Bring some water." On the other side there was a locomotive, and the engine driver in it said to me: "Screw the water, jump in and we're off." He was calling me over, but how could I, when in the wagon beside me were my brother and Alis? If they would have said, run away, we'll hide you... It as all kind of suspicious. Plus I was only a child. I got the water and brought it back. The next stop was at the Czech-German border. We were stopped in a forest. When I jumped out of the wagon, there was so much snow that I wasn't able to climb my way out of it. We heard them talking amongst themselves, that we'd be standing there for a some time. During the entire trip, we basically didn't even know our guards were there. They didn't do anything to us. Just that we were shut up there. The next station was Berlin, the train station hall. There was a train on almost every track. We stood there for a couple of hours, and then it continued on. The next station was Bergen-Belsen 13. We arrived there at around 9:00 p.m. It was raining hard, pouring down.

In Bergen-Belsen we basically didn't do anything for days on end. We were put into a newer blockhouse. You could say that it was in relatively good shape, I mean as opposed to the rest. Because it was raining during our arrival, there was so much mud in front of the blockhouse that we were slogging through it up to our ankles. The mud was at least 20 cm high. Something awful. Some prisoners, women, brought us tools. We were ordered to dig a ditch around the blockhouse so that the rainwater could run off. The water was already coming into the blockhouse as well. I was still a child, and so I was hanging around the women digging the ditch, so that I'd get outside. At that time I also experienced my first roll call. We stood outside for around half the day. Around us were 20 SS-men, with Kramer 14 in front. There was so much arrogance and yelling... Names were called out, and we had to yell "hier". If someone didn't yell it out, they made a fuss.

It's my guess that we must've gotten into a sector where Russians had been before. The night we arrived, there was a huge orange tent standing there. It reminded me of a circus tent. We were separated from it by barbed wire. All of Bergen-Belsen was divided up into various sectors by barbed wire. Individual parts were also then divided up into smaller parts. So between us and this tent there was a smaller fence. Smaller in comparison to the ones that separated the sectors. Well, and when the roll call took place,  they'd eliminated the entire tent along with the Russians. There wasn't anything at all there anymore.

At first they were giving us black coffee and square bread that was as black as coal. A ration of this bread was about 35 cm, and was about 3 cm thick. Gradually the rations grew smaller. The last month, they were almost nonexistent! Then we also got soup made from fodder beets, with pieces of poor-quality meat or skin floating in it. At first you couldn't eat it. In order to get used to it, you had to "train". Occasionally you'd even find a spud in this "soup". The soup became gradually thinner and more meager. At first they stopped putting spuds into it, and finally also the "meat". They stopped giving us coffee after three months. For Christmas and New Year, instead of that disgusting soup, we got two or three potatoes cooked in their skin, and red cabbage.

We were in Bergen-Belsen from the end of October up until its liberation [15th April 1945 – Editor's note]. It lasted 7 months. Not far from our blockhouse, to the east, was another, empty one. The blockhouses were separated from each other by a fence and gate. Around the third or fourth day after our arrival, a transport of women arrived there. It wasn't until then that we saw what kind of shape people who'd been in concentration camps since 1942 were in. They looked horrible. They were more dead than alive. They were so starved that they ate everything we didn't eat. I have to emphasize that in the beginning we weren't used to such food.

During our entire stay in the concentration camp, we lived in three different places. From there we got a few meters over, behind a different fence. There they were doing medical experiments on people. I can't tell you what sort of experiments they were. My file from Bergen-Belsen was found, and the Red Cross stored it away in Geneva. Due to this, they later also examined me in Bratislava as well. They did experiments on both women and on children. I myself got two injections. After the war I had health problems. Already as a schoolchild I had a shortage of stomach acid, and chronic intestinal problems. I absolved many examinations. They found something in my lungs, I had frostbite up to my knees...

Finally, in the coldest depths of winter, we were put into some sort of "hall". I'd guess it to be at the end of January and beginning of February 1945. It wasn't until then that we saw that the whole camp looked like. We ended up close to the so-called "Main Street". We called in Lager Hauptstrasse. It was a long corridor about 35 to 40 meters wide. In certain sections, let's say every kilometer, there were army kitchens, a shelter with huge cauldrons. That's where they cooked that swill, the soup. Around them were mounds of spuds prepared for use. But I don't know where they were putting them, because there were almost none in the soup we used to get. If you were on good terms with someone there, they'd throw you a spud over the fence, or an onion, which would sometimes be there too. Some of the SS-men walking around would entertain themselves by picking up a potato or onion and throwing it amongst some children. Then they'd entertain themselves watching them fighting over it.

The third place where we stayed was blockhouse number 211. In front of our blockhouse was a ward, a hospital. There was practically no escape from the hospital. Once you got in there, you didn't leave alive. Right across from the ward was a guard tower, from which they would shoot according to "necessity". These towers were along the entire road, spaced around 200 to 250 meters apart. Of course everything was surrounded by an electric fence. I remember an incident when two women ran out of the hospital, holding hands, and aimed straight for that fence. They sizzled and that was the end of them. Close to the tower that stood by us was a latrine. People from the hospital used the latrine as well. The whole thing was a large pit, in front of which was a long, rough tree trunk. You had to sit on this tree trunk, and do your thing. People were in such horrible shape that they couldn't even stand on their feet. Some terrible things took place there in front of my eyes.

We had almost no contact with the Germans. You had to avoid them. They were capable of playing cruel jokes on us in the name of fun. For example, women guards used to go for walks after lunch beside the last blockhouse we lived in. Each SS-woman had a German Shepherd with her. At that time it was useful to leave the latrine. Sick people that had diarrhea sat there for even tens of minutes. They had cramps and weren't able to empty themselves. A German woman would let her dog loose on a sitting person, and the dog would push him into the shit. No one would pull a poor sod like that out again.

The sectors were divided into sections, and everything was separated by narrow alleys that were surrounded by barbed wire. These narrow alleys led into Lager Hauptstrasse. People had to walk down these alleys in single file. You entered the alleys through a gate by which a guards stood. The gates were about a meter wide, so that more than one person couldn't go through at a time. To the right of us was a little  blockhouse where Polish Jewish women lived. This little blockhouse was very pretty. It had curtains, inside were checkered blankets, and it was clean. There were about 30 beds. These women worked in the kitchen, and we children got to know them. At that time I had a big problem with shoes. I was growing, so were my feet, and I needed bigger shoes. My feet hurt so much that I couldn't walk. These women contacted someone from the stores for me, and exchanged my shoes for me. At night they used to let us go there. It was dark, it was all arranged with the guard, otherwise we wouldn't have been able to cross the alley. We used to go there in twos, and would get fed. Usually they'd give us a larger piece of meat cooked in that beet soup. It looked almost like a piece of cooked bacon, and bread to go with it. We had about a quarter hour to eat, and then we had to quickly disappear. We children would always take turns there. When there were two of us, one waited outside, and then we'd change places and then we'd go back together. There were about 30 of us children, all of us were from Slovakia. Not all of us risked such nighttime outings.

Right beside the Polish women's blockhouse was a kitchen, where they cooked for German soldiers. Their blockhouse was situated in such a way that two doors led to the fence. Through the window you could either jump into the part that led towards us, or to the entry into Hauptstrasse. We didn't hand around much there, as it was dangerous. The only functional well in the entire sector was about a hundred meters away from that blockhouse. Towards the end of the war, before the liberation,  there was almost no water anywhere in the camp. The water in all the wells around was infected. Typhus was very widespread, and people were afraid to drink. Those of us that were still running around the camp used to go to that well for water. Gradually long queues formed there. People stood in rows five wide, and waited for water for two or even three days. Thousands of people stood in line. The way we did it was that several of us would stand in various parts of a line, and after several hours we'd change places. So everyone who got a liter of water, you didn't get more than that, then shared with the others. When someone else got water, he again shared it, and so on it went. My brother was already in close proximity to the well, it could have maybe been another hour or two, and he'd have gotten to the water. Suddenly a tractor fully loaded with canisters arrived, and the Germans wanted to start drawing water into the canisters. You couldn't pull more than seven or eight liters of water out of the well at one time. At that rate it could have taken all day. The prisoners rebelled, and didn't want to let the Germans past. I saw that they'd taken a table out of the nearby kitchen through the window. I thought to myself that something was going to take place there. I stood a ways away, leaning against a tree, and watched. Suddenly an SS soldier got up on the table, and I saw that they were handing him a submachine gun. I began yelling, and suddenly he started firing. He mowed down everyone standing by the well. My brother was exactly in that bunch into which he was firing. I hid behind the tree, so there was no way he could shoot through it. When he suddenly changed magazines, everyone who could ran. I also started running away. My brother didn't arrive for a long time. He returned the morning of the second day. There'd been such a brouhaha there that he'd fallen into the well. An SS-man pulled him out. They then held him somewhere. When he arrived he had the cup with which he'd set out for water, full of pea soup. They'd even dried him off and given him dry clothes. This took place about ten days before the liberation of the concentration camp.

During our stay at Bergen-Belsen, I also had my share of suffering. I had sore feet from shoes that were too small. They were very slippery boots. In general, it was hard to walk on the main street. It was paved with so-called unfinished stones. They were very sharp, and in the winter ice formed between them. You had to walk carefully in order to not slip. So I had to watch out in order to not sprain my ankle, and my small shoes caused my feet to be constantly cold. It of course happened that you'd catch the flu. I also had high fevers  after the injections they gave us.

After the liberation, the English were filming everything there. I knew where everything in the camp was, so in the beginning I was walking around with the film crew. Not far from us they set up a place with an intercom. From morning till evening they broadcast in many languages who was looking for whom. It was a whirlpool of nations. They also set up a board, where people would come and pin up notes for family and friends. After the liberation, I got typhus. In the meantime, there were already ambulances driving around the camp, taking away the ill. The English film crew arranged for them to take me right away. I got into a hospital that they'd set up in the barracks left by the Germans. Everyone who got in there had to go through a delousing procedure and a steam bath. At that time I could no longer walk. They left me lying there in the steam for a certain time. From there I was put into a room where three Englishmen were lying. These soldiers took care of me. A lot of English soldiers there also caught typhus. In Bergen-Belsen, several dozens of doctors, nurses and soldiers who'd become infected there even died. In two months they liquidated practically the entire camp, and torched it so that the infectious diseases wouldn't spread any further.

After the liberation, my brother lasted in the blockhouse only a few days longer than I did. Then he got malaria. He basically underwent the same procedure as I did, only they were isolated in a different location. They were in the sector on the edge of the woods. The building looked like a former monastery. I don't know what it could have been before. Everyone else was forbidden to go there. You couldn't get in there at all. When I got a bit better, I began asking what was up with my brother. The building where I was lying was at the very end of the barracks. Under the window was just a tall fence of barbed wire. In front of the fence ran a wide, two-lane paved road that ended here, and after that it was just nature. There was a huge meadow there, and here and there a copse of trees. Military vehicles were arriving on this road. Tanks, heavy machinery, and cannons; people who were capable of walking would come by to have a look. It took about five hours before the last vehicle parked. In the crowd I recognized Mrs. Kollmannova, who was also from Piestany. I shouted to her from the window. She recognized me. She was looking for her son Juraj. She told me where my brother Tomi was. They kept me in the hospital for about a month. Then I returned to the blockhouse, where there were people who'd arrived in the same transport as we had. To be more precise, those lucky ones that had survived. They were women and children. My brother also got well, and in time joined us. Alis was also with us. She was with us from the beginning to the end. Only a handful of us remained. Juraj, whose mother was looking for him, was in such poor health that they had to take him to Sweden. They then took his mother there to join him. They stayed in Sweden for three years. Eventually they returned and lived in Piestany.

In those days there was a bus connection between Prague and Bergen-Belsen. It used to take home the survivors. It worked as follows. By the kitchen there was an office. It was headed by an English captain who spoke Czech. There was also an English soldier named Foltyn. This office functioned as a "consulate". They investigated from which family, who survived, and where he was. They were also persuading people to not return home, but to go to the USA, the Palestine, or whereever they might want to go. As there were a lot of children there that had lost their families, they investigated where they had relatives. When someone said that they had family anywhere in the world, they contacted those relatives and asked whether they wanted to take them in. The driver of  the bus that used to come there would also write down names. We dictate our names and address to him. He went back and forth every week. Once he came to see us and told us that our father was alive, that he was in Prague and was looking for us. It really was true. Alas, when we arrived in Prague, all we found was a note on the doors of one school where people were also leaving messages. The trip from Bergen-Belsen to Prague was long. We were passing from the American sector to the English one, and we had to wait a long time at this "border". I remember that it was in Köln, Nuremberg, and finally in Pilsen in Czechoslovakia. Everywhere they checked our papers, and then fed us. The bus was full of children and also a few mothers too. There might have been about 35 people. I'd guess that about two thirds were children. The trip to Prague took about a week.

I'd like to mention one incident. On Sunday at around 4:00 p.m. we arrived in Pilsen. The bus stopped in a square in front of a large church. Our guide, who was traveling along with the driver, got out. He was probably arranging where we'd eat. In the meantime some old ladies came out of the church, and when they saw us, they started weeping. I remember that right there in the street they organized a collection and collected 100 crowns for each one of us.

We arrived in Prague at around 8:30 p.m. It was just getting dark. They put us up in Branik. We stayed there for about two weeks. We also met with our cousin Leo Lichtenstein, who'd changed his name to Liska. He helped us register at the repatriation office. We got ID and some money. A Catholic charity gave us some more money. In Prague I also went to the hospital, because of my frostbitten feet. It was from my too-small shoes. They were almost all black, up to my knees. There they re-bandaged and washed them. They X-rayed my lungs, and similar things. It was in the hospital where Leo was a doctor. Then we wandered around Prague. We were at Hradcany, Charles Bridge, and Wenceslaus Square. We walked up and down and watched what was going on around us. We couldn't get any further in the direction of Bratislava. It was possible to buy train tickets, but they were dissuading us. The were saying for us to wait, that we'd get tickets. So we waited for our turn to come up. The trip from Prague to Bratislava took all day. The train was so packed full that people were even sitting on the roof. In Bratislava, dormitories had been set up on what is today Slovak National Uprising Square. During the war it was named Adolf Hitler Platz. In the room we were assigned, there were beds for about 10 to 15 people. It was just an overnight bed, nothing more. There we stayed for a few days and waited for an opportunity to get to Piestany. Finally we got to our home town, where our father was waiting for us with my cousin Lulo Sohnenfeld, who later took the surname Urban. Another couple of people were waiting along with them. They were standing a few meters away from us, didn't come any closer, and wept.

My father had been transported to Sachsenhausen 15. From there they assigned him to some neighboring camp, from where he and a few fellow prisoners managed to escape. They crossed the border of the Protectorate east of the town of Jachymov. There were about ten other miners with them, led by the Party head Ondrej Tatar. They were quite scattered, because some of them were in better condition, and some in worse. They'd been working together in some mine by Sachsenhausen. It was actually some sort of war industry, where part of the production was inside a mountain. The miners were tasked with enlarging the space for the arms factory. The entrance to the complex led across a bridge that spanned some water. Each day they walked three kilometers to the mine, and three back to the camp. My father worked there in an electrical workshop with some Frenchmen. When the miners were getting ready to leave, my father joined them along with one doctor. The doctor's name was Dr. Soltes. After the war he became the health care commissioner in Slovakia [The Health Care Commission: a specialized institution equivalent to the Ministry of Health – Editor's note]. When they were trying to get across the German-Czech border, my father climbed a tree. He wanted to find out if there wasn't anyone around. Suddenly a machine gun started firing, and wounded his arm in several places. After a few days he developed high fevers, so they had to look for help. They got him to the town of Dolni Bela, where Dr. Boris Jacenko treated him. He was an immigrant that was working in the town as a doctor. He operated on my father. He had another two people that he was hiding at his place, and so they decided that they'd try to take a car across the front to the Americans. Finally they also succeeded. Until the end of the war, my father worked for the American army as an interpreter. He wore a uniform, and made it all the way to Prague. There he worked for some time at the repatriation office. From there he then returned to Piestany. In Piestany he ran into my cousin Lulo, and together they threw the people out of our apartment. He came there and said: "Leave here, I'll be moving in here in two hours. It's my property." Lulo was helping them carry things out. When we came home, the apartment once again belonged to our family. We kept in touch with Dr. Jacenko after the war too. When I was attending university, I visited him often.

After the war, they renewed the Jewish community in Piestany. My father didn't return to its leadership. I'm not saying he didn't get involved, but gave up leading the community. Some of the community officials also returned. For example Mr. Faber, and Spronc. Of the other returnees, I can mention Oskar Stern, who worked for my father at the store. During the war he was in hiding. In Bergen-Belsen his sister Aranka Sternova approached us. She'd been deported from Budapest, where she'd been living on false papers. In the concentration camp she was in the same blockhouse as the rest of the Hungarian women. They somehow knew how to find food. They helped the capo carry infirm women to roll calls, and thus were a bit better off. She used to call us over to see her. The Hungarian women guarded their blockhouse, as people stole. So they always had someone at the door. We'd agreed as to what time we'd come, and the woman on watch would let us in. Aranka had bread and a pail full of jam. So we got a half-centimeter thick piece of bread and on top of that three centimeters of jam.

After the war, my father opened his store again in a relatively short time, and began selling. With the advent of the Communists 16, he became a capitalist, and so he couldn't find work. At first he worked as a driver's assistant in this still half-private company that specialized in medical equipment. Later it turned into Chirana [Chirana Piestany a.s. was founded in 1962 – Editor's note]. He worked for a department that specialized in the repair of old medical equipment. He worked there for several years as a driver's assistant. Then when they set up a central collection point for equipment repairs, he became the head. He gradually got better and better at it, and worked there for practically the rest of his life. It didn't ever occur to my father to emigrate. He was a big capitalist, and kept claiming that socialism couldn't last long, and that it couldn't continue on like this. He didn't like any of their measures. Whether it was the banking sector, the financial sector or economy, it all went against his logic. We had buildings that they confiscated. My father died in 1984. He's buried at the Jewish cemetery in Piestany, in the same place as his parents and later also his second wife.

The Slansky trials 7 didn't affect us in any particular fashion. My father didn't have any problems. As for me, I got more than my share of anti-Semitic remarks from my  teachers at the Piestany high school. They made fun of us, because we looked very bad. When I arrived in Piestany, the doctors gave me about two years to live. I got the flu. The doctor came, and said: "He won't suffer long. He won't survive it!"

During high school I was this outcast. I played basketball, first I tried to play basketball for the school, but also for the city team. There were five or six of us our class that also played for the city, basically one lineup. The city club players were all veterans, and didn't let us participate much. Because I was very persistent, I was the first to succeed in getting onto the top team. Otherwise I was a good swimmer, despite having only learned at the age of 13. I don't remember ever having gone to a pool before the war. After the war, at the Eva swimming pool, my classmates caught me and threw me into deep water. I drank half the pool, and learned to swim. The members of the Piestany swim club were mostly children whose parents were doctors, it was hard for anyone else to get in. They were all excellent swimmers. In Piestany our family belonged among the quite important ones. The building we owned in the center of town before the war belongs to us to this day. We renovated it recently. My stepsister Hana Urbanova lives in the back part.

My health wasn't the best; I couldn't breathe well. I stopped swimming and started playing basketball, running, and cross-country swimming. I ran 3000 and then 10,000 meters. In the winter I took part in ski races. I was among the best in Slovakia. I was a member of the Piestany Spa Team. Soldiers also took part in the races. They belonged among the elite. They'd take the top prizes, but I was definitely right after them. The soldiers did all they could to prevent me from winning. During one race, they pushed me off the track so badly that I tore a tendon. I had a very bad fall. I fell down a terribly steep hill. They treated me in the hospital in Hradec Kralove. I was even nominated for the national team, but in the end I didn't become a member, because I did one stupid thing. I exchanged my skis, which wasn't allowed. My father always bought me the best skis and equipment. They custom-made it for me. I had several pairs of skis. My father would always plane, wax and tension them. He took care of all that. I was the only one that went to races with two pairs of skis.

They didn't recommend me for university, because in my cadre assessment I had: imprisoned in a concentration camp, which was a synonym for Jew. But in high school I had a teacher, Mr. Emil Zahoransky, the former principal of the council school. He was from around Brezna. He was a Slovak, and my father's trusted friend, and in the end also our neighbor at our cottage. Dr. Valach lived on the other side. Professor Emil Zahoransky went with me to the entrance exams, and made a fuss there. He walked right up to the commission in front of which I was supposed to do my exams and said: "Now Laco Urban is going to come, a person who's been in a concentration camp, and there's no way you won't take him!" I picked civil engineering. I started school in 1952. Originally my father had wanted me to attend textile college, because he'd been planning to build a small textile plant. The factory owners from Brno that used to sell him goods were persuading him to prepare a young person from the textile trade. He even took some steps, and had some property reserved. The property had to be by some water, so there'd be a place for the water from the textile factory to flow into. In the end nothing came of it. The textile trade was taught in Liberec, from where the state each year sent two people to Poland to study. It was unthinkable to push through that they send me.

During my studies they were building hydro stations, so I said to myself that I'll take hydro engineering. I had this notion that they'd build a whole bunch more hydro stations on the Vah, and that I'd have work for the rest of my life. I was excellent at school. In second year, Professor Potiagin and his wife invited me for a special lunch at the Hotel Devin. He was an 85-year-old granddad. Once during a lecture of his, we were calculating a very complex example. There were at least 200 students sitting in the lecture hall, listening to his lecture. I was writing it down, word for word. As I was calculating, I found a mistake. Because I knew about the mistake, I calculated it for myself, and came to a certain conclusion that couldn't be the same as his result. Well, and when he asked where he'd made a mistake, I got up and showed him. He asked me: "What's your name?" I told him my name, and after that his assistants began paying attention to me. Every class I was asked to come up to the blackboard, and they dreaded it terribly. We had this one Xantippe, now she's already a professor. She's this bearded virago. She was very good in math, and kept on calling on me. She gave me a hard time, but that helped me, because I passed my exams without any problems. There was one assistant there from Piestany, and his hand shook when I picked up the chalk and went to the board, that I'd show him something. I always made things up, and when he said one thing, I tried to say another. I was good; I finished hydro engineering with honors.

After school I started working at a waterworks construction project in Sala. I wasn't there long. My professor who I did my thesis with convinced me to go work for Vahostav [The company VAHOSTAV Zilina was founded in 1954 by the then Ministry of Construction of the Czech Republic. Its mission was the building of dams and hydro stations on the central and upper Vah River – Editor's note]. Vahostav was beginning a new waterworks project in Zilina. I went there as a head technician. They were supposed to issue me an apartment in town. The director at the time, who's still alive, told me to make myself at home in Zilina, as they were going to be building more dams there. He claimed that there was work there for the next 40 years. But this director left to go to Bratislava, and forgot about me. That's when bad times for me started. It was at the beginning of the 1960s. They called me up for army service. I was at Bor U Tachova, near Pilsen. I worked as the construction manager for a tank shooting range. I practically wasn't even a soldier, I just wore a uniform and ate with the others. From Vahostav I later transferred to Hydrostav [Hydrostav: a construction company. Provides comprehensive construction services – Editor's note].

I started my army service in 1959. I felt very good there. It was the first time that I went skiing every Saturday and Sunday. I was building a tank firing range in the border region, seven kilometers from the border in the neutral zone. There were Soviet advisors there, and a Czechoslovak-Chinese friendship regiment. We often ate rice, which didn't hurt. My division was in Pilsen, where my commanding officer was. His name was Lieutenant-Colonel Strasik, later Colonel. He was a very fair guy, and I would submit my reports to him. He used to go to the Ministry of Defense, and when he'd return, he'd invite me to the best hotel in Pilsen, because I always did my work perfectly. When I was in Pilsen, I'd go swimming practically every day, with the local Dukla team. They accepted me without any problems, because there were many guys from Piestany there. For example Mato Majercak, an older guy from an aquatic company in a battalion in Pilsen. He'd lived in the same street in Piestany as our family. Mato had apprenticed under my father. He even put together a report for me which was part of my officer's exams. I reached the rank of First Lieutenant. That was in 1960. I built a tank firing range, as well as a control tower.

I met my first wife in a relatively interesting fashion. I was introduced to this one music professor. I don't remember his name. He found an apartment for me at Mr. Stark's place in Fucikova St. The Stark family was from Liptovsky Mikulas. They were a Jewish. The Starks observed Jewish customs. Mr. Stark attended synagogue in Heydukova St. in Bratislava. It was a meeting place for Jews. Back then there were still many families. Young Jewish people met there too, to play roulette. After the war I didn't observe anything [religious customs] at all.

Their son, Peter Stark, was older than I, and was studying electricity. He wasn't very independent, and would tag along with me. In those days I was playing basketball for Slovan Bratislava. I traveled a lot, and had a lot of friends. When we finished school, Peter emigrated. He finished a half year before me. At first he emigrated to Belgium, and then to America. He worked for General Electric for about 20 years. Then he ended up back in Europe, he was with General Electric in Vienna. He was general director for Western Europe. My first wife, Agi Sandorova, was helping Peter when he was moving. They knew each other from back in Liptovsky Mikulas, they'd been classmates. It was actually at the Starks' that I met Agi. When I was in the army, she lived at this one professor's place. It wasn't heated, and was frightfully cold. I got along with the Starks very well, and they were happy with me. Once I came there, and she was there too... Our wedding was in Piestany.

We were married in 1961. We were living in Bratislava. At that time I was still in the army, but I was able to find an apartment very quickly, because I started a housing co-op. I had a friend that worked for the city. I said to him: "Listen, I need an apartment.' He said: "Start a co-op, and then we'll help you." So I started a co-op. Right away, they assigned us a building. I had to deposit a certain sum of money within a week. I had to borrow it. In the meantime I arranged for Mrs. Sandorova's family home to be sold. It was actually the demolition of my wife's family home. In Ruzomberk, they were going to be regulating the flow of a stream that flowed into the Vah River. Their house was in the way, so we managed to take advantage of the situation and sell it to the town for a decent price. Old Mrs. Sandorova's siblings were still alive and were financially well off, so I borrowed the aforementioned sum from them. By Christmas 1961 we were already living in our own apartment. Before that I'd had nothing, just a guitar, one suitcase and a clothesline. I'd stretch a string from the window latch to the doorknob, and hang up my couple of pairs of pants and two, three jackets. Those were horrible conditions.

We didn't go abroad very often. We were in Hungary a couple of times. My wife had an aunt who lived in Budapest. I never went to the seaside with my first wife. Back then it wasn't possible yet, and neither did we have the money. On the other hand, we often went to the Tatras.

In the beginning, we used to go on vacations to our cottage in Nova Lehota. Often we'd also go to the Tatras and to Vratna Dolina. Vahostav, where I worked, had a company cottage there. When I began my postgraduate studies, I made friends with the cottage supervisor. He was at the same time also a shepherd at a farm in Sutovsko. Often I used to go visit him at his place. I've got very good memories of this. We used to go to Vratna, where we'd go skiing as well. We used to go to a cottage below Sokoli. We knew all the lift operators at Malino Brd. I had a friend by the name of Pista Bradiak. When I'd come from Bratislava to visit him, I'd always buy him a bottle of rum, as he drank rum. The whole week I'd be there I wouldn't have to pay for the lift. Here and there I'd also run the lift. For example it was carnival time, and people were in the mood for skiing, and so they came and said: "Listen, can you turn on the lift for us?" It was midnight. "Are you crazy? I can't." "Go arrange it." So I had to go wake up Bradiak, who gave me the keys from the cabinets. "Do you know what to turn on?" So at midnight I turned on the lift and who wanted to ski, skied.

After the war, my brother, Tomas Urban, started attending electrical engineering with Duro [Juraj] Kollmann. They were like twins. Best friends, they did everything together. But my brother was lazy, to be more precise he had it good. Back then one of our uncles, Ernest Lichtenstein, who was de facto his tutor, was still alive. When Tominko [Tomas] showed up in Piestany, he always said: "Tominko, come visit me." There he'd get lunch, and some money. It gradually got to the point that when he needed money, he asked Ernest for it. Ernest Lichtenstein was alone, he didn't have anyone, and so he willingly gave it to him. He got used to not being in need, though he didn't have anyplace to live. He hung around with my friends that I played basketball with. We were a very good bunch; when he didn't have a place to live, they even took care of him. They took him to Mlada garda [Mlada garda: student dormitories at the Slovak Technical Univesity – Editor's note], and found him a place in the dorm. He lived there for about a year on the sly. No one knew about it, and he didn't even have to pay.

My brother didn't finish school. They threw him out in second year. Then he began taking chemistry, but after two years they threw him out again. By then our father began taking an interest in his ideas on life. He started as an apprentice at Slovanaft [SLOVNAFT, whose headquarters are in Bratislava, is a petrochemical company – Editor's note], where he worked after leaving school. His boss ended up being a man from Piestany, Mr. Sojcek. He began working for Slovnaft as a laborer, but he gradually worked his way up. In the meantime technology was changing. Because he knew both electricity and chemistry, he had two years in each field, he knew a lot. He had a solid foundation. He got out, to Iraq. He was there for about five years. They were commissioning a large thermal generating station.

Tomas got married before his trip to Iraq. It was in the 1960s, at that time I wasn't in Bratislava, but in Zilina. I was just commuting to Bratislava. He married the daughter of Mrs. Hermina Berkovicova from Bergen-Belsen. They were from the East. This lady had lost her husband and had married a colonel. She was then named Kollarova. My brother's wife was Dr. Eva Urbanova. She was a pediatrician, today she no longer works. They lived near Grosslingova St. in Bratislava. His mother-in-law was very active. She fished and rode horses. She was a heavy smoker, even though she had asthma.

My brother and his wife didn't observe Jewish traditions at all. From a religious standpoint, my brother didn't even understand Judaism. He had no relationship to it, because he grew up in fascism, and then ended up in socialism. He was a completely different type from me. He smoked like a chimney, and stank of cigarettes. Alas, he's dead now. He died after a heart valve operation. His doctor, Viliam Fischer, sketched out for him what he was going to do on a piece of paper. I went to see him, because we know each other, and said to him: "Listen, you can't even do this on a cow, five bypasses in one go, plus ones like these!?" "What are you afraid of, what are you talking about, you don't know anything about it." That's what he told me. After the operation, my brother was behind a glass wall and wrote on a large piece of paper that "everyone's a either whore or a prick" My brother is buried at the Bratislava crematorium.

In 1968 I had a huge amount of work. I couldn't even leave work, I was so busy. The director of Hydrostav, whom I worked for at the time, was on vacation in Yugoslavia. He was constantly phoning and giving orders: "Don't even go home, if need be, stay there, because everything has to hustle along!" We finally met our objectives, and everything was going well; we didn't have any problems. We were working like mad. Back then I was working in Komarno on the construction of a dam and levee. We commuted there every week, and stayed in a dormitory. In the morning there'd be a mess there, as a whole bunch of guys would be going off to work. I lived with the head of the technical department and with the main personnel manager, Porubsky. In the morning he ran out and was yelling: "Get up! Russians! Occupation! 18" I thought to myself: "Have they gone nuts?" I shot back: "I'm sleeping, I don't start work till nine." Everyone else left, but I came in at nine, as if nothing was happening.

That night we were working on an underground wall, which made history as the first of its kind in the whole of Czechoslovakia. We saw the Russians crossing underwater in tanks, under the Komarno bridge. At 4:00 p.m. one foreman ran over and said: "Listen, hurry up and come have a look, there's all sorts of things going on here, tanks are going along the top, they're ripping up rails on the railway bridge, and three are driving in the water. "How do you know?" "I saw them!" He drove by our yard and kept going. I said to him: "Don't worry about it." One of my colleagues, a former classmate, who I'd brought over to Komarno, told me: "On Wednesday we're going home [to Bratislava], get ready, we'll take you too." We took a company car along the levee all the way to Bratislava. No one stopped us. Bratislava was full of Russians.

The ministry had bought the license for underground wall technology from Soletance, a French company. There were two suppliers in Czechoslovakia. One was Vodni Stavby Praha, and the second was Hydrostav. At that time I'd already worked my way up to being head of technical supervision. I was in this position for 17 years. I was in Paris a few times too. They selected me as the liaison officer between Soletance and Hydrostav. That was in 1966. I was in Paris about five times, and then also in Montreaux, because that's where their research facility was. Montreaux is about 50 km south of Paris.

The director of Soletance was named Professor Hafen. He was coming here often back then. Once he was here when there was that famous hockey tournament between Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union, when Golonka [Golonka, Jozef (b. 1938): former Slovak hockey player and coach. One of the best forwards that played for the national team of the former Czechoslovakia – Editor's note] was beating the ice with his stick. The professor and his assistants were living at the Hotel Devin [Hotel Devin: a traditional four-star hotel located in the center of Bratislava – Editor's note]. The professor says to me: "Isn't there a TV somewhere here, where we could watch the game in peace?" I answered him: "Only at my place." "Can't we go to your place?" "Sure we can, c'mon, I've got my car here." At that time I had a brand-new Skoda. I'd bought it in 1967. I drove him home to our place. We watched the hockey game and they returned to the hotel. The next day our head director called me, that he'd heard that the Frenchmen had been at my place, and how did I dare to do that. I told him, we were watching the hockey game, I put a bottle of gin on the table, and wanted to make coffee too, but they didn't want anything at all. They didn't touch a single thing.

There were of course great differences between life in Czechoslovakia and in France. You can't even compare the two. Life there was calm, perfect. I spent some time in southern France too. First I was in Avignon. There we were looking at large marine structures, by La Ciotat. They were building garages for submarines. There were huge numbers of American soldiers there. We saw all of southern France, because we had a car at our disposal. I went on these trips mainly with Czechs, from Prague. We got along well.

Besides France, I was also in Russia. Twice I was the guest of the Soviet Academy of Sciences. There was this one Jew there, Viktor Danushevski. He was from Lithuania; today he teaches in Philadelphia. His mother-in-law, Olga Davidovna Lipschitz, was the head of the German department at Lomonosov University in Moscow. I used to like going to her place very much. At Christmas I'd even send her presents. She was one superb professor. I've even got one of her dictionaries with a dedication from her.

I had a good relationship with Israel, because the Israeli ambassador in Czechoslovakia was Karol Grünwald. I don't know his Israeli name. I used to meet with him regularly, as he used to come to Bratislava. They were these secret visits. That was during the years 1960 – 1965, lets say. I used to arrange accommodations at the Hotel Devin for him. I'd arrange for him to be able to see the people that he wanted to meet. No one was allowed to know about it. Then, when I went to Prague, all I had to do was call and say "I'm here." Nothing else was needed, he'd find me. He always knew where I was. He lived in Prague 4. He had an apartment there, and also employed a cook and a maid. They both belonged to the StB 19. When I'd arrive, he'd give them time off. He had to prepare for my visits up to two weeks in advance, so that they'd go on a trip, or to see a movie. No one could see me when I was at his place. I was never in Israel; I just used to see him.

I got married for a second time, and moved to the town of Iza. I'd already known my second wife long before that. A friend of mine, Frico Horsky, worked at a shipyard, and was the secretary of the soccer team and sports club. He told me to come there, that's I'd have it good there. I'd have cheap food here [The town of Iza is in the Komarno district. The area around this district is well-known as a developed agricultural region. A surplus of produce meant economic self-sufficiency and lower prices – Editor's note], and the Hungarians won't abuse me for being a Jew. I tried to get here. I was working on preparations for Gabcikovo [Construction on the Gabcikov – Nagymaros hydro project on the Danube River began in 1977 – Editor's note], and tried to have the head office locate research closer to Komarno, so that I wouldn't have to travel so much from Bratislava to Gabcikovo. Gradually I educated a whole number of operational managers. I also worked in eastern Slovakia. I worked on the foundations for an oil pipeline by Bodrog. I participated in the building of the highest chimney in Slovakia, in Novaky.

I began to play basketball again. I started a basketball team in Komarno, and even had a hand in the creation of this regional contest for older men. About five teams participated. Pravda 20 played, they had Karol Fako, formerly an excellent hockey player, and Milos Bobocky, the director of Pravda. I myself had once played basketball for Slovan Bratislava. In Sali there was a Hydrostav plant, where a lot of our classmates worked; they got together there and formed a team. We put on tournaments, once here, another time there. Another of our classmates, Emil Kubo, worked for Vahostav. He lived in this house, where he raised ducks. He had about a hundred ducks. The cleaning ladies used to take care of them for him. When we were going to be playing in some big match, I'd say to him: "Emil, we'll go to the match, and afterwards we'll go to the pub. You'll supply the ducks, and I'll roast them there..." That's how it went. We became famous for putting these parties, with food and good wine. We treated everyone who came to play. We all became mutual friends.

Back then I began speculating that I could settle down permanently. But I couldn't live in a dormitory. At work they suggested that I start building a house, that they'd help me. So the director issued an order: "He's building a house, so bring him everything that he'll need, as far as equipment is concerned." One day a van arrived, and delivered everything from shovels, picks, nails, wire, boards to who knows what else. Basically everything. I asked the company committee, and got it officially. When I needed to order something in the workshop, I wrote up a request, that I need such and such piece of sheet metal, welded in such and such a way. They billed me for it, but as an employee I paid a lower rate.

Our old director was transferred, and a new one arrived. He was a bit flighty. He didn't understand the work at all, and he became the director of Gabcikov. About a month after I'd booked out of Bratislava, he submitted my papers for transfer to Gabcikov. I told him: "Put in the papers what I'll be doing there!" At that time I could boast that I wasn't just an ordinary Urban, but was the only PhD candidate at that location, that I was in charge of all the technology, in charge of the concrete plant. Everyone respected my authority. Once he transferred me, that I had 24 hours to go to Gabcikov. My wife was pregnant, we were building that house, and he suddenly transfers me. I told him that it wasn't possible. I had ambitions to be the head plant engineer, which carried with it a certain salary and prestige. They didn't want to give the job to me. Finally they threw me out. That was in about 1983. First we wanted to go to Bratislava. I'd found a job for my wife Eva, and as far as I went, work wasn't a problem. Vahostav wanted me to come work for them too, but Eva was a Party candidate for the position of hospital director in Komarno. But the regional committee jumped in. There was this one Jew there, named Tibor Breiner. He said: "What are you thinking, you don't have to go anywhere, you're our man. You'll stay here, and well find you work." He was the director of Agrostav [Agrostav: a company extant in all of Czechoslovakia, that performed project design, construction, trades and installation work and so on – Editor's note] and didn't have an technical deputy, so they installed me in that position. Under me was Edmund Klein, an engineer. He was already an older man. He was head of the project engineering department. I managed 50 people: designers, engineers, and technicians. It wasn't easy, but we excelled at it. We regularly ended up amongst the best when project engineering organizations were evaluated. We even prepared a potato germinating project for Russia. We supplied the project plan for the building of an automated computer-controlled germinating warehouse. I worked there for about ten, eleven years. I built solar grain dryers, did geothermal shafts. I drilled five of them: in Marcelov, in Zemianska Olse, in Komarno, in Svaty Petr, and by Chotin.

At the beginning of the 1990s I retired. I started a small business, I was the first small businessman in the entire region. Even still during the time of "bad socialism" ["bad socialism": an expression for the last stage of socialism in the former Czechoslovakia, and the beginning of the Velvet Revolution, see 21 – Editor's note]. The regional party secretary summoned me, and asked me what I was living on. I told him to not worry about it, that he didn't have the right. The heads of individual cooperatives were very good acquaintances of mine, two or three were even excellent friends. They were the ones I worked for. I worked on contracts. And so what? I always thought up all sorts of things. A member of the Federal Assembly, and at the same time the chairman of the Marcelov co-op, came to see me, and said: "Think of something that others won't have, so I can brag." So I thought it up. Besides this, one of my sons-in-law is also a project engineer, so I look at his work, advise him...

Now that I'm retired, I devote myself to politics, history and mainly concentration camps. I work on perfecting my knowledge, speak to people and sometimes I even find subject matter that I've already forgotten about. When they call me from the Komarno Jewish community to say a few words, I go. Once a year I speak during a memorial ceremony for the victims of the Holocaust. That's even in the papers.

Glossary:

Blanka Dvorska
Bratislava
Slovak Republic
Interviewer: Zuzana Slobodnikova
Date of interview: March - July 2006

Mrs. Blanka Dvorska experienced many things during her lifetime, both good and bad. She however always remained true to her principles and opinions. She never judged people for their origin, skin color or religion. She tried to help people when she could. She and her loved ones were very much marked by the years of World War II, and later the Slansky trials 1. She has lived through a lot, and lost a lot. However, nothing ever broke her faith in people and in life.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

The National Slovak Uprising

After the war

Glossary

My family background

My paternal grandparents were named the Friedmanns. My grandfather was named Aron, and my grandmother Hilda. Alas, I don't remember her maiden name anymore. Neither do I know where they were from, and when they were born. But the important thing is how I recall them, and how they've remained in my memory. I know that they lived in Stropkov. My grandmother was a housewife, and my grandfather had a small store with textiles. I remember them very well, because as a little girl I spent every summer vacation with them in Stropkov.

I also remember that Grandpa Friedmann's father, so my great-grandfather, was a very important citizen of Stropkov. Today I don't know what his name was anymore. From what my grandparents told me though, I remember that this great-grandpa of mine was the advisor of some district administrator, which is why everyone respected him, and he belonged among the town's elite.

But let's return to my Grandpa and Grandma Friedmann. I loved them very much, and above all I respected them. They treated me like their own daughter. I didn't get along very well with my mother, and so Grandma Hilda had me over at their place every summer vacation. I lived with my parents and siblings in Presov. At the beginning of the summer my grandma would come for me on a carriage, and take me to Stropkov, which was 50 kilometers away. I'd then spend the entire summer there with my grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa spoke Yiddish to each other. But they also spoke German and of course Saris [Saris dialect: one of the Slovak dialects, used in the Saris region. The center of the region is the city of Presov – Editor's note]. Since his father had such an important position, my grandpa was definitely originally from around Stropkov, but where my grandmother was from, I don't know.

My grandfather was an Orthodox Jew 2. He wore payes and never went anywhere without a hat. As I still remember well, he wore a caftan, but I also used to see him in a regular suit. For her part, my grandmother always wore a scarf on her head. I know that she didn't wear a wig, but her daughters-in-law – my aunts and also my mother, did 3. In that they were strictly Orthodox, and my grandparents of course had a kosher household 4. For example, they'd buy a large duck or hen at the marketplace. If my grandmother didn't like the looks of it, she'd go see the rabbi, so he could tell her whether it was kosher or not. My grandma was very strict about that. They also had separate dishes for dairy, and then there were dishes for meat. For example, Easter [Passover] dishes were completely different. They were never used during the entire year. They were only used during the Easter holidays.

As I've already mentioned, my grandparents lived in Stropkov. Stropkov was this smaller town with a relatively large Jewish community [In 1940, about 2000 Jews lived in Stropkov and its immediate vicinity. In Stropkov itself there were about 1500 of them. Stropkov was a town of Hasidic Jews, to whom belonged both synagogues in the town – Editor's note]. I daren't guess at the ratio between Jews and Christians, all I know is that there were more Christians in Stropkov. Well, I've got to say that Christians and Jews mixed very well there, and got along well with each other. Jews didn't have any separate part of town. They lived in the town center, on the main square, and then in various parts on the outskirts. I know that Stropkov had a synagogue, and that there was a mikveh [mikveh: a ritual bath – Editor's note] there too.

My grandparents' house was next door to a Catholic monastery. I know that there were monks living there, but what order, that I don't remember any more. The space between my grandparents' house and this monastery measured about a half meter. They were really built quite close to each other. The house where my grandparents lived faced a common courtyard that had another four residences around it. I don't know exactly who lived there anymore. All I know is that they were most likely some relatives of ours, and that they were Jews. The house where my grandpa and grandma lived had two rooms and a kitchen. They even had a washroom there. I don't know if every family had their own, but I know that in those days it wasn't usual to have a washroom, and they already had one. The two rooms were furnished on the whole normally. There were two beds in the bedroom, which were right next to each other, but during menstruation they'd be separated by a night table [according to Jewish laws, a woman has to notify her husband that she had begun menstruating. From this moment on, he is not allowed to touch her. Even the touch of one single finger is forbidden. This edict lasts until menstruation ends and the woman's subsequent ritual cleansing – Editor's note]. Plus there was a wardrobe there, and so on. My grandparents' house was simply and tastefully furnished.

Because my grandfather was a merchant, my grandparents used to come into contact with both Jews and also Christians. But when they were already home, their neighbors were exclusively Jews. So they also had Jews as friends, and had very good relations amongst themselves. But have to say that my grandparents, and later also my father, were very open and obliging people. They didn't have any prejudices and behaved very nicely and decently to everyone, no matter whether he was a Jew, Christian or Gypsy. You know, in those days there were also quite a few Gypsies living in Stropkov. I myself worked there in the 1930s after graduating from teaching school, and this one incident with Gypsies happened to me: Once some Gypsies played for me for free. Because my father might have been around 18 or so, when he saved a Gypsy child that had fallen into the well in the town square. Well, and suddenly there was a big commotion. As I've already mentioned, my grandfather had a store on the square, across from the well. And what happened? When he saw that, my father lowered himself down into the well and saved that little Gypsy kid that had fallen into the water. He just saved him, because that's what they were like, the Friedmanns. And I, as a teacher, you'd think that it was already so many years later, I went into a pub somewhere around there, and when they saw me they said: "That's Jozko's daughter!" And quiet. They came over to me: "Young lady, what should we play for you?" "And why should you play?" "After all, you're Jozko's girl, so for you we play for free." Years after my father pulled their child out of the well, they rewarded me for a change, for that good deed of his.

I don't know the circumstances leading up to my grandparents getting married. I don't even know where and when they were married. The only thing that's certain is that the wedding was certainly Jewish, and that in the course of their marriage my grandma Hilda brought six children into the world. Five sons: Jozef, Herman, Natan, Ignac and Filip and one daughter, Manci [Malvina]. Jozef was my father. But today I know more only about my father's brothers Natan, Filip and Ignac. Today I don't remember various dates and their personal details anymore.

Of my father's siblings, I remember Uncle Natan well. Probably because he lived in Stropkov together with my grandparents. At first he lived in the same courtyard as they did. But later, when he got married, he opened his own clothing shop on the square, and not far from the shop he built a little house. The only other thing I know is that he and his wife didn't have any children, and the two of them lived alone. For some time I also lived with Uncle Herman in Giraltovce, but that was during the war, and those were very troubled times.

Another of my father's brothers whom I recall from stories I heard, even though I never met him, is Icik, Ignac. My grandparents were forcing him to marry some older woman. I think that she was some rich widow. But he didn't want to marry her at all. Probably he didn't like her. And so it happened that during the wedding ceremony, as he and the bride were standing together under the chuppah [Chuppah: a canopy under which the pair stands during the wedding ceremony – Editor's note], he suddenly jumped up and ran away, right in front of the rabbi, bride, and the entire wedding party. No one from our family ever saw him again after that. But I've always wondered why no one ever went to look for him. The cause was likely the fact that he'd disappointed the family by not marrying the woman they'd picked for him, and that he ran away so "shamefully" from under the chuppah, and thus brought shame not only on the bride, but also on his loved ones.

My father's third brother Filip lived in France. He lived right in the capital, Paris. He was single and childless. Of my siblings, my one-year-older brother, Bernat, had the fondest memories of Uncle Filip. This was because Bernat lived with him in France from 1932 to 1938.

My knowledge of my mother's family starts with my great-grandmother Weil from Jaslo in Poland, who died in 1936, at the age of 105! We always heard a lot about her. She ran a farm by herself. And that she managed to do it and had enough strength for it was helped by the fact that she married at the age of 15 or 16, and her husband died when she was around 30. Due to the fact that she was married for such a short time and her husband didn't vex her, she had enough strength to tend to the farm. And also thanks to this, she in the end lived to such a beautiful age.

I don't know much about my grandparents, the Weils. I didn't know my grandmother at all. All I know is that they had a restaurant. They had three daughters and one son together. In the end, I know only relatively little about my mother's family.

My mother was born in Jaslo, Poland in 1886, and her maiden name was Dorota Weil. My father was born in 1884 in Stropkov. My mother and father were married in 1910. I don't know how my parents came to be married. The fact remains, though, that it must have been an arranged marriage. For my mother it was a hard life, coming as she did from a family that wasn't all that Orthodox. My mother was raised in an almost bourgeois fashion, and certainly in a more modern fashion than my father. My parents were married under a chuppah. But whether they were married in Stropkov or in Presov, that I don't know. All I know is that already in 1910 their first child was born, my oldest sister Lujza.

My mother's native tongue was Polish. But she had a big talent for languages. She spoke excellent German and Yiddish, and very quickly learned Saris. For two years my parents lived in Velke Kapusany, where during that short time my mother learned fluent Hungarian. During the time when we children were already attending school, she knew Slovak grammar so well that she used to check our homework. She had a talent for languages. My father also knew several languages, but didn't speak even one of them so well that you could say he was excellent at it. His mother tongue was Saris, and he could get by in Saris, German, and when necessary, also Hungarian.

During the first years of their marriage, my parents lived in Stropkov, later in Velke Kapusany, and finally they settled in Presov. I was born in 1916, and at that time my parents were living in Stropkov. I was born at my grandparents' house. I was the fourth child, and after me another four were born. So there were eight of us children. But I'll say more about my siblings later.

My clearest memories are from when my parents were already living in Presov. They lived there from 1917 until they were deported. In those times Presov might have had a population of around 24,000 [according to census figures, in 1940 Presov had a population of 24,394 – Editor's note]. There was a relatively large Jewish community there. I do know that the city had two synagogues, a Neolog one and an Orthodox one. There was also a mikveh in Presov. The town baths had a part that was reserved just for Jews, and that was the mikveh. I also remember that the town also had a cheder [Cheder: religious primary school for teaching the Torah and Judaism – Editor's note], which my one-year-older brother Bernat attended. He attended it from around the age of three, and studied there. I know that when my brother was around five or six, a bocher [bocher: student – Editor's note] used to come to our apartment and study there with my brother.

In Presov Jews of course had their rabbi. He was a very wise man. Everyone respected him. One interesting thing was that this rabbi was a friend with the Catholic papal prelate. They used to meet around three or four times a week. They used to walk around town together. During the week it wasn't anything unusual to see the prelate coming out of Levocska Street, and part of the way the rabbi would walk by his side. They'd meet and walk like that up and down, along that main street, and debate about things. You know, I'll never forget that. Never. Before the war people got along so well, and I simply can't forget that.

Even today I still remember how on Mondays and Fridays a market would take place in Presov. We never had money to spare, and so everything that was necessary for the household was arranged by my father. At our house it was very simple. So for example on Friday we'd take the shoulet to the baker's, and on Saturday we'd bring it home. Otherwise food wasn't arranged in advance in any special way. There simply wasn't any to do that with. I know that my mom used to put some meat in that shoulet, but goose we had only when once a year some aunt from Giraltovce would send us one, nicely fattened up. I know that she used to raise that goose especially for us. She used to feed her by sitting on her and stuffing corn into her beak, and squeezing it down the goose's neck. That's how she nicely fattened up that goose for us. My mom would then make an excellent shoulet with goose meat.

I remember when T.G. Masaryk 5 died. He died in 1937, and we wept profusely. Then Benes 6 took his place. But the era of Masaryk's government was characterized by the creation of the First Republic 7. And it was a republic where there weren't only Czechs and Slovaks. During the First Republic, many teachers came to Slovakia, but also other civil servants too [after the creation of the 1st Czecho-Slovak Republic, the local government didn't have enough educated and loyal civil servants. This is why Czech immigrants streamed into Slovakia. Among the first were postmen, teachers, technicians, civil servants, doctors and theater workers – Editor's note]. People united and helped each other in order to help something along. And not for reasons like it was at the end of the First Czecho-Slovak Republic. At that time certain groups began uniting in order to harm others. Individual differences in religion, origin and so on increased. That's where that enmity against Jews began. Well, but now I'm getting ahead of things...

I'll return to my parents. I know that before I was born, my father was in the tobacco business, and his partners took advantage of him or tricked him in some way. So my father lost even the little that he had. But I'd prefer to talk about what I remember from my own experiences. When I was about three, my father owned a grocery store. This store was on the main street. My mother worked in the store too. On the one hand, she was a housewife that was fully employed by a numerous family, and on top of this she also sold in the store. But I have to say that that store was more like a general store, and not just one with groceries. I remember that at one time we were for example selling folding beds there. My parents latched onto whatever they could. They would've perhaps sold anything there. There my mother sold excellent, home-baked bread, or homemade soap that my father used to make in a cellar by the millstream.

I remember that when I was attending school, it happened more than once that I had to help out in the store. That little store of ours was so pitiful, that it would also happen that a customer would come for a kilo of sugar, for example, and we wouldn't have it. So I'd quickly run out of the store and run across the main street to the grocery wholesaler's. There I'd buy that kilo of sugar and run with it back to our store. There I'd sell the sugar for some five or ten hellers more [In 1929 it was decreed by law that one Czechoslovak crown (Kc) 1 Kc – 100 hellers, was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold – Editor's note]. So that is truly how we did business.

Because my parents were Orthodox, we observed all rules at home. We were a strictly kosher household. My mother kept a strict eye on it. We observed all the holidays. My father regularly used to go pray at the synagogue, along with his brother. My mother made sure that everything in the household was as it should be according to the rules.

Our Presov apartment was very modest. The whole family, which is two adults and eight children, lived in two rooms plus a kitchen. The apartment wasn't ours, but we rented it from Professor Frantisek Guttmann. The apartment was also downtown, near the store. We had one room, then there was a very small kitchen, and a second room. The one room might have been bout five meters by three. It had two iron beds, between which there was a large steamer trunk. The trunk for one thing separated the beds from each other, for another it was used to store bedclothes, and it also served as a place to sit. Then in that room there was a large, I'd guess about two-meter table, at which we used to eat. We'd study at it and do our homework. Around the table there were of course some chairs that we'd sit on. That was all the furniture there was in the room.

From that room you went into the kitchen. There in the kitchen there was a brick oven in which we baked and cooked. Beside it there was this narrow space for cooking, some sort of workbench or small table. That stretched along the wall, from the oven all the way to the door. There was also a stove there. This little room is where food was prepared. It was too small for us to also eat there. It might have been just over a meter wide, and wasn't all that much longer either. We ate in the room, at the table. From this little kitchen you could for one go into the other room, but you could also go down a ladder into the cellar. From the kitchen you went into the other room. This room was a little smaller than the first one. It might have been around 3.5 by 3.5 meters. It was also, as one would say, a room for all of us. My parents didn't have anything like a bedroom. There were many of us, and so everyone slept where he could. In beds, on mattresses, even on the table. But something more about the second room. It had two beds, like in that first room. Then there were two wardrobes.

Our apartment had running water as well as electricity, which wasn't completely common for that time. We had cheap electricity. And so that we'd be able to pay for it, we had only two lights. For example, at the door between the kitchen and the room there was a light, movable of course. It was a bulb attached to a movable wire. When needed, we used the light in the kitchen, and then when it was needed in the room, we moved it along on the wire, and lit up the room. The second light was again at the door between the kitchen and the other room, and could be moved in a similar fashion as the first. These light bulbs didn't give off a lot of light. But in any case, they served us well.

I remember that when I was still quite small, a little girl of only two or three, we had a helper in our apartment in Presov. She was a maidservant, and was named Mariska. She was like a member of our family. But she had to leave us after some time, because we couldn't afford to pay her. Working for us for free wasn't practical for her. Then I was already older, and along with my older sisters, I helped out at home. We did all the housework, and also worked in the store.

We didn't have any animals at home. There wasn't any room or food for them. But what I am proud of is our library. Even though we lived in very poor conditions, we bought books. When they were already employed, my older sisters, Lujza and Annuska [Anna], bought various literature. Not just I, but all members of our family liked to read. But we also used to go to the Presov town library to borrow books. And we also used to buy newspapers. I think that at that time it was Azet and Kassai újság.

My parents' first-born was my sister Lujza. She must have been conceived shortly after the wedding, as it was still 1910 when she was born, so the same year my parents got married. She finished business school. She was a very clever and talented girl. Alas, she died during the Holocaust.

The next to be born was Anna. That might've been in 1911. I unfortunately don't know it exactly. Annuska, as we called her at home, was also talented, and wrote so beautifully that when she was still in council school, they sent some of her composition work and various literary works to President Masaryk. Alas, she wasn't able to keep on studying, as we simply couldn't afford it. She was only about 14 or 15 when she went to work at a law office, for the lawyer Fuchs. She was very clever, and so she very quickly found her footing at the law office. After a certain time my sister had such a good name in Presov, that when she for example went to the bank for money, she didn't need any extra papers. All they'd say was: "Annuska, if you say so, we believe you." She didn't make all that much there. If I still remember correctly, it was probably 400 crowns [In 1929 it was decreed by law that one Czechoslovak crown (Kc) 1 Kc – 100 hellers, was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold – Editor's note] a month. Annuska also had perfect musical hearing. She attended music school, where excellent Czech professors took her under their tutelage, and she learned to play the piano and violin very well. Besides this, she also inherited our mother's talent for languages. Like the rest of us she spoke Slovak, Yiddish, German and Hungarian. Bus she also learned French and English through private lessons. She was really an all-round gifted person, and amazingly talented.

When in the second half of the 1930s Professor Frantisek Guttmann evicted us from our apartment, my older sisters Lujza and Anna made sure that we didn't end up on the street. They gave us money, and found us a new place to live. By intervening in this way, Annuska gained the right to marry according to her wishes. She got married in 1936, and had one son with her husband, whose name I unfortunately don't know anymore. The child was splendid in all respects. Alas, Annuska perished along with her young family during the time of the Nazi rampage in one of the concentration camps.

I also had one older brother. He was not quite a year older than I. He was born in 1915. His name was Bernat. As a young boy and teenager, he was very strongly religiously oriented. His upbringing of course played a part in this, especially from our father. Later, my brother lived several years with our father's brother – our Uncle Filip in France. If I'm not mistaken, he lived there from 1932 to 1938. When he then returned home, he was unrecognizable. He returned as a young, open-minded and world-wise participant in the Interbrigade in Spain 6. After returning home, Bernat was involved in organizing the resistance. He was one of the founders of the Capajev partisan group [Capajev partisan group: created in August 1943 in the forest by Matiaska. Later this group grew into a partisan alliance that played an important role in armed anti-Fascist activity in eastern Slovakia – Editor's note] and was also a member of an illegal regional committee of the KSS [Communist Party of Slovakia] in eastern Slovakia. His life was very interesting, and marked by many events, political but also personal ones. After the war, my brother changed his name to Stefan Kubik. He managed to survive the hardships of the years 1938 to 1945, but even after these tough tribulations, his life didn't stagnate. On 19th January 1945, he returned to Presov along with the Red Army. The post-war government took advantage of his abundant experience. They made him the regional director of the StB [State Security] in Presov. Later he was sent to the embassy in France several times. Paradoxically, his reward for these services was jail in Ruzyne, which lasted for 33 months. He was jailed in 1951, and they released him on 24th May 1954. After his release from jail, he was of course rehabilitated, and all trumped-up charges against him were dropped. My brother got married after the war. He and his wife had two sons.

Growing up

I was the next to be born. That was in 1916, not even a year after my brother was born, and my parents named me Blanka. I was born in my grandparents' house in Stropkov. You know, on the one hand my father was very strongly religious, but again on the other hand, already earlier, when I was an adult, I wondered about how it was possible that there was such a small age difference between my brother and me? Well, so my father probably didn't observe some regulations to the letter [because of the small age difference, the interviewee most likely was wondering about the fact that her conception took place during the six-week post-natal time period called the lochia, which is characterized by bleeding as the lining of the womb is discharged. This would have been in contravention with the Jewish regulations regarding the prohibition of intercourse during menstruation – Editor's note]. If I'm to be honest, my mother wasn't thrilled by my conception and birth either. It's logical that she didn't want to have another child so quickly after my brother. I felt it, and alas to this day can't forget it. I loved my parents above all, and respected them. Thus it saddens me all the more, when I think of how I used to spend summer vacations separated from my family, with my grandparents in Stropkov, or when I recall many details that happened, and that bother me to this day.

In 1921 my sister Malvina was born, my parents' fifth child. She was born in Presov. After her was the sixth, my brother Henrik, I know that it was in Presov but I don't remember the exact year anymore. After him was my sister Matilda, in Presov in 1924, plus after her Alzbeta. Malvinka, Henrik and Alzbeta perished during the Holocaust.

Matilda survived three and a half years in Auschwitz. After returning home she was very marked by it – most likely the same as everyone else. Those that survived the camps are marked by it for the rest of their lives. Today my relationship with my sister isn't very active, though we live in the same town. But I'll talk about our childhood. When she was two, my sister was made a ward of mine. I was supposed to take care of her. But she was a very active child, and would often fall on her nose. I didn't know how to keep an eye on her, for which my parents quite often punished me. Due to these countless falls, my sister had a bent and deformed nose. My father thought that precisely this would protect her from deportation. But in the end they deported her too, and as I've already said, she survived for three and a half years in the Auschwitz concentration camp.

I know that I'm getting ahead of myself, but from this it's clear that in the end only my brother and I weren't deported to one of the concentration camps. Of the entire family, only Bernat, Matilda and I managed to survive.

I've already talked about my grandparents, parents and siblings. It's time to say something more about myself. As I've mentioned, my name is Blanka Friedmannova, and I was born as the fourth child, in 1916 in Stropkov. During the first years of my childhood I was in the care of my mother and older siblings. I was raised in a strongly Orthodox spirit, and one could say that I was the one that the religion and knowledge of Judaism stuck to the most.

As I've already mentioned, we had a kosher household. That means separate dishes for meat, and separate dishes for dairy products. For example, the Easter dishes [meaning Passover dishes] were completely different. They weren't used at all during the normal year, but just for Easter [Passover: commemorates the departure of the Israelites from Egyptian captivity and is characterized by many regulations and customs. The foremost is the prohibition of consuming anything containing yeast – Editor’s note]. That was an extra-special holiday for Jews. Everything had to be completely and absolutely organized and clean. Mainly there couldn't be any breadcrumbs, nothing. After the cleaning my father would then walk around the room, like he was going to go burn even bread dust [meaning chametz, or leavened dough, which is forbidden to be used during Passover. Based on this is the obligation to make one's home kosher le-pesach (proper for Passover). After a major cleaning, chametz is collected from the entire household and burned – Editor's note]. During Easter the custom at our house was also that my father didn't eat matzot in his soup. The matzot wasn't even dipped in it [strictly religious families don't put matzot into soup because after coming into contacts with water it would swell up. In their minds this meant leavening – Editor's note]. We wouldn't be allowed to put matzot into the soup until the last day.

If I'm to be honest, I never really looked forward to the holidays that much. We were very poor, and at our house the holidays also had very modest and simple dimensions. There were eight of us children, and when there wasn't anything material, we tried to at least dress up the holidays by having fun and spreading good cheer amongst each other. We'd joke around and have fun.

In 1922 I began attending a Neolog people's school in Presov. It was right beside the Neolog synagogue. I remember that the school also had a big courtyard where we played as children. The school also had this one large hall that was used for prayers on Friday and Saturday. People prayed there on the stairs, and not in the Neolog synagogue. But back to the school. It was a school with three classrooms. First Grade was separate. Grades 2 and 3 were together, and so were Grades 4 and 5.

Already back in people's school I met some girls with whom I was later very good friends. As I was attending a Jewish people's school, they were of course Jewish girls. We'd get together whenever we could, and spent our free time together. We'd always meet on Saturday afternoon, and talk about all sorts of things. About three or four of us would get together, and we'd discuss anything that came along. This habit lasted even after the war, even though only a few of us survived.

After finishing Neolog people's school, I started attending state council school 9, also in Presov. I wasn't able to attend high school, as there you had to pay. When I started attending council school, my sister Annuska had just finished it. She was an excellent student, and the principal assumed that with me it would be similar. He wasn't wrong. I liked school a lot. I did well there, and liked to study. I did well, and the principal and I were discussing my transferring to high school, as I was excellent at math. I also liked Slovak, and recited a lot. I also had a talent for singing. In signing class I sang everything from soprano to third voice. Wherever they needed someone to help out in singing class, or to sing something, my teacher put me there.

But one semester in council school it happened that all the girls got a B in behavior. You see, I attended a girls-only class at council school. And all of us got a B because the teacher hadn't shown up for class and we were talking. We weren't making noise. But when she entered the classroom, one of our classmates was imitating her, and we were laughing. Our classmate was pretending she was the teacher: "Students, stand up!" She was trying her best to imitate her, and we were all cracking up. Well, and right then the door opened and the teacher walked in. She saw that we were making fun of her and laughing at her, because she had a really strange voice and visage too. She of course became angry and so we all had a B in behavior on our Grade 5 mid-year report.

After finishing council school I very much wanted to go to Prague to study health care. I also spoke to the principal about it, but it was very difficult, as there was never any money at home. Back then I thought that I might be able to for example educate those classmates of mine that were from very poor families. Those that lived in even worse conditions, almost like Gypsies. They lived in terrible poverty. In these little houses. It's true that they were clean and all, but were very poor. And also thanks to this, many of them then became women of low morals and made a living by selling their bodies. Well, I wanted to improve this situation. I wanted better conditions for them. But when I confided in the principal and told him about my desire to go study in Prague, all he told me was: "So, Blanka. What'll we do? Your Dad's got no money." All that happened was that in the end I didn't go to Prague to study because: Dad didn't have any money.

Around when I was in kvarta [fourth of eight years in the secondary school system. The equivalent of Grade 8 – Translator's note], my father found me some students to tutor. I tutored them in math. They paid me 90 crowns a month for it, but the money didn't go to me, but my father. This was because he'd found the work and the students. Well, and I was left with nothing to do but silently accept it. We were living from hand to mouth, and we older ones had to contribute something to the family budget.

In my last year at council school, one more unpleasant thing happened to me. As I've already mentioned, we were an all-girls class. Well, I was sick for about a week, and so wasn't at school. There were around 36 of us girls, of that 12 were Jews, and we sat scattered about in various places in the classroom. When I returned to school after a week's sickness, the seating arrangement was different. I looked around the classroom, and all the Jewish girls were sitting together in the desks by the stove. I said to them, as I was used to: "Hey there! Did you leave a spot for me?" Well, because I was the shortest, they'd left me a place in the front desk. And I said to them: "What's up? Why did you sit here? Who sat you here? After all, we were sitting completely differently!" To that one of the girls answered me that one of our classmates, named XY, said that Jews stink, so all the Jewish girls had moved. I said: "Who? XY? All right!" I sat in the place that had been designated for me, and didn't say anything. Then came math. I was sitting in the front row, and who did the principal call out [to the blackboard] to answer a math question? XY! The classroom was quite small, and so was the space in front of the blackboard. I saw that XY had math formulas written out on her hand. At first I didn't say anything. I just watched her. But then I did something I'd never in my life done before. I yelled out to the entire class that she's got stuff written on her hands, and that she's cheating! All I remember now is that the principal took it relatively well, and perhaps even praised me. But I closed the whole thing off by us Jewish girls staying put there where we were, together. I told them: "No one's going to sit anywhere else. We'll sit here! We'll see who stinks!"

In the end, after finishing council school I decided to register at teaching academy. This academy was also in Presov, and had an excellent teaching staff. But getting into teaching academy was very hard. You had to have connections. Because this school had an excellent reputation, it was attended by students from all over Slovakia and also Czechia. Really. I even had classmates from Prague.

The problem was also in that my father didn't want me to continue studying. He wanted me to find work and start making money. During my last month of school, when I was finishing council school, he took me out of school. He put me to work for the Schnitzers, as a bookkeeper. He didn't want me to go take the entrance exams for teaching academy at all. But in the end, due to many coincidences and circumstances, things ended up so that I did go take the teaching academy entrance exams. You see, my council school principal stood very much behind me. He believed in my abilities and knowledge, and supported me in my studies. The entrance exams took place on Saturday, but I couldn't be there that day, as I'd already started doing the accounting work. So the principal helped me again. He asked some inspector, and the lady principal of the teaching academy, whether I couldn't take the exams on Monday. I was supposed to pretend that I couldn't be there on Saturday because there was something wrong with my hand. When I arrived on Monday at the teaching institute, I had a bandaged hand, and when the principal of the academy came in, she asked me right away: "Friedmannova, your hand doesn't hurt anymore?" Even today I recall the feeling that washed over me then. Well, it was truly quite unpleasant. The exams themselves ended up well. I entered teaching academy in 1932, and finished it in 1936. It was a four-year school.

So I finished school at the age of 20. After that I was very rarely at home. Because as a teacher, the teaching inspectorate was moving me around to substitute and teach in various places. But I visited home during the holidays, but that was already during the time when various nationalist tendencies began to make themselves known in Presov as well. It for example happened that our former classmates would chase us off the Korzo [promenade]. For example, Christian boys, who before used to take us to cafés, would now chase us away off the Korzo, and forbid us to be there.

But back to my work. So in 1936, after finishing teaching academy, I got my first temporary position. The Presov council school was short of teachers, and the inspector asked me to go teach there. So I of course agreed. After all, why not? I was glad that I had work. The inspector already knew me, which is probably one of the reasons he asked me. But of course, at first this caused a commotion. The council school was state-run, and the classes I was supposed to teach were Catholic. So it bothered some people that a Jewish teacher would be teaching there. This quickly spread all over Presov. After all, almost the whole town knew Blanka Friedmannova. We lived downtown, on the main street. Children on the street were saying: "Friedmannova is going to be teaching us!" So I really did also start there. There was no rumpus or any problems in my class. In two weeks there, I built up respect. There was peace and quiet in my class. I didn't achieve it by yelling or something. At first I let them be, I let them talk, and then told them: "Imagine that you'd be standing here like this, in front of a class full of students. Just imagine that you'd be standing here." That's how I went at them. They of course got it, and treated me with respect. The second problem was the teachers at the council school. Those that before had taught me were now to be my colleagues. The very first day, when they were welcoming me, as I was standing there, I said to myself: "My dear fellow teachers. If I ever angered or upset you, please forgive me everything. I would never have done anything like that if I'd experienced what the behavior of students means to a teacher." Then they came up to me one after another, and told me that I hadn't been such a bad student, after all. But one teacher came over to me and jokingly said: "But Blanka, I never pulled you by the ear. So I'll do it now." He came over to me and pretended to pull my ear a bit. So I've got on the whole nice memories of my first workplace. Even though I'm convinced that not everyone there was all that fond of me. But it was only a temporary position. I worked there for only a few weeks.

Then I started working at a Slovak people's school in Uzhorod [a town in Subcarpathian Ruthenia, see 10 – Editor's note], later in Somotor, and so on. They transferred us from place to place, wherever they needed us at the moment. When I taught in these various villages and small towns, I lived with my aunt and my Uncle Herman. She used to tell me about my mother and our family. Once on Saturday there was a day off. Her husband was working, and then went to church. To a Jewish one, of course. Well, and so my aunt says to me: "Blanka, come here. Here to the bed. We'll talk a bit." She began telling me about my mother. It's said that when my mother came from Poland, she was very beautiful. For two years she didn't wear a wig at all. She didn't even have one, as she wasn't used to anything like that from home. Her parents weren't as Orthodox as that, and didn't bring her up that way. And that apparently my mother had beautiful skin. She had a very pretty face and skin, and that it's said people used to come look and marvel at her. They wanted to know what she did to have such a pretty face. The apartment next door shared a bathroom with the apartment where my mother lived, and the neighbors used to come watch my mother comb her hair, and to see what she was putting on her face. Finally she began wearing a wig, I don't even know why. In the end my mother was the most religious of us all.

Let me add a little more information. From 1936, when I finished at the teaching academy and started in my first position at the Presov council school, I taught, as I've already mentioned, in Uzhorod, Somotor, and many other schools. They were schools where the teaching language was Slovak, but also Hungarian. I taught in Lemesany, and finally in 1939 I found myself in Giraltovce. But there that wasn't a school anymore, not in the proper sense. The school inspector placed me there, because he knew who and what I was [meaning he knew that she was Jewish – Editor's note]. He wanted to help me by doing this. So I started working there and taught Jewish children in a one-room schoolhouse.

During the war

When the big witch-hunt for Jews started, and the first refugees from Poland started arriving, my Uncle Herman, whom I lived with, was hiding them. That's why I moved out of his place. All my expenses and expenditures were being paid by my cousin at the time, but back then I didn't know that yet. I'm very grateful to him for that. I'm just sorry that to this day I haven't been able to repay him. With the help of the Jewish Center 11 he obtained false papers for me. I've got them stored away to this day. My cousin helped me get all that. Otherwise, he was a dentist. I unfortunately can't remember his name. In any case, I've still got the papers, on the basis of which I was named a teacher in Giraltovce. They state that: On that basis of submitted ballots, approved by appropriate authority, it is proclaimed that I was elected as a regular teacher at the stated school. As a temporary employee. At the same time, I am notified that I am to commence work on 9th May 1939. And another document is from 1942, and contains this: For the teacher Blanka Friedmannova. To Giraltovce. Jewish people's schoolteacher in Giraltovce has been eliminated from Slovak scholastic life. This decision is valid until repealed. Well, and this and all the other documents I have from that time are false. My cousin helped me get them. He helped me and many others get various papers and documents. In this fashion I got through almost the whole war in Giraltovce under the protection of Uncle Herman, my cousin and one could say they school inspector too, who I've already mentioned. Because he knew who I was and where I was, and despite that protected me and didn't inform on me.

I didn't leave Giraltovce until 1st May 1944. I was already in great danger, and my life was at stake. One document that I have from that time confirms this. The sender of the document is the Jewish Center, and is dated 11th May 1944. On the basis of a personal order of the Minister of the Interior, Section 14, we confirm that Friedmannova, Blanka born 17th May 1916, the last resident of Giraltovce, fulfilled the mandatory registration ordered by the Minister of the Interior, and registered in the registry of Jews evacuated from the Saris-Zemplin district, currently residing in Bratislava. So I really do have all necessary palpable facts stored away for these reminiscences of mine.

But even before that, I received one document dated 9th May 1944. It was issued by the scholastic and cultural department of the Jewish Center in Bratislava. It stated that: We take due note of the forced departure of the Jewish population of the Saris-Zemplin district, and based on this, as a public Jewish people's school teacher in Giraltovce, your temporary job location has been chosen to be the people's school in Hlohovec. The Vranov nad Toplou School Board. So this came from the inspectorate. The inspector there helped me quire a bit too. He for example came to Giraltovce for an inspection, and said: "Tell that Jewish teacher to come see me." I went to see him, and he began talking to me normally about everything. He talked to me as an equal. There was no innuendo, and all the while everyone thought how devoted he was to the regime of the time.

The National Slovak Uprising

In any case, I'll only add that I never started as a teacher in Hlohovec, but just registered there. I was afraid to stay there, because there was one policeman there who'd been in Giraltovce before. They'd transferred him there shortly before my arrival. I thought that he could recognize me and cause me problems. But as I later found out, it was precisely that policeman who was supposed to protect me. He was a reliable person. But how was I supposed to know that, when no one told me? So I played it safe and left Hlohovec. I arrived in Bratislava in May 1944, and then joined the Slovak National Uprising 12.

There were also other events that preceded my joining the Slovak National Uprising. While I was still living in Giraltovce, I was in touch with my brother Bernat. Upon returning from France, he'd become an active member of the Communist Party. I knew about it of course, but at first I myself didn't participate in the uprising or the party. It was only later that various small tasks came, that needed to be performed. To deliver something someplace, make contact with someone, and similar activities. I had nothing against it. I knew that I had to join this party. There were laborers and similar people there, and these people were sympathetic to me. At some point during that time my brother also changed his name from Bernat Friedmann to Stefan Kubik. It was for one because of false papers, but also for other reasons. After the war he didn't change his name back anymore.

Before I got to Banska Bystrica and joined the uprising there, I had to absolve the dangerous journey from Bratislava to there. Trains in those days were running irregularly, so it was very hard. I got lucky and traveled together with one friend, who later became the president of the Central Union of Jewish Religious Communities of Czechoslovakia. I got money for the trip from partisans. It was 150 crowns, and a certain man from Piestany brought it to me. So that friend of mine and I set out for Banska Bystrica. As I've already mentioned, trains were already by then not running, or if they were, then only sporadically. So we took one train to at least Zlate Moravce. We got off at the station there, and were thinking about what to do next. We didn't know anyone in the region; we had no one to contact. So we went to a hotel and pretended we were going to a wedding. We of course each asked for our own room for the night. The next morning the chambermaid came up to me and said to me: "But you didn't sleep here, the two of you slept together, right?" They thought we'd slept together, and I didn't want to have to explain anything, so I just told her: "Yes, but don't tell anyone." Back then there really was no point in explaining to some strange woman how and what. From Zlate Moravce we eventually got to Zvolen, and from there to Banska Bystrica.

In Banska Bystrica I went right away to report to the Central Committee of the Communist Party. I didn't know anyone there yet, but they knew about me and were expecting me. When I arrived there, Smidke [Smidke, Karol (1897 – 1952): Communist politician. One of the main figures in the Slovak National Uprising – Editor's note], Bacilek [Bacilek, Karol (1896 – 1974): Communist politician. Bore a significant amount of responsibility for the repressions at the beginning of the 1950s (see 1) – Editor's note] were there, plus one more. I've unfortunately since forgotten his name, but I do know that he was a professor. They asked me whether I'd come to see Husak 13. But I didn't know him, neither before nor after that, and really, I don't regret it. He was an anti-Semite, who had an appalling attitude towards Jews. But enough about that. Smidke and the other two told me that I was late, because the connection going to eastern Slovakia had left about a quarter hour earlier, and so I had to stay in Banska Bystrica. You see, I had hoped to be able to get all the way to Giraltovce.

So there was nothing I could do. I didn't know what to do now, and they told me: "Don't worry. You'll go identify yourself, and after confirmation you'll go work somewhere." So I went out onto the street, and suddenly I hear: "Friedmannova!" and I turn around had say: "My God, Oskar Jelen!" It was a teacher from our teaching academy. He hated me! His sister, she worshipped me. But at that moment he was so glad to see me that he was almost beside himself. I told him: "But I don't have any proof it's me." [meaning that she didn't have her papers, and thus couldn't identify herself – Editor's note]. At that time he was a major functionary, so he gave me confirmation that he knew me personally, and that I was a teacher. Right away they also gave me ID papers, and sent me to go work at the Education Commission, despite the fact that I was a teacher. I worked at that commission in Banska Bystrica until 28th October 1944. At that time the Slovak National Uprising was crushed, and we had to go hide in the mountains.

There were three of us that went together. A girlfriend of mine originally from Bardejov, my cousin Hersi [Hersl (Herschel)] and I. No one else. At first we hid out in a hayloft up above Selce for six days. From there we set out for a nearby village, Nemce. Not directly for the village, but up above the village there was this shelter built by shepherds, and that's where we stayed. Well, and I had with me my own ID for one, and my Party ID for another. I thought that it would be best to get rid of them, which is also what I did. I said to myself: "Where am I, what am I? I don't know. So I'd rather not have any papers." Finally we went down to the village. We were already sure that there were no Germans or Hungarians there. I stayed there with the Kabanov family up until 25th March 1945, when Banska Bystrica was liberated by Soviet and Romanian soldiers.

After the war

When the soldiers arrived in Nemce, they wanted food. But people didn't want to give too much of what little they had. These soldiers put me in charge of finding them food. So I went from house to house and asked for potatoes. Really, to some of them I had to emphatically say: "All right, you've got two possibilities, either you'll give them the potatoes, or we'll do it another way and call the Germans back." But in the end they gave as much as they could. It's true that some of these soldiers weren't all good either. One, I don't even know his name anymore, once began to make advances to me. So I quickly told him that if he wants to eat, he'd better keep his hands as far as he can from me. And he really did leave me be. I was talking with him some more after that, and he says to me: "You're Jewish, aren't you?" And to this I said to him: "Well, yes. We're Jews." Then I said to him: "But listen, the way you talk, did you study German?" To this he says to me that: "Yes. Ich spreche ein bischen deutsch." I say: "Know what? I'll tell you something my dear boy, you're a Jew." I based it on the fact that he spoke German. Russians didn't usually speak this language. He looked at me oddly, and said to me: "I was in Hungary, as many women as I wanted, I had. You're the first who told me that if I wanted to eat I should keep my hands off. So I said to myself that only a Jewess that stayed alive could have this kind of courage." Yes, I had even this kind of encounter. By then the end of the war was approaching, and I set out for the east, for home.

On my way, I met some girls in the Tatras who were returning home from the Polish prison camps. It was already evening, and we laid down to sleep. Suddenly someone says to me: "You're Blanka Friedmannova." I said: "All right, but who're you?" She said to me: "I'm a girl from Bratislava who they banished, and Jews from Bratislava were banished to the East. At that time when they banished me to the East, they allocated someone to each family. I was with your family. You were there once too, and that's how me met." We'd been together for such a short time, that it really couldn't occur to me who it was. Right away she told me that my father had died of natural causes before they managed to deport him. I can't even describe how much we wept that night, and how awful we felt. The next day I kept going, because I was curious who had survived, and was hoping to find at least Bernat in Presov. I knew that all my sisters had been in camps, and didn't have much hope anymore. During the whole way I didn't meet any soldiers. Everywhere I just read: Beware of mines and grenades!

Finally I got to Presov. I knew that Bernat was there too, because on the way I'd already met a couple of people who'd come out of their hiding places and told me. A bit before Presov, I stopped a military vehicle and the soldiers took me to town. They let me off in the street and didn't give hoot what would be with me. I found myself on the main street, and suddenly the manager of one store walked out and said to me: "Blanka!" It was already dark, as it was late in the evening, and then he said: "Jesus, is your brother going to be glad." He told me where I'd find Bernat, though at that time he was already named Kubik. Finally he told me that my brother was at a café, and that he'd rather go get him. He brought Bernat, and I can't even describe how glad we were to see each other. We wept. We wept horribly, horribly, over the loss of our family, but at the same time we were glad that we had at least each other. My brother then took me with him, because he already had a place to live. He took me to a place where partisans and returnees from the camps or the front were staying, and that's where we slept.

After a couple of weeks, my brother managed to find an apartment, where we then lived together. After some time our sister Matilda got in touch with us. She wrote us a letter that she was alive and was coming home. She didn't know if any of us were alive. Finally she returned home in September 1945. It was a beautiful reunion. What had happened with my sister was that she was the only one whom my father hadn't hidden from the deportations, because he thought that they wouldn't take her because of her broken nose. That was a mistake. In the end she was the first one to be deported. Our father blamed himself for it and couldn't come to terms with it. In the end my sister survived three and a half years of hell in the Auschwitz concentrations camp. After returning home she also changed her name, to Kubikova. Her plan was to emigrate as soon as possible.

I had in the meantime married Miroslav Dvorsky, on 11th September 1945. My husband's original name was Moric Moskovic. Like me, he was also a Jew. He was two years older than I, and was born in 1914. He was from Brezovice, near Sabinov. We had a civil wedding. Neither my husband nor I were interested in a clerical wedding, and we didn't observe any Jewish traditions in our household.

As I've already hinted with regards to my sister, she had decided to go to Yugoslavia. But first she finished school and wrote her high school exams, because back in 1939, the same as other Jews, they'd expelled her from school 14. But to be able to leave she needed a certain amount of money. So my husband and I gave her a certain sum, along with various things for the household, so that she'd have everything she'd need. But in the end what happened was that they stole it from her at the station in Prague. Ultimately she stayed in Prague and even studied there for a while, but didn't finish the school. After that I didn't keep close tabs on her life. My sister married her friend of long years, from back in the days of the Hashomer 15. He was an excellent chemist. But the both of them having experienced the horrors of the Holocaust and camps firsthand scarred their marriage. My sister to this day lives in the same town as I do, but we don't have a very close relationship.

Now back to my family, which I started with Miroslav Dvorsky. You see, I had originally not wanted to get married at all. Around me I saw many marriages that hadn't ended well. Be it before the war or after it. But when we knew that my sister was alive and returning home, we wanted her to have a home. My husband and I had met back when he was still a student at a Protestant high school. He wasn't my type at all. He'd been in love with this one girl in school. She wasn't Jewish, but a Christian, though that wasn't the reason why there weren't together. She got married. Then came the war, my husband was a soldier.

In any case, my husband and I lived in Presov in our apartment. In 1946 our first son was born, and we named him Peter. Three years later, our second son, Juraj, was born. Also in Presov. We didn't raise our sons in a Jewish spirit at all. We didn't observe any holidays, neither Jewish nor Christian ones. I said to myself: "Religion is a private matter. It's my thing, and it's not anyone's business." But one evening, it was shortly after the end of the war, a few of us that were Jewish met at a friend's apartment, and celebrated Passover. We asked my brother to lead it. We didn't invite any Christians, and were all only Jews there. We made seder supper [Seder: a term for home religious services and the prescribed ritual for the first night of Passover – Editor's note]. We weren't even halfway through the celebration, when the chairman of the regional national committee and the party chairman showed up and told us: "So, you're having fun here like this, and outside there are Banderites 16" Those were these Russians deserters and soldiers who were causing trouble in Presov. They were such swine that for example right during the first Easter after the war, they killed two young Jewish girls in Presov. These swine got fed by Jews, and then went to beat them.

Shortly after arriving in Presov, I went to work for the Party. I had already officially joined the Communist Party back in Banska Bystrica. Then I worked for the party, and became the chairman of the Women's Union. I did this until I left for Bratislava, which was in 1950. While I was still in Presov, I had two small children and I worked, well, simply put I had quite a lot of responsibilities. But in that union we accomplished a lot, especially with village women. We taught them to express themselves correctly, when to act a certain way, what to say on which occasion. Yes, we were a good bunch, and accomplished a lot.

My husband also had a lot to do. In 1949 they transferred him, and he worked in Bratislava as the director of a meatpacking plant. He was in charge of the nationalization of meatpacking plants 17. That took place in August 1949. But my husband came home to Presov every week. This was because we had to stay there for the time being, as we had no place to live in Bratislava. But after some time my husband managed to arrange a beautiful apartment in Malinovskeho St. So then in 1950 we all moved in there together.

Our good fortune didn't last long. That is, in 1951 they put my husband in jail. They made up various accusations and put him in jail for eleven months. This was because they didn't have anything to prove him guilty. The same fate met my brother as well. However, he was in jail for a lot longer. He was jailed from 1951 until 1954. The did his time in the prison in Ruzyne [in Prague]. Then he was released, the false charges were dropped, and he was rehabilitated. Really, that Jewish witch-hunt and the whole affair with the Slansky trials 1 changed my outlook on things. When my husband and brother were in jail, I tried as best I could, and was arranging various things. I wanted them to be home from jail as soon as possible. On top of that it was very hard, because I had to cover the whole household and all expenses with my one teacher's salary.

In Bratislava I at first worked for the Industry Commission [in post-war Czechoslovakia, starting in 1948, ministries were created in the Czech portion. Their equivalents in Slovakia were commissions – Editor's note]. Originally they'd wanted to employ me as the head secretary of the Bratislava Women's Union, but I refused the job. So in the end I began working for the Industry Commission. I liked the work there a lot; the work there really went well. But then, when they threw my husband in jail, I had to leave this job.

I started working at Zdroj [Zdroj: a retail grocery store chain – Editor's note]. First I wrote various memos and letters for inspectors that made the rounds to check up on things. But after a short while they realized that it was a shame to waste me on that kind of work, that I was capable of more. So the director himself pushed me through and arranged for me to take care of accounts. But by then it was already 1951, my husband had already been in jail for several months, and I'd already been notified that he was supposed to be released. So I went to the Central Committee of the Party. I went there to see someone I knew from back in Banska Bystrica, but today I don't remember his name anymore. So he told me: "All right, you know what? You'll go and teach at school. You'll go to the Ministry of Education and arrange it there. There's a certain XY there, you'll tell him that I sent you, and he'll give you some sort of position." It took a while, but in the end they found a teaching job for me.

In 1951 I began working at the Red Army elementary school as a math teacher. It was an eight-year elementary school, and I then taught there until retirement. Right the first year I was teaching children math, I began to prepare them for the math Olympics. I prepared them so well, that they placed very well, as excellent solvers of math problems. As soon as that happened, I got a good name in the school. I always knew how to deal with children, and they didn't give me any problems. They respected me and I got along with them excellently.

As far as my colleagues at work go, right at the beginning I made it clear who I was and what I was, to avoid any unnecessary misunderstandings. I think that they took it relatively well. Later they told me: "You were the only one where we always knew you were Jewish." And to this I told them: "All right." And they continued: "Because when you first introduced yourself, you said – I'm hereby notifying you that I'm of Jewish origin." I taught there until I was supposed to retire. I'd been working there for almost thirty years, 27 to be exact, and I could leave for a well-deserved rest. I retired in 1978.

My husband finally returned from jail after 11 months. They didn't have any evidence against him, so they had to let him go. It was hard. Alone with two kids. I didn't have even a crown to spare. I lived from paycheck to advance, and many times I also had to borrow money from someone. After returning home, my husband had to undergo re-education as a laborer, and then worked as a common laborer. After a certain time the political situation settled down. It was found that they'd blackened and accused him of things that he'd never done, and transferred him to a different location. He began working for Hydrostav [Hydrostav: in the past one of the largest construction companies in Slovakia – Editor's note]. His job there was better than as just a laborer.

My husband didn't live to be able to retire. He became ill and before he could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet, he died. That took place in 1971. He's buried in Bratislava. After my husband's death, I moved from the apartment in Malinovskeho St. to the apartment I live in now. This apartment is just right for me. It has two rooms, but that's enough for me, because I'm here alone. I've got a kitchen, a room for when company comes over, so a living room, and a bedroom. The furniture is according to my own tastes, and I feel good here.

Both my sons graduated successfully from university. The older, Peter, graduated from electrical engineering in Bratislava, and the younger, Juraj, from architecture. Also in Bratislava. Both of them are very clever and like every mother, I'm proud of my children. After finishing school, both sons got married and started their own families.

Glossary:

1 Slansky trial: In the years 1948-1949 the Czechoslovak government together with the Soviet Union strongly supported the idea of the founding of a new state, Israel. Despite all efforts, Stalin’s politics never found fertile ground in Israel; therefore the Arab states became objects of his interest. In the first place the Communists had to allay suspicions that they had supplied the Jewish state with arms. The Soviet leadership announced that arms shipments to Israel had been arranged by Zionists in Czechoslovakia. The times required that every Jew in Czechoslovakia be automatically considered a Zionist and cosmopolitan. In 1951 on the basis of a show trial, 14 defendants (eleven of them were Jews) with Rudolf Slansky, First Secretary of the Communist Party at the head were convicted. Eleven of the accused got the death penalty; three were sentenced to life imprisonment. The executions were carried out on 3rd December 1952. The Communist Party later finally admitted its mistakes in carrying out the trial and all those sentenced were socially and legally rehabilitated in 1963.

Sima Libman

Tallinn

Estonia

Interviewer: Emma Gofman

Date of interview: March 2004

I first met Sima Libman in her small cozy two-room apartment. I saw a small old woman with bright eyes. I found her to be a friendly and talkative person with a good sense of humor. While Sima and I were talking her granddaughters called several times to discuss their problems with her. Later, I saw Sima among the people who attended the general assembly of the Estonian Jewish Community. From the outside I could see that she walked with difficulty but I never heard her complaining about her health, and the conversation we had was a pleasant and interesting one.

My family background

Growing up

The soviet invasion of the Balkans

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

I heard from my father, Elhanon Rogovski that my paternal great-grandfather had come from Poland, which was then part of the Russian Empire. My great-grandfather’s name was Zelik Rogovski. When he was twelve years old he became a Cantonist 1, and served in the tsarist army at the age of 18. After 25 years of service my great-grandfather had the status of Nikolayevsky soldier 2 and could therefore settle anywhere within the Russian Empire. He chose Estonia, which was outside the Jewish Pale of Settlement 3, as the place of his residence and in the early 1860s he settled in the small Estonian town of Rakvere. His children were born there. I don’t know how many children Zelik Rogovski had: I can only tell you about two of his sons. There was Meier Rogovski who was born in 1867. He lived in Tallinn and was a highly respected person. For many years he was the chief rabbi of the Tallinn Synagogue. 

Besides that, between the 1920s and 1940s, Meier Rogovski was a stock holder of the Jewish Bank in Estonia. I remember what he looked like: a tall grey-haired interesting-looking man. He always wore a top hat and carried a walking stick. When World War II began his two daughters and their families moved to the back areas, but Meier Rogovski, his wife Chase, and their son Aron remained in Tallinn. The fascists killed them in September 1941.The second son in my great-grandfather’s family was my paternal grandfather, Benyamin Rogovski. He was born in the mid-1860s. Unfortunately, I know very little about my grandfather as he died a few years after I was born: I don’t remember him at all. He was an artisan, perhaps, a shoemaker and lived in Rakvere his whole life. From his first marriage he had five children: three sons and two daughters. My father was the youngest in the family. My paternal grandmother’s name was Leah [nee Pats].

In the 19thcentury the large Pats family lived in Pskov [today Russia], then some of them moved to St. Petersburg [today Russia], and some to Estonia. My grandmother’s sister, Beile Chapkovski, lived in Tallinn with her husband. Her brother, Abram Pats, first lived in Rakvere and then in Tartu. He had three children: Yakov, Zelda, and Pesach. Their descendants now live in Estonia and Israel.

In 1903, Grandmother Leah fell ill, she was treated in a hospital in Tallinn, but the doctors couldn’t help her and she died. She was buried in Tallinn at the Jewish cemetery. My father was only five years old then and my grandmother’s sister, Beile Chapkovski, adopted him. She didn’t have any children of her own and her family brought up my father as their own son. After his wife’s death, Grandfather Benyamin still lived in Rakvere with the rest of his children. The family was poor and my grandfather couldn’t pay for his children to be well-educated. Yiddish was the language spoken in that family.

My father’s eldest sister’s name was Anna. She studied in a Russian gymnasium in Rakvere and finished eight or nine grades. Anna married Faivel Migdal, who was a real estate agent. They lived in Tallinn and were well-off. Aunt Anna considered herself an urban lady: she never spoke Yiddish, mainly Russian. Their son’s name was Gedalye Migdal. He went to a German school, but in 1933 when the fascists came to power in Germany, all Jewish students had to leave the school. Gedalye spent his last school year in a Jewish gymnasium. After that, he graduated from the Department of Chemistry of the Tallinn Polytechnic Institute. When World War II began, Gedalye worked as an engineer at a chemical factory in a small Estonian town called Kivioli [130 km east of Tallinn]. 

At the beginning of July 1941 it was rumored that German troops had landed in the woods somewhere near Kivioli. Local authorities quickly assembled a self-defense group and sent it to the woods to capture the invaders. Gedalye was in this group. He always dressed well and on that day he wore a leather coat and a pair of box calf boots. So the Red Army soldiers mistook him for a German spy and shot him dead. His parents found out about their son’s death only after the war as they had evacuated in early July 1941. After the war, Aunt Anna and her husband lived in Tallinn and died in the 1960s.

Sheina Mitzevendler [nee Rogovski] was my father’s second sister. She acquired little education; I believe she only finished elementary school. Her husband was a hat-maker, he had a workshop in Tallinn and made good money. He was particularly good at making uniform caps and galloons on army epaulettes. Aunt Sheina was a housewife. They had two daughters. One of the daughters, Ezia, married a Latvian in the 1930s and went to live somewhere in Europe. Later, she moved to the USA and lived there for a long time and died there. The other daughter, Zelda, now lives in the USA with her son’s family. Aunt Sheina died before World War II. My father also had a brother, Aro-Benye Rogovski. He didn’t have much education either: in fact, he didn’t have a vocation. He lived in Tallinn with his family, did various odd jobs and owned a trade business for some time. He had a wife, Esther, two daughters, Rachel and Sarah, and a son, Zelik. 

During the war, Uncle Aro-Benye was enlisted in the Labor Army 4 and died there. Zelik, his son, fought in the Estonian Rifle Corps 5 and died in combat action. Esther, Rachel, and Sarah were in evacuation in the Ural region [today Russia] and returned to Tallinn after the war. Sarah was one year older than me and we were close friends, she was a wonderful person. Unfortunately, she died at the age of 65 after a very serious illness. Rachel died at the beginning of 2004. She lived in Finland with her daughter’s family. 

Out of all of my father’s relatives, his brother Joseph Rogovski was my favorite person. He was very talented. When he was young he strove to get as much education as he could. My grandfather couldn’t afford to help him so Uncle Joseph had to make his own way. He studied, and worked, and then studied again. During the [Estonian] War of Liberation 6, Uncle Joseph volunteered to the Estonian Army, and wounded his leg. He limped for the rest of his life. In the late 1920s, he graduated from Tartu University and became a certified pharmacist. After that, he and his wife, Pesya, lived on the small Estonian island of Vormsi for two years where Uncle Joseph worked as a pharmacist. Later, they went back to Rakvere, and Uncle Joseph opened his own drugstore with Pesya’s father’s help. In 1931, they had a daughter, Leah, and in 1935, a son, Benyamin. In 1940, the drugstore was nationalized, and Uncle Joseph was appointed the sanitary inspector for Narva. During the war, Uncle Joseph was evacuated to Chuvashia [a region in central Russia, in the middle of Volga valley]. After the war they returned to Estonia and lived in Parnu where Uncle Joseph worked as a sanitary inspector until he retired. He died in the late 1970s. His son, Benyamin, now lives in Israel with his family, and his daughter, Leah, lives in Tallinn. She worked as an engineer at a large factory for many years and is now retired. Unfortunately, she is very ill now.

When all his children became independent, Grandfather Benyamin married a widow with a young child and they had a daughter, Rebecca, in 1917. She was a beautiful girl, adored by all the relatives and especially by my father. Rebecca graduated from a German gymnasium in Rakvere and went to live in Tallinn. By that time Grandfather Benyamin had died, but his brother, Meier Rogovski, helped Rebecca to get a job at the Jewish Bank. Since then, she has always worked in finances and was a very good accountant. Rebecca married in 1939 and had a daughter, Sheina, in April 1941. During the war, Rebecca and her daughter were evacuated to the Urals, and her husband fought in the Estonian Rifle Corps. After the war, they all returned to Tallinn, and in fall 1945, when Rebecca gave birth to another daughter, Yana, her husband suddenly died of meningitis. Later, she remarried and had a son, Boris Khalupovich. In 1987, Boris went to live in the USA and Rebecca, Sheina and Yana followed later with their families. Rebecca is still alive. I sometimes talk to her on the phone and write letters.

My father always recalled his aunt, Beile Chapkovski, and her husband who took the place of his parents with gratitude. They were deeply religious people: often attended the synagogue, didn’t work on Sabbath, and strictly ate only kosher food. They also celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays according to the traditions of Judaism. The Chapkovski family spoke only Yiddish. Aunt Beile could speak little Russian and Estonian. Her husband was a kind person, but his life ended tragically. There was a small square in front of the Tallinn Synagogue 7 with several stalls which sold sweets, lemonade, and various trinkets. The Chapkovskis owned one of these stalls. One evening, just before closing time, two thieves entered the booth, killed Aunt Beile’s husband with an axe, and took the little money he had. This happened in 1925. Prior to that, everything was fine. The Chapkovskis helped my father to acquire a good vocation. Upon finishing nine years at a Russian gymnasium he studied under Rokhlin, an excellent old Tallinn dental mechanic. After he finished his studies, my father was tested by a special examining board and received a document which enabled him to work as a dental mechanic. Later, he worked with several dentists who treated patients in their offices and passed their orders to my father. He completed the orders at home where he had a small lab.

When my father was still a schoolboy he went to visit his mother’s relatives in St. Petersburg during his summer vacation. He had a lot of relatives in St. Petersburg, all of them members of the Pats family. While he was visiting a family of some of his distant relatives my father met a girl named Sofia Beilis. My father was 14 then and Sofia was just twelve. That’s when they fell in love. Every year my father went to spend at least a week in St. Petersburg in order to see Sofia. The last time he visited was in the summer of 1917. At that time they finally agreed to marry when my father started working independently, but due to circumstances they had to wait a further six years.

My mother, Sofia Beilis, was born in 1900 in Yamburg, Petersburg province [today Kingisepp, Leningrad region in Russia]. Her father, Joseph Beilis, was a good military tailor. He made uniforms and overcoats for top officials in the Russian army. In the mid-1900s, in regard to Joseph’s high qualification as a tailor and, therefore, his usefulness, he was given permission to settle in St. Petersburg along with his family. My grandfather rented a basement near the city center, engaged several workers, and opened a workshop. His family lived next to the workshop. My grandfather could have come from Ukraine because Mendel Beilis, whose name stirred entire Russia from 1911 to 1913 [see Beilis case] 8, was his distant relative. My mother recalled that they had a large photograph in their room with Mendel’s portrait in the center and his lawyers’ portraits on the sides.

My mother’s mother, Lyuba Beilis [nee Pats], was born in Pskov [today Russia], in 1880. After she married Joseph Beilis she lived in Yamburg. My grandmother had five children: my mother was the eldest. Next was another daughter, Panya [1902], then a son, Semyon [1905], and then Emma [1909] and Eugenia [1911]. They were all born in St. Petersburg. My grandparents spoke good Russian and Yiddish, but since their children went to a Russian school they used Russian in their family. However, my grandparents spoke only Yiddish to each other. Their family always observed the kashrut, Sabbath, and all Jewish holidays. My grandmother was a good housewife. She was good at preparing Jewish cuisine: she could cook traditional Jewish meals, and taught her daughters to do the same. She always made her own clothes: her children were always dressed well, and after my grandfather died, she earned a living by making clothes.

My grandmother was a determined person. When World War II began, Uncle Semyon and Aunt Emma’s husband went to the front, but the women and children stayed in Leningrad and didn’t know what to do. It was my grandmother who made the right decision then: she took all her children and grandchildren from Leningrad to Urzhum, Kirov region [today Russia], where her youngest daughter, Eugenia, lived. All of them returned to Leningrad after the war except my grandmother who died in Urzhum in 1943. Aunt Eugenia married twice before the war. From her first marriage she has a son, Joseph Turevski. He lives in Moldova now. Eugenia’s second husband, whose last name was Rosanov, was a professional army officer. Before the war he was appointed chief of the military school in Urzhum, but when the war began he went to the front and was killed. Eugenia and her children remained in Urzhum after the war. From her second marriage she has two children: her son, Mikhail Rosanov, who now lives in Israel, and her daughter, Tamara, who lives in Urzhum. 

Semyon, my mother’s brother, was a very interesting person. He was good-looking, cheerful, and very sociable: he could play the guitar and sing well. He always worked in sales: as a store clerk at first, and then as a manager. During the war, Uncle Semyon was in the army and fought at the Leningrad front. After the war, he returned to Leningrad to his family. Uncle Semyon used to say jokingly that his wife, Leah, gave him an expensive present every ten years: a new daughter. Two of his daughters, Inessa [born in 1928] and Lyubov [born in 1948], now live in St. Petersburg, and the third, Renata [born in 1938] died in 2003. Uncle Semyon was a very caring father. It so happened that his wife died when his youngest daughter was only seven years old. Uncle Semyon didn’t remarry. He brought up his daughter by himself and later lived with her family until his death. Their family was very hospitable: I loved staying with them when visiting Leningrad. Uncle Semyon died in the late 1960s.

Aunt Emma’s husband died in combat action. After the war she lived in Leningrad with her son and worked at a Leningrad chess club as a secretary. Aunt Emma died in the early 1980s: her son and his family moved to Israel in the early 1990s.

My mother’s third sister, Panya, lived in Leningrad, worked in a shop, and died in 1964.

In summer 1917, when my parents’ engagement took place, a number of very important events happened: The October Revolution [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 9 and the Civil War 10 in Russia, the Estonian War of Liberation, and Estonian Independence 11. My parents found themselves at opposite sides of the border. They wrote letters to each other and eagerly waited for a chance to meet. My mother forwarded several petitions to be allowed to visit her fiancé in Estonia but every request was denied. It was only in spring 1923 that she was permitted to visit her relatives in Estonia for a short period. My mother traveled to Tallinn and, naturally, didn’t return to the USSR. Later, in the 1930s, she really wanted to see her relatives in Leningrad but wasn’t allowed in. She did see her brother and sister after World War II, but her parents weren’t alive then. 

Growing up

My parents got married on 28thJune 1923. The wedding ceremony took place in the synagogue in Rakvere, where Grandfather Benyamin lived. At that time my father lived in Tallinn with Aunt Beile and her husband in a small apartment near the synagogue. It was the area where many Jewish families rented cheap apartments. The streets were narrow with mostly one-storied wooden buildings which were heated by stoves and had only electricity and running water facilities. Now these streets aren’t there any more: everything has been rebuilt. In 1923, my father brought his newlywed wife into Aunt Beile’s small apartment. I was born there in 1924. After my uncle died, we moved into a more spacious apartment in a different building, two-storied this time. We occupied the entire first floor, and our Estonian landlord lived on the second one. We had a large front room, a kitchen, a dining-room, a bedroom, and Aunt Beile’s room. She lived with us all the time, and I called her ‘grandma.’

When my mother arrived in Estonia she could only speak Russian. So Russian was my first language. As my mother talked to Grandmother Beile while at home, she was soon able to speak Yiddish: she had heard it spoken in her family from a young age. Later, she could understand and speak Estonian to servants and shop-keepers. I laughed when I heard her Estonian.

When I was four and a half years old, my parents hired a German governess for me so that I could learn German. This was the trend in Estonia at that time. She would come around noon and take me for a walk: we read books and played while speaking German only. At night she put me to bed and left. I forgot my Russian and started speaking German well: it’s always easier when you’re a child. Later, I studied German in school, and I can still speak, read, and write German. When I was five years old, I was sent to a Jewish kindergarten. I was there from 9am to 2pm when my governess would pick me up. During breakfast the children took turns helping in the dining-room by setting out the dishes and cleaning up afterwards. Our teacher, Madame Dubovski, who my parents became friends with later, used to recall how I would refuse to do the dining room duty and explained to everyone in German that I would have servants do this for me when I grew up. 

Yiddish was the language spoken in my kindergarten. There were Hebrew kindergartens as well, but my father acknowledged only Yiddish: he was a hard-line Yiddishist 12, but Joseph, his brother, held on to Zionist views. Whenever Uncle Joseph visited Tallinn he stayed at our place, and then my father and he would argue loudly discussing Jewish issues. They would chase each other around our large round table and shout. When my mother heard these shouts in the kitchen, she ran in, stamped her little foot, shook her ladle at them, and said sternly, ‘Enough!’ Then they would calm down. Fortunately, neither my father nor Uncle Joseph was a part of any political organization so they weren’t subsequently subjected to repressions.

I started going to school early, at the age of six and a half years: this was what I wanted. It happened in 1930. The Jewish school I went to was nearby. My class was small: we were taught all the subjects in Yiddish. Classes where subjects were taught in Hebrew were much more numerous. Base Schneeberg was the name of the teacher who taught us from first to fourth grade. From fifth grade onwards we studied languages: Estonian, German, and Hebrew. We were not too serious about Hebrew. We had a few lessons and we had no great desire to study it anyway. Influenced by our Yiddishist parents we considered Yiddish the true Jewish language. Students who were taught in Hebrew didn’t want to study Yiddish. Of course, there were families where both Russian and German were spoken. The school used a unified national curriculum, but our textbooks were in Yiddish. They were printed in Vilno in Poland [today Vilnius, Lithuania].

From a very young age, since my kindergarten years, I loved performing: I recited poems, sang, and acted in plays. There were plenty of chances to perform in school: end of school year, special parent nights, and various celebrations. The Jewish holidays which our school always celebrated were Purim and Chanukkah. For Purim we had fancy-dress balls, and for Chanukkah we did concerts, where I always performed. Other holidays were celebrated at home. Our school was secular. We knew all religious traditions, but there was no religious trend. The Hebrew classes had Tannakh lessons, but we didn’t. There was a cheder at the school. Some boys, who wanted to study the Torah, remained in school after lessons, and a rabbi conducted their lessons. There was no yeshivah in Estonia.

My parents weren’t too religious but they believed that Jewish families had to observe Jewish traditions. While Grandmother Beile was alive, our household observed the kashrut strictly: we bought only kosher meat, we had separate dishes for meat and dairy, even the towels which we used to wipe the dishes were separate. After Grandmother Beile died in 1936, a strict kosher household was no longer observed. My mother didn’t want to mess with the separate plates and towels, but still she never bought any pork. We always spent Sabbath at home. On Fridays, my mother thoroughly cleaned our apartment and cooked special meals for the next day, and Grandmother Beile baked challot. At night, when the entire family gathered at the table, my grandmother lit the candles and said the prayers. After my grandmother died, my mother carried on the tradition.

My father never prayed at home and never attended the synagogue on Saturdays. Only on holidays our whole family went to the synagogue together. Before the war we had a beautiful synagogue: just about all the Jews in Tallinn would go there for the festive prayers. In the synagogue there was an excellent male choir conducted by cantor Jossel Gurevitsch. Of all the holidays we celebrated at home, I do remember Pesach and seder. A special plate set, which was kept packed away in a box for the rest of the year, was finally put on the table. During seder, my father sat reclining among the cushions, posing as a free man. Aunt Anna and her family always came to our house for this celebration. Her family was secular: they didn’t celebrate Jewish holidays at home.

My parents were very sociable people: especially my father. He was a very witty and cheerful person. They both loved being around people, visited friends often, and their friends visited us. Our home was open to people. My father was a kind and caring person. He adored me and my sister. It was he, not our mother, who woke us up in the morning and sent us to school. If my sister and I had problems at school or out in the yard we ran to our father for help. My mother was much more severe. I remember one incident which occurred when I was seven or eight. My mother and I were invited to some friend’s house and it turned out that I had grown out of all my pretty summer dresses. So my mother took one of her dresses, which was beautiful but a bit old, and made it into a very pretty dress for me overnight. My father didn’t earn much in those days, and my mother had to make my dresses herself although she didn’t like doing it. The next morning, while my mother was getting dressed, I went outside in my nice new dress, climbed a fence, and tore it. I ran back to my mother crying. She didn’t say a word, but got hold of the collar and ripped the dress apart from top to bottom. She must have been very upset.

My mother knew how to dress inexpensively but fashionably and elegantly. She invented her own designs for dresses and suits. Sometimes she used her old clothes, combining them with new material. As a result she obtained some very elegant clothes, and her lady friends thought that she had bought them from an expensive tailor.

My mother was an energetic person, she loved being around people and participated in all kinds of events. While I was still in elementary school, my mother was always elected for the school’s governing committee where she worked very hard. In our school we had a small lunchroom, and during lunch break we could buy things like pastries, biscuits, or lemonade there. There was a long table in the hallway on the second floor where tea was sold from a samovar. Some ladies from the governing committee were always on duty in the lunchroom and kept order. My mother was often on duty. Both my parents were active members of the Byalik 13 Society: a Tallinn Jewish Society for Culture and Education. It was a secular organization: a kind of club. My father was a board member there.

The society rented a section of a large building, which isn’t in existence now. There were a number of hobby groups there: a drama group, a sports club, a choir, a youth group, etc. When my father was young he could act on stage. He was said to have been a talented actor. While still in secondary school and after his graduation, my father performed for the local Russian drama society and later for a Russian amateur theatre. He was part of the drama group in the Byalik Society and performed plays in Yiddish. One of the rooms rented by the Society was a large auditorium with a stage which was used for performances, concerts, and celebrations. The society had a good, nearly professional, large choir that sang at various events: it had actually been invited to sing for the Estonian Radio. Soloists from the Estonia Opera Theater would often visit the concerts to sing with the choir. The songs were either in Yiddish, Russian, or Estonian. Perhaps, they also sang in Ivrit, I don’t remember exactly. On one occasion my parents traveled to Riga [today Latvia] accompanying the choir on its concert tour: they were the choir’s constant admirers but didn’t sing themselves. There was also a Society library which contained many books in Yiddish, Russian, and Estonian. My parents read a lot, mainly in Russian. I borrowed Yiddish books from the library. We didn’t have a library of our own at home, and the papers my father subscribed to were in Russian and Estonian.

During holidays, the Byalik Society held dance parties. We had fancy-dress balls for Purim, there were always balls for Rosh Hashanah and for the general New Year. My mother prepared and organized these parties. Before the event she and some other lady members would visit owners of factories or workshops and ask them for donations to have a lottery or an auction. My mother was acquainted with the Jewish owners and they never said no to her. For instance, one of them, Ginovker, a chocolate factory owner, always donated boxes and packs of chocolates free of charge. Ratner, a fur workshop owner, donated some inexpensive fur items. Then my mother organized lotteries and auctions at the holiday events. Once she won a prize herself: a beautiful cushion made of fur and satin strips.

I didn’t participate in hobby groups at school, but I was a member of the Byalik Society youth group since I was twelve. I was part of the drama group where we staged children’s plays. I did gymnastics and played ping-pong. Once a week we would get together to have a discussion. The subjects were mostly cultural: on Jewish authors, artists, or musicians. We also discussed political events. I remember we discussed the Reichstag fire, persecution of Jews in Germany, fascism, and the invasion of Poland 14. We also discussed these things within our family: my parents, especially my father, were very worried. This is why later on, when the war began, we went into evacuation without any hesitation.

In 1929, my father spent a month in Austria going through an advanced training course for dental mechanics. Naturally, he paid all the expenses from his own funds. Our entire family went to the port to see him off and later to meet him: it was a big event for us. My father took a boat from Tallinn to Germany and then a train to Vienna. Later, in the mid 1930s, my parents spent several days in Helsinki [today Finland]. Apart from these trips, my parents never went abroad as they couldn’t afford it.

My younger sister was born in 1933. She was named Leah in memory of our father’s mother. According to Jewish tradition, the first daughter is named after her maternal grandmother, and the second one after her paternal grandmother. When I was born, my mother’s mother was still alive, and a child can’t be named after a living relative, so I was named after my mother’s grandmother. Her name was Simhe, but my name was recorded in a more modern manner: Sima. Leah was a happy and obedient child, and everyone in the family adored her. As an infant she had poor health, she had pneumonia several times and the doctors recommended that she spent summers away from the sea. So we rented a summer house in Hiiu, near Tallinn, for several summers. The house was in the middle of a pine forest: it was supposed to be good for her lungs. My sister, my mother, and I lived there, and my father came there every evening. Before that period, my mother and I went to the countryside every summer. 

To make it more fun, several Jewish families would get together, pick a nice spot at the seaside or lake shore, rent an inexpensive place and have a good time. My mother and I would usually spend two months there, and my father would manage a two or three week holiday and join us. Grandmother Beile remained in Tallinn to have her rest away from us. Our whole family spent two wonderful summers on Vormsi island when Uncle Joseph worked there as a pharmacist. That was in 1929 and 1930. There was a Swedish hotel on the island where we lived, but we visited Uncle Joseph and Aunt Pesya every day. There were amazing surroundings untouched by civilization, and beautiful forests full of mushrooms and berries.

My parents didn’t discuss the family’s financial matters in front me, but I think our economic situation began to improve from the mid-1930s. In 1938, we moved into a new comfortable apartment. It had central heating, an electric stove, and parquet flooring in every room. There were three rooms: a dining room, a bedroom, and a nursery. In the process of construction, the owner altered the apartment layout at my parents’ request, discarding the servant’s room and part of the kitchen to make space for my father’s study. We already had a servant at that time, but she came in the morning, helped my mother around the kitchen, and then left in the afternoon. We didn’t spend our summers in the country any more, but went to local resorts instead. We spent the summers of 1938 and 1939 in Haapsalu where my mother took mud-bath treatment for her legs, and in 1940 we went to Parnu. 

The soviet invasion of the Balkans

A few days after my sister was born, my mother and I went to Parnu. We received a telephone call from my father who sounded very anxious. ‘Come at once! We are being turned out of our apartment.’ We returned to Tallinn immediately and learned that Soviet troops had entered Estonia and our house would be occupied by the families of Soviet officers [see Estonia in 1939-1940] 15. We had three days to vacate our apartment. In panic, my parents searched for another apartment and found what we had always had before: a three-room apartment in a wooden building with stove heating. However, soon we were told that three rooms was too much space for us and a young couple was accommodated in one of the rooms. The man wore a civil suit, but the woman rarely came out of the room, which surprised my mother a lot. My father continued working. Our Jewish gymnasium was renamed ‘Secondary School #13.’ I was in my last year of school and intended to go on to study at the medical department of the University of Tartu. Classes which were taught in Yiddish and Ivrit were combined. The classes were taught only in Yiddish as Ivrit was outlawed. The Byalik Society and other Jewish organizations were closed.

During the war

The one year that we lived under Soviet government went by fast. On 7thJune 1941, I received my secondary school graduation diploma. The day before was my father’s birthday, so we had a double celebration at home. Two weeks later, I was going to submit my application to Tartu University but then the war began. German forces were quickly approaching Estonia’s southern borders and we realized that we had to go into Soviet back areas. When my father was young he had pulmonary tuberculosis, and although it was cured his lungs remained weak. That’s why my father wasn’t subject to military service. Still, it took him a lot of effort to obtain a permit to evacuate. We started packing up and I realized that my parents were very unpractical. I was just 17 years old but I knew better than my mother what things we had to take with us. If I hadn’t argued with my mother and had my own way we would have found ourselves in evacuation without bare necessities and with a bunch of useless things. Besides, everybody thought that the war wouldn’t last long and we would return in two or three months to find our apartments just as we had left them. That’s why my father didn’t take his dental tools and materials, my mother also left her sewing machine behind. After three years, when we returned to Tallinn, we couldn’t find any of our belongings. 

On 4thJuly 1941, our family left Tallinn and traveled east. We had been assigned to Ulyanovsk [today Russia]. We traveled in a goods wagon with other Jewish, Russian, and Estonian families. There were about 30 people in our wagon. We were lucky because a military store was being evacuated on the same train and we could buy our food from it. We never got to Ulyanovsk because our train was rerouted to go over the Urals. On one occasion I was almost left behind though at the last minute I managed to hop on the footboard of the last wagon. I had to stand there holding tight for hours until the train stopped again. That was when we were crossing the Urals range and the view was spectacular: the night, mountains, and extremely bright stars. The impression was so strong that years later when I was anesthetized and operated on I saw those mountains and stars again. 

We traveled for 15 days and finally arrived at the station of Dalmatovo [today Russia]. This is a small town in Kurgan region, 160 kilometers east of Sverdlovsk [today Yekaterinburg]. The food which was still left in the military store was given away to the evacuees. My mother got a large chunk of pickled lard. She didn’t know what to do with it, because we didn’t eat pork. For some reason, my mother didn’t dare to just give it to anyone but left it at the station, shoving it underneath some lumber. All who had been evacuated were assigned to kolkhozes 16. We went to the village of Ashurkovo [today Russia] and were given a vacant house. Apart from our family, two teachers from our Jewish school lived in this house. We all worked in the kolkhoz, out in the hayfields. Lunch was taken for everyone to the fields.

In September, I went to Sverdlovsk to study in a medical institute. I was accepted and given accommodation in the dorm. But my Russian wasn’t good enough and I understood very little at the lectures, especially in anatomy. I tried translating the lectures into Yiddish and Estonian: my anatomy teacher gave me a textbook in German. Still, I didn’t do well and was hopelessly behind in my class. Then we were sent to the country to help out with potato harvesting. I had no warm clothes and caught a bad cold. I wrote to my father telling him how miserable I was and he came for me at once. I returned to Ashurkovo but there was no work and no food. When cattle were butchered at the kolkhoz, kolkhozniks and evacuees were given the entrails and everyone was very happy with this. Nobody thought about kosher any more. I persuaded my parents to move to Dalmatovo. We rented a room there and survived by exchanging our things for food. Soon Israel Dubovski, a friend of our family who had arrived in Dalmatovo with his wife before us, introduced my father to his neighbor. His neighbor turned out to be a dental mechanic, too. He was an old Jew from Moscow [today Russia] who, unlike my father, had brought all his tools along with him. 

My father and he went to the local hospital and offered to open a dental surgery there using their own tools and materials. The hospital’s head physician liked the proposal and the surgery was soon opened. In this way, my father got work, a small salary, and most importantly, a worker’s ration card. Using it, he could get 400 grams of bread daily for himself and 250 grams more for each of us, non-workers. The hospital also provided us with a plot of land outside the town where we grew potatoes. Then I found a job. In Chelyabinsk [today Russia] there was a representation office of the Estonian Soviet Republic [see Estonian Government in Evacuation] 17 which dealt with affairs of evacuated Estonian residents. One of its representatives, an Estonian whose last name was Ilmatalu, worked in Dalmatovo. I was his secretary. I didn’t receive any salary, but I had a worker’s ration card. In fall 1942, Ilmatalu sent me to the village of Novoseltsevo, 40 kilometers away from Dalmatovo. A number of evacuated Estonian families lived in Novoseltsevo and the representation office opened an Estonian elementary school there. For the first three months an Estonian girl and I taught all the subjects in this school. 

Later, when the real teachers arrived, I returned to Dalmatovo. I walked 40 kilometers each way because there was no transportation. In Dalmatovo I had two friends of the same age as I: Jette Gleser and Sarah Rogovski, my cousin. We were young and tried to live interesting lives regardless of the hardships and disorder. All three of us often went to dance at a former monastery where officers’ refresher courses took place. There was no electricity in Dalmatovo: a homemade oil lamp was used to light the large monastery hall where we danced with young lieutenants to accordion music. Madame Dubovski, my former kindergarten teacher, and Israel Dubovski, her husband, were active people and spoke good Russian. They set up a drama club in Dalmatovo School, where Israel Dubovski taught mathematics. My sister Leah played the lead part in one of the club’s best productions, a fairy tale titled ‘Alenki tsvetochek’ [Scarlet Flower]. The club took this production to a festival of amateur theatricals in Kurgan [today Russia]. Jette Gleser and I also went to the festival with a beautiful dance, which we had prepared based on artistic gymnastics. Before the war, Jette and I did gymnastics for many years at the Maccabi 18 club. Both the fairy tale production and our dance were awarded festival diplomas.

In the middle of 1943, the Estonian representation sent me to Uglich [200 km from Moscow] to take a bankers’ training course. They were training specialists to work in the Baltic Soviet republics after the war. I was 19 then and I could speak much better Russian so I wasn’t scared of the 1,500 kilometer journey. After taking the course I returned to Dalmatovo and worked at a local branch of the State Bank. At the beginning of 1944, I received a call from the evacuated Estonian government. I was summoned to Moscow and sent to the offices of the USSR State Bank for a probation period. I stayed in a hotel, spent my days studying manuals and other financial documents, and in the evenings visited theaters and receptions at the Estonian representation office. A relative of mine, Zelda Pats, who worked for the Party, lived in Moscow at that time and we often met.

After the war

In May I was summoned to Leningrad. At that time, the Soviet Army had already entered Estonia, so the government of the Estonian Soviet Republic had been stationed nearby, in Leningrad. It occupied the large Oktyabrskaya hotel, where specialists for various government institutions of the future Soviet Estonia were staying. I was assigned to the Ministry of Finance, given a hotel room, and provided with food coupons and a scholarship. Until Tallinn was liberated I was to work in one of the branches of the Leningrad Bank. After I had some time to look around I went to a representative of the Ministry of Health and obtained an invitation letter for my father.

My parents were going through a very hard period at that time. My father didn’t have a job any more because his colleague had gone back to Moscow, taking his tools with him. In order to get a ration card, my mother went to work at a sewing cartel. My father’s lungs got worse. With great difficulty, having sold all they had, my mother managed to nurse him back to health.

In late August 1944, he came to Leningrad. Leah and my mother arrived a few weeks later. At my request they received a good room in our hotel and stayed there for a week. As soon as Tallinn was free, my parents and Leah went there. At that time, I had a job of putting archived documents in order, so I didn’t go to Tallinn until 4thNovember 1944. We had two rooms in a large apartment which was shared by two other families. My father began work as a dental mechanic in a state-owned dental laboratory, and I obtained the post of a credit inspector in the State Bank. Leah started her sixth year in the Russian school #19 19, and our mother stayed at home. My parents’ friends, the Dubovski family, also returned to Tallinn and lived in a communal apartment 20.

One of the families sharing their apartment was the Jewish Bahmat family. The head of the house, Isaac Bahmat, used to be an inspector in our Jewish gymnasium before the war, and prior to that he had been a school administrator in Valga. In fall 1945, the Dubovskis invited our family to their home. During our visit, Madame Bahmat peeked in and invited everyone to have some tea and home-made pie. Visiting them just at the same time was a very good-looking young man. He was Simon Libman, their friend from pre-war Valga. Later, I realized that this meeting didn’t happen by accident: it had been set up by Madame Dubovski and Madame Bahmat. Simon and I started seeing each other. It turned out he lived just across the street from us. Simon was twelve years older than me and I liked it. I didn’t like men of my own age, they all seemed too childish. Simon was born in Valga into a large and once very prosperous Jewish family. He finished a German elementary school in Valga, then an Estonian secondary school, and then he entered Tartu University in 1932 to study economics. Simon’s father used to own several houses and large shops in Valga but went bankrupt in the mid-1930s.

Simon’s two elder sisters, Rasse and Sofia, were already married by then, and his youngest sister, Martha, still lived with her parents. Simon and his younger brother, Abi, went to university at the same time. Abi studied Judaics. Being the elder brother, Simon decided to abandon his studies and started working so that his younger brother would have a chance to complete his education. Simon joined a lumber-trading company and worked as a manager until 1941. During this period, Abi Libman, who was a very clever person, graduated from university with a master’s degree.

The advent of Soviet power in 1940 went smoothly for the Libman family because they had nothing which could be taken away from them. As the war began, they managed to leave and go into evacuation but as they were traveling their father died. The train approached Yaroslavl [today Russia] and they all got off, found a Jewish cemetery and buried him according to Jewish traditions. Simon’s mother and sisters lived in Tajikistan during the war while Simon and Abi fought in the Estonian Rifle Corps participating in action near Velikiye Luki [today Russia]. Both of them were officers and they both joined the Communist Party when on the battle-front. After the war, Abi Libman taught the history of the Communist Party in the Party School 21 in Tallinn.

In 1952, when the anti-Semitic campaign was under way in the Soviet Union [see campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’] 22, Abi Libman was said to be a master of Judaics in bourgeois Estonia. Because of this he was expelled from the Party and discharged from work. For the next several years he worked at a furniture factory. Then Abi was reinstated in the Party and he continued teaching Party history and Marxist philosophy in colleges for many years. Abi Libman had the status of a professor and a doctorate in history.

My husband, Simon Libman, could speak Russian, German, and Estonian fluently and they often used him as an interpreter in the Estonian Rifle Corps. When the war was about to end he was assigned to work as a translator at an Army Prosecutor’s Office in Leningrad. After the war Simon served one more year in the Estonian Corps in Tallinn. In 1946, he was demobilized and assigned to the Department of Visas and Registration in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. When we met he was just getting his discharge from the Army. I dated Simon for several months, and then he went to my parents to ask for my hand. On my birthday party on 29thMarch 1946, with our relatives and friends present, I remember my father stood up and said, ‘I’d like to introduce my daughter Sima’s fiancé.’ Our wedding was to take place on 29thJune 1946, because my parents got married on the same day in 1923. At the beginning of May Simon and I went to Valga for a few days: he wanted to introduce me to his family. Living in Valga at that time were his mother and sister Sofia with her family. When we returned to Tallinn, we found out that my father had had a heart attack. He was lying in bed at home and Markovich, a very good physician, visited him daily. My father and he had been good friends since their youth. My father already began getting up again but then had two more heart attacks and died at the end of May. Naturally, Simon and I had no wedding. On 2ndJuly 1946, we simply had our marriage registered and I went to live with my husband.

My father’s death was a great loss to our whole family but especially for my mother. She became a widow at 46 with a young daughter in her care. Leah was just 13 then. My mother was a person completely unaccustomed to independent life. She had no work experience, apart from a few occasions she never had a job in her life. Naturally, Simon and I supported my mother and Leah. We helped her by purchasing a sewing machine and she started making clothes at home. She made blouses, bath robes, children’s clothes and sold them at the market. Later, she got a job at a sewing workshop. 

In November 1947, I had a son. At first we wanted to name him Elhanon, after my father, but it sounded outdated, and my mother thought of a beautiful name for our baby boy: Elkond. After a year I was going to send our son into daycare and return to work, just like all other Soviet women, but my husband protested. He believed that the child had to be brought up by his mother at home. We could afford this because Simon made good money. He kept on working at the Ministry of Internal Affairs where he was appreciated and given a raise regularly. Our housing was improved as well. In 1948, instead of a small room in a communal apartment, we were offered two nice big rooms in a comfortable six-room apartment. In this new apartment we had only one family sharing it with us, and they were very good and respectable people. A few years later, we redesigned the apartment where we separated two rooms and lived there until 1977.

When Elkond was three I decided that I had stayed home long enough and that I had to go to work. I didn’t want to work in a bank again. I was fed up with all those numbers. This wasn’t my type of job.

I took my son every summer to Parnu. This place has the warmest sea water along the Estonian coast. I always rented a room from the same landlady. Simon’s annual leave was always in winter so he could visit us only on Sundays. Just when I began to give serious thoughts to my returning to work I met Mirjam Kolomoitsev at the Parnu beach: she was a former student of our school.

She had a university degree, worked as a lawyer, and taught at the Tallinn School of Law. When she heard about my problem, Mirjam said, ‘You definitely have to study. You have a bright mind! You have to get good qualifications, or you will always get a small pay. Come and study at our School of Law. In two years you will get specialized secondary education and a lawyer’s diploma. You will get a monthly scholarship of 500 rubles.’ My salary at the bank had been 600 rubles. She also said, ‘You will have a two-month holiday every summer. And after you finish the school and start working, you will be able to study for a university degree by correspondence.’ I considered her suggestion carefully because a lawyer was my second profession after a doctor. I decided that it wasn’t a bad idea at all, but my husband didn’t like it. He told me, ‘Study in a medical school instead. You will be a nurse and it’s a great job for a woman. Didn’t you want to work in the area of medicine?’ But I wanted to be a doctor, not a nurse! I gave medicine up, which I regretted later. 

I submitted my application to the School of Law and was accepted. I managed to place my son in an Estonian kindergarten but it turned out that he wasn’t ready for it. Elkond was four at the time but he was too attached to home. At the kindergarten he never cried but stood by the window all day waiting to be taken home. We had to hire a babysitter so he could stay home for one more year. At the age of five he went to the same kindergarten with great pleasure. He actually went to school later than other children, almost at the age of eight, because my husband couldn’t bring himself to pull him out of the kindergarten. I proceeded with my studies at the School of Law, finished my first year and half of my second year. What was left was to do a course of practical work and pass the state examinations.

This was the beginning of 1953. Just before I had to start practical work, I was summoned by the school director and told that I wouldn’t be allowed to do it because I had hidden the fact that my husband’s brother had been expelled from the Party. I couldn’t understand what that had to do with me. My husband was fine: he had never been expelled from the Party. The application forms which I had filled didn’t contain any questions about my husband’s siblings. It was explained to me that the school wasn’t just any kind of school but a political and ideological one, and I had displayed my political immaturity. I wasn’t allowed to do any practical work and was expelled from the School of Law in February 1953. Later, I gained my end and was permitted to take state examinations. So I received my diploma without doing any practical work. But I couldn’t get any employment without an assignment from the School of Law.

One of the teachers who taught at the school was the Minister of Justice at that time. He knew me as a diligent student. I went to his office, explained the situation, and asked him to help me find a job. He refused to help me. I still have my lawyer’s diploma, but I have never worked as a lawyer. Two months after I was expelled from the School of Law, my husband was dismissed from office, which was totally unexpected. By then, Stalin had already died, but anti-Semitic policies in the country lived on, perhaps, mechanically. However, my husband was dismissed fairly: he was discharged from the Ministry of Internal Affairs on the grounds of staff reduction and was paid a large settlement.

In spring 1953 we were both unemployed. Soon after, some friends of mine helped me get a job as a translation secretary at the Ministry of Motor Transport because of my knowledge of Estonian, German, and Russian. I remember how long it took me to translate instructions on road construction from German to Russian, as the text was very difficult with a lot of technical terms. Then it turned out that nobody needed those instructions anyway. I stayed there for one year, then moved to a different organization and worked as a translation secretary again, then switched jobs one more time. I wanted to earn money but in every place I worked I was paid very little. In 1955 I decided to learn a trade and took a job at a hat-making establishment. I learned to make hats and worked as a hat-maker for 20 years.

The city’s Party organization directed my husband to work at the committee on measures and weights. Although he didn’t have any special qualifications he worked as a lab engineer. The people he worked with were young, happy, and friendly. Simon enjoyed his new job but his pay was very little: four times less than at his former job. We couldn’t survive on this kind of income. Simon spent six years working in the lab. During this time he took a half-year extension course in Leningrad and became a senior engineer but his pay changed very little. Finally, in 1960, Simon was transferred into the area of vocational education and was offered the position of director at a sewing vocational school. It took Simon some time to finally dare such a change in his career, as he didn’t have any qualifications in education. But he was told, ‘You have a wealth of experience in life, and you can certainly manage it!’ Indeed, Simon was able to fulfill his job. He was the director of this vocational school for some years and put things in good order there. He was then transferred to the State Committee on Vocational Education to work as the chief of the Supply and Construction Department. He worked in this position until he was 75 and then retired.

I worked as a hat-maker at a Lembitu consumer services center and retired at 55. But just one and a half years later, on my good friend’s reference, I got employment at a credit department of a large electronics store. This friend of mine and I worked together preparing paperwork for credit purchases. This work was easy and well-paid. After the Estonian independence was re-established in 1991, the entire commercial system was changed and when the credit department in our store was abolished, I retired for good.

Leah’s life didn’t turn out easy either. Her early childhood was happy. Leah was a pretty, happy, and kind girl, the youngest in the family. We all adored her, of course. When she was four years old, she went to the same kindergarten that I had gone to. In the kindergarten they spoke Yiddish, outside our house Leah played with Estonian children, and our mother spoke Russian to her at home. So, as a little girl Leah could speak Yiddish, Russian, and Estonian equally well. In 1939, she went to a Jewish gymnasium and studied in a Yiddish-language class. Leah had finished two years of school when the war began. That was when her happy childhood came to an end. The three hungry evacuation years followed.

In Dalmatovo, when our mother brought home bread which our family received from ration cards and started splitting it between us, Leah always sat opposite me. I remember her hungry eyes which she couldn’t pull away from the bread. She was still growing up and must have suffered from hunger more than we, adults, did. While in evacuation, Leah went to a Russian school and did her third, fourth, and fifth grades. She was a good student: just like me, she loved acting, reciting poems, and performing on stage. After our return to Tallinn, Leah went to the Russian secondary school #19 and graduated in 1950 with a silver medal. She was brought up in Russian culture, so after her graduation she went to Leningrad hoping to enter the university there and study history. Of course, she wasn’t successful. Because of large competition, she was offered a chance to take all the entrance exams and take part in the general competition, although, being a silver medalist, she was supposed to be accepted without any exams. Leah took offence and applied to the bibliography department of the Leningrad Institute of Culture instead and was accepted immediately. She studied there for four years.

In 1954, Leah called us from Leningrad. She was in tears and I struggled to understand what it was that had happened to her. It turned out that upon her graduation from the Institute she was being assigned to work [see mandatory job assignment in the USSR] 23 in Altai [today Russia], 4,000 kilometers from Tallinn. Simon managed to help her: he had many friends in Tallinn and Leah’s assignment was changed to Estonia. She returned to Tallinn and lived with our mother and worked as a bibliographer in the Central Library. Later, she taught at a college for librarians. After the college had been moved to the outskirts, Leah was appointed manager of the technical library. Her last work place in Tallinn was the library of the Estonian Academy of Sciences. Leah was an attractive girl: many young men were attracted to her but she didn’t like any of them. 

In 1964, she met Mr. Right. He was from Moscow, a qualified physicist holding a degree in Physics and Mathematics, and a convinced Zionist. His name was Ephraim Ulanovski. They loved each other intensely, but Ephraim was a married man with a ten-year-old son. He believed he had no moral right to leave his son fatherless. Thus, Leah and he agreed that they would get married and go to Israel after Ephraim’s son finished secondary school. They had to wait for eight years. During this entire time, Leah and Ephraim met frequently, exchanged telephone calls, went to visit each other, and always spent their holidays together somewhere at the Black Sea. My mother considered this situation not quite normal and was very concerned about Leah.

Leah and Ephraim got married in 1972. Leah went to live in Moscow and immediately they filed their paperwork for a permit to move to Israel. In spring 1973, their application was denied, and in July 1973, Leah had a son, Nahum. In October 1973, when the Yom Kippur War 24 was in progress in Israel, they suddenly received the permit on the condition that they leave within two weeks. Consequently, when the fact that they had a small baby was taken into account, this period was extended to one month. They flew to Israel on 15thNovember 1973. Leah and Ephraim lived 30 happy years together. They lived in Rehovot, where Ephraim worked at a military factory. Leah didn’t work but stayed at home with their son. He grew up to be a handsome young man. Nahum is a qualified physicist just like his father. He graduated from a university with a Doctor’s degree. Nahum served for several years in the Israeli Army. Hagit, his wife, is a third generation Israelite: her grandmother came to Palestine from Romania. Hagit is a biologist. She graduated from university and, according to Israeli laws, served in the army. Nahum and Hagit have a little daughter, Shahav. Ephraim died of a heart attack in 2002. Leah still lives in Rehovot. Nahum and his family went to the USA for three years where he is involved in an interesting scientific research project.

After kindergarten, in 1955, Elkond went to Russian school #32. He did very well in elementary school, then a little poorer, but he never had serious problems. Early on, Elkond loved sports: he did rowing and cycling. At the age of 13, he was part of a group of teenagers who did a cycling tour around Estonia.

Our family wasn’t religious, but we tried to observe Jewish traditions. At home we celebrated every Jewish holiday, and I often cooked Jewish food, not just on holidays. So our son was aware of his Jewish identity early on, and he never had a complex in this respect. Since my husband and I could both speak Yiddish, Russian, Estonian, and German, at home we used a bit of each language. As a result, Elkond can speak Russian and Estonian fluently and can also understand Yiddish. Elkond was interested in journalism, but Tartu University only educated Estonian journalists, so, upon his graduation from secondary school, he entered the university to study the Russian Language and Literature. His studies were interesting: at that time, a number of prominent scholars, such as Yuri Lotman and others, taught there.

Elkond did well in his studies but was suddenly expelled in his third year. It turned out that he had told the teacher of Marxism and Leninism that he could pass this key university subject without attending the seminars. In response the teacher refused to permit him to take the examination in order to prove the importance of Marxism and Leninism seminars. Immediately after his dismissal, he was drafted into the army. He served in missile forces in Siberia, and came back with much of his hair missing. He still believes he was right and has no regrets of the years lost in the army. After he came back from the army, he returned to university and finished his third year. He was 25 years old and it was time to think about getting a job. At that time, there was a new Russian-language newspaper in Tallinn entitled Vecherni Tallinn [The Evening Tallinn] and Elkond found employment as one of the editorial staff. He continued his university studies by correspondence and worked for this newspaper for quite a long time. He went through every step of the editorial ladder. Later, Elkond worked as a reporter for other Estonian papers and information agencies. At the moment, he is a reporter for the Delovye Vedomosti [Business News] newspaper.

He has been working in the area of journalism for over 30 years now. Elkond also does a lot of translation work, mainly from Estonian into Russian. Our son married late, at 38. He went on a business trip to Tver [today Russia] and met Elena, his future wife, there. She worked in an organization for the protection of ancient monuments and studied history part-time at university. They got married in 1985, had a daughter, Sofia, in 1986, and another daughter, Elizaveta, a year later. Elena never finished her university studies: she works as a proof-reader for a Russian-language newspaper.

My granddaughters spent their first school years at the Tallinn Jewish school. It is a secular school, and the language of instruction is Russian, but Jewish history and traditions are studied extensively and Jewish holidays are celebrated. So the girls know all these things. When Sofia was in her fourth and Elizaveta in her third year, Elkond put them in a Russian school where, he believed, the core subjects were taught better. They have kept many of their friends from the Jewish school and seen them often, and Sofia returned to the Jewish school in her eleventh year. She is going there now in her twelfth year, but Elizaveta still goes to the Russian school. Elena is a Russian Orthodox. Naturally, she wants her children to know Christian traditions, too. So their family celebrates both Jewish and Christian holidays. They all visit me for the Jewish holidays and celebrate the Christian ones at home.

During the Soviet times we had no Jewish social life in Estonia. The only thing was a synagogue which operated in a small old house on the outskirts of Tallinn. Mostly, elderly people attended it. My mother went there often after my father’s death. In the early 1960s, during Khrushchev’s 25 rule, there was a rumor circulating among Jews in Tallinn that Jewish amateur drama and vocal groups were already active in Moscow and authorities didn’t oppose to this. Then, a small enthusiastic group got together in Tallinn and decided that it was time to revive Jewish cultural life. Some of those enthusiasts were Meishe Sher, Boris Pasov, and Jakov Pats. They were all raised in a Jewish cultural environment and had taken active parts in Jewish cultural life before the war. I was invited, too, because I knew Yiddish and had taken part in Jewish drama before the war. To begin with, we decided to set up a drama club and produce performances in Yiddish. At that time, many Jewish families in Tallinn still spoke Yiddish and even the children knew it well. 

Meishe Sher handled all the organizational and legal part of the job. He was a lawyer and knew exactly which official channels had to be addressed in order to obtain a permit for a Jewish drama club to operate. The principal thing was to get the approval of the city’s Communist Party committee. I have no idea how Meishe Sher managed to do this but a few months later, we had an official permit for our activities and a room for rehearsals in the furniture factory club. We asked all our friends and relatives, and found people willing to be a part of our amateur theater. Some of them were Fanny Halbreich, Tsezar Malkin, and Beilinson. They came and were happy to help. For our first production we picked Sholem Aleichem’s 26 ‘Mazl Tov,’ a one-act play, and assigned the parts. However, after it barely started it all fell apart because Halbreich broke her leg, Beilinson got sick, and Malkin changed his mind. 

We needed a director urgently and found him. He was a young Jewish man from Tartu who had graduated from a drama college in Moscow and worked as a director and actor in the Estonian Drama Theater in Tallinn. His name was Ben Drui, he was a talented man with a true Jewish soul, and this may have been the reason why he agreed to help us immediately. Soon came the opening night of ‘Mazl Tov.’ I played the part of Beile the cook, and Joseph Shaikevich was my partner. He was born in Ukraine and spoke lovely Yiddish. In the production, he had the part of Rabbi Alter who was in love with Beile the cook. Berta Danzig had the part of the mistress, Avigal Fainstein was her housemaid, and Isaak Beilinson was the clerk who courted the housemaid. The small auditorium where we performed was full of people who wouldn’t let us leave the stage afterwards. Those who couldn’t be there on the first night demanded a second run. We had singers and musicians who joined us and soon they formed a Jewish women’s singing band. So, our second performance, which took place in the Russian Drama Theater of Tallinn, was made up of two parts: the ‘Mazl Tov’ production in the first part and the singing band in the second. The show was sold out.

Our performances awakened the Estonian Jews. Both young people and adults joined us: some wanted to perform and some just to help out. David Shur, a ballet dancer, set up a Jewish dancing group and Sima Shkop, an artist, drew the stage sets for performances. Everyone worked without pay but with incredible enthusiasm. Whenever we had problems with rooms we rehearsed at somebody’s home. And everyone still had their jobs or studies and families to attend to. My family understood what I was doing: my husband and son submitted to the idea that I was busy at the rehearsals in the evenings and on weekends. My mother helped me by making costumes and always cried when watching the performances, as she remembered my father performing in a Jewish theater.

Our theater was in existence for ten years, until 1972. The last several years we rehearsed and performed at the Jaan Toomp Club. We produced ‘Der Det’ [Divorce], Sholem Aleichem’s ‘A Doctor,’ and Gordin’s 27 two-act ‘Kreuzer Sonata or Across the Ocean’. Our most triumphal work was ‘Anne Frank’s Diary.’ We had to write our own scripts and translate it into Yiddish. The parts were played by both adults and children. Anne Frank’s part was played by Inna Gelb and Peter’s by Mark Shagal. They were just 14 or 15 years old. Tevje Majotes and I were the Dutch people who were hiding the Frank family. Some other people involved in the production were Lev Hasak, Isaak Beilinson, Julia Beilinson, Enn Krotschek, and Avigal Fainstein. Our theater took this production to Vilnius and Kaunas [today Lithuania]. We had very friendly connections with Jewish amateur groups in Lithuania: we often exchanged concerts and performances. I believe it was because of the work our theater group was doing that many Jews got acquainted with their culture and actually felt Jewish. Young people met each other and even married. In the early 1970s, during the big aliyah most of our actors moved to Israel. Many of our steady viewers left, too. Those actors who remained in Tallinn got together and talked and decided that our task had been completed and the theater should be closed. This decision must have made the Soviet security services very happy. Although we never felt much attention from their side I’m sure our activities were always closely monitored.

The revival of Jewish life in Estonia began in 1988 when the Jewish community was re-established. My mother wasn’t alive then: she had died in 1977, but my husband and I became active community members from the start. We attended all the events, meetings, and participated in holiday celebrations. However, soon after this Simon fell seriously ill and died in 1992. Now I still make every effort to attend interesting celebrations and events held by the community. Unfortunately, my health sometimes makes it impossible. Once every month, I always go to our Jewish school where we, former students of the pre-war Jewish gymnasium, have our re-unions. After such meetings I feel both happy and sad.

When my husband was still alive our son’s family and we switched apartments because ours was bigger. Now I live alone in a two-room apartment. My son, granddaughters, and daughter-in-law often visit or call me. I know they are always there to help.

Glossary

Körner Józsefné, szül. Halász Katalin

Született: 1910, Moson

Meghalt: 1991, Budapest

Szülei: Halász (eredetileg Haasz) Ottó (1878, Zólyom–1940, Budapest) és Berger Edit (1887, Moson–1969, New York)

Anyai nagyszülei: Berger Bernát (1838, Rendek–1926, Moson) és Baruch Teréz (1851, Győrsziget–1938, Budapest)

Az interjúkat készítette: Körner András (1940, Budapest–)

Az interjúk ideje: 1983-1990

Moson. A két Berger család közös háza és üzlete

Én Mosonban születtem és 1916-ig, hat éves koromig ott laktam. Apukáék ugyan 1911-ben Pestre költöztek, de én még 5 évig Mosonban maradtam a nagyszüleimnél. Később is mindig lementem nyaralni a nyári vakációra és a nagyünnepekre.

Emlékszem, hogy eleinte még petróleumlámpa volt a mosoni házunkban. Valamikor 1916 előtt vezették be a villanyt. Az biztos, hogy amikor anyukáék felhoztak engem Mosonból Pestre, akkor már villanyvilágítás volt a nagymamáéknál.

A házunkban a kapualj egyik oldalán laktak a nagyszüleim: a Bernát és a Riza néni, akit valójában Teréznek hívtak. A ház másik oldalán laktak a Frida néni [Doros Józsefné, Berger Frida, 1882–1963] szülei: a Sándor bácsi [Berger Sándor, 1845–1927], a nagyapám testvére és a Lujza néni [Baruch Lujza, 1848–1927], a nagyanyám testvére. Egyszóval, két testvér elvett két testvért és egy közös házban laktak. Közösen vezették a családi biztosító és gabonaüzletet. A közös családi üzletet „Alexander Berger und Bruder”-nek nevezték és ebben a Bruder a nagypapám volt.

Szóval volt a közös gabonaüzlet és biztosítóüzlet. Az utóbbi volt a Generali, az Assicurazione Generali. Ez egy olasz tulajdonban levő nagy biztosító intézet volt, amelyet Moson környékén mi képviseltünk. Jártunk Csornára, Szigetszentmikósra, mindenfelé biztosítani. Házbiztosítás, gabonabiztosítás, tűzbiztosítás, meg ilyesmi. A Frigyes bácsi, a nagypapa legidősebb fia [Berger Frigyes, 1878–1932] gyakran járt biciklivel, lovaskocsival vagy vonaton vidékre üzletet kötni. Ő intézte a biztosítási üzletet, de amikor a nagypapa öreg lett és egy kicsit szenilis, akkor már a gabonaüzletet is a Frigyes bácsi intézte.

Hetente kétszer volt piac Mosonban: csütörtökön és szombaton. Csütörtökön a nagymama is bent volt az irodában a kifizetésnél. Máskülönben nem segített. Ki kellett fizetni a parasztoknak a gabonát, amit hoztak. A parasztok a hetipiacra jöttek és egyúttal bejöttek a biztosítást is elintézni. Időnként mi gyerekek is segítettünk az irodában írni, de arra már nem emlékszem, hogy mit.

A parasztok által behozott gabonát a házunkban levő hat gabonakamrában tároltuk. Úgy emlékszem, hogy a gabona nem volt a miénk, a fizetés a fekbérért és a biztosításért volt. De néha sutyiban az öregek is vettek gabonát. Nem mindegyik gabonakamra padlására volt külön feljárat. Az első kamrában egy falépcső vezetett fel a padlásra, ott fent körbemehettél a többi kamra padlásán és az utolsó kamránál, a hatodiknál lejöhettél.

Amikor kezdték feltölteni gabonával a padlást, a gabonát mindig lapátolni kellett, hogy levegőt kapjon. Szép nagy kupac gabona volt. Mi gyerekek lecsúsztunk a lépcsőkorláton és félúton beleugrottunk a gabonába. Mondanom sem kell neked, mi történt: a gabona elindult világgá...

A közös ház nem zajlott mindig hangtalanul. Néha azon veszett össze a két nővér, hogy „te több körtét vittél el a kertből, mint én.” Hát ilyesmi körül volt a vihar. Meg a közös padlás körül. Örökké vihar volt, hogy ki akaszt fel, ki nem akaszt fel...

Este vacsora után a kapualj alól kivitték a padot a ház elé, a kapu mi felénk eső oldalára. Ott ült a padon a ház előtt a két testvér: a nagymama és a Lujza néni. A kapu másik oldalán két széken ült a két háztartási alkalmazott: a Paula és az Ilka.

A dagadt Paula már ősidők óta szolgált nálunk. Egész fiatalon került hozzánk, azt hiszem anyukával volt egykorú. Csak 1926-ban vagy 27-ben ment el tőlünk, abban biztos vagyok, hogy már a Frigyes bácsi esküvője után volt ez. Akkor ment el és ment férjhez a Paula. Pasasa korábban is volt. Időnként egy kicsit félrelépett. Egy tündéri aranyos teremtés volt, mi nagyon szerettük. Jobban tudta a Paula a zsidó szokásokat, mint sok zsidó.

A Paula mellett ült a ház előtt az Ilka, a Lujza néniék alkalmazottja. Ő is régen volt a Lujza néniéknél, de nem olyan régen, mint nálunk a Paula. A két alkalmazott hun veszekedett, hun jóban volt. Együtt mentek naponta háromszor libát és kacsát tömni a hátsó udvarra. Ott ültek egymás mellett és pletykáltak a libatömés közben.

Mosoni vakációk

Személyvonattal mentünk Pestről Mosonba, potom hét órát vagy mennyit tartott az út, mert a vonat minden fánál megállt. Amig kicsik voltunk addig valaki lekísért bennünket a vonaton. Volt úgy, hogy a Guszti [Brettschneider Augusta, a német nevelőnő], volt úgy hogy anyuka jött le velünk. Amikor már nagyobbak voltunk, akkor Pesten beültettek a vonatba és lent Mosonban a Frigyes bácsi várt a fiákerrel. Volt ugyan egy lovas omnibusz is Mosonban, de mi nem azzal mentünk. Autóbuszjárat csak akkor kezdődött, amikor én már nagyon nagylány voltam, már állásban voltam Pesten. Minket mindig fiákerrel várt az állomásnál a Frigyes bácsi, a pakkokat is a fiákerre rakták fel.

Egyszer engem küldtek le Pestről Mosonba a szegény Ferivel [Doros Ferenc, 1912–1945, anyám másodunokatestvére, aki munkaszolgálatban pusztult el], a Frida néni kisebbik fiával. Miután a Frida néni elég fukar volt, azt mondta a Ferinek: „Nehogy elmondd, hogy már elmúltál 6 éves!” Azt hiszem 6 éves korig nem kellett jegy vagy csak sokkal olcsóbb jegy kellett. Nem is volt a Feri túl nagy és olyan lányos pofája volt. Jött a kalauz. Olyan viccesen megkérdezte: „Na és te?” „Én nem vagyok ám olyan kicsi, csak azt mondták, hogy mondjam azt, hogy ennyi idős vagyok!” – felelte a Feri. Amikor leszálltunk, a Frigyes bácsinak kellett kifizetni a büntetést.

Mosonban mindenkit ismertünk. A szomszédok unokái is, ha nem laktak Mosonban, nyáron lejöttek a nagyszülőkhöz. Lányok csak egy ikerpár volt, a Kohn lányok, a Kohn Irén és az Olci. Velünk egyidős fiú viszont annál több volt.

A nagymamáéknál volt macskánk és egy ekkora, ronda, de nagyon aranyos kutyánk: a Bizsú kutya. Valami korcs volt. A kövér, rövid lábú Bizsú úgy nézett ki, mintha egy dakszli és egy tehén keveréke lett volna. A Bizsú napközben felkergette a macskát a fára. De amikor esténként a Bizsú a kiselőszobában az ebédlő ajtó előtti lépcsőn feküdt, hagyta, hogy a macska ráfeküdjön és úgy aludjon. A Bizsú olyan hűséges volt, hogy na! Esténként, amikor a kapu elé kitett padon ültünk, ő is oda feküdt a pad elé. De mindig csak a kapu mifelénk eső oldalán feküdt, soha nem ment át a Lujza néniék oldalára. Az utcára pláne nem ment ki; oda nem létezett, hogy ki tudtad volna vonszolni, mert attól rémesen félt, és mint a fene ugatott a félelemtől. Ha vakáció végén készültünk haza utazni és a pakkokat kihordtuk a kapu elé, hogy a fiákerre felrakjuk, a Bizsú úgy sírt, hogy az csoda.

Mind a négyen nyaraltunk Mosonban a nagymamáéknál, de legtöbbet a Lilivel [Rosenfeld Juliusné, Halász Lili, 1909–1984, anyám nővére] nyaraltam. A Lili és köztem pontosan egy év különbség volt, az nem számított semmit. A Klári [Erős Istvánné, Halász Klára, 1916–2001, anyám húga] is gyakran volt ott. Legkevésbé a Palira [Halász Pál, 1914–1984, anyám öccse] emlékszem; ő volt közülünk a legritkábban Mosonban.

Egy napunk Mosonban

Reggel

A felnőttek korábban keltek fel, mint a gyerekek. A nagymama már reggel 7-kor felkelt, ő mindig korán kelt. Ment kiadni a reggelit a nagypapának és a Frigyes bácsinak. Mihelyt felkelt a nagypapa, első dolga az volt, hogy odament a hálószoba ablakához imádkozni. Ezt még reggeli előtt csinálta. Annak az udvar felé néző ablaknak nagyon mély belső párkánya volt. A nagypapa odaállt az ablak elé, és rakta a tefillint, azt a bőr imaszíjat. Az egy olyan szíj, amit rátekernek ide a kézre, meg ide a csuklóra, ahogy most mutatom. Oda rátekerte az imaszíj hosszú csíkjait és közben imádkozott. Bevallom neked, hogy nem tudom pontosan, hogy miért rakják a tefillint.

Ha piacra kellett menni, akkor pláne korán felkelt a nagymama, akkor mesüge [bolond] volt az egész ház. Mindegyikünk a szobájában mosakodott, mert minden szobában volt mosdó. A házunkban nem volt folyóvíz, de még fürdőszoba sem volt. Be kellett hordani a vizet a szobákban levő szekreter-szerű mosdókba, és mosakodás után ki kellett vinni a piszkos vizet. A fürdőkád a konyhában volt, de abban csak hetente egyszer, valamikor a hét közepén fürödtünk. Máskor a kád tetejét egy deszka takarta, így napközben nem lehetett látni, hogy az egy kád.

A nagymama, nagypapa és a Frigyes bácsi korábban kapott reggelit, mint mi gyerekek. A Frigyes bácsi már korán ment az irodába dolgozni. Nem reggeliztünk együtt, mert ki hogy kelt fel úgy reggelizett. Mi gyerekek csak körülbelül 8-kor keltünk fel. Mi abban a szobában mosakodtunk, ahol a gyerekszoba volt. Próbáltuk amilyen gyorsan csak lehet befejezni a mosdást, ezért a nagymama időnként úgy odaállt mellénk a mosdást ellenőrizni vagy bennünket csutakolni. A mosdót mindig mint egy disznóólt úgy hagytuk ott, azt később, reggeli után, nekünk kellett rendbe rakni és kitörülni. Mire mi reggel felkeltünk, amire végig lettünk csutakolva, már nem volt olyan korán.

Reggelire tejeskávé volt, sohasem tea. De néha volt kakaó és egyszer-egyszer kuglóf is volt hozzá. Vaj, lekvár és méz mindig volt. Miután megreggeliztünk segítenünk kellett kivinni a cuccot a konyhába.

Reggel el kellett menni tejért a Rabl tejeshez. A Rabl nem volt zsidó, de annál úgy volt, hogy hát ezeknek is, azoknak is. A Klári úgy emlékszik, hogy a Horváth tanthoz is mentünk tejért, de én oda sohasem mentem. A Horváthéknak nem volt tehenük, ők a tejet kannákban kapták valahonnan máshonnan.

Délelőtt

Reggeli után kenyérkosárban el kellett vinni a pékhez a megkelt kenyértésztát. Ott számokat nyaltak rá, és azt így rányomták a kenyérre, hogy tudják melyik kenyér kié. Az ellenkező számot odaadták nekem. Nem minden nap vittük a kenyeret, mert a kenyér olyan nagy volt, hogy elég volt két-három napra. Jaj de jó volt az a nagy, gömbölyű köménymagos kenyér! Délben elmentünk a frissen sült kenyérért. Mire hazaértünk vele egy kicsit letördeltük és megeszegettük a jó lisztes, ropogós héját.

Délelőttönként néha segítenünk kellett otthon a takarításnál. A söprést a Paula csinálta, de kellett egy kicsit segítenünk törülgetni. Annyit törtem össze, mint ami belefért, úgy hogy a törülgetést nálam nem nagyon forszírozták. Kellett hátravinni a szemetet és beönteni abba a tartályba a kert sarkánál. Segítettünk egy kicsit a gabonát lapátolni vagy gyümölcsöt pucolni. Sokat nem segítettünk.

Néha segíteni kellett gyümölcsöt szedni meg a gyümölcsöt az előszobába behozni. Ha egrest kellett szedni, olyankor igyekeztünk meglógni, mert az szúrt. Ribizlit vagy málnát sem szerettünk szedni. Enni igen, de szedni nem. Zöldbabot sem szerettünk szedni, mert az úgy olyan laposan lent volt a fák tövében alul. Minket nem lehetett azzal büntetni, hogy nem kapunk enni, mert kimentünk a kertbe gyümölcsöt enni.

Egyszer egy héten kimentünk a nagymamával a piacra, és segítettünk neki a szatyrot vinni. A piacon megvett élő, összekötözött lábú libát haza kellett hozni. A libákat aztán otthon hizlaltuk. A libákat naponta háromszor tömték kukoricával, amit egy nagy vaslábosban főztek sóval. Azt imádtuk enni, de nem minden nap főzték ezt. Amikor ez friss, meleg és puha volt, akkor nagyon szerettük ezt enni.

Nem minden héten öltek libát. Azt, ha jól emlékszem, három vagy négy hétig kell tömni mielőtt leölik és kettőnél több libát sohasem tömtek nálunk egyszerre. Egy liba elég volt két hétig, mert hát közben volt csirke, kacsa, pulyka, galamb meg más hús is. Ha csirke volt ebédre, akkor azt el kellett vinni a sakterhez és aztán hazahozni. Nem mi pucoltuk a szárnyast, hanem a Paula, ezt ő irtó gyorsan ott hátul a szemétnél csinálta. Ha libát pucolt, a pehelyrészt külön tette, mert azt gyűjtötték. Az akkor is drága volt, és most is az.

Húst a kóser mészárszékben vettek vagy külön vágattak. A Steiner Oszkár kóser mészáros üzlete ott volt a Fő utca másik oldalán, a kápolna után. Nem minden nap vettek friss húst, csak úgy kb. kétszer egy héten. A hideg pincénkben a hús elállt egy-két napig.

Most már nem emlékszem, hogy hol vették a halat, azt hiszem a halat házhoz hozták. Sajtot a Frigyes bácsi hozott Óvárról. Túrót pedig mi magunk csináltunk otthon.

A meleg ebédet a Paula főzte, de a nagymama megmondta neki, hogy mit főzzön. A nagymama nemigen főzött, de a Paulát ő tanította meg főzni. Viszont a süteményeket mindig a nagymama csinálta. Ezen kívül a nagymama diót tört és befőzött. A rengeteg befőttet általában a nagymama csinálta a Paulával, olyankor a nagymama mindig ott volt.

A nagymama segített a takarításban, de vásárnapokon néha az irodában is. Meg foltozott és a kertben is mindig volt csinálnivaló. Ott ugyan volt valaki, aki segített. A Paula nem szeretett a kertben dolgozni, hát volt neki elég más dolga. Aminél a nagymama általában kint volt, az a libamáj sütés meg a töpörtyű sütés volt, de hát a Paula már azt is olyan jól tudta, hogy na.

Ha a Paula metéltet vagy nudlit csinált ebédre, azt az udvarra kitett és fehér abrosszal letakart asztalon a napon szárította. Csak hát azt folyton figyelni kellett, mert a csirkék nagyon szívesen felmentek arra. Délelőtt mi gyerekek gyakran ott lábatlankodtunk a konyhában. Segítettünk egy kicsit keverni a Paulának.

Néha kunyeráltunk tízórait is. Nem mintha éhesek lettünk volna, hiszen nem volt olyan sok idő reggeli és ebéd között. Inkább azért kunyeráltunk, hogy ne kelljen közben valamit csinálni. Tízóraira gyümölcs volt és néha pirítós kenyér vagy lángos. Lángost olyan napokon csináltak, amikor kenyeret sütöttek. Olyankor egy darab kenyértésztát körülbelül egy ujjnyi vastagon egy tepsibe terítettek. Ezt egy villával megmintázták, és jó vastagon meghintették sóval és köménymaggal. Berádlizták kockákra és otthon sütötték meg, nem a péknél, mint a kenyeret. Miután melegen kivették a sparherdből, libatollal megkenték libazsírral és kockákra törték. Nálunk a lángost tepsiben sütötték, nem pedig forró zsírban.

Ebéd

Mindig pontosan délben 12-kor, harangszóra volt ebéd, ahol felnőttek és gyerekek együtt ebédeltek. Bár a Frigyes bácsi egy felnőtt ember volt, és már mindent ő vezetett az üzletben, de mégis az nem létezett, hogy ő, ha nem volt éppen üzleti úton, ne legyen harangszóra délben otthon az ebédre és este 7-kor vacsorára.

A konyha melletti szobában ettünk. Az a szoba eredetileg [amikor Riza néni gyerekei kicsik voltak] gyerekszoba volt, de a mi időnkben már ott ettünk és a nagymama meg a nagypapa napközben abban a szobában tartózkodott. Ott volt egy nagy négyszögletes asztal, annál ettünk. Az utcára néző ebédlőben csak nagy ünnepnapokon ettünk vagy ha látogatók jöttek. Nyáron, jó időben kint ebédeltünk a kertbeli fedett, fából épült szaletliben; az ott volt a konyhához közel. Ha a konyhából a kiselőszobán át kimentél a kertbe, a szaletli ott volt rögtön balra az ajtó mellett. Az első világháború után eladták a kertnek ezt az elülső részét és lebontották a szaletlit. Azután nyaranta az udvaron ebédeltünk a vadgesztenyefa alatti asztalnál.

Minden nap valami más volt ebédre. Mosonban egy hónapig nem etted ugyanazt, mert ráértek főzni. Nem úgy, mint az ma szokás, amikor mindig ugyanazt a négy-öt féle ételt adják. Érdekes, de én nem emlékszem, hogy annyi pörköltöt zabáltunk volna Mosonban, mint most. Már ránézni sem tudok egy pörköltre.

Majdnem mindig volt ebédre leves; hát valamivel meg kellett tömni azt a sok embert. Például volt húsleves, benne rengeteg aprólékkal és kifőtt tésztával. A leves után nem volt minden nap húsétel; gyakran meleg tésztát adtak második fogásként. Sütemény vagy torta többnyire csak pénteken és szombaton volt. Nem a spórolás miatt, hanem azért, mert ez így volt szokás.

A leves után nagyon sokszor volt lekváros derelye, barátfüle. A derelye nem mindig volt krumplis tésztából. Volt kelt tészta, főtt tészta, diós metélt, nudli, krumplis nudli. Grízes metéltet is gyakran csináltak, azt nagyon szerettem. Csináltak néha prószát, amit imádtunk. Az egy kukoricalisztből készült kukoricamálé. Jó libazsírral csinálták és mazsola is volt benne. Isteni könnyűre csinálta azt a Paula, az nagyszerű volt. Néha volt káposztás rétes és nagy ritkán krumplis rétes is.

Csirkén és a másfajta szárnyasokon kívül gyakran volt galamb is. Tudod, hogy az milyen jó? Olyan, mint a legfehérebb csirkehús. A galambokat mi tenyésztettük; a galambdúc ott volt a kisudvarnál, az eresz alatt. A galambot is el kellett vinni a sakterhez, mert semmi olyan húst nem ettünk, amit nem a sakter vágott le.

Hal is gyakran volt. Csináltak diós halat, paprikás halat, rántott halat, halkocsonyát. A sárgarépás diós halat többnyire valami hegyes orrú halból csinálták; azt hiszem az csuka volt. Érdekes, hogy gefilte fis sosem volt nálunk, még szombaton sem.

Ezen kívül csináltak borjú tüdőt, töltött paprikát, töltött karalábét. Újévkor, de néha máskor is volt libaaprólék gesztenyemártással. Céklából csak salátát csináltak, cékla levest nem. Volt sokféle főzelék: spenót, zöldbab, zöldborsó stb.

Hetente néhányszor, de többnyire péntek délben tejes ebéd volt. Nem volt megszabva, hogy a hét melyik napján legyen tejes étel, csak az, hogy mennyi idő kell, hogy elteljen tejes és húsos étel evése között. Ilyenkor volt például meleg tejleves, amit apád úgy szeretett, mi viszont már sokkal kevésbé. Vagy valami más tejes leves volt, például tejes krumplileves vagy tejes bableves. Azt mind lehetett tejfellel és vajjal csinálni, szóval nem kellett libazsírral behabarni. A leves után olyankor gyakran volt túrós metélt. A főtt tésztát mindig otthon gyúrták, azt a konyhában a márványasztalon csinálta a Paula. Nyáron tejes napon néha hideg ebéd volt, például túró tejfellel vagy hideg tökfőzelék.

Valamikor nyáron, azt hiszem júliusban, van két nap, amikor a Szántó Magda böjtöl és a böjt előtti nem tudom hány nap csak tejeset eszik, zsírosat vagy bort nem. Sose tudtam, hogy akkor böjtölni kell.

Délután

Mi gyerekek vártuk, hogy az ebéd lemenjen, és délután lemehessünk a Dunára úszni. Korcsolyázni egyikünk sem szeretett, úszni viszont mindannyian nagyon szerettünk. Ha jól emlékszem a Lili fel mert ülni a Frigyes bácsi biciklijére is. A biciklit sohasem szerettem, és sosem tanultam meg biciklizni. Szóval, fürdőszezonban már alig vártuk, hogy meglóghassunk úszni. Ebéd után rögtön szedtük a cuccunkat és mentünk. Néha vittünk magunkkal almát vagy körtét uzsonnára. A Frigyes bácsi is jött néha velünk, habár ő többnyire ebéd után lefeküdt egy kicsit aludni.

Eleinte a strandra jártunk abba a fakalibába, aminek csak oldala volt, de teteje nem. Vanicsek néninek hívták a fürdős nénit. A nők kalibája mellett volt a férfiak vetkőzője. Mindig kukucskáltunk. Nagyon hamar meguntuk a strandot és miután jól tudtunk úszni és a Frigyes bácsi megengedte, kimentünk a szabad Dunára úszni. Eleinte a Frigyes bácsi felügyelete alatt mentünk, később egyedül is. Nagyon kevesen voltak ott, de mi voltunk.

Később majdnem mindenki a szabad Dunára járt úszni és nem a strandra. Először is, a strandon fizetni kellett. Ezen kívül oda vissza kellett menni. Nekünk sokkal egyszerűbb volt fentről leúszni a strandig és akkor vizesen gyalog visszamenni. Sokszor felmentünk félig Óvárig és onnan úsztunk le. Mondanom sem kell, hogy iksszer elúsztunk a vízimalmok mellett. A strand felett ugyanis volt két malom. Mindig balhé volt ebből, ha megtudták otthon. Később azért már megengedték. Leúsztunk a hivatalos strandig. Mi mind jól úsztunk, de a Lili tudott gyorsúszni és fejest ugrani is. Azt én sohasem csináltam.

A Dunára menetkor többnyire egy pokróc alatt vettük föl a fürdőruhát vagy már eleve fürdőruhában mentünk le. Nagyritkán a Horváthék Duna utcai házában vetkőztünk le, akkor is inkább az Ilka néni szobájában, ami a házukban hátul a konyha mellett volt. A Horváth Teréz tant nem nagyon imádta ha mi ott nyüzsögtünk, mert mindig csináltunk valami balhét. A Teréz tant nyilvános gőzfürdőjében pláne ritkán vetkőztünk le, mert ha a gőzfürdő üzemben volt, akkor oda be sem volt szabad mennünk, mert ott a férfiak voltak.

Nem siettünk haza a Dunáról, többnyire az egész délutánt ott töltöttük és csak este 6 körül mentünk haza. A fürdőruhánkat az úszásból visszafelé jövet is a pokróc alatt vettük le, ritkán mentünk már vissza a Horváthékhoz, mert a Teréz tantéknál már korán volt vacsora. Még világosban, de mindenképpen még ½7 előtt otthon kellett lennünk, mert különben állt a bál. Amikor hazaértünk el kellett mesélni, hogy mi volt, hogy volt délután, és segíteni kellett teríteni a vacsorához, ami mindig pontosan 7-kor volt.

Ebéd után a nagymama egy kicsit lepihent, esetleg foltozott, kézimunkázott vagy valami hasonlót csinált úgy körülbelül 4-ig. Akkkor mind Zack und Frack felöltöztek és várták, hogy jön-e vendég.

Ha nem volt fürdőszezon, akkor délután 4-kor meg kellett mosakodnunk. Délelőtt fülig koszosak voltunk, de délután meg kellett mosakodni és fel kellett öltözni, mert akkor kezdődött a vizitelési idő. Ugyanis délután jöttek az ismerősök látogatóba hozzánk. Ha vendéget vártak, néha még fürdőszezonban is már délután 4-re haza kellett jönnünk az úszásból. Ezt nagyon rühelltük.

Ha rossz idő volt vagy nem volt fürdőszezon, olyankor délután otthon vacakoltunk. Meg kellett tanulnunk varrni; ehhez a nagymama ragaszkodott. A Lili is megtanult Mosonban géppel varrni, én is megtanultam. Megtanultam kötni és horgolni is. Kézimunkázni meg hímezni is kellett volna, de ezeket nagyon utáltam és nem csináltam.

Szóval délután néha varrtunk, babát csináltunk vagy más hasonló dologgal szórakoztunk. Én rengeteg mindent varrtam és csináltam. Babákat csináltam, magam csináltam a snitteket is hozzá. Az úgynevezett Seppie baba volt a specialitásom, az egy olyan tiroli baba volt. Pénzt kerestem vele, mert egy csomó ilyen babát eladtam. Nyári táskákat is csináltam, kalapot is csináltam. Egyszer, amikor a Klári is lent volt nyaralni, kivasaltam a fején egy kalapot.

Szőnyeget is csináltam rámán. Be is törtem a rámával az ablakot, méghozzá azt az utcára nyíló ebédlőablakot, amely a dobogón álló biedermeier szék mellett volt. Hadonásztam a rámával, mert akkor éppen nem akartam szőnyeget csinálni, és betörtem az ablakot.

Én mindenből szerettem egy példányt csinálni, bár babát azt többet is. Akkoriban divatosak voltak az ilyen gömbölyű párnák. Cikkelyekből voltak kötve és egy bojt lógott a közepükről. Amíg az elsőt csináltam, addig nagyon tetszett, a harmadik már nem.

Időnként járt hozzánk egy házivarrónő is, úgy hívták, hogy Fräulein Nellie. Egy vénkisasszony volt magas ingnyakkal, nyakkendővel és egy olyan tipikus angol hosszú, vékony izés rúddal. Rém jópofa volt a Nellie kisasszony. A gyerekszobában dolgozott, mert ott volt a varrógép.

Amikor még Mosonban laktam, a nagymama tanított engem zongorázni. Négykezesezni kellett vele. A nagymama jól zongorázott és szép hangja volt. Amikor anyukáék felvittek magukhoz Pestre, akkor abbamaradt a zongoratanulás, de néhány évvel később elkezdtek hegedülni taníttatni. A nyári szünidők alatt a mosoni Geiger hegedűművészhez küldtek gyakorolni, hogy ne felejtsem el az év közben tanultakat.

Egyszer egy évben a Frigyes bácsi felvitt bennünket Óvárra a Selmeczi cukrászdába. Mosonban nem volt cukrászda, de az óvári kitűnő volt. Volt úgy, hogy délután kimentünk a szaletliba és ott társasjátékoztunk. Bábszínházat is csináltam, meg színházasdit is játszottunk.

Amikor egyszer volt valami árvíz, vagy mi a jó csoda, és az egyik gabonakamra éppen üres volt, egy délután ott tartottunk jótékony célú színielőadást az árvízkárosultak javára. Talán azért tettük az előadást délutánra, mert a gabonakamrában nem volt villany. Vagy ha volt is, nem volt ott elég lámpafény egy esti előadáshoz. A kamrákat magasan levő szellőző ablakok világították; mindegyik kamrában volt néhány ilyen ablak. Az nem tetőablak volt, csak magasan levő szellőző ablak. Pokrócból csináltunk függönyt. Talán még 14 éves sem voltam akkor. Fiúruhába öltöztünk, de azért volt férfi szereplőnk is. A Herz Imre udvarolt akkoriban nekem, az ő gatyája volt rajtam. A Herz Imre nem szerepelt, csak a nadrágja, ami rajtam volt. Később az Imre kivándorolt, azt hiszem Amerikába.

Valódi színházba nem jártam Mosonban. Hát kisgyerek voltam. Hova vittek volna egy kis gyereket színházba? Anyuka viszont nagyon sokszor volt Bécsben és Győrött. Győrött nagy hangverseny és színházi élet volt. Néha jött Mosonba is valami. Voltak bálok a Weisses Rössl, a Fehér Ló szálloda báltermében. Én soha nem voltam ott bálon, mert az én időmben a Fehér Ló már nem volt olyan, mint régen. A bálokról csak anyukától hallottam. Nem voltak komoly koncertek Mosonban, legfeljebb a tűzoltók rendeztek valamit, néha meg a [zsidó] nőegylet rendezett valamit.

Mi gyerekek nagyon szerettünk felmenni a nagymamáék zárt padlására. Az volt nekünk a szentély. A padláson tartották a diót. Volt ott fönt egy nádból fonott próbababa., úgy nézett ki, mint egy ronda madárkalitka. A zárt padláson tartották a nagymamáék egy ládában a pészahkor használt tálakat és edényeket. Sok régi levél és levelezőlap is volt ott. Emlékszem a „szépreményű Baruch Teréz kisasszonynak” címzett levelezőlapokra, azzal a hegyes, gótikus, tipikusan régi írással és gyönyörű régi bélyegekkel. Először röhögtünk a szövegeken, aztán leszedtük a bélyegeket. Volt egy nagyon szép Schaubeck bélyegalbumom, azt sajnos később ellopták. Régi ruhák és régi könyvek is voltak fent a padláson, azokat nem volt szabad lehozni, nem is tudom, hogy miért.

Egyszer, amikor már nagyobb gyerekek voltunk, találtunk fent valami régi virágokból csinált koszorút, s azt levittük. A nagymama akkor mesélte nekünk, hogy az a koszorú egy hosszú báli ruhájának sleppjén volt még abból az időből, amikor a nagypapa udvarolt neki. Mindent elraktak! A Frida néni később ugyanilyen volt: elrakta a madzagokat és dunsztosüvegeket is, de Mosonban több hely volt. Sok kotillon is volt a padláson, azok egy dobozban voltak. Tudod, hogy mi volt a kotillon? Azzal igérték oda a bálon a férfiaknak a táncot. Préselt kép, például virágot ábrázoló, volt a közepén és tüll vagy szalag körülötte. Olyan volt mint egy karácsonyfadísz. Szóval ebbe beleírták, hogy melyik tánc kié. Nekem még van a nagymamától egy-két ilyen kotillon.

És az a rengeteg kalap egy ládában! Annyi strucctollas kalap és mennyi külön strucctoll is volt ott! Meg egy ilyen kitömött kakadúu. Annyit röhögtünk a kalapokon meg a padláson levő többi vackon amikor már nagyobbak voltunk, hogy az nem is igaz. Jó világ volt az nekünk! Nekünk az isteni volt!

Vacsora

Mindig pontosan 7 órakor vacsoráztunk. Vacsorára meleg étel volt, mindig valami más, mint amit délben ettünk. Mindannyian együtt vacsoráztunk. Először mindig a Frigyes bácsinak adtak. Eleinte még ugyan a nagypapa vett elsőként, de később ugye a nagypapa már egy kicsit szenilis volt. Általában a nagymama osztott, de legelőször hagyták, hogy a Frigyes bácsi vegyen magának.

Ha tejes vacsora volt, akkor csináltak például tejberizst kakaóval vagy túrót tejfellel és metélttel. Ha zsírosat csináltak vacsorára, olyankor sokszor volt pénecl, mi így hívtuk a pirítóst. Pénec jiddisül szeletet jelent. Zsírral és fokhagymával megkentük, azt nagyon szerettük. Volt néha vacsorára libatöpörtyű törtkrumplival. Késő ősszel vagy tél elején néha adtak vacsorára inarszt. Az egy fajta libaszalonna volt. Azért hívták inarsznak, mert „von innen”. Ezt úgy csinálták, hogy a levágott tömött liba melléről leszedték a hájat. A bőr alól levették a hájat, ami ilyen vastag volt, és azt jól befokhagymázták, majd pirospaprikával bedörzsölték. Teljesen olyan volt, mint az abált szalonna, a paprikás szalonna. Csakhogy ez a libaszalonna nincs kifőzve, hanem csak ki van fagyasztva. Amikor az inarsz már jó hideg volt, akkor nagyon vékonyan vágták, nem azért, hogy spóroljanak, hanem a gyomor miatt.

Este

Körülbelül 8-ra lezajlott a vacsora. Addigra a Paula elmosogatott és megágyazott. Nyolc óra tájt a nagymamáék kivitték a padot a kapu alól az iroda elé a járdára, és ott beszélgettek egymással és a szomszédokkal. Ha rossz idő volt, akkor bent hagyták a padot a kapualjban a padlásfeljáró mellett. Az egy olyan jó jelenet volt amikor a nagymamáék ott ültek a ház előtt a padon. Ha több szomszéd is átjött és a padon nem volt már hely, hoztak még ki bentről székeket. A kapu másik oldalán ült két széken a Paula és az Ilka. Kicsit dumálgattak a nagymamáék is, a cselédek is. Megtárgyalták a világ sorsát. Este 10-kor ment mindenki lefeküdni, de előfordult, hogy a nagypapa már egy kicsit korábban bement, mint a többiek.

A Lili meg én vacsora után többnyire elmentünk a korzóra a fiúkkal haverkodni. A korzóra nem öltöztünk olyan nagyon ki, nem volt az olyan elegáns. Mindegyikünknek megvolt a saját udvarlója. A Lili is külön ment a lovagjával, én is külön mentem az enyémmel. A korzón főleg hozzánk hasonló taknyos srácok sétáltak. A Neumann Ottó is ott sétált, a két Goldberger fiú is. Azok még Bécsben is udvaroltak a Lilinek. A velem nagyjából egykorú Friedmann Pali nekem udvarolt, az haverom volt. A Friedmann Maxi is udvarolt nekem egy kicsit. Ő a Pali Paula nevű mamájának volt a legfiatalabb testvére, nálam valamivel idősebb, de azért fiatal. Szóval, főleg fiúkkal voltunk körülvéve, haverok voltunk. Ott sétáltunk fel és le a Fő utca másik oldalán, a kápolna és a Fehér Ló szálloda között. Nem mentünk be a kávéházba, mert azt nem engedték volna meg nekünk, de ez nem is jutott az eszünkbe, mert hát ki a fene akart leülni. Pontosan 10-re vissza kellett, hogy legyünk a korzóról, mert kellett lefeküdni menni.

Egész kis koromban, amikor még állandóan Mosonban laktam, akkor néha a nagymama és a nagypapa között aludtam az ágyban. Hát már olyan öreg volt a nagypapa, hogy ez nem zavart. Máskor a gyerekszobában raktak le. Ott rendesen a Frigyes bácsi aludt, de hát ugye ő 1914-ben bevonult, és akkor én aludtam ott.

Ha mind a négyen ott nyaraltunk, akkor néha a nagymamáék hálószobájában aludtunk a dupla ágyban. Az olyan széles volt, hogy mind elfértünk benne. Ilyenkor a nagymama és a nagypapa a konyha melletti szobában aludt. Akkor a nagypapa már nagyon öreg volt és ezért jól jött, hogy a gyerekszoba fűthető volt, mert az ő hálószobájukat nem lehetett fűteni. De mind a négyen elég ritkán voltunk ott nyaralni. Ha csak a Lili és én voltam ott, akkor a gyerekszobában aludtunk. Amikor a Klári még kislány volt, ő is a nagymama és a nagypapa között aludt.

Vallás és ünnepek a nagymamáéknál és anyukánál

A nagyszüleim vallásosak voltak. Megünnepelték a sábeszt, tartották az ünnepeket. A nagymama nagyjából kóser háztartást tartott. De azért nem tartottak be minden szabályt olyan hű de pontosan.

A dédnagymamának, a Baruch Katinak [Baruch Edéné, Kauders Katalin, 1818–1912] nem volt parókája, csak olyan hajrolnija. Jól emlékszem arra, amikor ezt megtudtuk. A mosoni hálószoba egyik sarkában állt egy nagyon édes kis öltöző asztalka, amelyen egy olyan billenő tükör volt. Egyszer, amikor gyerekek voltunk találtunk abban az asztalkában olyan hajrolnikat. Persze mindegyikünk a fejére rakta. Megkérdeztük, hogy ez mi. „Ez a dédnagymama sejtlije volt” hangzott a válasz. „Hát mi az a sejtli?” – kérdeztük. Akkor a nagymama elmagyarázta, hogy a dédnagymama a haját így előre rakta és a sejtlit így a haja közé tette, hogy mégis legyen benne műhaj. A nagymama elmondta, hogy egy ideig ő is csinálta ezt, amikor még fiatal asszony volt, de később már nem. A mi családunkban nem volt kopaszra nyírt nő.

A Frigyes bácsi már alig-alig tartott valamit, nemigen tartotta az ünnepeket vagy a kóser szabályokat. De azért a nagypapa kedvéért tartotta a nagyünnepeket, és széder este is ott volt, habár végig hülyéskedte az egészet. Egy keresztény nő, az Ilka néni volt a barátnője. A Frigyes bácsi gyakran vásárolt kolbászt a keresztény hentestől, az Ördöghtől. A kolbászt és a szalonnát ő az egyik kamrában vagy az udvaron ette, a lakásba nem vitték be, mert tekintettel voltak a nagypapára. Ha apuka Mosonban volt, ő is evett a kolbászból, mert szerette az ilyesmit. A Frigyes bácsi szombatonként eljárt a barátaival biliárdozni a Mocca kávéházba. Hát persze, hogy szombaton nem lett volna szabad ilyesmit csinálni. A Frigyes bácsi fütyült az egészre. Hát egy ember, aki végigcsinálta a háborút, az nem fog egy nagy gezereszt csinálni az ilyesmiből. [gezereszt csinálni: nagy ügyet csinálni. A héber gezerotból származik.] És ilyesmiben a nagymama abszolút modern volt, habár ő maga nagyon becsületesen tartotta az ünnepeket.

Anyuka Pesten a húszas évek elején még eljárt szombatonként a Csáky utcai zsinagógába, de ezt csak egy pár évig csinálta, aztán ez elmaradt. A nagyünnepi böjtölésen kívül más ünnepet nem tartottunk. Pesten például már nem tartottuk a hagyományos széder estét. Apuka egyáltalán nem volt vallásos. Nem böjtölt, szerette a disznóhúst és a felvágottat. Nagyünnepeken anyuka nem főzött, mert ő olyankor reggeltől estig böjtölt. Ezért apuka olyankor nem evett otthon. Néha egy vendéglőbe ment, de többnyire meg volt híva a Bodor Gézáékhoz, akik szintén nem böjtöltek. Anyuka ugyan böjtölt, de különben nem főzött kóserül. Nálunk már volt néha disznóhús, és a tejest sem tartották külön a zsírostól.

Amikor a nagymama 1932-ben felköltözött hozzánk Pestre, tudta, hogy mi nem tartunk kóser háztartást. Azt mondta, hogy nem muszáj megmondanotok, hogy mit eszem: „Was du mir gibst, das ist koscher. Ich frage nicht und du sag es nicht,” azaz amit adtok nekem, az kóser. Akkoriban a nagymama már csak délig böjtölt, mert valami gyógyszert kellett szednie és azt nem lehetett éhgyomorra bevenni. De akkor is csak egy pohár kávét vagy tejet ivott. Szóval nem sonkát izével...

A mindennapi főzés a nagymamáéknál nagyjából kóser volt. Nem keverték a tejest és a zsírosat. A konyhában volt egy külön kis kredenc a tejes edény részére és egy másik szekrény a zsírosaknak. Volt egy vastag vörösmárvány-lapos konyhaasztalunk, egy olyan négyszögletes asztal. Az körülbelül akkora volt, mint az itteni asztalom. Arra azt mondták, hogy ha ezt lemosod, akkor tejes, ha újra lemosod, akkor zsíros. Ez már nem volt olyan szigorúan szabályos. Az ételeket úgy kellett főzni, hogy ne kelljen a sparherdre egyszerre tejes és zsíros ételt rátenni, mert azt nem volt szabad.

Főzéshez libazsírt használtak. A libát és a többi szárnyast elvitték a sakterhez, aki a zsinagóga udvarán vágta a baromfit. Ott volt valami sufnija. A sakter leölte a libát és röpítette, odadobta. A liba még felugrott egy darabig; ronda egy dolog volt. Volt ott az udvaron egy lefolyó a vérnek, a sakter ott csorgatta le a baromfi vérét. Volt kóser mészárszék is Mosonban, az a Fő utca másik oldalán a Kápolna téren túl volt. Vettek borjúhúst és marhahúst, mert egy jó húsleves marhahúsból van.

A saktertől hazahozott húst a konyhában egy vájdlingban kóserolták. Azt egy óráig vagy meddig kellett áztatni, hogy a vér kiázzon belőle. Aztán besózták és azt hiszem újra leöblítették. Már nem emlékszem erre pontosan.

Ha egy kést eltréfliztek, az volt a szokás, hogy azt be kell dugni a földbe. Bedugták egy pár napig vagy meddig, és azt mondták, hogy akkor magához tér a kés. Nem tudom, hogy ez miért van így. Ez nemcsak nálunk volt szokás, hanem ez általános zsidó szokás volt.

Sábeszre minden második csütörtökön vagy péntek reggel öltek egy libát. Abból csinálták a pénteki és szombati vacsorát és persze a szombati ünnepi ebédet. A szombati ebédre már pénteken megfőzték a libahúslevest, megcsinálták a libasültet és a sóletet. Szombaton csak fel kellett ezt melegíteni. A sólet egy vasfazékban sült, amit betettek a sparherd sütőjébe. Szombaton többnyire sólet volt, és a sóletben gyakran volt liba. Belefőzték a paprikás grízzel töltött libanyakat, a halslit is. Én imádtam ezt. Néha a libanyakat hússal töltötték meg, de a legjobb akkor volt, ha liszttel, paprikával, grízzel és jó sok libazsírral volt töltve. A sóletbe néha belefőztek keménytojást is héjastul, ami szép barna lett, vagy egész hagymát, ami szintén elszínesedett.

A barchesz az ünnepre előre készen kellett, hogy legyen. Ezt otthon sütötték a sparherd sütőjében. Minden péntekre és szombatra kellett barchesz, azt hiszem négy barchesz kellett sábeszre. Ez péntek délután már ott kellett, hogy legyen, mert pénteken mire a nap lemegy, már mindenkinek „frakkban” készen kellett lenni.

A péntek esti gyertyagyújtás nagyon jó volt. Azt vacsora előtt a nagymama csinálta. Be volt kötve a feje kendővel. Meggyújtotta a gyertyákat, és akkor odaálltunk a nagymama elé. Péntek este a nagypapa templomba ment, a Frigyes bácsi azonban már nem mindig ment vele. Miután hazajöttek, a nagypapa imazsinórral és egy olyan kis talesszel imádkozott. Péntek este és szombat délben a nagypapa levágta a barchesz végét, és abból ilyen kis katonákat tördelt és akkor „hamotzi lechem min haretz” (...aki a földből a kenyeret neveli...), egy áldást mondott a barcheszra, és az volt az ünnep. Pénteken sokszor a húsleves után libaaprólék volt tört krumplival vacsorára. Volt sütemény és kompót is.

Úgy emlékszem, hogy szombat reggel is a hétköznapihoz hasonló reggeli volt: kávé kenyérrel vagy kaláccsal. Szombaton nemcsak a férfiak mentek templomba, de a nagymama is ment. Mi csak rajcsúrozni mentünk a templomudvarra, azt sem minden szombaton. A nagypapa halála után a nagymama már nem járt minden szombaton templomba. Habár a szombati ennivaló már pénteken meg lett főzve, de azért a Paula minden szombat reggel befűtött a sparherdbe. Reggel meg kellett melegíteni a tejet, mert azt télen nem itták hidegen, és a szombati ebédet is meg kellett melegíteni.

Szombaton a nagymama nem engedte meg, hogy fára másszunk, mert a szombatot ő ünnepnek tartotta. Azon viszont sokat röhögtem, hogy mindig szombaton volt a nagytakarítás. A Paula csinálta a takarítást, de a nagymama is segített. Valahogy úgy gondolták, hogy az nem számít munkának. Szombaton takarítottak azon a címen, hogy az praktikus, mert olyankor nem kell vásárolni menni, nem kell főzni, csak melegíteni, és ezért van idő a nagytakarításra. Ilyenkor kihordták a szalonból és az ebédlőből az összes bútort az udvar felöli nyitott folyosóra, tornácra. Ezt a két szobát hetente csak egyszer takarították, a többi szobát viszont minden nap ki kellett takarítani.

Szombat este meggyújtottak egy ilyen széles, négy viasz szálból fonott hosszú gyertyát. Az asztalon egy pohárban volt bor és mellette egy nagyon szép ezüst doboz. A dobozban volt szegfűszeg vagy valami hasonló szagos vacak. Igen jó szaga volt, azt kellett szagolgatni. Áldást mondtak, és a borral kioltották a gyertyát. Ez volt a sábesz kimenetele, vége. Szombat vacsorára általában valami könnyebbet ettünk, mert a nagy ünnepi ebéd után mindenki tele volt. Ilyenkor például töpörtyű volt tört krumplival vagy libamáj.

A purimot, a farsangot is megünnepeltük Mosonban. Kisgyerekkoromban, amikor még a nagymamáéknál laktam, purimkor beöltöztem a padláson tartott göncökből jelmezbe. A spájzban levő sublód is tele volt mindenféle antik régi dolgokkal. Mindent magunkra raktunk! Csipkeszoknyát, alsószoknyát, kalapot, mindent. Én vettem a hegedűmet és mentünk házról házra kabarézni. Látogatók is jöttek purimkor hozzánk. Purimra nem mentünk le külön Pestről, ezt a maskarásdit még mint kisebb gyerekek csináltuk. Purimra sütött a nagymama isteni flódnit és kindlit. A diós és mákos kindli szélét így az ujjával megnyomkodta, hogy hullámos legyen. Később csomagban küldött nekünk Pestre kindlit purimra.

Pészahkor viszont mindig lent voltunk Mosonban. Arra gyakran lejött a Dezső bácsi is [Riza néni második fia: Bodor Dezső, 1881–1944, Auschwitz], anyukáék is, szóval szép számmal voltunk. Már egy-két nappal pészah előtt kezdődtek az előkészületek. Kirámolták a szekrényekből az évközbeni edényeket és kisikálták a szekrényt. Kihordták az évközbeni élelmiszert, a rendes lisztet, cukrot, mindent a spájzból és áttették az egyik gabonakamrába. Kirámolták a kiselőszobában levő handspájzot is. A padláson levő óriási nagy ládából lehozták a húsvéti edényeket. Az a láda akkora volt, mint ez az asztal itt nálam. Abban a ládában tartották évközben a húsvéti szervízt, edényeket és evőeszközt. Húsvéti különleges lisztet, cukrot és más élelmiszert vettek, és azok kerültek a spájzba. Megrendelték a húsvéti bort és maceszt is. A handspájztól kezdve az egész házban olyankor csak húsvéti dolog lehetett. A nagymamáék csak maceszt ettek pészahkor, de nekünk gyerekeknek külön süttettek kenyeret, amit az első kamrában egy asztalra tettek, mert a lakásba nem volt szabad bevinni. Hát ott volt a négy unoka, Fräulein, anyuka, apuka esetleg a Dezső bácsi is, na meg a Frigyes bácsi és a Paula. Ki tud ennyi embert macesszal megetetni? A kamrában azon az asztalon volt minden egyéb is: felvágott és más ilyesmi.

A szédert mindig az ebédlőben tartották. Széder este megterítették ott a nagy kerek asztalt. Kitették a széder tálat. Az egy ilyen kerek, többszintes tál volt, aminek felül volt egy füle, és alul volt talán három lába. Az alsó részben egy olyan függöny mögött egy hímzett zacskóban három lap macesz volt. A macesz tasakra a széder asztal képe volt hímezve és az asztal köré arameusul a Hagadah-ból vett idézet: „Ez a szenvedés kenyere...”. Anyuka 1946-ban magával vitte ezt a tasakot Amerikába és anyuka halála után pedig a Lili a New York-i Zsidó Múzeumnak ajándékozta. A szédertál felső részén öt kinyúló karon egy-egy kis tál volt. Azokban a tálkákban volt keménytojás, torma, meg valami kis sült darab. Lejjebb kis tálakban volt zeller és hrajszesz. Külön volt reszelt torma és sós víz. Egy salátalevélben volt összekevert darált dió, citrom és cukor. Hát az isteni jó volt, abból mindig lopkodtunk. A mosoni szédertál később a Paliéknál volt, mert anyuka odaadta. Nem volt ezüst, csak be volt futtatva. Egy ideig a Paliék pincéjében volt, aztán kidobták. Az asztalon mindenki részére volt egy-egy borospohár és egy külön pohár a prófétának, mert az volt a szokás, hogy várták az Illés prófétát.

A férfiak este először templomba mentek. A nagymama már nem tudom, hogy mindig ment-e templomba. Úgy emlékszem, hogy széder este a nagymama otthon maradt, és csak másnap délelőtt ment templomba. Mi gyerekek sem mentünk este a zsinagógába, csak a férfiak: a nagypapa és a Frigyes bácsi.

Szóval hazajöttek a férfiak a templomból azzal, hogy éhesek vagyunk. Kezet mostunk és leültünk imádkozni. Azt mondták, hogy cövám, cö izé, cö nemtudoménmicsoda és akkor bedugták az ujjukat a borospohárba és ippeg hogy lenyalták. Akkor vettünk a szédertál tálacskáiból, azokból a jelképes ennivalókból.

A széder a kivonulás vagy bevonulás emlékére rendezett ünnep, de hazudnék, ha azt mondanám, hogy tudom mi volt, hogy volt. Megjegyzem, érdekes elolvasni, nem kár, ha tudja ezt valaki, mert ez tulajdonképpen történelem.

El kellett mondani a Ma nistanah-t. Belenéztünk a könyvbe, hát teljesen kívülről nagyon ritkán sikeredett. A szédereste elején a legfiatalabb gyerek kérdésére a nagypapa elmondta, hogy „Ma nishtana halaila hazeh mikol laleilot”, azaz „miben különbözik ez az éjszaka a többitől”. Akkor volt a góde (haggada), ami az egyik oldalon héberül volt, a másik oldalon pedig németül, a könyv meg volt így felezve. Naná, hogy nem a hébert olvastuk, hanem a németet. De azért a hébert is kellett olvasni. Ha láttuk, hogy valaki lapoz, akkor mi is lapoztunk egyet. Hazudnék, ha azt mondanám, hogy öt szót tudtam belőle. Később a gimnáziumban ugyan tanultunk valamit héberül, de addigra kinőttük már azt, ami nekünk a széderből olyan nagyon szép volt. Apropó, a nagymama gódéja ma is megvan.

A nagypapa a szédereste elején még csinálta pontosan a dolgokat, de aztán minél jobban rendetlenkedtünk mi gyerekek, annál jobban sietett. Amikor már nagyon zajlott a felolvasás, akkor mi már kanállal csörömpöltünk. Hát tudod, milyenek a gyerekek. Amikor a nagymama már látta, hogy a szédereste első része a vége felé közeledik, akkor kiszólt a Paulának: „Paula, man kann die Knedel einkochen!” Akkor voltunk a legboldogabbak. Hát addigra már néha főtt is a gombóc, mert a Paula úgy tudott már mindent, mintha született zsidó lett volna. A vacsoránál elsőnek maceszgombócos libaleves volt, utána jött a becsináltnak nevezett libaaprólék szafttal, tormaszaftban vagy almaszószban. Süteménynek volt csokoládés-kakaós macesztorta vagy rakott macesz, amit tojással, darált dióval és cukorral csináltak. Nagyon jók voltak ezek a húsvéti torták.

A vacsora végén kinyitották a kiselőszoba felöli ajtót. Ez volt az élja óve, hogy jön a vendég, mert várták az Illés prófétát. Na, de jött a Paula lerakodni, mert mindenki tudta, hogy nem fog ott bejönni senkisem.

Tulajdonképpen a vacsora után újra le kellett volna ülni felolvasni. Talán egyszer vagy kétszer a nagypapa ilyenkor még egyszer leült, de azt már tíz perc alatt elvégezte. Az az olvasás már gyorsjárat volt, mert látta, hogy a gyerekek már türelmetlenek és a felnőttek is örültek, hogy megyünk aludni. Hát egy gyerek sem marad meg neked ennyi ideig tisztességesen, és már a felnőtteknek is elegük volt. Ugye a Frigyes bácsi meg a Dezső bácsi folyton hülyéskedtek: „Tévedsz, nem itt tartunk, hanem már két lappal előrébb tartunk!” – hát mentek a szövegek.

Akkor, a szédereste végén volt a maceszlopás is. Előzőleg a nagypapa széke mögé odatettek egy szalvétában mit tudom én hány darab maceszt. Nem volt sok. Hát annak van egy rendje, hogy amikor itt és itt tartasz a könyvben, akkor most az egyik gyerek ellopja a nagypapa háta mögül a maceszt. A nagypapa úgy tett, mintha nem vette volna észre, és amelyikünk megmutatta a nagypapának az ellopott maceszt, az ajándékot kapott érte. Hát ha nem is jött a próféta, de addigra már gyakran jött valami vendég és akkor persze már ment a traccs.

Húsvét reggelire maceszos kávé volt. Beletörték a maceszt a bögrébe, azt jól megnyomkodták, majd ráforrázták a tejet és a kávét. A tej vastag fölére még külön egy maceszt tettek. A macesz persze rögtön elázik a kávéban és úgy laktat, hogy az csuda. Az nagyon jó volt.

Nagyünnepkor egy hét iskolaszünetet kaptunk, és olyankor mindig lementünk Mosonba. Először volt a bűnbánati ünnep. Az Isten akkor, újévkor vizsgálja meg minden egyes ember tettét és nyolc nappal később jom kippurkor hoz ítéletet, akkor dönt élet és halál fölött. Újévkor a nagymama valamikor délelőtt, még mielőtt templomba ment volna, az udvaron egy élő, összekötözött lábú tyúkot forgatott meg háromszor a feje fölött. Ezt azért csinálta, hogy az előző évben elkövetett bűneit levezekelje. Mi csak azt néztük, hogy mikor csinál a tyúk a nagymamára. A férfiak a templomban verték le a bűneiket, mondták, hogy cö dám, meg nem tudom én micsoda.

Újévkor mindenféle édeset ettünk, hogy édes legyen az új év. Volt almakompót, sárgarépa, különleges kerek mazsolás barchesz. Ilyenkor gyakran volt gesztenyemártásos libaaprólék, ezt anyuka még később a Visegrádi utcában is csinálta. Újévkor nem volt szabad paradicsomosat csinálni, mert az savanyú. Úgy volt, hogy ha a szombat beleesik az újévbe, akkor az a szombatok szombatja, az a lehető legnagyobb ünnep.

Na most nyolc nappal újév után volt a nagyböjt, a hosszú nap. A böjt előtti este csak könnyű vacsora volt, mert a böjt már este kezdődött. Már a böjt előtt meg lett főzve, és előre megsütötték a kuglófot, amit aztán a böjt lejártával vágtak fel. A nagymamáék böjtöltek, a nagyünnepet még a Frigyes bácsi is tartotta. Elmentek a templomba és várták, hogy kimenjen a böjt. Nagyböjtkor a nagymama is ment a zsinagógába, akkor a nők is mentek. Mi gyerekek ilyenkor mindig mentünk a nagymamát meglátogatni a templomban, és vittünk neki virágot. Én ezt nem tudom megérteni, mert a nagymama nem volt ortodox. Azt sem értem, hogy volt szabad nekünk virágot vinni. Mert a Szántóéknál egy zsebkendőt ide kötöttek a gyerekeknek, amikor kicsik voltak. Se retikült nem szabad vinni, se pénztárcát, se semmit. Hát virágot hogy szabad vinni? Hát az is csomag. De mi bizony vittünk virágot a nagymamának.

Az ott a templomban egy külön műsor volt. Mi odaültünk a karzatra a nők közé. A templomban a nők egy olyan elég ritka rács mögött ültek a karzaton. Ott ültek az előkelő nagyságák is meg az öregasszonyok. Innentől eddig volt rajtuk ezüst meg arany, fel voltak díszítve. Én annyi pletykálást még soha a büdös életben nem hallottam, mint ott. Amikor már nagyobb lány voltam, a Fenákel kántor udvarolt nekem. A templomban a Fenákel felnézett, én lenéztem, nagyon jó kabaré volt. A Fenákel később a Csáky utcai zsinagógában volt kántor, gyönyörű hangja volt. Azt hiszem a háború alatt elhurcolták és kivégezték.

Képzelheted, hogy nem ültünk egész nap csak úgy szépen bent a templomban, kimentünk a zsinagóga nagy udvarára hülyéskedni és traccsolni. A gyerekek is időnként kint rajcsúroztak. Akkor kijött a nagypapa és mondta nekünk, hogy: „Menjetek haza és nézzétek meg, hogy jött-e posta. Ha valami nagyon fontos jött, akkor a Paula nyissa ki és szóljon!” Nekünk persze nem volt szabad az ünnepen kinyitni a levelet, de a nagypapát izgatta, hogy mi jött, és ezért kérte, hogy a Paula, aki persze keresztény volt, nyissa ki és szóljon. Ezen mindig röhögtünk.

Sátoros ünnepkor mindig a házunk udvarán, a Lujza néni része előtti két diófa között állították fel a sátrat. Én nem is emlékszem, hogy nálunk külön sátor lett volna. A Lujza néniék soha nem aludtak a sátorban, csak ott ettek. Mi sohasem ettünk a Lujza néniék sátrában.

A szimhát Tóra, a Tóra ünnepe a szukkot, a sátoros ünnep utolsó napja. Akkor a templomban a rabbi körbement a Tórával, és mi gyerekek kis zászlókat tartva mentünk utána és persze rendetlenkedtünk. Ez egy nagyon szép szokás volt, ezt nagyon szerettük.

A hanukkát is megünnepeltük Mosonban. A karácsonyt ott nem tartottuk, azt csak Pestre költözésünk után kezdtük tartani. Hanukkakor az ebédlő utcai ablakába kitették a szép, előkelő nyolcágú menorát és minden nap eggyel több gyertyát gyújtottak meg rajta. A gyerekszoba ablak nagyon mély belső párkányára pedig egy kis fatuskót tettek. Az a belső párkány-szerű ablakdeszka a vastag fal miatt olyan mély volt, mint ez az asztal. Arra a fatuskóra nyolc kis színes gyertyát állítottak és még egyet külön. Az a külön gyertya volt a samesz, a szolga. Azzal gyújtották meg egyenként a tuskón levő kis karácsonyfa gyertyákat.

A mosoni házunk

A nagymamáék háza Mosonnak Óvár felé eső végén volt. Egy 1786-ban épült, olyan parasztkúria típusú ház volt, az építési év rá volt faragva a Fő utcai íves kapunk zárókövére. A Sándor bácsi és a nagypapa 1875 körül vette meg az épületet. A Sándor bácsi már 1874-ben Mosonban lakott, de azt nem tudom, hogy már korábban megvette-e ezt a Fő utcai házat vagy másutt lakott. A ház hátsó traktusa a gabonakamrákkal nem volt olyan régi, mint az utcai rész; a kamrákat a családi gabonaüzlet részére építették.

A ház boltíves, széles kapubehajtójában állt az a pad, amit este kivittek a ház elé, az irodaablak alá. A házunk egy bődületes nagy udvar körül épült. Az utcai kaputól balra volt a nagymamáék lakása, jobbra pedig a Sándor bácsiék lakása. A hátsó traktus fele lejtő udvar utca felöli oldalán, na meg a Sándor bácsiék oldalán egy olyan oszlopos, íves tornác, egy fedett folyosó volt. A széles kapun át lovaskocsival be lehetett hajtani az udvarra és az utcai kapuval szemben egy másik nagy kapun keresztül ki lehetett hajtani a ház mögötti kertbe. Ha kocsival trágyát hoztak, a kocsi ott ki tudott hajtani a kertbe.

A Lujza néniék oldala részben alá volt pincézve, a hálószobájuk és szalonjuk alatt volt a pince. A kapu őfeléjük eső oldalán volt a pincelejárat. Tíz vagy hány lépcső vezetett le a nagy pincébe, amely olyan hideg volt, mint egy frizsider: az volt a jégszekrényünk. Tüzelőt is tartottak a pincében.

A kapu ugyanazon az oldalán volt a padlásfeljárat. Közös volt a feljárat, de fent a két családnak külön-külön lezárható padlása volt a ház hozzá tartozó része felett. Ezen kívül volt még egy közös padlás is.

A Lujza néniék oldalán, a pincelejárat és a konyhaajtójuk között volt egy kis toldaléképület, abban volt a mosókonyha. Nagy üst volt ott, amit nyáron kihoztak az udvarra, télen pedig ott bent a helyiségben mostak. A személyzet ott fürdött, mert ott is lehetett vizet melegíteni. Nyáron az üstben főztük a szilvalekvárt is.

Ugyancsak az udvar Lujza néniék felé eső oldalán volt a kút, ami nem kerekes, hanem pumpás kút volt. Előtte egy nagy padkán állt egy rózsaszínű kő medence, olyan volt, mint egy kő váza. Ma ez a kő váza van a Frigyes bácsi sírján, valahol van is egy fényképem róla. Azon a kő vázán volt egy deszka, arra tették rá a vizesvödröt. A márvány tartányon alul volt egy lyuk, azon át a felesleges víz lefolyt, végigfolyt a lejtős udvaron és átfolyt az udvar másik oldalán a vécé alatt a kertbe. Ott belekötődött valami pocsolyába vagy emésztőbe.

Csak a kútból lehetett vizet venni, mert a konyhában és a szobákban nem volt folyóvíz. Fürdőszoba egyáltalán nem volt az egész házban. A fürdőkád a mi lakásunkban a konyhában, a Lujza néniék lakásában pedig a gyerekszobában állt. A szobákban olyan mosdó szekrények voltak. Be kellett hordani a kútról a vizet a fürdőkádba és a mosdókba. Mosdás, fürdés után ki kellett merni a vizet a kádból és kivinni kiönteni. A vécé mind nálunk, mind a Lujza néniéknél olyan likas vécé volt, amelyekbe csak kintről, az udvarról volt bejárat. Időnként jött a latrinás kocsi és kipucolta a pöcegödröket.

Az iroda a házunk bejárati kapuja mellett a mi oldalunkon volt. Az irodának volt egy utcára néző ablaka, a bejárata pedig egy lezárható dupla ajtó volt a fedett folyosóról. Az irodában volt egy nagy kassza, két íróasztal és egy olyan rács. A rács mellett volt egy olyan pult, mint egy könyvelői pult. Az egyik fiókban mindig volt cukorka, abból gyakran csórtunk. Volt az irodában egy kis mosdó állvány, de az nem volt olyan hochelegant, mint a szalonban meg az ebédlőben. Volt ott egy bőrkanapé is, azon aludt a Frigyes bácsi, amikor anyukáék Mosonban voltak.

Amikor a Frigyes bácsi 1926-ban elvette a Frankl Erzsit [Frankl Erzsébet, ??–1944, Auschwitz], a régi szalonunkból csináltak maguknak hálószobát. Akkor egy új ajtót törettek a volt szalonból az irodába, hogy ne kelljen mindig kimenniük a folyosóra, de azért megtartották az iroda eredeti, udvar felöli ajtaját is.

A Frigyes bácsi halála után a Frankl Erzsi egy kézimunkaüzletet nyitott a volt irodában. Az üzlet részére egy új ajtót törtek az utca felöl.

A nagyszüleim lakása az iroda mellett volt. Az utcai fronton volt a szalon és az ebédlő, a többi helyiség pedig az utcára merőleges épületszárnyban volt és az udvarra nézett. A lakásban a kiselőszobán keresztül volt a bejárat. Az udvarról a fedett boltíves folyosóról bementél a kiselőszobába, és onnan mehettél balra az ebédlőn át a lakás utcai szárnyába és jobbra a konyhán át az udvari szárnyba. Mindkét szárnyban a szobák egymásba nyíltak, és csak egymáson keresztül voltak megközelíthetők. A kiselőszobán át lehetett az udvarról és a lakásunkból a kertbe kimenni.

Az ebédlő ajtó mellett a kiselőszobában volt egy kis fülke, abban volt a szobavécé. Ha valaki beteg volt, ezt használta a rendes vécé helyett, mert oda csak az udvaron át lehetett menni. Az öregek is a szobavécét használták, mert az a lakáson belül volt. Később a hálószobájukban is volt egy szobavécé. A szobavécé olyan volt, mint egy mély beépített szekrény. Ajtaja volt és bent a fülkében volt egy padba süllyesztett porcelán bili.

Ha éjszaka valakinek vécére kellett menni, az a bilire ment. Minden nachtkasztliban volt bili. A szalonban, az ebédlőben, a hálószobában és a gyerekszobában is volt egy-egy mosdószekrény. A mosdók gyönyörűek voltak, olyanok, mint egy bútor. Márvány lapjuk volt. Minden mosdóhoz tartozott egy szerviz. Amilyen minta volt a kancsón és az ivó- és szájmosó poháron, olyan minta volt a bilin is. Minden darabnak ugyanolyan virágos mintája volt. Gyönyörű Zsolnai bilik voltak.

A kiselőszobában egy lépcsőn kellett fellépni az ebédlő dupla ajtajához. Azért volt dupla, mert egymás mögött két ajtó volt. Ha rosszak voltunk, büntetésből oda zártak be bennünket a két ajtó közé.

Az ebédlőben csak ünnepekkor vagy olyankor ettünk, ha vendégek voltak, különben mi mindig a gyerekszobában ettünk. Ha mi gyerekek Mosonban voltunk, akkor a Frigyes bácsi az ebédlőben aludt, de ha anyuka és apuka is lejött Mosonba, akkor ők aludtak az ebédlőben az ágyon és a kanapén. Olyankor a Frigyes bácsi az irodában aludt.

Az ebédlő bútor és a szalon bútor teljesen egyforma volt a nagymama és a Lujza néniék lakásában, mert a bútort teljesen egyformán kapták. Minden egyforma volt, még a bútorhuzat is.

Az ebédlőben volt egy nagyon szép kredenc, egy szép régi kredenc, az volt az ajtó egyik oldalán. Mellette állt egy szép régi ágy. Az ebédlőben is volt egy lecsukható fedelű mosdószekrény, de abban egy szép majolika mosdó volt, nem egy pléh lavór, mint a gyerekszobában. A mosdóban az alsó szekrényrészben volt egy majolika kancsó, a mosdó mögötti polcon pedig pohár. A mosdó felhajtható fedelén ezüst állt. Gyönyörű dolgaik voltak. A mosdó másik oldalán állt egy szép kanapé. Ezután következett az ablak előtt álló dobogó, amin egy biedermeier szék állt. Mellette, a két ablak között volt a zongora. A zongora után, már majdnem a falnál, volt egy szép, lábakon álló tükör. A tükör mögött volt a kottatartó láda. Akkor jött a szalonba vezető ajtó. A szalonajtó és a folyosófal között két szék állt. A sarokban volt egy cserépkályha, amelyet kívülről, a kiselőszobából lehetett fűteni. Az ebédlő közepén volt egy kerek asztal néhány szép székkel.

A szalonba, amit csak akkor használtak, ha vendég volt, csak az ebédlőn át lehetett bemenni. Nem volt fűthető, mert nem volt kályha benne. A szalon garnitúránk ugyanolyan volt, mint ami később a Frida néniéknél volt az Érmelléki utcában, mert a Frida néni felhozatta a mamája, a Lujza néni garnitúráját Pestre. Ez az oszlopos komód itt nálam a Frida néni szalon garnitúrájából van. A Frida néni a Klárinak adta, és a Kláritól került aztán hozzám. A szalonban volt egy nagy tükör és előtte egy olyan félkör alakú, foncsoros kis asztalka. A szekrény és a vitrin között két fotel vett körül egy hatszögletű asztalt, amelyen egy fémkupakos fajansz sereskrigli készlet állt. A kriglik kb. 20-25 cm magasak voltak. A Riza néni oszlopos szekrénye először anyukához került a Visegrádi utcába és most az Áginál van. A mosoni vitrin a Visegrádi utcából került hozzám a Kresz Géza utcába.

A handspájz a kiselőszobában a konyhaajtó mellett nyílt. Az volt nekünk gyerekeknek a titok kamra. Abban tartották az értékesebb élelmiszert. Abban volt csokoládé, kakaó, mazsola, süvegcukor meg más ilyesmi. A handspájz olyan volt, mint egy beépített szekrény.

A konyhába a kiselőszobából volt a bejárat. A konyha nagyon nagy volt, akkora, mint most ez a két szoba itt nálam. Ugyan a handspájz közel volt a konyhához, de a nagy, rendes spájzhoz ki kellett menni az udvarra, mert az az udvarról nyílt. A konyhában nem volt se folyóvíz, se lefolyó. A konyhában volt egy, a mostani ebédlőasztalomnál nem is szélesebb négyszögletes, vörösmárvány tetejű asztal. A fürdőkád a konyhában volt. A kád mellett volt valami kályhaszerűség a fürdővíz melegítésére. Nem tudom hogy fűtötték, de nagyon jól fűtötte a fürdővizet. Hetente egyszer fürödtünk, olyankor a kúttól be kellett hordani a vizet a kádba, és a fürdő után ki kellett trógerolni a piszkos vizet.

A Paula a konyhában aludt, ott volt egy kinyitható ágya és egy szekrénye. Az ágy egy olyan fedett kocka volt, amit este kinyitottak. Az ágynemű is abban volt. Volt neki a konyhában egy mosdója is, de az csak egy iksz lábú izé volt, fölül lavórral és akörül egy kis peremmel, ahova a fogmosó cuccot lehetett lerakni.

A gyerekszobába csak a konyhán át lehetett bemenni. A gyerekszoba eredetileg az Arthur, az Ilona, az anyuka és a nagymama többi gyerekének volt a szobája. Akkoriban biztos volt benne gyerekágy, de amikor mi Mosonba kerültünk, akkor már csak egy nagy antik ágy és egy kanapé volt benne. Nyilván azért volt az valamikor a gyerekszoba, mert ott volt a nagymamáék hálószobája mellett. A mi időnkben ez a szoba tulajdonképpen a Frigyes bácsi szobája volt. Napközben a nagymamáék ebben a szobában tartózkodtak. Ott ebédeltünk és vacsoráztunk is, szóval az olyan volt, mint egy nappali. Ha Mosonban vakációztunk, vagy mi aludtunk a gyerekszobában vagy a nagymamáék mentek át oda aludni és mi az ő hálószobájukban feküdtünk le.

A gyerekszoba ablaka az udvarra nézett. Egy henger alakú, magas vaskályha remekül átfűtötte ezt a szobát. A kályhát alul a Paula szedte ki, az nem volt egy olyan egyszerű dolog. Az ágyon és a kanapén kívül egy gyönyörű antik szekrény is volt ebben a szobában. Továbbá volt ott egy mosdó is, amin egy olyan felhajtható fedél takarta a pléh lavórt. Úgy nézett ki, mint egy olyan kis íróasztal. Alul volt egy kis szekrény része a vödörnek, mert a lavórba be kellett hozni a vizet. Ezen kívül volt benne hely a kannának is, amiben a meleg vizet hozták, meg egy ilyen kispolc a fogmosó poharaknak.

A hálóba csak a gyerekszobából volt bejárat. Általában a legtöbb szobába csak egy másik szobán keresztül lehetett bemenni. A háló ablaka is az udvarra nézett. Ez a szoba nem volt fűthető, mert kémény híján nem lehetett oda kályhát tenni. Ha mind a négyen Mosonban nyaraltunk, olyankor néha mi aludtunk a nagymamáék két nagy ágyában.

A hálószoba bútor olyan szép paraszt-biedermeier stílusú volt. A diófa bútorokat néhány szép faragott rózsa díszítette. Az ágyak, amelyeknek nagyon magas diófa hátuk volt, szintén így voltak díszítve. A két ágy előtt volt két szalon-fotel, olyan, mint ami a Frida néninél is volt. Egy asztal, négy szék és két ilyen kis szekrény is volt ott, melyeken szintén olyan faragott rózsák voltak. A hálóban is volt egy olyan sublód-szerű nyitott mosdószekrény. A felső részén hátul volt egy tükör és az előtt pedig egy márványlap. Azon volt rajta a nagy lavór és a mögött, a szekrény hátsó falán, volt egy kis polc a fogmosó holminak. Alul volt egy szekrény rész. Egy ilyen mosdó volt később anyukáék hálószobájában a Visegrádi utca 6-ban.

A hálónak olyan szép bútora volt, hogy amikor a Frigyes bácsi elvette a Frankl Erzsit, akkor nem azt a szép fehér, zománcozott vas csőágyat használták, amit az Erzsi hozott, hanem a nagymamáék antik ágyát vitték át a maguk részére a korábbi szalonba, s a csőágyat pedig oda adták a nagymamának. A szalon elég nagy volt ahhoz, hogy a Frigyes bácsi és az Erzsi ott éljen, belefért a két nagy ágy és előtte pedig a szalongarnitúra.

A spájzba, ami az udvari szárnyban a háló után következett, csak kintről, az udvarról volt bejárat. Jó messze volt a konyhától, mert ha a spájzba akartál menni, akkor a kiselőszobán át ki kellett menni az udvarra és ott egy kis kibetonozott fedetlen járdán a ház udvari szárnya mellett hátramenni a spájzig. A baromi nagy spájznak egy kis ablaka volt az udvar felé és egy másik a kert felé.

A spájzban ekkora nagy árpával, zabbal, meg a jó ég tudja mivel teli vájdlingok voltak és azokba, az árpa közé volt betéve a tojás. Állítólag abban jól eláll a tojás. A spájzban az élelmiszer mellett néhány más vacakot is tartottak. Ott lógtak egy naftalinos szekrényben azok a nagy pelerines kocsis-kabátok, amiket az üzletünkhöz tartozó kocsisok viseltek régebben, amikor még a Frigyes bácsi kocsival járta a falukat üzletet csinálni. A mi időnkben azonban már nem csinálták ezt, de a kabátokat azért megtartották. Ez a most nálam levő biedermeier szekrény akkoriban olajfestékkel bemázolva a mosoni spájzban állt. Volt ott egy sublód is, benne kalapokkal. Mindent elraktak Mosonban, semmit sem dobtak ki!

A spájzba csak akkor mehettem be, amikor már nagyobb voltam. De még akkor is oda csak rendetlenkedni mentünk. Kihúztuk a sublódot, kivettük a kalapokat. Turkáltunk a zabban a tojások között. Amibe csak lehetett, belenyúltunk.

Ha az udvaron azon a fedetlen tyúkjárdán tovább mentél a spájz után következett az első gabonakamra, utána pedig a vécé. Télen-nyáron ha vécére mentünk, akkor ki kellett mennünk a szabadba, az udvarra. A vécé a szabadból nyílt egy egész közönséges faajtóval.

A gabonakamrák és a fedett udvar

Összesen hat kamra volt a házban, a kamrák az udvar hátsó felét vették körül. Az első kamrában indult fel a lépcső és az utolsó kamrában, a hatodikban, már a Lujza néniék oldalán jött le. A kamrákba magasan levő, nem túl nagy szellőző ablakokon keresztül jött be valami fény. Arról már meséltem, hogy mi gyerekek gyakran a kamrákban játszottunk, és hogy a Frigyes bácsi meg az apuka az első kamrában tartották a kolbászt és a többi nem kóser dolgot.

Télen ritkán volt a kamrákban gabona, ezt csak nyáron tárolták ott. Ez azért volt így, mert a paraszt behozta a gabonát és ott szárította nálunk. A gabonát akkor vitte el, amikor el tudta adni. Szóval, a gabona fekbéres alapon volt nálunk, nem a mienk volt.

A második kamra után fordult az egész épület, és ott az udvar hátsó falánál, a harmadik kamra előtt voltak a kinti baromfi ólak. Nagyobb zárt ketrecekben volt ott a liba és a kacsa. A kotlóstyúkok fonott fakosarakban voltak a ketrecek felett. Mindig én mentem kiszedni a tojást a kotlós alól, mert az ráült a rendes tojásra is. Az hogy csípett! Nem akarta engedni, hogy kivegyem a tojást alóla.

A fedett udvar a hármas kamra bejárata után következett. Néha a fedett udvart kisudvarnak is hívták. A fedett udvar a nagy udvar tengelyében, az utcai kapuval egyvonalban volt, a hármas és négyes kamra között. Ugyanolyan mély volt, mint a kamrák. Nagy volt, nagyobb, mint a mostani szobám. A kisudvarban is voltak tyúkólak, a szenet is a fedett udvaron tartották. Ezen az udvaron tömték a cselédek naponta háromszor a libát és a kacsát. A fedett udvar a nagy udvar felé nyitott volt, a kert felöli hátsó falában viszont egy nagy kapu volt. Az utcáról az udvaron át behajtó kocsi ezen a kapun keresztül tudott kijutni a kertbe.

Ott a nagy udvar hátsó falánál, a kisudvar eresze alatt lógott a galambdúc. A negyedik kamra után megint fordult az udvar, és a hatos kamra után pedig már a Lujza néniék része jött.

A Lujza néniék lakása

A lakásuk az utcai kapu velünk ellentétes oldalán volt. Az ő lakásuk utcai frontja hosszabb volt, mint a mienk, mert náluk három szoba nézett a Fő utcára. A pincelejárat mellett lehetett az udvarról bemenni a halójukba, amelynek egy ablaka volt az utca felé. Ez a szoba többnyire ki volt adva.

A szalonjukba csak ezen a hálón keresztül lehetett menni, vagy pedig a másik oldalról, a konyhán és az ebédlőn keresztül. A szalon és a mellette levő ebédlő is az utcára nézett. Az ebédlő- és a szalonbútoruk ugyanolyan volt, mint minálunk. Ha jól emlékszem, a Lujza néniéknél a zongora a szalonban állt. Az ebédlőnek sem volt külön ajtaja az udvarról: vagy a szalonon át lehetett oda menni vagy pedig a konyhából lehetett három lépcsőn felmenni az ebédlőbe.

A konyhájuknak nem volt ablaka, hanem csak ajtaja, ami az udvar felöl egy fedett tornácról nyílt. A konyhában volt egy szekrény-szerű handspájz, kézi spájz, olyan, mint ami nálunk a kiselőszobában volt, egy olyan beépített szekrény. Tulajdonképpen a Lujza néniék lakásába a konyhán keresztül volt a bejárat. Onnan lehetett jobbra menni az utcai front három szobájába és balra a gyerekszobába.

Az udvarról néhány lépcső vezetett a fedett tornácukra. Jó időben ők ott ettek ezen a fedett, boltíves tornácon, ahova a konyha és a gyerekszoba is nyílt.

A gyerekszobájuk nagyon sötét volt, mert az ablakai a fedett, alacsony tornácra nyíltak és tetejébe még a tornác elég mély is volt. A gyerekszobában fehér vaságyak voltak és ott állt a fürdőkádjuk is.

A spájzuk a fedett tornácról nyílt a gyerekszoba mellett. A spájz nagyon sötét volt, mert ugyanolyan mély volt, mint a gyerekszoba és tetejébe nem is volt ablaka, csak egy olyan kis ráccsal fedett lyuk a szomszéd ház felé. A Lujza néniéknél a vécé a tornácuk végén volt, így ők a fedett tornácon át tudtak vécére menni, míg nálunk az embernek ki kellett menni a fedetlen udvarra, ha vécére ment.

A Lujza néniék tulajdonképpen csak a mi lakásunkon keresztül tudtak kimenni a kertbe, ugyanis a fedett udvarbeli hátsó kertkapu mindig be volt zárva. Az egy nagy, nehéz kétszárnyas kapu volt, s ezért azt nem használták gyakori ki- és bemenésre. A Lujza néniék kimehettek volna a kertbe a mi részünkön át, mert nálunk a kiselőszobában a kertajtó nappal sohasem volt lezárva. Az igaz, hogy éjjelre lezárták azt az ajtót, de este úgyse nagyon mentek ki a kertbe. Mégis, kényelmetlen volt nekik átjárni rajtunk, ha a kertbe akartak menni, és mindig ebből adódott a veszekedés.

A kert

A kertbe soha senki nem ült ki, legfeljebb néha mi ültünk ki a szaletliba vagy a birsalmafa alá enni vagy beszélgetni. A Lujza néniék csak a gyümölcsért jöttek, mert nekik csak az volt érdekes. Mindig azon volt a vita, hogy egyszerre kell leszedni a gyümölcsöt, mert azt szét kell osztani.

A szaletli, egy olyan kerti pavilon, a kert utcai végében állt, a lakásunk kiselőszobájából a kertbe vezető ajtótól balra. Közel volt az utcai kerítéshez, de nem volt egészen az utca vonalán. El tudtál még menni a szaletli és a kerítés között, ott még volt egy kis távolság. A szaletli egy olyan fából épített fedett, de oldalról nyitott pavilon volt, ahol az ember ehetett meg ülhetett. Nem nevezheted háznak, mert nincs oldala, inkább egy olyan nyitott pavilon szerűség volt. A padlója is fa volt, három lépcső vezetett fel rá, hogy ne legyen nedves vagy sáros.

Nagyon szép volt a szaletli a faragott oszlopaival és a díszes tetőszerkezetével. Az oldala olyan bábos, lyukasztott részekből volt összerakva. A széle mentén volt egy lóca, középen pedig egy nagy hosszúkás asztal állt. Mi gyakran ettünk ott nyáron, mert nekünk közel esett a konyhához, a Lujza néniéknek viszont a francban volt.

A Lilivel gyakran felmásztam a szaletli tetőjébe, mert onnan remekül kiláthattunk a kerítés felett az utcára és láthattuk, hogy ki jön és ki megy. Nem volt nehéz felmászni, mert felléptünk a szaletli padjára, onnan az asztalra és onnan felmásztunk a tetőbe. A tetőből átláthattunk a kerítés felett, mert az csak egy nem túl magas fakerítés volt.

Ha a kertajtótól a szaletlivel ellentétes irányban indultál el a kertben, még mielőtt a spájzablakig jutottál volna, ott állt egy hatalmas birsalmafa. Az egyik ágán, amelyik egész alacsonyra lelógott, lógott mindig a hinta. Később aztán már magán az ágon is hintáztunk... A fa törzse körül volt egy kerek asztal és a körül pedig egy ugyanolyan lóca, mint amilyen a szaletliben volt. Néha ennél az asztalnál reggeliztünk a birsalmafa alatt.

A kert elején, a kertajtóhoz közel rózsák voltak meg mindenféle más virág. A ház falára, ami tulajdonképpen a spájzfal volt, szőlőt futtattak fel, habár sohasem volt nálunk rendes szőlő. Itt végig egres és ribizli bokrok voltak, amit mi nagyon utáltunk, mert azt nekünk kellett szedni.

Mielőtt befordultál az L alakú kert ház mögötti hátsó részébe, ott már kezdődött a gyümölcsös. Ott a ház sarkához közel volt egy olyan pumpálós kút. Az udvaron levő kút is pumpás volt, de a pumpája inkább olyan volt, mint egy vécé húzó. A kerti kút mellett két hordó állt, azokban gyűjtötték az esővizet. A kis kút mellett már kezdődött a körtefa, almafa, szederfa, barackfa.

Egészen a ház sarkánál volt egy magas fallal körülvett tároló, ahová a szemetet dobták. Egy körülbelül másfél méter magas fal vette körül ezt a másfélszer másfél méteres tárolót. Időnként elvitték az összegyűlt szemetet a tárolóból.

A kert hátsó, ház mögötti részében, már a ház sarka után volt krumpli, hagyma, rengeteg sárgabarack, aprókörte, nagy körte, alma és dió. Gyönyörű papírdió volt. Ezen kívül volt még szeder, egy pár szál kukorica, petrezselyem, sárgarépa stb. Szóval, ez volt a tulajdonképpeni zöldséges rész.

A hátsó kert legvégén, már a Miska bácsi féle ház kerítésfalánál volt a Lusthaus. Az egy drótra futtatott lugas volt, ami szőlővel volt befuttatva. Volt ugyan benne egy asztal és egy lóca, de mi sose mentünk oda. Nagy néha nyáron ott is fogadtak vendégeket kávéra vagy kakaóra. Valahol kell hogy legyen egy fénykép a dédnagymamáról, a Kauders Katiról, ami ott, a Lusthausban készült.

A házunk későbbi története

Valamikor az első világháború vége felé vagy nem sokkal azután a nagymamáék eladták a kertünk Fő utca felöli elülső részét a szomszédunknak, a tőlünk két háznyira Óvár fele lakó Fürdős nevű koporsókészítőnek. Az évre nem emlékszem, de azt tudom, hogy már iskolába jártam akkor, az biztos, hogy legalább 7-8 éves voltam, de az is lehet, hogy még 1-2 évvel idősebb. De még jól emlékszem a kertünknek abban a részében álló szaletlire, amit később eladtunk. Már nagyobb gyerekek voltuk, amikor a szaletlit lebontották, mert azt már úgy valahogy érzékeltük. A Fürdős annak a helyére épített egy kis házikót a Zsák utca és a Fő utca sarkán. Ebben volt a műhelye és egy, a korábbi műhelyénél nagyobb kirakata a Fő utcai fronton. A Zsák utcai frontra építtette az új lakását, a lakás rész ablakai a kertre néztek. Néhány évvel később a Fürdős megvette a házunk mögötti maradék kert részt is, így akkor már nem volt kertünk és a hátsó kertkaput sem használhattuk. A nagymama azért adta el a kertet, mert nem volt, aki művelje. Ugye a nagymamáék már öregek voltak, a fiúk pedig először katonák voltak, aztán meg már csak a Frigyes bácsi maradt ott.

Amikor a nagymama 1932-ben, a Frigyes bácsi halála után felköltözött Pestre, akkor már csak a Frankl Erzsi, a Frigyes bácsi özvegye maradt ott a házban. A mi részünk az övé volt, mert arról mindenki lemondott a Frigyes bácsi javára, hiszen a Frigyes bácsi tartotta el a nagyszüleimet.

A Lujza néni és a Sándor bácsi akkor már régen nem élt. A Frida néni eladta az ő részüket, de arra már nem emlékszem, hogy még 1932 előtt vagy azután adta-e el. Úgy hallottam, hogy akkor a Lujza néniék volt hálójából csináltak valami üzletet, aminek az utcáról törtek bejárati ajtót. Van is erről egy, még a háború előtt készült fénykép, amin jól lehet látni az üzletbejáratot és a bejárat feletti cégtáblát.

A Frigyes bácsi halála és a nagymama Pestre költözése után az Erzsi továbbra is a mi részünk utcai szárnyában, a szalonban lakott, egy konyhaszerűséget alakítva ki a tornácunk egy részéből. A volt irodában berendezett egy kézimunka üzletet, és annak törtek egy ajtót az utca felöl. Az ebédlőt és a ház hátsó udvari részét pedig eladta az Erzsi. Akkoriban én már nem voltam Mosonban, már a kézimunka üzletet sem láttam az újonnan tört ajtóval, erről csak hallomásból tudok.

A felszabadulás előtt utoljára akkor voltam Mosonban, amikor a nagymama még ott élt. Ez valamikor 1931 körül lehetett, amikor én már az Ehrlich Pistánál voltam állásban és a Lili már harmadik éve Bécsben tanult az egyetemen. Egy nemzetközi vásárra mentem Bécsbe, és útközben kiszálltam Mosonban a nagymamát meglátogatni. Sose fogom azt elfelejteni, ahogy akkor a nagymama a szoknyája alól kihúzott pénzt, hogy adjon nekem ajándékba. Egy nagy zacskóban hordta a szoknyája alatt a pénzét, úgy is utazott. Szóval akkor adott nekem valami húsz vagy harminc pengőt, hogy Bécsben legyen pénzem. Hát ami igaz, az igaz, jól is jött az ajándék, mert nem sok pénzzel mentem.

A háború alatt a Volksbund vonult be a házunkba. Akkor az udvar végén építettek egy iskolát, valami német iskolát, de ezt is csak hírből tudom. Teljesen átépítették a hátsó traktust. Később a háborúban lebombázták a ház oldalsó szárnyát, ahol a gyerekszoba és a hálószoba volt, de ha jól tudom, a konyhából még maradt valami.

A háború után voltam egy párszor Mosonban, de az már más volt. Emlékszem, amikor először voltam ott a háború után, akkor belógtam a házba és megnéztem, de rögtön kimentem, mert még azon a részen is ami megmaradt, össze-vissza csináltak kisebb-nagyobb ablakokat. Egyszóval elrondították.

Moson és a mosoni szomszédjaink

Amikor én Mosonban gyerek voltam, Moson és Óvár, németül Wieselburg és Altenburg, még nem épült össze. Moson vásárváros volt, csütörtökön és szombaton volt ott a piac. Mosonban és a környező falvakban az emberek többsége legszívesebben németül beszélt, habár mindenki tudott magyarul is.

Moson a Duna-ágtól nem messze levő Fő utca köré épült. Mi a város Óvár felé eső végén laktunk. Utánunk még volt öt ház és akkor jött a kiserdő. A kiserdő után is volt még néhány ház, de aztán jött a nagy semmi Óvárig. Hát ott ma minden be van építve, a kiserdőben pedig iskola van.

Tőlünk lefele, ott ahol az Ostermayer utca elágazott a Fő utcából, a Fő utca közepén egy olyan háromszögű kis parkban állt a kápolna. A Fő utca másik oldalán, a kápolnától a templomig terjedő részen volt hetente kétszer a piac. A zsinagóga az Ostermayer utca egy mellékutcájában volt. Az Ostermayer utca elején egy rakás zsidó lakott, a másik végén inkább gojok laktak. A Fő utcán lefele tőlünk főleg zsidók laktak, de aztán a Fő utcán még tovább menve többnyire keresztények voltak. Nagyon sok zsidó lakott Mosonban. De azért a zsidók és a keresztények nem különültek el olyan mereven. Az igaz, hogy a mi szomszédaink főleg zsidók voltak, de például a Fürdős nevű koporsókészítő, vagy velünk szemben a Tóth kocsmárosék és még egy csomó egyéb szomszéd is keresztény volt, Óvár kevésbé volt zsidós mint Moson, az inkább keresztény volt. Anyuka gyerekkorában létezett Mosonban egy zsidó elemi iskola is, de az később megszűnt, illetőleg beolvadt az államiba. A múlt század végén alapított polgári iskola már Mosonon kívül, kb. 1-2 kilométernyire Óvár fele volt. Anyuka eleinte a zsidó elemi iskolába járt, de az iskola megszűnése után az elemi felső tagozatát a nem sokkal azelőtt megnyílt polgári iskolában végezte. Gimnázium nem működött Mosonban, csak Óvárott. Moson Győr fele eső végén volt a Kühne gyár, a legnagyobb mezőgazdasági gépgyár Magyarországon. Apuka ott volt tisztviselő.

Mi a Fő utca 110-ben laktunk. Az Óvár felöli oldalunkon a szomszéd házban elöl keresztények laktak. Ott a ház hátsó szárnyában volt a nagyapám bátyjának, a Miska bácsinak a szobája, ott béreltünk számára egy szobát. Ő, Berger Mihály [1837–1916], a nagypapa legidősebb bátyja, hát hogy is mondjam neked, egy kicsit kilógott a családból. Nem lehet mondani, hogy nem volt normális. Nem volt nős és azt hiszem hozzánk járt enni vagy átvitték neki a kosztot. Pipázott, emlékszem, hogy volt egy pipákat tartó polc a falon nála. 1899-ben, a Hattie-nek Amerikába küldött lapra ő is ráírta, hogy „Grüsse, Miska”. 1916-ban halt meg, én még emlékszem rá. Ugyanabban a házban egész hátul az udvari szárnyban lakott egy zsidó vénasszony, a Pepi néni. Tökéletesen úgy nézett ki, mint az Ilonka, a mostani varrónőm, éppen olyan kicsi és sovány volt. Egész rendes, amolyan szalon-szerű bútora volt. Az volt a mániája, hogy az összes képeslapot, amit kapott, felragasztotta egy kartonra. Ezek a kartonok ki voltak akasztva nála. Ott lehetett minden lap, amit gyerekkora óta kapott. A tróger gyerekek, a Bandi is [anyám másodunokatestvére: Deutsch Endre, 1905, Budapest – 1943, Ukrajna, munkaszolgálatban], de mi sem maradtunk nagyon le, legyeket fogdostak a kartonokon meg leköpdösték a képeslapokat. Esténként a Pepi néni is kiült egy székre a kapuja elé.

Ha tovább mentél Óvár felé, ott volt a Fürdős koporsóboltja. Az első világháború után a Fürdős megvette a kertünket és ott csinált a Fő utca felé kirakatot meg műhelyt, mögöttük pedig egy házat magának. Az Óvár felöli oldalán laktak a zsidó Ostreicherék és azután az ugyancsak zsidó nagyon rendes Breinerék. A Breiner Jakab hitközségi választmányi tag volt, két fiúk és egy lányuk volt. Utánuk jött a Réti nevű sírköves, de utána már nem volt több ház, csak a kiserdő.

A mi oldalunkon, nem sokkal a kiserdő után állt a Sziráky villa. Egy szép ház volt egy kis toronnyal. Ott a földek, minden, a híres kutatóorvos Manninger professzor családjáé volt. A Sziráky villa után már lassan aus volt, még talán volt ott egy-két ház, de aztán már csak gabonaföldek voltak föl egészen a templomig, a kistemplomig, ami körülbelül a polgári iskolával szemben volt. A Löwin Miklós ma ott lakik egy újabb házban a Sziráky villa után, a mi oldalunkon. Voltunk nála veled és a Tomival 1987-ben.

A házunk másik oldalán, a Zsák utca után volt egy emeletes sarokház. Abban volt lent a Scheiber féle fűszerkereskedés. A Scheiberék zsidók voltak. Az egyik emeleti lakásban, az üzlet felett lakott a keresztény Kraft doktor, egy antipatikus általános orvos. A Kraft legfiatalabb fia, aki kissé idióta volt, vette el a Decker Gusztit. Ugyanott az emeleten a másik lakásban laktak a zsidó Kissék. Az öreg Kiss tanár volt. A legfiatalabb fia, a Kiss Józsi, a Lili lovagja volt. A Kissék négy fia közül talán egy maradt meg, a többi elpusztult a háborúban.

A Scheiber üzlet mellett volt a Kumpf Antal fényképész háza, az is goj volt. Annak Óvárott volt jólmenő fotóműterme. A Kumpf házánál már kezdett a járda elkanyarodni a kápolna mögött az Ostermayer utca felé. A fényképész után laktak az ugyancsak keresztény Zeitlerék. A pasas egy rohadt katonatiszt volt. Mellettük, egy emeletes házban laktak a zsidó Sternék. Az öreg Stern fuvarral és gabonával foglalkozott. A velünk nagyjából egykorú unokáik, a Goldberger Ottó és Hans, a Sternék lányának a fiai voltak. Ott volt még egy leánytestvér is. A Goldbergerék Bécsben laktak, de a gyerekek Mosonba jártak nyaralni a nagyszülőkhöz.

Utánuk következett a Sommerék földszintes háza, az már a kápolna elejével egyvonalban állt. Velük is nagyon jóban voltunk. A Sommer körorvos volt a családi doktorunk. Minden nap beköszönt hozzánk: „Was ist neues Bernát? Was gibt’s?” Persze tegeződtek. A Sommer néni, a Sommer Frida, anyuka jó barátnője volt, még itt Pesten is összejöttek. Amikor deportáltak, a menetelés közben, Hédervár mellett vagy hol, találkoztam a Sommer Frida nénivel, akit szintén elhurcoltak. Próbált rábeszélni, hogy lógjunk meg együtt, de nem mertem. Ő kétszer meglógott, de mindkétszer elkapták. Szegény Frida néni végül nem jött vissza, elpusztult a deportálásban. A Sommer bácsi egyik lánya itt Ráckeve környékén vagy hol volt férjnél. A fia, a velünk kb. egykorú Silzer Feri szintén lejárt a nagyszülőkhöz nyaralni Mosonba. A Sommerék csak sokkal később költöztek el abból a kertes házból egy, már a Baschék felé levő Fő utcai ház emeletére.

A Sommerék mellett volt az Ördögh hentes szép kis boltja. Nagyon jó paprikás szalonnája volt az Ördöghnek. A háború után a bolt a Fő utca másik oldalára költözött, a Vilmos Rév utca utánra. Az Ördögh utáni házban hetente háromszor mozi volt, persze akkor még némafilmeket játszottak. Azután jött a Hoffner ügyvéd emeletes háza, majd tovább menve a Teutsch patika. A Teutschék keresztények voltak. Az egyik fiúk, a Reinhold, akit mindenki Holdinak hívott, volt a Frigyes bácsi legjobb barátja. A bátyja, az Ottokar viszont egy rohadt antiszemita alak volt.

A zsinagóga az Ostermayer utca másik oldaláról nyíló Fürdő utcában volt. Az Ostermayer utca környékén sok zsidó lakott, azt az utcát régebben Zsidó utcának is nevezték. A zsinagóga belső tere egész tűrhetően nagy volt. Hát valamivel talán kisebb volt, mint a Csáky utcai templom, de nem olyan jaj de sokkal. Mondjuk hosszában volt kevesebb. Biztos, hogy bele kellett férjen egy pár száz ember, mert Mosonban körülbelül 700 zsidó élt. A kereskedők és az értelmiségiek nagy része zsidó volt. A templomban itt volt a tóraszekrény, így, ahogy most lerajzolom. Most itt lent volt az, ahova kihozták és letették a Tórát az olvasáshoz. Na, most itt ültek a férfiak. Talán 10 sor volt, vagy hány, a fene emlékszik rá pontosan. Itt volt valahol a följárat a karzatra. Ott fönt volt egy olyan elég ritka rács, a mögött ültek a nők. Amikor még kislány voltam, a Strausz Herman volt a rabbi, később pedig a Klein dr. Az igen szép hangú Fenákel volt a kántor, az nekem udvarolt. A Fenákel hétközben a Weisz órás és ékszerésznél dolgozott. Később Pesten a Csáky utcai templom kántora lett. Elvitték és elpusztult. A zsinagógának volt egy nagy udvara. Ünnepeken, kadis alatt a fiatalság az udvaron szórakozott. Az udvarban volt a sakter és a kántor lakása. A sakternek ott az udvaron volt valami sufnija, ahol leölte a baromfit. A háború után olyan kevés zsidó maradt Mosonban, hogy az ötvenes években már senki sem használta a zsinagógát. Végül valamikor a hetvenes években vagy mikor bontották le az egyre elhanyagoltabb, részben romossá vált épületet. De erről már csak hallomásból tudok.

A Bécsből származó zsidó Geiger hegedűművész gyönyörű villája valahol a zsidó templom környékén volt. A háztulaj az apósa, a Knapp ócskavasas volt. A Geiger elvette a jómódú zsidó Knapp ócskavasas lányát. Nyaranta oda jártam a Geigerhez gyakorolni, persze nem ingyen. Azért járattak oda, hogy a nyaralás alatt ne jöjjek ki a gyakorlatból.

A Neumannék szintén arrafelé, a zsinagóga közelében laktak. A Neumann Margit anyuka legjobb leánykori barátnője volt. Bécsbe ment férjhez. Szegényt aztán deportálták és elpusztult. Az egyetlen lánya azt hiszem megmaradt. A Neumann Margit fia, az Ottó, velünk volt egykorú.

Nem tudom mi volt a Politzer Rózsi lánykori neve. Azt sem tudom, hogy hol laktak, talán ők is valahol az Ostermayer utca környékén. Nagyon szegények voltak. Anyuka Mosonban nem volt közeli barátságban a vele kb. egykorú Politzer Rózsival, hanem csak New Yorkban lettek jóba. A Rózsi a férjével Ausztriában élt, a férje ott járási orvos volt. A Rózsi Ausztriából Pestre ment és a háború után onnan még anyuka előtt kiment New Yorkba. New Yorkban a Rózsi együtt dolgozott egy kifőzdében a mosoni barát Stadler Dórával. Mind a Rózsi egyetlen fia, mind a menye a Rózsi előtt haltak meg. A Rózsi utolsó éveit egy szeretetotthonban töltötte.

Tőlünk már egy kicsit Óvár fele, a Fő utca másik oldaláról vezetett egy utca a zsidó temetőhöz. Rézsút szemben velünk állt a Rabl tejes emeletes háza. Mellettük laktak a zsidó Stadlerék. Esténként gyakran átjöttek hozzánk beszélgetni, odaültek a házunk elé kivitt padra. A Stadlerné Flesch lány volt, a világhírű Flesch Károly hegedűművész volt a fivére. A Flesch Károly is Mosonban született. Az apjuk, aki az én időmben már nem élt, orvos volt Mosonban. A mosoni temetőben van egy szép síremléke. A Flesch Károlyt már egész kis korában elküldték a szülei Bécsbe hegedűt tanulni. A rokonai ott éltek Mosonban, de nem hiszem, nem emlékszem, hogy játszott volna ott. A Stadlerné férje, a Stadler Jakab gabonakereskedő volt. Eredetileg festőnek készült és a müncheni festőakadémián tanult. A lányaik, a Stadler Dóra és Annus anyuka jó barátnői voltak. Az Annus Berlinbe ment férjhez, az onnan menekült Bostonba. A Stadler Dóra is Amerikába, New Yorkba menekült a német férjével. Gyakran összejött ott anyukával, főleg a férje halála után. A Dóra eleinte egy kifőzdében dolgozott, később, a férje halála után pedig házvezetőnő volt. Az élete utolsó 6-7 évét Bostonban töltötte az Annussal. A Stadler Ilona Jugoszláviában élt, azt onnan vitték el. A Richardot is onnét vitték el. Az Ottó pedig a háború után elvette a Knapp ócskavasas özvegyét és kimentek Kanadába. Ott halt meg a nyolcvanas években.

A Stadlerék utáni második házban lakott a keresztény Tóth bácsi, a kocsmáros. Őt te is ismerted. Amikor egyszer anyuka és a Liliék hazalátogattak, lementünk Mosonba, és akkor a Julie [Julius Rosenfeld, Halász Lili amerikai férje] csinált néhány jó fotót a Tóth bácsiról. Az öreget Antalnak hívták. Az egyetlen fiúk, egy késői gyerek, is Anti volt. Ő Óvárott lett patikus. Engem nagyon szerettek az öreg Tóthék, mindig átjártam hozzájuk. Még a Tóth nagymamát is ismertem.

Két házzal arrébb állt az emeletes Wertheimer ház. Naná, hogy a Wertheimerék is zsidók voltak, de arisztokrata zsidók. A pesti „Wertheimer és Frankl” cég az ő családjuké volt. A Wertheimer Irén egy nagyon előkelő hölgy volt, olyan mint egy főhercegasszony. Két fia volt, az egyik elpusztult a háborúban. A Wertheimerné unokahúgát, a Frankl Erzsit vette el a Frigyes bácsi. A háború alatt a nagyon előkelő Wertheimerné férjhez ment a Neumann Margit papájához, aki egy abszolút primitív gabonakereskedő volt. Az egy olyan mezaliansz [rangon aluli házasság] volt, hogy mindenki röhögött rajta. De hát mit csináljon a Wertheimerné? Özvegy volt, az egyik fia elpusztult, a másik pedig otthagyta őt. A második házasságából a Neumannal már nem volt gyerek.

A Wertheimer ház mellett nyílott a Duna utca. A Duna utcán menve balodalt volt a Horváth Teréz fatelepe. A fatelep után jött, szintén az utca baloldalán, a Decker Ilka néni olyan kicsit villa-szerű háza. Az a ház ki volt adva, de az Ilka néni bútora volt benne. Annál a háznál a Duna utca úgy ketté ágazott és egy kis tér volt az elágazásnál. Erre a térre nézett az Ilka néni háza és az elágazással szemben, a Duna felöli oldalon állt a Horváth ház. A Horváth ház mögött volt egy gyümölcsös, egyszóval a ház nem a Duna partján állt, hanem beljebb. Ott, a Horváth Teréz házában lakott a fiatalon megözvegyült Ilka néni a két lányával, a Fricivel és a Gusztival. A Horváth tant és az Ilka néni keresztények voltak. A Frigyes bácsi évekig udvarolt a Decker Ilka néniek, aki egy rém rendes, tüneményesen helyes nő volt. Bár lett volna az Ilka néni zsidó, akkor biztos elvette volna a Frigyes bácsi! Mennyivel jobban járt volna vele, mint az Erzsivel, akit végül feleségül vett! De sajnos a nagyszüleimre való tekintettel az szóba sem jött, hogy az Ilka nénit elvegye. A Horváth Teréz magához vette az özvegyen maradt Ilka nénit és dolgoztatta, mint egy barmot. A házban elöl volt a Horváth néni két szobája nagyon szép holmival. A háznak volt nekiépítve a gőzfürdő, ami szintén jövedelem volt a Horváth néninek. Nem voltak szegény emberek a Horváthék, de úgy dolgoztak, mint az állatok, még a gyerekek is. A gőzfürdőben volt kádfürdő, meg egy nagy gőzkamra, aminek olyan lépcsős padjai voltak. A gőzfürdőbe férfiak jártak, a Frigyes bácsi is odajárt a barátaival. Na most a gőzfürdő másik oldalán volt hátul a konyha és egy szoba, ahol az Ilka néni aludt a két lányával. Ha úszni mentünk a Dunára, néha ott, az Ilka néni szobájában öltöztünk át fürdőruhába. A Horváthék gyümölcsöse nagyjából a Dunával párhuzamosan húzódott, mert ott a Duna utca elkanyarodott. De a gyümölcsös sem ért le a Dunáig, csak parallel ment azzal. A Horváth néni nagyon vigyázott a bődületesen nagy kertjére. Mennyi kárt csináltunk mi abban! Lecsipkedtük az érett szőlőt. Az Ilka néni gyerekei mindig féltek, hogy mi lesz, ha a Horváth tant, a Teréz tant meglátja.

A Fő utca és a Duna utca sarkán állt a Friedmannék szép egyemeletes háza. Az ortodox zsidó Friedmannék jómódú gabonakereskedők voltak. Érdekes, hogy a kisváros Mosonban hány gabonakereskedő volt: a Friedmannék, a Stadlerék, a Neumann, a Löwin Károly, mi és még mások is. A Friedmann Lipót volt a Chevra Kadisa meg a Talmud társaság elnöke. A Friedmann Paula anyuka nagyon jó barátnője volt. A Paula legfiatalabb testvére a Friedmann Maxi is jött velünk néha a Dunára. Később a Maxi elvette a már nem tudom milyen nevű győri cipőkenőcs-gyáros Daisy nevű lányát. Mind a ketten meghaltak a háborúban. A Paula egyetlen fia, a velünk körülbelül egykorú Friedmann Pali nekem udvarolt. Ő aztán vegyészmérnök lett a mosoni Timföldgyárban és a bécsi bombázáskor halt meg.

A Friedmann-ház mellett állt az egyemeletes apácazárda, középen, a bejárat felett egy szép toronnyal. A zárda épületében volt az Ostermayer óvoda. Anyuka oda, az apácákhoz járt óvodába és nagyon szeretett oda járni. Ő volt az egyik első növendék az 1890-ben megnyílt óvodában. Egy gazdag katolikus agglegény hagyományozta a rendre az épületet és hozzá a kisdedóvó alapításához szükséges pénzt, azzal a megkötéssel, hogy bármely vallású gyereket be kell fogadniuk. A zárda után két földszintes ház következett, majd a Weisz ügyvéd emeletes háza. Körülbelül ott volt a piac felső vége. A piacot a Fő utca ezen az oldalán, a járdaszélen tartották minden csütörtökön és szombaton. Az árusok a járdaszélen voltak, a kocsik pedig libával és malaccal az úttesten. Nagy volt a piac, leért egészen a templomig.

A korzó ott volt minden este a Fő utca ugyanazon az oldalán, ahol a piacot tartották. A mosoni fiatalok esténként a korzón sétáltak és beszélgettek. A korzó rövidebb volt a piacnál, mert arra lejjebb, ahol az a nagy gabonasiló volt, már kevesebben sétáltak. Szóval a korzó a Fehér Ló szálloda oldalán volt, de nem ért le egészen odáig. Az biztos, hogy annál tovább sohasem sétáltunk.

A Weisz ügyvéd utáni második házban volt egy olyan suszterkellék üzlet, ahol bőrt, pertlit meg ilyesmiket árultak. Azt hiszem Gerstmannak hívták a tulajt, de a névben most már nem vagyok biztos. Azután következett a Weiss órás és ékszerész háza. Néhány házzal lejjebb állt a Löwin Károly háza, ő is gabonakereskedő volt. Két fia volt; a Miklóst te is ismered. Löwinek az egész községben találhatók voltak, volt köztük szegény is, gazdag is. Kicsit odább volt a Nemzeti Bank emeletes épülete, és mellette egy másik emeletes épület, amelyben a Posta volt. Ezt Szente háznak hívták, mert valamikor a Szente volt a postaigazgató, de az én koromban már a zsidó Hirschfeld volt a postamester. A Posta után, a Vilmos Rév utca sarkán állt az emeletes Basch-ház. Az üzletük néhány házzal arrébb volt a Fő utca ugyanazon az oldalán. A Baschék is persze zsidók voltak. A Basch textilüzlet egy nagy, kirakatos üzlet volt. A Basch Rafael posztókereskedő lánya, a Basch Lili feljött Pestre és férjhez ment a nála sokkal idősebb Herczeg professzorhoz. Egy lányuk volt. Az öreg cselédjük jött hozzánk is takarítani a Kresz Géza utcába, talán még emlékszel rá. A Basch posztósnak volt egy fia is. Az nős volt, itt élt Pesten, de aztán öngyilkos lett.

A Basch ház melletti Vilmos Rév utca vezetett a keresztény temető felé. A temető mögött, a Duna utca és a Rév utca között húzódott a strand. Eleinte nem volt szabad elúsznunk a strand feletti vízimalmok mellett, de aztán megengedték azt. A Basch üzlet felénk eső oldalán volt a kóser mészárszék. A Fő utca azon az oldalán továbbmenve, de már jóval a Vasút utca vonalán túl volt a Weisses Rössl, a Fehér Ló szálloda. Hosszú, emeletes ház volt nagy, boltíves kapuval. Az étterem és a szállodai szobák a földszinten voltak, az előkelő rész a bálteremmel pedig az emeleten. Néha abban az emeleti bálteremben tartották az Izraelita Nőegylet által szervezett purimi bált.

Ha a Fő utca másik oldalán mentél, akkor a kápolnával szemben, ott ahol az Ostermayer utca elágazott, volt a Flesch-pékség. Oda vittük a kenyértésztát sütni. Néhány házzal arrébb volt a földszintes zöldséges bolt. A mellette levő Neuberger ház után következett a Mocca kávéház. Elég szép, olyan kis, finom kávéház volt. A kávéházban újságok lógtak a falon, középen pedig néhány biliárdasztal állt, pontosan úgy, ahogy az szokásos. Meleg ételt azt hiszem nem árultak, csak kávét, sört, meg más ilyesmit. A mosoni zsidók többnyire ebbe a kávéházba jártak, de a tulaj, a Koppi Pál községi bíró, keresztény volt. A főúr, a Hoosz Károly, mint azt később hallottam, a háborúban is rendes volt a zsidókkal. A Frigyes bácsi és a barátai a Moccába jártak biliárdozni. Mindenki traccsolt. Egy ilyen kisváros, mint Moson, az tisztára egy traccs hely volt. Mi nem jártunk kávéházba, nők általában nem jártak oda.

A Mocca melletti emeletes nagy épület volt a Kühne-ház. Abban a házban született a Flesch Károly. Ott volt a Sauerék boltja is, ahol lisztet, őrölt kukoricát meg ilyesmit árultak. Volt két fiúk, de mi nem jöttünk össze velük. A Kühne-ház emeletén lakott a Hirschfeld postamester is. Az egyetlen fiúk, a Karcsi a háború alatt odahozta a kislányát a nagyszülőkhöz. Az öreg Hirschfeldék és a kislány elpusztult a deportálásban. A Karcsi túlélte a háborút és a háború után kereste a kislányát.

Kicsit odébb nyílt egy sikátor és még néhány házzal lejjebb állt a Kohnék háza, a földszinten volt a férfikonfekció üzletük. Ők az emeleten, az üzlet felett laktak. Volt ott vagy hat gyerek. A két legfiatalabb, az Irén és az Olci, ikrek voltak, azokkal nagyon jóba voltunk. A mosoni ismerősök közül egyedül ők voltak korunkbeli lányok, rajtuk kívül csak fiúk voltak. A Fő utcán továbbmenve volt még egy másik kávéház is; ott ettünk veled és a Tomival [öcsém, Körner Tamás] amikor 1987-ben Mosonban voltunk. Ezután volt egy vaskereskedés és amellett az emeletes városháza az anyakönyvi hivatallal. Ott voltak a polgári esküvők.

A katolikus templom a Fő utca és a Vasút utca sarkán állt. A templom bejárata a Vasút utca felöl volt, de nem egészen a Vasút utcáról, mert ott még volt valami kis tér a templom előtt. A templom előtt vezetett a Bahnhof Strasse, a Vasút utca jobbra az állomásig. A fiákerek ott álltak az állomás előtt és várták az érkező utasokat.

A Vasút utcánál tovább már nemigen jártunk. Arrafele, még egy kicsit lejjebb a másik oldalon volt a Fehér Ló szálló és még tovább menve egy nagy gabonaraktár, egy olyan siló. Az említett üzleteken kívül volt meg egy edényüzlet is Mosonban, meg egy trafik. Virágüzlet nem volt, mert virág a kertekben nőtt, meg rendelni is lehetett a termelőknél. Takarék úgy tudom csak Óvárott volt.

A sok mosoni zsidóból ma már alig néhány maradt Mosonban. Nagyon sokan elpusztultak a háborúban. A zsidó temetőben a zsidóüldözésben elpusztultak négy márvány emléktábláján több mint 450 név van. A többiek eljöttek vagy elmenekültek Mosonból. Ott maradt még a Löwin Miklós: szabadidejében ő gondozza a sírokat a zsidó temetőben.

Ruzena R.
Bratislava
Slovakia
Interviewer: Martin Flekenstein
Date of interview: June – August 2006

This interview with Mrs. Ruzena R. took place over several sessions in her apartment.

Editing the interview was made easier by the fact that all information stated in it was exact, and so was easier to verify.

At the request of the interviewee, the final text does not contain surnames from her father’s side of the family.

Despite that, this material offers valuable witness to the life of one branched-out Jewish family on the territory of today’s Slovakia.

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

• My family background

My father’s father was named Rudolf R. He was born in the Hungarian city of Pápa. He supported himself and his family by selling supplies to village shoemakers at fairs. My father’s mother was named Rosalia, née Goldschmidt. That’s who I got my first name from.

They lived in Trnava, where they had three children. Grandma took care of the household and the children. My grandparents’ oldest daughter was Johanna, next was my father [Ignac], who was born in 1876, and the youngest was named Arnold.

I know more or less nothing about Grandpa Rudolf, because he died very young. My father said that he caught a cold during one fair, from that he got pneumonia, which back then was definitely a deadly disease, antibiotics didn’t exist yet, and he died of it. He left behind three little children with no means of support. Grandma got remarried, to Simon Weiner, with whom she had a son, Max.

My father left home at the age of twelve to become an apprentice in Vienna. He had to leave home early on because he was the oldest son and the family was poor. He kept in only sporadic contact with his family, which is why I know practically nothing about my father’s family from that time period.

In Vienna my father apprenticed as a bookbinder. After finishing, he worked as a traveling salesman. He sold office supplies, mainly to notaries. Because his original name sounded German, he changed his name to sound more Hungarian, mainly because his customers wanted it that way. Naturally, this was still before World War I. My assumption is that he lived in Vienna up to around 1912.

During his travels around Slovakia, he met a widow who had a store with office supplies in Topolcany, and married her. After the wedding he took over the store, which was on the verge of bankruptcy. After he took it over, it began to grow and flourish.

Part of the store was also a book printing and binding business. In 1941 his business was Aryanized [Aryanization:  the transfer of Jewish stores, businesses, companies, etc. to the ownership of another, non-Jewish person – the Aryanizer] by his employee Stefan Radic, who was a member of the HSLS 1 and perhaps also a member of the Hlinka Guard 2.

My father’s first wife died after World War I. No children were born of this marriage. Before the Aryanization, our family was well-off financially. Because our father had been poor when he was young, he liked saving money in case of hard times.

During the time of the Slovak State 3, 1939-1945, we lost everything. One law and regulation after another was passed gradually confiscating various parts of Jewish property, so we were left with nothing, including our savings. They took everything we had 4.

My father’s sister Johanna married Mr. Adler. I never knew him, because I think that he died before I was born. The Adlers lived in Vienna. They had four sons, one of whom [Alfred] died before the war, the oldest, Rudolf, immigrated with his family to Palestine in 1938, and Fritz and Richard perished during the Holocaust.

After Hitler occupied Austria 5 in 1938, Aunt Johanna came to stay with us in Topolcany. But she didn’t stay there long, because the day the First Vienna Decision took effect 6, the cessation of southern Slovakia to Hungary, when the Slovaks had already left the territory to be occupied by the Hungarians, and the Hungarians hadn’t yet occupied it, Jews that didn’t have Slovak citizenship were transported to this territory. They were mostly emigrants from occupied Austria. It was in November 1938, shortly after the proclamation of Slovak autonomy, thus still before the proclamation of the independent Slovak State.

Later, Aunt Johanna went to Brno, where she lived until they deported her. The last letter from her came from Terezin 7. From Terezin they most likely deported her to Auschwitz. She didn’t survive the war.

Before the war, I didn’t know much about the Adler family. It wasn’t until my aunt came to stay with us, and, similarly her son Fritz came to Topolcany, whom they deported in March 1942 8, that I got to know them better.

My father’s brother Arnold lived in Budapest. His wife’s name was Malvina. They had a son, Rudolf. All of my father’s siblings, including my father, named their oldest son Rudolf, after their father. Arnold’s son Rudolf immigrated to Chile before the war.

Uncle Arnold was a rich man; he owned some factory and lived in Budapest, on Rózsadomb 9. That address in and of itself said a lot. My uncle and his wife managed to get Swedish passports with the help of the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg 10. Unfortunately, not even this helped. They were shot during the Szálasi regime 11.

After the war, their son once showed up in Slovakia. He met with only my father, as he’d only come to Bratislava, and our financial situation at the time could only afford one ticket from Topolcany. Since then he hasn’t been in contact.

After the war, Rudolf Adler also got in touch once, but once he found out we were alive, he didn’t contact us again. I think that he was interested in my father’s property, and not in us. I currently have no news of this branch of my family.

My grandmother’s fourth son was named Max Weiner. He worked as an accountant for a sugar refinery in Trnava. In 1929, during the Great Depression 12, he lost his job and then lived with us in Topolcany, until they deported him in 1942. I don’t know what happened to him. He unfortunately didn’t survive the war.

My mother, Margita, née Goldberger, was born in Zbehy, where her father rented a farm. She had five siblings. Grandpa, Samuel Goldberger, was from Dolné Otrokovce, near Hlohovec. That’s where our family survived the war.

Grandma Johana, née Deutelbaum, was born in Vítkovce, near Topolcany, as the youngest of her parents’ twelve children. They were a large family, but only up until the Holocaust. In my mother’s generation there were 46 or 48 cousins. Around three quarters of them didn’t survive the war.

I was never on the farm in Dolné Otrokovce during the time my grandfather farmed there. When he got old, he left the farm to one of his sons and he and Grandma moved to Topolcany. There they lived in this dark apartment that I didn’t like at all. Grandpa died there, too, when I was around five. Grandma then moved to a nicer apartment in the city.

Grandma wore a wig. From what my mother told me, I know that her oldest son was very ill. Back then she swore that if he got well, she’d wear a wig. When I was a child, that wig seemed very tawdry to me.

But Grandma was devout, so she kept her promise to God. She observed all the holidays. Every Friday evening she’d light candles, and she kept a kosher household 13. I even lived with her at one time. My brother got scarlet fever, and I got sent to stay with her. That was in 1935.

I lived with her in 1939 as well. I know that at that time German soldiers were marching through Topolcany. Grandma was afraid of the clumping underneath her windows, and sat by me on my bed and was all afraid that I’d wake up.

I slept like a log. At that time, the German Wehrmacht 14 was crossing Slovakia to Poland. On 1st September 1939, the war began 15. It was during that time. Grandma was teaching me handiwork, mainly knitting. Because she was a diabetic, she used saccharin instead of sugar. I didn’t like that food.

I liked my grandma very much. I think that of all her grandchildren, I liked her the most. It’s no wonder, the others didn’t spend as much time with her as I did. She also used to come to our place to visit at least once a week. She’d usually come on Friday to bathe before Saturday, because we had a bathroom and she didn’t. During the war she moved in with us. She and I slept together in the same room.

I remember how one night in 1942 they came for her at night and wanted to take her away and put her on a transport. At that time she was over 70. Four of them came for her: one German from the Deutsche Partei who had a brown shirt and a band on his arm with a swastika, a Guardist in a Hlinka Guard uniform, one policeman and one gendarme.

They used to go around at night, around 3am. At that time my mother had a so-called yellow exception, in which my grandmother was listed as well. [Editor’s note: this was an exception for Economically Important Jews.

It was given to Jews that were irreplaceable for the economy of the Slovak State.] Economic Jews’ exceptions protected their parents as well. Back then they cancelled that part of the exception, which is why they had come to take my grandmother for transport.

Luckily, my mother’s younger brother, Maximilian Goldberger, was a pharmacist who worked in Prievidza. At that time, the cancellation of parental protection didn’t extend to academically educated workers.

My mother sent my oldest brother Andrej to get him. They returned still that same night by taxi from Prievidza, and reclaimed Grandma on my uncle’s papers. My grandmother had to leave right away to go to Prievidza with my uncle. After that I saw her only one more time.

My mother’s brother Maximilian Goldberger originally lived in Hlohovec. He was the only one of my mother’s siblings to have a university education. He married into money with Edita Linkenberg, who was from Topolcany, and with her dowry my uncle opened a pharmacy in Hlohovec.

In 1930 they had a daughter, Lilly. During the time of the Slovak State his pharmacy was Aryanized and the Aryanizer threw him out that same day. By the way, its Aryanizer was Dr. Entner, a German, who later founded Slovakofarma in Hlohovec. [Editor’s note: the beginnings of the first and largest Slovak pharmaceutical company go back to the year 1941. In 2003, Zentiva was created with the merger of the Czech company Leciva and the Slovak Slovakofarma.]

After they threw him out of his own pharmacy, my uncle found a job in a pharmacy in Prievidza. The family moved there, too. In 1942 they brought my grandmother to Prievidza as well. They lived in Prievidza until the Slovak National Uprising 16 broke out.

My uncle left for rebel territory with his wife and daughter, but first they found a hiding place for Grandma with one family in Bojnice. I don’t know the subsequent details, but I know that they found her hiding place, deported Grandma at the end of 1944, and most likely immediately sent her into the gas.

After the uprising was suppressed, my uncle and his family retreated to the mountains. There Edita accidentally stepped on a mine. She died on the spot. The explosion alerted the Germans or Guardists, I don’t know exactly. They captured those that had survived the explosion. They shut them up in a barn in Motycky, and set it on fire. They’re buried in Stare Hory.

My mother’s oldest brother was Viktor Goldberger. He married Aranka, née Rosenthal. They lived in Prievidza. Viktor owned a large textile store in the center of town. In 1922 they had a daughter, Truda. Girls of that age were deported on the first transport in March 1942.

Her father wanted to buy her out, to bribe the officers in charge, but she said that she was going to go with her girlfriends. Her parents were put into the labor camp in Novaky 17. There, they applied for the Yom Kippur transport, the last transport before the temporary end of the deportations, because they wanted to go be with their daughter. Their daughter was no longer alive at that time, and they also died. Such terrible tragedies!

My mother’s youngest sister was Jolana. Her first husband was Adolf Guttmann, who had already died before the war, and in 1942 she remarried. Her second husband was named [Alexander] Fröhlich. From her first marriage she had a son, Mikulas – we called him Miki – who was born in 1930. Up to 1944 Fröhlich had an exception, meaning they were protected from the transports.

Uncle Fröhlich was an administrator of one large farming estate. When exceptions no longer helped, the Guardists came for him. They caught my uncle as well as Miki. Jolana hid. Because they’d taken her husband and her son, she surrendered voluntarily, so they’d go together.

They got to Auschwitz, where they sent my aunt into the gas; her son and husband survived the war, because they ended up in the coal mines in Gliwice 18. Uncle Fröhlich cared for Miki a lot in the camp. At that time Miki was only 14. They both managed to survive.

The tragedy is that the husband and son survived the war, and my aunt was killed. These two men moved away to Israel in 1949. I’m in contact with my cousin Miki to this day. You could say he’s my closest relative from my generation.

My mother’s youngest brother was Béla, in Slovak Vojtech Goldberger. Béla ran a farm he’d inherited from his father. For a wife he took Erna, née Zobel. Erna was from Dunajska Streda, but was of Polish origin.

Her mother had already died before the war, and her father and brother were deported to Poland already in 1939 or 1940. Back then the Hungarians weren’t deporting their own citizens yet, but they most likely didn’t have Hungarian citizenship. Béla and Erna had two children, a son, Zoltán, who changed his first name to Shlomo, and a daughter, Marta. After getting married, Marta was named Kohen. Béla’s family survived along with our family, we’ll get to that later.

My mother graduated from council school 19. Her first husband was named Hugo. Together they had a son, Andrej. Hugo was an administrator of a farming estate in Tardóskedde [in Slovak Tvrdosovce, a town in the Nove Zamky district].

Hugo got cancer at a very young age, and died of it. My mother was left alone with a little son. That’s why she moved in with her parents, who at that time were living in Dolné Otrokovce. So that she wouldn’t be a burden to them, she opened a store and a village pub. With this she supported herself and her son.

How did my parents meet? In German it’s called ‘geregelte Partie’ [arranged marriage]. My father was a widower, my mother was a widow. This one man and his wife, who was related to my mother’s sister-in-law, used to live in my father’s building.

They arranged it. That’s how people got married back then. My parents had two weddings. The first one was civil, at the notary’s office in Horné Otrokovce, and the proper one was in Piestany. They were married by a rabbi. For sure it was an Orthodox wedding, because in Topolcany, where my father was already living at the time, and where my mother also moved, there was only an Orthodox religious community 20.

We spoke German at home. My father learned his trade in Vienna, where he’d lived from the age of twelve almost up to World War I, so German was his mother tongue. My mother could also speak German, but her main language was Hungarian.

With the maid my parents spoke Slovak, and when they didn’t want the children to understand them, they spoke Hungarian together. We, the children, spoke Slovak together, after all, all three of us attended a Slovak school. So at home there were three languages spoken, but German dominated.

As far as clothing goes, we all dressed the same as everyone else of our social class, regardless of religion. Which means no typical Jewish clothing. My father always wore a suit. Under his suit jacket he had a vest, and pinned on it he had a pocket watch on a gold chain.

My mother liked wearing silk dresses most of all. Up until she died, she wore mostly silk dresses, even at home. Up to lunchtime she’d wear a normal dress, so that the silk ones wouldn’t smell like the kitchen, and after lunch she’d shower and put on a silk dress. I remember going around looking for silk for her dresses. Because back then you couldn’t always get it.

My father was a very kind father. You know, he was already relatively old when his children were born. My brother Rudolf was born when my father was 52, and I was born a year later. We were his treasures. Otherwise he worried about his business. He lived for that.

He and Mother got along very well. Sometimes he’d grumble a little to himself, but I never heard them argue. My father was a very honorable person. Honor was very important in our home. One always kept one’s word, and lying was completely out of the question.

They were principles, which today, especially in Slovakia, are no longer at all principal. I observe the principles I was brought up in to this day, and my brother Rudolf is a very correct and principled person. Our mother was very strict with us. She always emphasized what a person’s responsibilities were. She never talked about rights.

My father was always praising my mother, especially her cooking skills. He never liked anything else as much as what she cooked. He used to say that there wasn’t another cook like her. Of course, when hard times arrived during the Slovak State, priorities were elsewhere than on good food. An understandable nervousness dominated our home. That was no longer ‘normal’ life.

We lived with our parents in a large, two-story building that had a courtyard but no garden. The entire courtyard was paved with concrete. There were two stores facing the street. One was our store, and my father rented the other one out.

Above the stores there were four windows that belonged to our apartment. It was a large four-room apartment with a bathroom, which was a relative rarity back then, a large front hall and a courtyard gallery. The apartment had old-fashioned furniture.

Back then there weren’t the conveniences there are today. The entire apartment, except for the bathroom, had wooden floors. A fairly rare convenience – as I’ve already mentioned – was a bathroom and running water. You see, Topolcany didn’t have a city water main. We had a well dug in the courtyard, from which a pump supplied water upstairs. The pump always had to be turned on by hand, and watched so that the pump motor wouldn’t burn out. Which also quite often happened.

There was an oblong building attached to the house, perpendicularly. It contained workshops, specifically a book bindery and a printing shop. Above the workshops was another apartment, and in the back on the ground floor, there were another two smaller apartments.

One had one room, and the other had two. The Schick family, who also rented the other shop in our building, lived in the larger one. The Freund family lived up on the first floor, and an older lady by the name of Finkelstein lived in the smaller ground-floor apartment. None of them survived the Holocaust, except for two of the Schicks’ sons.

Our staff was composed of a maid and a ‘Kinderfräulein’ [nanny], who watched over me and my brother Rudolf. The household was under my mother’s command. The maid cleaned house and cooked. In the morning she’d go to the market with my mother, and would bring it home.

She’d then receive instructions as to what to do while my mother would go and help my father in the store. The maid cooked, set the table and after lunch would wash the dishes. Once a week, a so-called ‘pedinerka,’ from the German word ‘Bedienerin’ [cleaning woman], would come by. She would scrub the floors. She scrubbed the wood floors and the entire stairwell.

I liked our ‘Kinderfräulein’ very much, as she did me. By this I mean the last ‘Kinderfräulein’ that worked for us. My brother Rudolf didn’t get along with her very much. He’s got a very different personality from me. Our ‘Kinderfräulein’ was a devout Catholic.

She wasn’t only religious, but also very superstitious. She was a very good person. She would have even given her soul for me. These relationships weren’t as bad as the Communists claimed, that the rich exploited the poor, who had to serve them.

She came to work for us when I was four, and was with us until she had to leave, when Jews were no longer allowed to employ so-called ‘Aryans.’ At that time I was 11. We both wept. She even hid some things for me during the war, and after the war she searched me out and returned everything to me.

We kept in touch until she died. I was also at her funeral. During the last years of my mother’s life, she used to come to our place when I went on holiday, so that my mother wouldn’t be alone. On those occasions she used to stay with us even longer, because she wanted to be with me as well. This was always a holiday for her. She got along very well with my mother as well.

Our apartment: three of us slept together in one room, the ‘Kinderfräulein,’ my brother Rudolf and I. Then there was my parents’ bedroom and one huge room, a so-called dining room, which was used only rarely, and a living room where my brother Andrej also used to sleep.

A huge front hall ran alongside the rooms, and the kitchen was separated off by a hall to the stairwell. The dining room was used sparingly. It had a large Persian rug on the floor. The dining room was used when guests came, and during seder and Passover.

My father’s printing shop printed mainly business cards, invitations, posters and so on. Books less so. But for example Valentín Beniak had us print a book for him. [Beniak, Valentín 1894-1973: Slovak poet and translator, a representative of symbolism]

My father employed two typesetters. One of them, Stefan Radic, Aryanized our store in 1941. My older brother, Andrej, was an apprentice typesetter in this workshop. Another two employees worked in the bookbindery, a woman and a man. The man’s name was Schenkmayer. Another young Jewish girl worked in the store. Besides this girl and my brother Andrej, all of my father’s other employees were Aryans.

As far as religion goes, my father was very lukewarm. He liked ham, which isn’t kosher. But my mother observed kosher regulations at home. When my father wanted to enjoy some ham, it was kept secret from the children, too, so that they wouldn’t divulge it to anyone. It was done so that no one would know about it.

Because my mother couldn’t show up in a store that sold non-kosher meat herself, she’d send the maid there. My father would shut himself up in the dining room, where he’d dig in with relish.

Later my brother Rudo brought him around to religion. Because whatever he did, he did thoroughly. He began attending a Jewish school, but after 1940 Jewish children weren’t allowed to attend any other schools but Jewish ones.

Back then he had a choice: either a normal Jewish school or a school where they educated the boys in an Orthodox spirit, led them to know the Torah and other Jewish religious literature. This school was preparation for yeshivah.

All morning and afternoon they taught only religion, and in the evening they had two hours of civil subjects, from 4 to 6pm. The students – exclusively only boys, were engaged in studies all day. Two or three would debate amongst themselves, and thus learned.

My brother is and also always was very bright and clever. Back then he drove both our parents crazy with religion. He stood above my mother while she was preparing meat, to make sure she was doing it correctly kosher. My father began going to synagogue each Friday.

Whether he gave up ham, that I don’t know. That was already at the beginning of the war years. Even in Novaky, my brother was still driving the whole family crazy with religious regulations. He didn’t manage to catch me and my brother Andrej up in it. Right before the war, I became a member of Hashomer Hatzair 21. Hashomer was atheistically oriented. Back then I didn’t yet know what being a leftist was.

We observed all the holidays at home. For Rosh Hashanah we’d go to synagogue. At that time my mother would also go, as well as for Yom Kippur. I’d go visit them during the day. For Yom Kippur they’d sit in the synagogue all day. On that day everyone would fast except for me and my brother Andrej.

Back then the two of us kept a common front in this. Then, when Yom Kippur was over, there’d be a festive supper at home. Grandma Johana would also come for it. I don’t remember exactly what sort of food was served, but for supper before Yom Kippur, we definitely had soup with noodles and meat.

During Passover we had seder. As the youngest member of the family, I’d say the mah nishtanah. The two of us, my father and I, would sing together. I liked that very much. I can do it to this day. For Passover our parents would usually buy us new spring clothing. We’d get a new jacket and so on.

For Sukkot we for example didn’t have a sukkah. Our neighbors had a sukkah built in their courtyard, and I envied them that. They had all sorts of cutouts hanging in it, and I liked that. Their courtyard began where ours ended. Between them was a low fence with a gate.

They lived in a one-story house and were friends with our parents. They were named the Felsenburgs. During the summer my parents would sit up on the courtyard gallery, the Felsenburgs would sit in the courtyard, and they’d talk over the fence. Our parents got along very well with them. They had a little garden, and in it they had that sukkah set up.

My mother would bake excellent pastries for each holiday. That’s something she kept up until she died. After the war she’d bake them for Christian holidays, too. Because she liked pastries, liked baking them, and even Christian holidays were a good opportunity for that.

For Purim a carnival was held in Topolcany, and what a carnival! Always only indoors, usually in some large gym. They put on masquerade balls for the young people, which we usually attended. But during the war it all stopped, and in Topolcany forever.

My older brother Andrej had his bar mitzvah when I was still quite small. I remember only that there was a party in that large room of ours. It was full of people, including a rabbi. My mother told me that what she’d prepared didn’t seem to be kosher enough to the rabbi, and he didn’t want to eat it.

So my mother offered him a can of sardines. Rudo didn’t have a bar mitzvah. Right at that time he was being operated on for appendicitis. Everything for the bar mitzvah had already been prepared.

He’d learned his droshe, he was supposed to read from the Torah, and he also learned it. To this day he claims that it wasn’t appendicitis, but that he’d just wanted to get out of school and had faked it. It ended up with an operation, and the bar mitzvah wasn’t held.

In Topolcany, the Jewish population didn’t live together with the non-Jewish. Contacts weren’t frequent. I for example had only one girlfriend who wasn’t Jewish. She lived in the building across from us. We attended Jewish school, and there we had our Jewish friends.

In one class [year] there were around 40 children, so from there we also had our friends. My mother also had many relatives in town, and they fraternized amongst themselves. One of our relatives had a large house with a nice garden. We used to go visit them, too. They also used to come to visit us as well, and that’s how we’d meet.

My parents weren’t inclined towards any political party or to any associations. Not even Zionist ones. My father even didn’t go out with friends by himself. Neither did they approve of me becoming a Hashomer member very much.

In their opinion, ‘better’ people didn’t belong to Hashomer, as there were leftists there, so mainly poor people. There was also a Betar 22 in town. As Hashomer members, we were enemies. Why, that’s something that I didn’t understand at all back then.

We also used to go on vacations, but the whole family never went together. The business couldn’t close. They actually weren’t even vacations. My parents used to go, each separately, to spas, so for treatments.

According to their philosophy, if a person did go somewhere, it had to be necessary for his health. Otherwise it was a waste of money. My father used to go to Karlovy Vary 23 and Luhacovice. My mother used to go to Karlovy Vary.

• Growing up

I’ll tell you one anecdote: My mother’s brother Maximilian, the pharmacist, was very well off, and he and his wife set out to Opatija, to the seaside. To explain to his parents why they were going to the seaside, he told them that he had to go for treatments, because he had lumbago.

To the end of her days my mother thought that that’s why he’d gone there. Later, long after they were already dead, I told her that if he had wanted to treat lumbago, Piestany was just on the other side of the hill. They lived in Hlohovec.

But I didn’t succeed in convincing my mother. That was a typical Jewish attitude towards vacations back then. Only spas were recognized as being appropriate for vacations. My parents even went to Karlovy Vary for their honeymoon.

We children spent our vacations with my mother’s siblings. Once I was in Hlohovec at my uncle’s place, and a few times in Dolné Otrokovce at another uncle’s. Nowhere else. I was always terribly bored in Dolné Otrokovce, so sometimes they’d also invite my cousin Lilly from Hlohovec.

Once they sent the two of us from Dolné Otrokovce to a neighboring village, Merasice, about two kilometers away, for meat from the ice plant. Back then refrigerators weren’t common, and when someone bought meat for several days, they’d put it on ice in an ice plant.

The Reichenthals had an ice plant in Merasice. On our way back it began to rain. We cried the whole way, until we returned with the meat, soaked to the skin, to Dolné Otrokovce. We were also frightened. Back then I was nine, Lilly eight.

Now let’s return to my early childhood. I was born in Topolcany in 1929. I didn’t attend nursery school. The ‘Kinderfräulein’ lived with us. I began attending Jewish school in 1935. I liked going to school, high school, too, up to graduation. I liked all subjects. I had straight A’s.

The teachers praised me and held me up as an example for the other students. I liked that, they probably less so. In Grade 2 the teacher would pass my exercise books around to show what good handwriting should look like. So because of things like this, I wasn’t very well-liked by my classmates.

In 1940, when Jews were allowed to attend only Jewish schools, we had a teacher who’d come to Topolcany from Presov. His name was Jozef Roth. Him we all liked. He was young and single, not handsome, very shabbily dressed; one could see that he didn’t have money to spare.

He talked to us as if we were adults. But he liked us, and knew how to deal with children. He would tell us interesting things. He was my favorite teacher, and not only mine. Sadly, they deported him right on the first transport, in March 1942. I never took any private lessons outside of school except for English, which I attended with my brothers from 1938 or 1939.

The city that I grew up in was very anti-Semitic. Many residents behaved horribly towards Jews. For example, on the way to Jewish school we had to walk through a narrow little street. We would walk in double file all the way to the end of the street under our teacher’s watchful eye. Non-Jewish children, from the lumpenproletariat of course, would be waiting in ambush there, to beat us up.

Waiting at the end of the street would be our parents, some other adults, or the ‘Kinderfräulein.’ Often children who had no one waiting for them would also walk under their protection. So the teacher would then hand over the children to the protection of other adults.

As far as the attitude of the population towards Jews goes, Topolcany was the worst city in Slovakia. Where else were they still beating Jews after the war? Only in Topolcany, in the today already notorious pogrom right after the war.

I and my classmates were friends. We were one big gang. My best friend was Herta Nagelová. Her father was a baker and we used to meet in his bakery, mainly during the winter; we used to go there in the afternoon, after school. At that time the bakery would be empty, because Herta’s father baked bread and pastries at night.

There we’d play and talk. Mr. Nagel’s father was also a baker. His bakery was on the main square. We used to take shoulet [chulent] there on Fridays. Because this bakery was the closest to us. The shoulet was still raw in the pot, which was covered by paper and our name would be written on it.

When you came for your shoulet, you recognized your pot. In the worst case by the name on the pot. I remember that once the shoulet didn’t come out very thick, and I poured it out all over my coat on the way home.

I used to spend my free time with my classmates or in Hashomer Hatzair. I felt very comfortable in Hashomer. We used to have lectures and on Saturday we used to go on tiul – an outing. We used to go out into the country. We were learning the basics of Hebrew. From those times I remember the word ‘sheket,’ which is what you’d shout to quiet people down.

Otherwise, Hashomer Hatzair was a leftist organization, and they tried to indoctrinate us with Marxism. My brother Andrej, who brought me into it, wasn’t a very big Zionist 24. His friends went there, and that influenced him. Before the war Andrej was supposed to aliyah [immigrate to Palestine]. He was already even all set to go, but in the end it didn’t happen.

We never went to restaurants with our parents. That’s something no one in Topolcany even considered. My father used to say: ‘Why would you want to eat somewhere else, no one cooks as well as your mother.’ I’ve got a whole book of recipes from my mother.

Some years ago I sat down with her so that I could preserve her recipes for myself. Some recipes I have from Mrs. Weissová, who was friends with my mother until my mother died. Her cooking was practically the same as my mother’s, because that’s the way almost all Jewish households in Topolcany cooked.

I for example didn’t manage to get my mother’s recipe for fish with nuts in time. Mrs. Weissová gave me this recipe. What I didn’t learn was how to bake a barkhes, especially how to braid it.

The first time I sat in a car was when I was five. My mother’s cousin, who they shot along with his whole family in 1944 in Nemcice, was getting married. The wedding was in Piestany, and the whole family took a taxi to the wedding. I remember the taxi driver’s name. He was named Mr. Cerveny.

Because Topolcany is on the Prievidza – Nitra train tracks, we traveled mainly by train. For example to my mother’s brother’s place in Prievidza. We used to mainly buy textiles from him. Once my mother bought me cloth for a coat there. That was the last coat that I got before the war.

We also used to by train to Malé Bielice for recreation. There was this small spa there, just for the day, without accommodations. There I learned to swim in this tiny pool. Once a year we’d travel to Dolné Otrokovce. By train of course, to the nearest train station. Dolné Otrokovce isn’t on the train tracks. There a coach would be waiting for us, which would take us where we were going.

My brother Andrej became a typesetter by trade. When the deportations began, he was already 20. Each time there was a sweep being done in Topolcany, they would come for him. He ended up in Sered 25 for six or seven weeks. They took him there on one of the first transports. To this day I don’t know how my mother managed to get him out of there. He returned to Topolcany, and they would come for him during every transport.

They used to come for the rest of us almost every week as well. It was horribly nerve-wracking. Our mother was constantly running around and arranging postponement of deportation. We had our rucksacks packed the whole time.

I had a smaller one, because I was only 13 at the time, and the others had bigger ones. Our mother had an exception because we owned some fields, because according to the exception she was farming on them.

All in all, I can say that she was constantly working on it, and our family has her to thank for its survival. At that time my father was almost 70, and a person as old as that couldn’t get up to much at that time, under that horrible stress.

• During the war

In those days I didn’t understand the political events of the beginning of World War II very well. The first thing that afflicted us, children, was that they didn’t accept us into high school, where I wanted to go study.

This was in 1940, when Jewish children weren’t being accepted in any schools except Jewish ones. So I stayed in Jewish school. They added new grades for students that had been thrown out of other schools. Before that the Jewish school had had five grades, and from 1940 it already had eight grades. Because before that, students had gone from Grade 5 to council school or to high school.

Since the school didn’t have enough room, Grade 6 was mixed, and also had boys from Grades 7 and 8. This large class was located in the gym. Grade 7 and 8 girls made up a separate class. I attended Grade 6 and 7 there, up until we left for Dolné Otrokovce. We left for there on 13th July 1942.

From Rosh Hashanah in 1940 we had to wear a six-pointed star 26 as a mark. We weren’t allowed to go to the cinema, to the city park. We weren’t allowed out after 6pm. We weren’t allowed to go shopping, neither to the market nor to stores, before 10am. Then the Aryanization of my father’s store arrived, and finally the transports, from which we tried to save ourselves, with exceptional luck, successfully.

All businesses were already Aryanized, for the sake of appearances. In the first round of Aryanization, the Aryanizer got 60%, and 40% remained in the hands of the Jewish owner. Afterwards they changed this ratio to 90 to 10%.

My father’s business was Aryanized later, when the Aryanizer already got everything. That was in 1941. My father had already stopped ordering goods long before, so the Aryanizer didn’t get a lot of goods.

To this I’d also like to add that the printing shop and bookbindery were ‘purchased’ from my father by Radic and Schenkmayer for a symbolic price. My father was constantly having some problems, because until they got to the last source of finances, they didn’t let him alone.

Problems began with bankbooks that my father hadn’t reported in the list of property that Jews had to fill out in 1940. They found out about it somehow, that there were some deposits not on the list of property. This caused terrible problems. My parents were completely shattered by it all. Back then I didn’t understand it yet.

To this I have to add an interesting little story: a few years ago, already after 1989, Radic phoned me, whether our family members, specifically my nephew, could arrange for him to have the print shop returned to him.

I’d heard of cases where people – even some Aryanizers – helped Jews. But us no one helped. To this I have to add that at the beginning of the 1970s I once met our Aryanizer Radic on the street in Topolcany, and he said to me: ‘I was decent to you, I didn’t send you to Auschwitz!’

After the Aryanization came the transports, which was the most horrible thing I’ve ever experienced. I was 13 at the time, and was attending school. There were gradually less and less of my classmates at their desks. There were less and less teachers, too.

We had a couple of teachers who were single. Those they took first. I’ve talked about how they came for my grandma. She was so fright-stricken that she left for the Jewish school, where they were gathering people for the transport, in only her nightshirt and slippers.

They yanked us out of our sleep at around 3am. My mom told me to wrap up some essentials for her and take them to the school. I met there our needlework teacher. The poor thing. Because they’d written that everyone should bring some tools with them, she took her knitting and crochet needles with her.

I’m sure it was in vain, I’m sure that she went straight into the gas. The school superintendent, who was there, made faces at her behind her back, snickered and was entertained. She was a primitive, disgusting anti-Semite. Her name was Tonková. She was all glad to see the Jews gathering in the schoolyard.

There were more people gathering around the school. They were jammed against the school gates, were laughing, and for them it was a big show. I saw it all on other occasions as well, as I wanted to help by at least letting know those that didn’t know about it, and could help those that had been afflicted.

Finally we got Grandma out of there, to my uncle’s place in Prievidza. She stayed with him until 1944. After the Slovak National Uprising broke out, my uncle left for rebel territory with his family, and found a hiding place for her in Bojnice. There were three women there.

My grandmother, my uncle’s mother-in-law, so Aunt Edita’s mother, plus another lady their age. The third one somehow lost her nerve, left the hiding place and went out onto the street. Thus she gave away the others as well. They took them all at the end of 1944. She ended up in Auschwitz, in one of the last gassings! Horrible!

They used to come for us every little while. They would, of course, always be given something so that they’d leave and leave us be. I remember one time, when two of them came. Dobrovodsky, a city cop, and the gendarme Sládek. Sládek’s wife was also an Aryanizer.

My father pulled 2,000 crowns out of his briefcase. [The value of one Slovak crown during the Slovak State – 1939-1945 was equal to 31.21 mg of pure gold. The rate of exchange between the German mark and the Slovak crown was artificially set at 1:11.]

Later that came back to haunt me, because after the war, during the Slansky affair 27, they expelled me from technical university. My cadre profile for that purpose had been sent from Topolcany. It was written by the same Dobrovodsky, who’d become a city clerk when they dissolved the city police force.

He wrote that besides other things my father had two apartment buildings, and that he was a big capitalist. Meanwhile, the other building wasn’t my father’s. Once I met Dobrovodsky in Topolcany, and I remember my conversation with him:
‘Mr. Dobrovodsky, what was it that you wrote about my father having two buildings?’

‘On the main square, this and this building,’ and he pointed to two neighboring buildings, of which only one was really ours.
‘But that other building is Polak’s!’

‘Oops, so I was wrong.’ That’s what people were like. The cadre material that he’d put together followed me all the way to retirement. All my life I had problems based on this material, and they de facto persecuted me because of it, or for my being Jewish.

So on 13th July 1942 we left Topolcany for Dolné Otrokovce. At home I’ve got a copy of the request that my father wrote so that they’d allow us to go away – Jews were forbidden to leave the town where they were registered with the police. This application had, according to regulations, a six-pointed star in the upper corner and the designation ‘in the matter of a Jew.’ Our entire family left: my parents, my two brothers and I. My uncle Béla lived there, with his wife and children, Zolo and Marta. He farmed on a farm he’d inherited from my grandfather. We moved in with him. It’s only now that I understand properly how it got on his nerves when one day a family of five arrived. Especially his wife didn’t like it. She was very religious, and at that time I’d had myself baptized. It was especially I that stuck in her craw. It even went so far that she stopped talking to me. She also caused me other unpleasantries. I guess we mutually very much got on each other’s nerves. But in that situation none of us knew what to do.

In Dolné Otrokovce I was allowed to attend a state school, because I’d been baptized. The standard [of education] that I’d come with from the Topolcany Jewish school far outstripped the standards of that two-room village school.

So I had several privileges. For example, when the teacher was teaching, he’d sit me behind his desk and gave me my classmates’ exercise books to correct. I, of course, had straight A’s. Even though I didn’t deserve the one for drawing.

The people living in this village were without exception decent people with a humane attitude towards Jews as well. After the atmosphere and experiences of anti-Semitic Topolcany, it was a big relief. Only once did it happen to me that one kid at school started yelling at me and cursing me that I was a Jew. He was smaller than I was, so the way I resolved it was that I beat him up.

Many people there helped us. Peter Durka, for example. We were like one big family with the Durkas, which has lasted almost to this day. The commander of the gendarmes in Horné Otrokovce, the Horné Otrokovce notary, helped us as well.

Despite this, in 1943 someone in the village informed on us. First they took Uncle Béla, then his family and finally us as well. We ended up in Novaky. I don’t remember the name of the person that informed on us, but allegedly he fell in the uprising. I’ll never forget the night that we spent in the jail in Hlohovec before the trip to Novaky.

Although we were five, we had only three narrow beds at our disposal, so my mom and older brother sat all night, and the rest ‘slept’ on beds that had paper sheets that rustled with every movement.

In Novaky we lived in the first complex. The second complex had workshops, and the third was also residential. My mother worked in one workshop in the first complex. This workplace was for women that had small children and for the old and sick who weren’t able to walk over to the second complex to go to work.

Already back then my mother had problems with her legs, and wasn’t able to make the daily walk to work in the second complex. In the workshop in the first complex they did various work: knitting, and cutting rags for rugs that were also woven there. They did all sorts of other things, too.

My father worked in the cardboard-making shop with my brother Andrej. Then Andrej was transferred to the cabinetmaking workshop. Rudo worked in the tinsmiths’ workshop. From my first to my last day there, I worked in the sewing shop.

Overall, the living conditions in Novaky were good, especially in comparison to what was taking place in the German concentration camps. We were especially afraid of the Germans occupying Slovakia as they’d be retreating and the front would be passing by here.

We expected that the first thing they’d do would be to immediately send the interned Jews in the camps to camps in Germany or Poland. Thank God, this didn’t happen. It was prevented by the uprising. So we can also be thankful to the Slovak National Uprising for our lives.

As soon as the uprising broke out, on 29th August 1944, they dissolved the camp. Everyone could go where he liked. My mother sent Rudo to Prievidza to stay with his uncle. Andrej stayed in Novaky and I and my parents went to the train.

We were left with only what we were wearing. Everything else that stayed in the camp was stolen. We got on exactly the same train on which Rudo was returning from Prievidza, as he’d found that our uncle and his family weren’t there anymore, and so he intended on going to Topolcany.

As the train was arriving at the station in Topolcany, my mother wanted to get off. My father pulled her back onto the train with the words: ‘Topolcany stinks’ and that under no conditions whatsoever would he go to Topolcany. So we kept going, and ended up in Dolné Otrokovce. Later this showed itself to be a fortunate decision.

Uncle Béla and his family were also in the Novaky camp and also returned to Dolné Otrokovce. We decided that we’d wait in Dolné Otrokovce to see what would happen next. My parents were so exhausted by those two years of fighting for survival and the stress connected with it, that they didn’t want to think about or do anything. Because I wanted to do something and not just sit around and wait, I set out for Nitra, that I’d find something there.

After two or three days I returned, because my nerves couldn’t handle it. All I did was cry constantly. In the meantime they had come to round up Jews in Dolné Otrokovce as well, but someone had warned my parents and Uncle Béla ahead of time. I’ve got this impression that either the commander of the gendarme station in Horné Otrokovce or Mr. Durka warned them. When I returned, they were already all in hiding. I went to see one local family, and they told me where I could find them.

When they left, they didn’t have time to take hardly anything with them. My mother was accustomed to taking duvets everywhere with her instead of clothing. That paid off when they took us to Novaky and then also during our return from Novaky to Dolné Otrokovce, and it showed itself to be a good decision this time as well.

So anyways, still before dawn, I set out to look for them. I got there by morning, and spotted my mother. They were hiding in a grove of trees, under the open sky, together with my uncle’s family. There was nothing there, just a quickly dug out ‘zemlyanka’ [a shelter dug into the ground] made of twigs and branches.

Then it somehow spread that we were there. We had to leave. We set out for Horné Otrokovce, where there was an abandoned forester’s lodge. During the day we stayed outside – we were lucky that the weather was nice – and at night we slept in the lodge on a bare cement floor.

Once in the morning, when it had begun to rain a bit, a man with an axe appeared. My mother went out and began with a quavering voice: ‘For the love of God, please don’t hurt us, we’re Jews and we’re hiding here.’ The answer was very surprising: ‘Why, I recognize you, I’m Dr. Roth from Hlohovec.’ The Roth family was hiding in Horné Otrokovce, and survived the war.

After several days, someone from the village warned us that they’d be coming to look for us – someone had probably informed on us. We had to immediately leave for Dolné Otrokovce. You see, in the meantime we’d found out that they’d already looked for us in the ‘zemlyankas,’ so we returned to the same ‘zemlyankas.’

Remember, all movement was done at night. The most dangerous part was when we had to go along a road. Luckily back then there weren’t as many cars on the road as today, so at night we didn’t run into anyone. The weather in September was still nice, so several farmers from the village set out on a Sunday outing and came to visit the Jews hiding in ‘zemlyankas.’

Back then, my mother, correctly guessing the value that land had for farmers, said that she would give the one that saved us his pick of part of our land. The next day one of the farmers returned with a kettle of soup. It was Peter Cizmarik. ‘Here’s some soup from my wife. So, let’s make a deal on that land.’

It was signed and sealed. After nightfall we went to their place. We then stayed with them in one room, nine of us, our family – five people, and my mother’s brother and his family – four people. We stayed there until liberation on 2nd April 1945.

We paid extra for the food they gave us – the fields were only in return for saving our lives. Despite this, what the Cizmarik family did for us was amazing. Peter Cizmarik endangered his whole family, he had five children. His wife cooked for all of us.

That means that she cooked for seventeen people, and all the while no one was allowed to see what large quantities of food she was cooking. The food wasn’t anything special, we didn’t get supper at all, but we ate and didn’t go hungry.

After the terrible months of hiding, liberation arrived. Nitra was bombed on Easter Thursday. On Saturday we were looking through the curtains in the room, and saw that there were Germans running away through the valley below. In the afternoon a drummer came and announced that people shouldn’t go outside. In the distance we heard artillery fire. The village is located in a valley, and above it there’s a hill.

The Russians were already behind the hill. The lads from the village went up on the hill to have a look at the Russians, and one of them paid for that. The Russians didn’t know who they were, and to be on the safe side shot at them, and killed one of them.

The last night, the farmer sent us all into the cellar. I was completely hysterical down there. I was imagining that after all that we’d lived through up to then, that they could kill us on the last night. Just before morning, we heard someone moving about in the yard.

The farmer came out into the yard and asked who was there. The answer was one of the most beautiful ones of my life: ‘We’re Russians.’ The following evening we went back to the apartment where we’d lived in Dolné Otrokovce during the war.

The Russians were having a lot of fun with the village girls there. We lived in that apartment until May. I was the first in the family to go to Topolcany, because I wanted to investigate possibilities regarding attending school.

• After the war

Gradually our entire family returned to Topolcany, but not to our own apartment. Our Aryanizer, Stefan Radic, was living in our apartment. We had two free rooms upstairs, where one family who’d been deported had lived, and they’d all died.

Our kitchen was on the ground floor, where there was a vacant apartment from one old lady that had also been deported, and the Aryanizer had been using it for storage, and freed up one room for us, which we used as a kitchen.

There were strong anti-Jewish feelings in the town, fed by those that had things stolen from Jews who had returned and wanted their things back. During those times we constantly heard: ‘More of you returned than left.’

This mood also fed the pogrom that broke out at the end of September 1945. It began with the fact that a Jewish doctor, Dr. Karol Berger, was vaccinating children who were going to school in the local convent. Already in the morning it spread through town that many children had died as a result of the vaccinations, which was a lie.

At that time I was in high school. That day our class didn’t have school because of a so-called Principal’s Holiday. When I got wind of what had happened, I left town. My older brother Andrej was working on a farm in Velké Dvorany as an accountant.

I went to see him. Alone and with no money. On the way there, I stopped off in Topolcany at a sawmill, and there I asked one man who was a friend of my father’s for a hundred crowns for the trip. [In November 1945 the value of the crown in gold was set at 1 Kcs = 0.0178 g of gold.]

My mother stayed in town. My father went to visit a friend of his, also a man of similar age. Soldiers who had joined the pogrom came there for him, and took them away with them. They brought him, all bloodied, to the police station, where the town’s Russian commander had ordered all the Jews to be gathered. Someone had beaten him on the way there. They took him to the hospital for treatment. He was the oldest of the Jews that had been beaten.

Soldiers came to our home for my brother Rudo. They were brought there by our Aryanizer’s brother-in-law, Moravcik, who was helping his brother-in-law, our Aryanizer, at the store that had originally belonged to my father. The soldiers also took Rudo to the police station.

On the way there he was hit in the face so hard that he started bleeding. It happened in front of a store where the Aryanizer Korec was. During the war Korec was a well-known Guardist and participated in the rounding up of Jews.

I remember how he came for our neighbor, Ruzena Felseburgova, who they’d caught while she was attempting to cross the border into Hungary, to save herself from the transports. She’d gotten a half hour to pack her things, and Korec was ordering her to quickly finish.

In the evening, when Andrej and I returned home together, everything was over with, as gendarmes from Bratislava had arrived and restored order. Nothing happened to the people that had initiated the pogrom and took part in it, and demonstrably beat Jews.

They put them on trial, but let them go. At home we found our mother, who hadn’t dared to turn on the lights, because she didn’t know what things looked like outside and whether the pogrom wasn’t still continuing. She didn’t know anything about any of us, where we were, and was very glad when she saw my brother and me.

Then we went to the police station and there we met our father and my brother Rudo. Both of them had already gotten medical treatment. Then, accompanied by a Bratislava gendarme, we all went home.

My father never ever got back into his business, because he needed to get a so-called ‘reliability’ [a state certificate of reliability or loyalty]. I don’t know exactly what it was called, but people used to call it ‘reliability.’ It was a piece of paper that certified that the person hadn’t collaborated after the First Republic 28.

As the Aryanizer had a friend in the people’s committee, he got a ‘reliability,’ but they refused to give my father one. The reason they gave was that we were Hungarians and Germans. At the time it was forbidden to speak German, and my father didn’t know how to speak Slovak well. That was the reason he didn’t receive that ‘reliability,’ and thus the store remained in the Aryanizer’s hands and my father couldn’t get his own store back.

Nothing remained of our prewar property. We got back only a little of it. I remember how once my mother went into the courtyard and from one neighbor’s clothesline yanked some dishcloths and similar things, which had originally been ours and she was drying it out in the yard. They didn’t even have enough shame to hide the things they’d stolen. Our neighbor saw it, but said not a word.

My mother even found our closets in one apartment. On the back of these closets, my father had written down the numbers of bankbooks he’d burned, as he hadn’t included them in the declaration of property in 1940, when Jews had to declare their property, so that they could gradually confiscate what they’d declared.

He had the same numbers scored into a little pillbox that he’d carried on him throughout the whole war. My mother entered that apartment with a policeman. They, of course, immediately began with what was this supposed to mean and so on. The policeman said: ‘Turn those closets around.’ The numbers of course matched, and so we got the closets back.

Things like this naturally fed the pogrom mood. This is also why in his speech on the radio Lettrich 29 asked Jews to not ask for their things back from people they found them with, because it was causing needless anti-Jewish sentiments. It was always typical to turn the victims into the guilty.

With his property and income, my father belonged to the upper middle class. After the war, nothing remained of his property. We returned home with only the clothes on our backs. After the war, I went around in a coat I had gotten from one aunt.

I had only one dress, and I didn’t get others until a few months after the war, from cloth sent by the UNRRA [The United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration]. From January 1946 I started tutoring classmates, and with that money I bought myself clothes, because my parents didn’t have money.

Our family’ composition wasn’t very well suited for emigration. My father was old, and he soon died, in 1948, and my brother Rudo and I were still snot-nosed kids, plus both of us wanted to study anyways.

Our brother Andrej did talk about how he would work to support the family, but we couldn’t expect that of him. We also made a few attempts, but they ended up in failure. We had a relative in the United States, whom my father had entrusted with a huge sum of money in case we needed it.

His wife came to visit us before the war, and took 400,000 crowns [in 1929 it was decreed by law that the Czechoslovak crown – Kc – as a unit of Czechoslovak currency was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold] back with her to the USA, but after the war they returned almost nothing.

They just sent us some used clothing and around 20,000 crowns, and that was it. He was my mother’s cousin. During the war I was memorizing their address, and I knew that it was because we had lots of money there.

My father died in February 1948, and is buried in Topolcany, at the Jewish cemetery. My mother remained alone in Topolcany. My brother Rudo and I were studying in Bratislava, and Andrej was commuting to Piestany for work.

They wanted to throw my mother out of her apartment, saying that she was alone and didn’t need it. They didn’t want to recognize that all three of us siblings had our permanent address in Topolcany. Andrej went with me to the police station, they were the ones that wanted to throw my mother out, there he banged on the table and that helped. That’s how it was finally resolved.

After the war, we didn’t practice any religion in the family at all. My mother used to say that the God that had allowed what had happened is not God, and turned her back on him. She never set foot in a synagogue again.

Neither did we ever fast, and on Friday we didn’t light candles. We just made pastries for the holidays, that remained. My father died in 1948, and he didn’t have any affinity for religion at all. What’s interesting is that my brother, who had at one time attended yeshivah, also became a non-believer.

We all became atheists. While he was still in Novaky, Rudo had been very devout, and when we began hiding out, during the first few days he didn’t want to eat any meat, and ate only bread and milk, and butter when there was some.

After the war my mother told him that if he wanted it, she would lead a kosher household. He told her to not bother. After the war something in him changed, and he became a Communist. But he got over that as well.

My mother was very exhausted from saving the family, and no longer had the energy for anything bigger. In 1948 my father died, and from that time on she became very dependent on me. She did work at one time, she worked as an invoice clerk for minimum wage, but only so that she would get at least some sort of pension. Her first pension was 400 crowns. Because we had no property left, she lived from hand to mouth. She lived in Topolcany, and Rudo and I in Bratislava. My brother Andrej did live in Topolcany, but worked in Piestany, so wasn’t home during the week. When he got married, his wife also moved in with our mother.

I didn’t get to a relatively decent apartment until 1962, and my mother would spend most of the year with me. Near my apartment there’s a park where she used to sit on a bench with her friends – Jewish women her age. In 1966 she moved in with me completely.

She lived with me from then on, until she died. She died in 1977. She had heart problems and very limited mobility, so during the last few years she didn’t even go out anymore, and insisted on not sitting at home alone, so I spent most of my time outside of work with her. According to her explicit wishes – ‘I don’t want to be eaten by worms’ – we had her cremated, and her urn lies in an urn grove.

After the war, Rudo spent a year at home preparing for being accepted to high school. After the pogrom, he didn’t want to live in Topolcany. He never even returned there, and lives in Bratislava. He decided to go into science. He made it as far as a doctorate.

Andrej eventually got a job, at first he worked in a printing plant in Bratislava. His last workplace before retirement was a book printer’s in Partizanske. He died in 1994.

After the war I wrote my high school entrance exams, and after graduation I went to Bratislava to study at the Slovak Technical University. I managed to successfully graduate, even though in second year, in 1951, during the Slansky trials, they expelled me from school.

They gave various reasons: that I was a careerist, that I had a bad – capitalist – class background and so on. One of them was even true. I really don’t have a fondness for manual labor. That was true, I was always more inclined towards mental and not physical labor, which back then meant mainly work with a pick and shovel. In order to prove my fondness for labor, I applied for brigade work, washing windows at a newly built building on campus.

During the brigade work, I received an invitation to register for the next year. The woman clerk at the dean’s office didn’t want to register me. The dean of the faculty resolved it. He formally gave me a dean’s ‘reprimand’ for ‘behavior unbefitting Communist youth.’ ‘And now run and get yourself registered.’

Before I graduated the Communists tried to expel me one more time, but this time the university chancellor came to my rescue. He then talked about such cases in television after the year 1989 30, that he didn’t allow good students to be expelled for ‘singing Communist Youth songs out of tune.’

However, I received such a cadre profile that I could only work in a factory. In it they wrote that they had expelled me from school, but that they’d refused it at the chancellor’s office, because ‘the chancellor’s office contained elements similar to Ruzena R.’

This is what I had written in my cadre profile, which followed me my whole life until retirement. By those ‘elements’ they meant that there were some Jews sitting in the chancellor’s office, and that they had arranged it for me. It took me several decades before I realized this.

And that at the instigation of a non-Jewish girlfriend of mine. Those were the 1950s, today we know that they were strongly anti-Semitic, but back then we didn’t understand it. So finally I finished my studies after all. Everything ended up fine, just in Marxism-Leninism I couldn’t get higher than a C, the worst grade, but enough to pass the exam.

After finishing my studies, I got a placement offer for the Dimitrovka [Editor’s note: The Juraj Dimitrov Chemical Works, today named Istrochem. One of the oldest companies in the chemical industry, it was founded in 1873 by Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite.]

Apparently my ‘diagnosis’ [cadre profile] contributed to this. They greeted me enthusiastically, because they had a shortage of engineers. Back then, no one wanted to start working there voluntarily. The conditions there were very bad. Whoever could, got out of there. I used to say that through a process of natural selection, the only ones to remain there will be either stupid or with a bad cadre profile. In other words, people who didn’t have a chance anywhere else.

My cadre profile chained me to that place all my life, which they made sure was thoroughly bitter. In what way? My boss, who was my boss for ten years, was a terrible anti-Semite. When I needed only one day’s holiday, because I wanted to have a long weekend because I was going to go visit my mother in Topolcany, his answer was: ‘Not on Monday, take Tuesday off,’ and so on. During the time he was my boss, he never even once gave me a raise. After 1968 31 conditions improved a bit.

After 1968, a slightly softer era began in the plant as well. My position improved a bit, too. I no longer had an anti-Semite for a boss, and I was treated decently, too. In 1983 I was eligible for retirement, as I had a so-called 255 32; because they asked me, I stayed there and worked for another three years part-time.

Those were the nicest times in the plant where I worked for 33 years. In June 1986 I retired. I still remember that the most beautiful day of my life, besides 2nd April 1945, when we were liberated, of course, was 30th June 1986. After that I did translations at home and worked as an interpreter. I translated mainly from German to Slovak and vice-versa. This I did until 1991.

My lifelong hobbies have been reading, swimming and attending the theater. My friends were from various circles. In the first place, I had to be sure that they weren’t anti-Semites. I’ve got very sensitive ears for subtle insinuations.

They apparently don’t realize this. For example, one female colleague of mine was scandalized by Jews being thrown out of good positions [during the 1950s]: ‘they should really have kept them working – for us.’

I was 48 when my mother died, and right after that, I began to concern myself mainly with my own illnesses.

From the time I learned to read, I read every day. Luckily I’m able to pick from among several languages, which was an advantage especially during the Communist era, when there weren’t a lot of good books being published in Slovak or Czech, as they were forbidden.

I came by my linguistic capabilities quite early on, and therefore also easily. At home, besides Slovak we also spoke German, my parents also spoke Hungarian to each other, I took private English lessons since childhood, in high school we had French, and I caught on to Russian. I’m sorry that I don’t know Hebrew, because most of my next generation of relatives in Israel don’t know any other language.

Even though opportunities for travel were very limited, I tried to take vacations abroad. But always when I returned, especially from the West, it took me a few days to get used to the conditions here. As soon as it was possible, my first trip was to Israel.

That was in 1991. I was there for three weeks. I wanted to make use of the possibility as soon and as much as I could, because my health was rapidly getting worse. I mainly visited my relatives and friends from school in Topolcany.

I tried to see everyone, as I hadn’t seen them for 40 years. The sight that made the greatest impression on me was Masada. I was captivated by that whole atmosphere. Of course, visiting the Wailing Wall was also a big experience for me.

I was no longer able to fully take advantage of the changes after 1989. My age and bad state of health didn’t allow it. But during the first few months I was very happy that I’d even lived to see the change.

I realized that the euphoria that I had also allowed myself to be enraptured by wouldn’t last long, but I enjoyed it to the fullest. I remember that right when it was going on, I was lying in the hospital. I got discharged home from the hospital, at home I turned on the TV, and had an immense feeling of happiness.

Several months later, the filth began. Communists were leeching off it, nationalists were rearing their heads, mainly descendents of the wartime Slovak State, and once again history began to be rewritten.

In 1991 this one funny thing happened to me. My cousin from Israel and his wife were at my place visiting. On the street I met the wife of one of my colleagues, who we called ‘Emil the Communist.’ In his time he used to threaten me that my comments could have dire consequences for me. With great satisfaction I said to his wife: ‘Right now I’ve got relatives from Israel visiting me, whom I kept a secret from the Communists for 40 years.’

The revolution in 1989 influenced our daily life, starting with being able to find the basic necessities of life. I say to people that I’m no longer able to imagine how we used to shop back then, because every day on the way home from work, I’d go stand in a queue to buy something – whatever they had right then.

The store was up on the first floor, and the queue used to stretch down to the ground floor. There I stood and waited, to see what I’d get that day.

Today I spend my spare time at the computer; I send emails and also look around on the internet a bit. I recently found the address for Yad Vashem 33 and I’m upset over the lists of those that perished, whom I’d known and who for me aren’t an abstract concept. I correspond with friends, I talk to some of them on the phone regularly, and sometimes I watch TV, on the rare occasion that there’s something interesting on.

I’m glad that research of this type is being carried out, so that what went on during that bloody 20th century will be recorded, and I consider it my duty to leave the facts about my life for those that will come after us. Though I’m not very convinced that it’ll be of interest to anyone.

Glossary

Judita Schvalbova
Presov
Slovak Republic
Interviewer: Barbora Pokreis
Date of interview: February 2005

Mrs. Judita Schvalbova lives with her husband in a cozily furnished apartment near the outskirts of Presov. Mrs. Schvalbova was born in the year 1936, which is why she wasn’t able to give us information about pre-war Jews in the town of her birth, Zilina. Despite being very small at the time, she remembers in relative detail the suffering connected with hiding during the Holocaust. Mrs. Schvalbova is a very kind and vigorous lady, these days already in retirement. Her joys in life are her grandchildren and the winged residents of her balcony, who she with love calls ‘my poultry!’

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

My paternal great-grandparents were the Donaths. He was named Gabriel and she Roza. The only thing that I know about them is that they lived in Varin. I don’t know how they made a living, because no one at home ever spoke about it. They are buried in Zilina at the Jewish cemetery. I didn’t know at all that they are buried in Zilina, because when a person is younger, he’s not interested in these things. Neither did I speak about such things with my parents. I found out about their grave completely by chance. The cemetery caretaker told me that there were some other Donaths buried there as well. I had originally assumed that their graves have to be in Varin. I had always wanted to stop at the cemetery to look for the graves of my grandparents, but I never got around to it. And so I found out that these are the great-grandparents who they had talked about at home.

The Donaths had about eight children, some of whose names I know, but others I have no clue about. My grandfather was named Zigmund. His older brother Emanuel was a veterinarian in Nitra. Of the boys I still remember Bartolomej, who everyone called Berci. There were also several sisters. Two set out for America and also married there. One of them was named Hana. And I remember one more sister, who lived in Zilina, but unfortunately I don’t remember her name any more.

My maternal great-grandparents were named Yisrael Pick and Roza Pickova. By coincidence this great-grandmother was also named Roza. My great-granddad lived from the year 1829 until 1911. Great-grandma Roza was born in 1830 and died in 1904. Both are buried in Zilina. Great-granddad was likely a Talmudist, because my mom used to say that he was a ‘Bibelforscher’ [German, one who studies the Bible, in this case the Five Books of Moses]. The Picks had eight children. I know their names, because my uncle in Los Angeles put together a small family tree. They had three sons: Simon, Moric – my grandpa, and Jakob. The girls were named Eva [Joseph] Pick, Maria Hoffmann, Hermina Vogel, Julia Lowy and Kati Spitzer.

There was one interesting thing in the Pick family. There was hereditary diabetes in the female lineage. That means that all the boys were healthy, all the girls that I’ve named had diabetes. On the other hand, in the next generation the girls were healthy and the boys suffered from diabetes. My great-grandfather’s sister Julia married a man by the name of Lowy. Her grandson is still alive, my second cousin Dan Auerbach. He’s got three children: two daughters, Karin and Maya, and a son, Avi.

About Simon Pick I can’t tell you much. He had two children, a son, Laszlo Pick, and a daughter, Elsa. Grandpa’s brother Jakob died before the war, but I don’t know what caused his death. He had five sons: Geza, Arthur, Gustav, William and Eugen. Eugen Pick lives in Los Angeles, and it’s he who put together our family tree. He’s 87 years old. He has one daughter, Nava Earley, and one granddaughter, Ronit Attlesey. William moved to Palestine, where he also died. He had a son, Tomas, who lives in Los Angeles, and Jurko, who is currently settled in Prague. Jurko owns Zlatnictvo Michal [Michal Jewelry] in Prague. William had one more daughter, Vera Waldmann, who lives in Israel. Arthur died in a concentration camp. He didn’t have any children. Gustav was also in a concentration camp, but he returned. He died shortly after the war. Jakob’s daughter, Irena Kalus, died in a concentration camp. She had two sons, Ivan and Gregor. One of the uncles, Geza Pick, died after the war in Bratislava.

There’s one more interesting thing in our family. It’s got to do with Hermina Vogel [sister of grandfather Moric Pick]. She had three sons, Laci, Bandi and Zoli. Laci died in Zilina shortly after the war, he didn’t have children. Zoli died in a concentration camp. Bandi was like a ‘white crow’ in the family, because after the war [World War II] he joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses. He settled in Bratislava, I don’t know if he has any children. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but if he is, he must be very old by now.

As for my grandparents, Moric Pick and Jozefina Pickova [nee Kraut], they originally had six children. Only three of them remained alive. One boy died at six, one girl at the age of three, and one was stillborn. My mother Melania had two more brothers, Oskar and Gejza. Mom was the youngest of the three.

Uncle Gejza picked an interesting wife. So many nationalities have mixed in our family...her mother came from Berlin, while her father was a Turkish Jew, a goldsmith. They were married in Berlin. I don’t know how exactly they ended up in Zilina. My uncle’s wife [Herta Pickova] worked as a clerk in a textile factory, and that’s where they met. They had one son, Albert Yisrael Pick. Albert is named after the great-grandfather whose grave I found. Uncle Gejza moved to Israel in 1948. His son lives there to this day, he’s got three children. Albert has three children: Ariela, Daphne and Merav. These days he’s already got several grandchildren, but I don’t know their names. My mother’s second brother, Oskar, married a non-Jewish woman, who you could say saved our lives during the war. They lived in Zilina. They had no children, because his wife was ill and had to undergo three gynecological operations. Oskar died in 1983, the year after my son’s graduation.

The Picks originally lived in Horni Hricov near Zilina. My grandfather owned a distillery there, which was burnt down during a pogrom during World War I. He had to leave there, because they had no way of making a living. I don’t know anything more about the pogrom, only what was talked about at home. In Zilina they had to start over. My grandfather opened a pub and soda shop in Zilina. When he got it together a bit, he took out a mortgage and bought a house on the main street. I know that my mother, her brothers, my uncles, used to reminisce that my grandfather worried horribly, because he didn’t think that he’d be able to pay the mortgage. He was afraid that he’d put his family in the poorhouse, but in the end everything turned out fine and he paid that mortgage off. That house belongs to us to this day, I inherited it. My grandmother was at home, as was the custom. The house stood on the main square in Zilina. There was a bathroom with running water, electricity, everything. We heated with a stove, as was the custom in those days. My grandparents had only a cleaning-woman. I don’t remember there being a cook.

My grandparents on my mother’s side dressed in a modern way. In the photographs I have, they’re dressed normally. I don’t remember at all how my grandparents observed holidays. I don’t know what political opinions they had or what political party the Picks preferred. I don’t remember it, because they died when I was very small. My mom didn’t talk much about her parents with me. I only know a story about my mom’s little six-year-old brother, who died as a result of a dog bite. Apparently he got blood poisoning and subsequently meningitis.

Here I’d like to recall one more interesting thing, how my grandma Pickova’s sisters got married. My grandmother was named Jozefina, and had a younger sister, Berta. Berta’s daughter married someone in Vienna. She also survived the Holocaust. After the war she brought her mother, my aunt Berta, to live with her in Vienna. During the war Aunt Berta hid with her other daughter, Zita. After Berta’s death her daughter, whom she had lived with in Vienna, moved to America, where she also died.

Another sister, Regina, married this one big landowner in Velky Kolacin [today Nova Dubnica, Ilava county]. Velky Kolacin is located over the hill from Trencianske Teplice, in the direction of Nova Dubnice. She and her husband together took care of a large farm. They had two sons. The younger one helped in farming the fields. The older one was an army officer during World War I, they were terribly proud of him. During the war he was wounded and wasn’t well off health-wise. Still before the war he fell in love with the daughter of Count Andahazy. The Andahazys owned a manor in a nearby village. They had two daughters and my mother’s cousin fell in love with one of them. The parents on both sides were very much against their relationship. The Andahazys didn’t want a Jewish son-in-law, and the other side didn’t want a count’s daughter as a bride. In the end they married anyways.

Three children came of that marriage. The oldest son was called Laci – Laszlo. The middle daughter was named Ildiko, the youngest Eniko. Their father, my mother’s cousin, fell ill as a result of his wounding in World War I. Apparently he suffered from Parkinson’s disease. He suffered for a relatively long time, he even survived the Holocaust. After the war one aunt took care of him until the end. After the coming of Communism his wife tried to escape the country across the Morava River. His wife and the middle daughter Ildiko were on a different boat than the son with the youngest daughter, Eniko. Ildiko and her mother ended up in jail, because they caught them. The son Laci with the youngest daughter Eniko were on another boat. They managed to escape and got to the other side. When they released the countess and Ildiko from jail, they again tried to escape. This time they also succeeded.

Today the entire family lives in America. I don’t have any contact with them, I know only very little about them. My cousin, Albert Yisrael Pick has some sort of connection with Laci. When my son needed an immunology textbook, it was Laci who found it for him. He had our address from Albert Yisrael. I thanked him for it, and thought that we’d stay in contact, but that was the end of it. He didn’t show any interest. I know that Laci married a Slovak woman from Povazska Bystrica. In America he worked his way up to being a professor of mathematics, he developed one very unusual mathematical theory, so he did very well there. His wife is a painter, she’s quite respected. The middle daughter, Ildiko, had already started to study chemistry in Czechoslovakia. She married very well; her husband was the European representative of one large company. The youngest, Eniko, supposedly got married in Mexico and has these little Mexican children with narrow eyes. This much I know about them, and nothing more. In the meantime, their mother died. After 1989 she stayed here for a time.

There’s an interesting story tied to her time here. After the revolution she wanted to reclaim two portraits of her parents. Likely they were from a known artist and probably also had interesting frames. During Communism the pictures were confiscated, and I don’t know whether they maybe belonged to the collection of some gallery. She submitted a request for their return, but she didn’t manage to get them back.

I was two years old when my grandmother died, and four when my grandfather died. I don’t remember my grandma at all and my grandpa only foggily. Thank god that they both avoided the suffering that was soon to come. My grandmother died in 1938 of liver cancer at the age of 63. My grandfather died in 1940 of angina pectoris, he apparently had a heart attack, in those days it was all called angina pectoris. Both are buried in Zilina, to this day I take care of their graves. I faintly remember my grandpa’s funeral. In 1940 you could still have a funeral according to Jewish traditions, that was still possible. They created a museum in one part of a small Orthodox synagogue in Zilina. In one display case in the museum I came upon a Chevra Kaddisha register. The register was opened on precisely the page where my grandfather’s name was written, among others.

My paternal grandparents, the Donaths, that is Maria Donathova, nee Polacsek and Zigmund Donath, they lived in Zilina. My grandfather was a master electrician in the Ganz factory in Budapest. He found a wife in Budapest, my grandma, who he brought back to Zilina. Grandma came from a family of eleven children. Her family lived in very, very modest circumstances. This I can judge, because grandma even worked as a servant for one family in Budapest. About her siblings I only know that one of her brothers was a ‘kalauz’ [conductor] on a streetcar. They were very proud of him, that he had made it that far.

Both of my grandparents were born in the same year, 1873. Grandma came from Pokafa, a village near Zalaegerszeg in Hungary, and my grandpa from Varin, a village near Zilina. My father, Jozef Donath, was born in 1901, still in Budapest, but his younger brother Ludovit was born in Tatranska Kotlina. My grandfather came there as an electrician. At that time electricity was being brought to the Tatras. So at first they lived in Tatranska Kotlina, and after a time they decided that they would live in Zilina. In Zilina they founded a dispatch service named the United Dispatch Company. We had it until the war [World War II]. Later my father and his younger brother also began to work for the family business. Though Ludovit did begin studies as an electrical engineer in Prague, he didn’t finish school because he was, how would I describe it...well, he liked to enjoy life. My father had to work hard on his account, so that’s why my grandfather called Ludovit back home.

The United Dispatch Company was a family business. Besides my grandfather, my father and uncle, and a secretary, Jolanka Vatolikova, also worked there. She wasn’t Jewish, but was a very decent woman. She took care of administrative matters. We also had horses, these cold-blooded haulage horses. They were very necessary for us, because they pulled a moving wagon. We employed one coachman, and one man that slept with those horses. We didn’t have any other employees. The company also owned a large warehouse right by the railway tracks in Zilina. The warehouse still stood until recently, but now, when the Zilina railway station was being enlarged, there were new tracks being built in that direction and the warehouse had to be demolished. Our company ceased to exist when the nationalization [in Czechoslovakia] 1 started. The dispatch company mainly dealt with the distribution of goods to companies in Zilina. The goods were unloaded from wagons and stored in the warehouse, from where they were distributed to various businesses. Of course, goods were sent both in and out.

The beginnings of my grandma’s life in Zilina were very hard for her, because she didn’t know even a word of Slovak. My grandfather tried to help her learn Slovak as best he could, but somehow it didn’t go very well for her. He also brought in a young maid from Liptov, so she could learn Slovak from her, but the opposite happened and very soon the maid spoke better Hungarian than my grandma Slovak. There was one cute story about my grandmother that was told in Zilina. When my grandmother could already get by with her Slovak, she went out to the market. In those days, fowl pest was common in the Zilina region. It used to be a custom to bring live poultry to the market. Well, and she saw some farmwoman selling a goose that had already been killed and cleaned. She became suspicious, whether that goose hadn’t died of the pest. She tried to find out with her broken Slovak, and began to ask the farmwoman, ‘Lady, does that goose kick?’ Meaning did it kick the bucket [die of disease], that’s how she meant it. And the woman answered, ‘Well, my lady, I’m old, gray, but I’ve never seen a goose kicking!’ So this was a story they told about my grandma in Zilina.

My father’s parents at first lived in one house in Zilina. During the time of the Slovak State 2 they moved into the building owned by my other grandparents, the Picks. The building stood on the main square. In the courtyard there were several small houses, and in one of them there was a nice two-room apartment with a bathroom and everything. So that’s where my grandparents moved with my father’s younger brother. What did their first apartment look like? It’s very difficult for me to describe it in detail. I don’t remember their first apartment at all. I only remember how my grandma [Donathova] brought her mother Cecilia Polacsek from Hungary. She died in Zilina at the age of 92. I could have been maybe three or four at that time, I remember that she had terribly thick lenses in her eyeglasses. I was terribly afraid of her. She sat me on her lap, but I would pull away from her. I have only this memory from their first apartment. She also has a grave in Zilina, which I take care of. Well, and then the next apartment, where they moved during the time of the Slovak State, that one I remember. It had typical furniture for the times, mainly I remember the carved furniture that was in the dining room.

I don’t remember my grandparents’ neighbors in their first house. When they moved to the second house, the owners of the surrounding houses were also Jews. There were also several Jewish families in our building. During the time of the Slovak State we had to move from the main street to those small houses that we had in the courtyard. At the Donaths’ they spoke Hungarian, and at the Picks’, German. My grandparents dressed normally, not at all like religious Jews. My grandfather didn’t wear a kippah or a hat. They were completely modern, I never saw them dressed like people that strictly follow their religion.

The Donaths promoted more of a Neolog 3 tendency, we didn’t concern ourselves with religion very much. From the pre-war period I remember only one seder led by my father. And even that I don’t remember in detail, just this one little thing has remained in my memory. There’s a seder custom that the door is opened and one waits for the prophet Eliahu [Elijah]. At that time we did it, according to tradition, and suddenly our dog came in. For me, as a child, that was very amusing, so that’s why it’s stuck in my memory. And I also remember, that I said the mah nishtanah. My grandparents went to the synagogue on only the major holidays. I was an eight-year-old child when in 1944 they went to Sered 4 and from there to a concentration camp. I don’t remember them very much.

I have no way of knowing if my grandfather was a member of a political party or what political opinions he had, because during the war we didn’t concern ourselves with politics. We concerned ourselves with saving our lives. Unfortunately, this effort didn’t work out for the larger part of our family.

Growing up

During my childhood Zilina had maybe 18,000 people. As a child it didn’t overly interest me, but for sure it didn’t have more than 20,000 [according to the 1921 census, Zilina had 12,255 inhabitants]. Just recently I read that in the pre-war period there might have been about 3,600 Jews living in the town [in 1942 there were around 3,500 Jews living in Zilina]. From my childhood I don’t remember a mikveh, yeshivah and similar Jewish institutions, because as a six-year-old it didn’t interest me very much and my parents absolutely didn’t practice this. Now that I’m retired, I read that there really was a mikveh here. There were two communities in Zilina. There was a Neolog community. Its members built one large, modern synagogue which stands to this day, but now is used for cultural purposes. And then there was another, smaller group of Orthodox 5 Jews, who had a tiny little synagogue. Even after the war there were services held in the Orthodox synagogue, up until the time of the two waves of emigration to Israel. Up until then it was relatively full. I don’t remember the names of the rabbis that were in Zilina in the pre-war period. During the war religious life didn’t exist, I was very small at that time. After the war, cantor Halpert served there for a time, he later left for Ireland. Mr. Halpert married us, so that’s why I remember him.

We used to attend the large Neolog synagogue. I don’t remember the details of what the interior looked like. A faint memory of Purim from the year 1941 has remained with me. I remember walking in a procession, and people up in the gallery showering us with candies. I know that the Purim celebration was held for us children. As a small girl I sang very well, so I performed there. I had on a pink knitted dress that was embroidered with small flowers.

There used to be a big market held in Zilina before the war. They sold poultry and vegetables there. Usually my mother and grandmother used to go to the market. I don’t remember if our servants also went with them.

When we lived in the modern house, in 1939 there was this procession with torches that passed under our windows. I was only three years old at the time, but those torches have remained in my memory. My mom later told me that they were singing: ‘Cut and hack that Czech head ‘till it bleeds!’ [see Czechs in Slovakia from 1938–1945] 6 It was the time of the creation of the Slovak State.

My mother Melania Donathova, nee Pickova, was born on 17th January 1910 in Horni Hricov near Zilina. She attended high school in Zilina, so she had a high school education. Before the war my mother didn’t work anywhere, because she married relatively early and devoted herself to running the household. My father, Jozef Donath, was born in 1901 in Budapest. First he attended high school in Zilina. In 1919 he was among the first graduates that graduated in Slovak. My father and mother attended Slovak schools. After graduation my father completed training as a customs declarer and then began to work for the family business. The job of customs declarer was very important in a dispatch company, because goods being shipped out of the country had to go through customs. My father was a very good-natured man. He never laid a hand on me, I don’t at all remember ever getting a spanking. My mother was the stricter one, she would sometimes even smack me.

It’s hard for me to recall details of how my parents met. Young Jewish people used to meet in Zilina, and somewhere there they met. They were married in 1931, but I don’t know the exact date. I wasn’t born until five years later. Our family’s financial situation was very good. I think that we lived well. We had nice furniture, my mother liked nice things. She liked buying china, part of which I have in my collection and the rest is from my grandma Pickova. My parents dressed in a modern way, always according to the fashion of the day.

There were three languages spoken in our family. The Picks spoke German. I don’t know why they spoke German, but in that part of Zilina German was prevalent. For sure they also knew how to speak Slovak, but among themselves they spoke German. That was the custom at one time. My grandparents spoke only Slovak with me. The Donaths spoke only Hungarian. My grandfather spoke Slovak very well, but my grandmother’s Slovak was very poor. My parents spoke to each other mainly in Slovak, but sometimes also in Hungarian. With me everyone spoke only Slovak.

In the beginning we lived in this one relatively modern apartment building. On the ground floor there was a large bookstore, owned by the Travnicka family. Above the bookstore there were apartments. The building also had a winter-garden. I remember my parents having a nice bedroom. My father had a den with a sofa and chair. Of course, there was also a dining room. We had these three rooms. The apartment had high ceilings and tall double doors. When I grew up a bit, my parents allocated me one of the couches in the dining room to sleep on. I had my own wardrobe. The apartment also had a large front hall, a kitchen and balcony. I was maybe five when we moved in with my grandparents, the Picks.

Before the war we had a large library at home. Long after the war, my mother still subscribed to books published by SPKK [The Friends of Beautiful Books Society]. Our greatest pride and joy was a large set of Brockhaus dictionaries. To this day I can see before me those beautifully bound books. After the war, when my parents had financial problems, it was after the currency reform, they took the dictionaries to a used book shop. To this day I regret that this happened.

My grandparents used to go to spas and my mother accompanied them, mainly my grandmother. But otherwise I don’t remember vacations before the war. After the war I remember more: they used to go to Trencianske Teplice, to Sliac, Karlovy Vary 7 and Teplice nad Becvou. The only foreign places they visited before the war were Budapest and for their honeymoon, Salzburg.

I was born on 22nd March 1936 in Zilina. My name is Judita Schvalbova, nee Donathova. I know my Jewish name from my mother, it’s Jitl. I didn’t attend nursery school, as my mother was at home. I’m an only child. Before the war we had this one Fraulein [German for ‘governess’], who spoke German with me. She was named Irma and was from Bratislava. My mom stayed in contact with her for quite a long time after the war, and even with her son as well. I know that Irma suffered seriously from diabetes and they had to amputate her leg. When she died, her son let us know.

During the war

In 1942 they sent the first transport of young girls from Zilina. The Guardists [Hlinka-Guards] 8 appeared at our place too, and wanted to take me with them. At the Hlinka Guard headquarters I was mistakenly registered as having been born in 1926 instead of 1936, so according to them I was 16 years old. My parents had to prove at the Hlinka Guard headquarters via various documents that they only had the one six-year-old child. In hiding with us was this one girl, Ilonka Steinova. Ilonka was from Ruzomberok or Liptovsky Mikulas, I don’t exactly know any more. She was staying with us, to take care of me, as if she was my nanny. Ilonka suffered from epilepsy. On that occasion, when they came for me, they saw her and counted her in, that is, took her to the camp instead of me. During the transport, or right after her arrival at the camp, she must have had an epileptic seizure, because they sent her to the other side right away. She went straight to the gas chambers.

I don’t remember any exceptional tomfoolery from my childhood. I was a very good child. Most of my memories are from the post-war period, because I was nine when the war ended. I only remember fragments from before the war. At my grandparents’, the Donaths’ place I had a little dog. At home I played with a midget rooster. At that time there was a fowl pest in Zilina, and he got it too. He died. We children buried him in a shoebox.

I spent part of my childhood in Zilina. In 1942 my parents had themselves baptized in order to protect us. We knew this one priest in Kysucke Nove Mesto, who baptized us. At that time I was already of school age, so my parents registered me at a school run by nuns, a so-called ‘sirotar.’ There were many other Jewish children hiding out with the nuns, and they were very nice to me. Many Jewish girls attended school there. I can’t tell you what the ratio of Jews to non-Jews was. In my class there were three other Jewish girls. One was named Martuska Witenbergerova, who never returned from the camps. Because I was attending a Catholic school, I also had to go to First Communion, because according to documentation I had been baptized. The biggest paradox of my school attendance during the Holocaust was that I, a Jewess, had to be a member of the Hlinka Youth. [Editor’s note: Slovak youth organization operating in Slovakia during World War II, similar to the ‘Hitlerjugend.’] All children were, so I also had to be. My entire membership consisted of the fact that they registered me. I didn’t have a uniform. During meetings we would read the magazine Sunshine. I remember an article about President Tiso 9. I parroted these things automatically as a child, at that age one didn’t think about it.

Gradually they Aryanized our dispatch company. The Aryanizer, though, didn’t at all understand how to run the company, so he needed my father and uncle, and that’s why they received an exception called ‘economically important Jew’. Up until the [Slovak] Uprising 10 we more or less still kept our heads above the water. The uprising broke out the summer that I was on summer vacation at our relatives’ in Sucany. Our relative came from Zilina. They sent him to Sucany to practice as a doctor. After the uprising broke out, my parents sent this one boy of about 20 to bring me back home. We barely managed to leave, because the front ran through that region. Only with great difficulties did I manage to return to my parents. We then immediately left Zilina. We set out to some relatives’ place in Zlate Moravce. My parents guessed that the Germans wouldn’t be there yet. During the train trip we found out that they were already there. We got off the train in Piestany. In Piestany I lived through the time from the beginning of the uprising in 1944 until liberation.

In Piestany we moved into the Hotel Pro Patria. We wanted to stay there as guests of the spa, but someone warned us that there was going to be a raid there. So we quickly packed our things and moved to the Hotel Eden. Later my mother told me about the raid at the Hotel Pro Patria, that people were jumping out of windows to save themselves. There were a lot of Jews there. We were in the Eden only temporarily and my parents looked for other alternatives.

My mother’s brother Oskar was married to an Aryan woman. In a mixed marriage my uncle Oskar was protected. His wife was our guardian angel. She always brought us some money, because wherever a person hid, it was necessary to pay well. They found us a contact, a person that had at one time had a bicycle shop in Zilina. In Piestany he lived in an old house. We only stayed with them for a couple of weeks, because the conditions there were horrible. His wife regularly went to Bratislava to a German officers’ club. She was a prostitute. They had one child at home that had been born as a result of these activities of hers. It was only a couple of months old, and she didn’t take care of it at all. She also had a daughter who was a bit older. My mother took care of the household and of those children.

Everything was working relatively well, up until one day when his wife unexpectedly brought over a German officer. He was obviously her lover. He came over to their place for a visit. We stayed shut up in the room in which we lived. We stayed there for 24 hours with nothing to eat or drink. We couldn’t even go to the bathroom. I still remember how we were peeing into a vase. My father quietly removed a pipe from the chimney and poured the contents of the vase into the chimney. Then the Germans announced that whoever was hiding Jews would be punished. People were frightened, and without any advance notice the man told us, ‘Clear out of here!’ And so in the evening, even though there was a curfew, we took off on a wagon to where my grandparents and uncle were living [the Donaths].

We moved into an apartment building located where today there is a large market. The owner was named Mrs. Adamcova, and rented rooms to spa guests. We lived next door to my grandparents. Our rooms had a connecting door that was always open. In the meantime we got fake papers in the names Dobos and Dudas. I remember it, because I had to memorize everything in detail. One was from Dobsina and the second from I don’t know where. I had to know everything: where I had gone to school, who was named what and so on. My name was changed, my parents’ name, and I, a child, had to memorize everything.

My grandparents were still waiting for fake papers, which were supposed to be brought by my uncle from Zilina. They were supposed to get them shortly after us. My uncle worked in a group that manufactured false documents. When we were there for some time already, we thought that it was going to be fine and that we’d probably survive. It was the end of October. Every day my grandfather would go to buy milk for me. On 1st November, All Souls’ Day [in Slovakia this day is a national holiday; people light candles in cemeteries in memory of their deceased relatives] he set out as usual with a canteen, to go buy milk for me. Everyone was trying to convince him to not go, that it was 1st November, and someone from Zilina who’d be there to visit the cemetery could recognize him in the street. They didn’t want to let him go. He said all right, he wouldn’t go.

But after a while my grandpa, a stubborn old man, grabbed the canteen and disappeared. We only heard the door slam. In a little while he returned. I know this from my mother, because as a child I didn’t notice things like that. Suddenly he was sitting there, depressed and strange. Not even a half hour went by, and suddenly the Guardists were banging on the door: ‘Identify yourselves!’ They hadn’t even had time to scald the milk. It used to be that lamps had this outlet on the side, and you could plug an electrical cord into them. This was at my grandparents’ place. The cord from the hotplate led through that door to a lamp. In our room, on a cupboard, there was a hotplate on which we used to boil milk. When the Guardists banged on the door, my father quick-wittedly unplugged the cord and pulled it into our room. We closed the door and moved the cupboard, so that we were separated.

Through the wall we could hear everything that was going on in the other room. ‘Get dressed and come with us.’ After a while they came into our room as well. My mother stuck me into a big bed that we had there and piled all of the duvets on top of me. One of the Guardists looked at me. We had false papers. The Guardist thanked us and the door closed. We all just watched, to this day it’s fixed in my memory, my grandparents and uncle walking, being led away across the long courtyard that was in front of the building. My grandma had sore and swollen legs, she walked with difficulty. My father was utterly devastated. In fact he suffered such a shock, which I only found out about when I was an adult, that as a result of that stress he became impotent. After the war he didn’t want to go for treatment. He was a young man, 43 years old, it was a minor family tragedy.

The superintendent’s wife came and said to us, ‘You’ll have to leave here, I’ll find you another place.’ One of the Guardists warned us, he was a more decent type, and said to us, ‘Mrs. Adamcova, tell those others to disappear from there as soon as possible. I could see very well what they are. It’s only that the child in the bed, which was so upset – because I was shaking and my teeth were chattering – I felt so sorry for it, that I didn’t say anything. I can vouch for myself, but I can’t vouch for my colleague.’ Mrs. Adamcova was a very decent woman.

There was one building in a street around the corner, which is still there, at least it was in May of last year, when I took a picture of it. It’s still there, but it’s only a ruin now. I don’t know if it’s ready for demolition, or reconstruction. It was a large rooming house with many tenants. The owner was named Mrs. Burzikova, a very decent lady. Mrs. Burzikova rented us a room from which I could see out into the street. I suffered terribly there, because we were shut up there for days on end, and I could see children walking to school, while I was constantly inside. As soon as we arrived she greeted us with a nice dinner. I remember that we had roast goose, but we didn’t even have a chance to eat it and already there was a raid, and again they were checking our papers. After the Guardists left, ‘Auntie’ Burzikova came over, she was very kind, and said in Hungarian, ‘My dears, I prayed one long Lord’s Prayer for you, that nothing would happen to you.’

We stayed there almost up until the liberation. My mother and I counted that in Piestany we had to move 13 times in all. Mrs. Burzikova’s building had a very unusual cast of characters living in it. One lady tenant worked as a waitress in the Hotel Europa and got along very well with the Germans. There was this one man, named Axel Lambert. He was a loud, tall man, who spoke German and took himself very seriously. After the liberation we found out that he had used the opposite tactics as we had. He was also Jewish, and pretended to be a German, this was how he intended to save himself. The house had one room that to me, a child, seemed to be an enchanted chamber. It was locked, sealed. Aunt Burzikova said that two Jewish sisters had lived there, someone had informed on them and they had dragged them away. One day the door was opened. I remember a beautiful pink umbrella and a mountain of knick-knacks, photographs. They liquidated it all without mercy. They had no feeling for it.

We spent only a certain amount of time in Mrs. Burzikova’s building, because when my uncle from Zilina came to see us and brought us money to pay the rent, on the train he had met a person who confided in him that he was harboring a Jewish family. My uncle asked him to take us in as well. So we moved there, so as not to be in the same place too long. These people had a grown-up son. The lady of the house had a very nasty, domineering nature. It’s stayed in my memory, that when they brought us rolls for breakfast, she had picked everything over. She picked out the soft or crispy rolls for herself, her son or husband. We ate the leftovers. My father and their son tried to dig a bunker underneath their house. Because they began to excavate it, I think that they finished it, too. The wife of that man, his name was Tonko Bartovic, was terribly against us living with them. She was constantly arguing with him.

In the meantime we were again in danger. Their son wanted to join the partisans. There were a lot of partisans in the region around Piestany. Apparently there were provocateurs among the partisans, their son found out about it, but only later, because he brought them there, where we lived. So we once again ended up in Mrs. Burzikova’s lap. In time there was also some sort of a problem at Mrs. Burzikova’s place, so we had to return to Mr. Bartovic. Mrs. Bartovicova, Nana they called her, was terribly dissatisfied, as I’ve already mentioned, and was constantly provoking her husband. Once they were cooking together, because they were cooks by trade and had at one time lived and worked in Paris.

Mrs. Bartovicova was constantly harassing him. He told her, ‘If you’re going to be constantly nagging and annoying me, I’ll take this knife – that he was using to cut meat – I’ll stab myself with it.’ And she said, ‘Well, that I’d like to see! That I’d like to see!’ Mr. Bartovic really did it. The house had a garden in front, she ran out for help. By coincidence some garbage men were passing by and loaded him on their garbage truck. The hospital was in the center of Piestany, and we lived on the bank of the Vah River, which was about 100 meters from the hospital. They loaded him onto the truck and quickly drove him to the hospital. They operated on him, luckily he had only pierced his pericardium. The operation was a success, but he died of blood poisoning. We didn’t find out the details, but by chance someone from our family had a young nurse in hiding there, who had assisted during the operation. Before they anesthetized him, Mr. Bartovic had constantly repeated, ‘What have I done! I wanted to save the lives of two families and now I’ve abandoned them!’ We didn’t find this out until after the war.

And so we again returned to ‘Aunt’ Burzikova. In the meantime the German front command had taken up residence in her building. The commander picked out our room, we went into the cellar. My mother heard them speaking in German, ‘Hey, that woman seems kind of dark to me, don’t you think she’s a Jew?’ And the other said, ‘What’re you talking about, we’re close to Hungary, there all women are dark.’ So we seemed suspicious to them. My mother cooked for them, she helped Aunt Burzikova. The commander had an injured finger, which had become infected, and my mother used to go treat it. This is how we existed until about the beginning of April.

One day, I remember that a messenger came on a horse and ran upstairs to the commander. My mother saw that there was something going on up there. We heard a lot of stomping and running around. My mother asked one of them what had happened. ‘Well, tomorrow you’re already going to have the Russians here, we’re taking off.’ I was lying in the cellar with plaster falling on my head, as the Germans had blown up a bridge. The next day the Russians were already in Piestany. It was on the 3rd to the 4th of April. So we were saved. Actually, first the Romanian army arrived, and then the Russians. One day they rang at our door, and asked for some buckets. Everyone was afraid of the Russians, because they were doing all sorts of things – they didn’t know what a flush toilet was, drank water from it, they raped some women, and so on.

They took the buckets. Everyone was afraid of what it was they wanted to do. Then it came out that they had a herd of cows by the Vah, and needed to milk them. Well, suddenly a soldier arrived at our place with two big pails full of milk. And we weren’t afraid any more. But then there was this incident: someone told the Russians that there had been a German command post in Mrs. Burzikova’s house. The Russians came, stood there and shouted, ‘Where Germans!’ well, and auntie said that there weren’t any Germans. ‘Here Germans!’ And they pressed her terribly, and she got so horribly upset that she had a heart attack and died. We had this back luck, that everyone who helped us during the war, went to the next world after the war.

After the war

The second day after the liberation, some people unloaded these large crates in front of the Mazac bookstore in Piestany, and handed out small Czechoslovak, American, English and Russian paper flags. They must have had them very well hidden. Towards the end of April, when they also liberated Zilina [30th April 1945], my father set out for Zilina on a bicycle to find out the situation there and whether we could return. The trip took four days, because all the bridges were destroyed and he had to go with the army across pontoon bridges. Later the trains also started to run, and so we made it home.

After my father’s brother returned from the camps we found out what had happened the day they had dragged him away with my grandparents. They led them away to the Hlinka Guard headquarters, and called in the man that had informed on them, to confront them, whether it was really them. At that time he had the opportunity to say that it wasn’t them. But: ‘yes, that’s them.’ The person that informed on my grandfather was this one builder that sometimes lived in Zilina. He was of Italian origin and was named Cicutto. His family lives in Piestany to this day. My grandparents went to Sered. My grandfather met his older brother Emanuel from Nitra there, along with his daughter as well. Together they left in one transport for Sachsenhausen. After arrival in Sachsenhausen there was a selection and my grandfather and his brother were sent to the undesirable side. At first my uncle was in Sachsenhausen, for a while in Dachau plus what other camps I don’t know. They liberated him in Dachau. He returned home very ill, and died at the age of 62. He couldn’t hold out any longer than that. My grandfather didn’t return, and all I know about my grandmother is that she got to Ravensbruck 11. She was 72, and so she couldn’t handle the suffering. When I visited the Jewish Museum in Bratislava, I found my grandmother’s name in a memorial section that had been devoted to women in Ravensbruck. My lady friend who visited Ravensbruck every year found out my grandmother’s prison number and date of death. She died on 12th January 1945. They took her to Sered on 1st November.

As far as Mr. Cicutto goes, the man who informed on us, my uncle pressed charges against him after the war. Nothing was ever done in the matter, because someone always buried it. I’ve met up with the name Cicutto, when my sons used to go to tennis tournaments and played with a Cicutto from Piestany. He must have been a grandson of his. One is named Remo Cicutto and is the mayor of Piestany. I met Mr. Shaimovich from Piestany, and told him the story of how I had been hiding in Piestany. He was completely horrified, and said that he had never met such a decent family as the Cicuttos, and that he doesn’t even want to believe that their grandfather did this.

The worst thing for me during the Holocaust was that I was shut up inside for days on end, and on top of it I got a salivary gland infection. My father also fell ill. We had high fevers, up to 40 degrees, we barely lived through them. Aunt Burzikova was very considerate. She brought a doctor to see us, he worked for the underground movement, and so there wasn’t any danger of him doing us harm. I remember the terrible anxiety and constant fear when we were in hiding, the horrible fear of the Guardists and the Germans. After I returned to Zilina I returned to Judaism, because as they say, blood is thicker than water. The synagogue didn’t entice me whatsoever, but I went straight to Maccabi 12, to my peers that had survived.

There’s one more sad memory that’s tied to wartime. My uncle, Oskar, who lived in a mixed marriage, had contacts in the Guard. There was a reception camp in Zilina. One day he went there, because he wanted to help someone. One distant relative in the camp had approached him. She was named Mrs. Feuermanova and came from Cadca. She asked him, because she and her entire family had already been in the camp a long time, whether he could take her eight-year-old daughter home with him so she could take a bath. The next day he would bring her back. My uncle arranged it and took the girl, Evicka [Eva], with him. He brought Evicka home to us, so my mother could clean her up. The next day he wanted to take her back to her parents, which he also did. In the meantime, during the night, a transport had left the camp, with her parents and brother. So he took Eva and brought her back to us. She stayed with us and went to school with me in Zilina.

Eva had an aunt who lived in Turany. She was her mother’s sister. I’ve mentioned that I was in Sucany during the uprising. Eva was in the next village, in Turany, on holidays. During the uprising that boy came for me and was supposed to pick up Eva as well. But the front line had advanced so much that he didn’t know how to get to Turany. Eva stayed with her uncle and aunt in the mountains during the war. They survived in bunkers. After the war, when they returned to Turany, her aunt brought her to my mother. She said, ‘Here you go, Mela, I’ve brought you Eva back.’ My mother was beside herself. Childless, she had no children, it was her sister’s child, and she brings her to strangers! My mother took her: ‘if you don’t want her!’ After the war Eva began to attend school with me. She was so terribly afflicted by the fact that she didn’t have parents. She spent entire days sitting on the front steps. We lived on the main street, and she sat on the front steps of the building and she approached everyone on whom you could see that they were returning from the camps, and asked if they had seen her parents. Her entire family died, no one returned. She remained with us. My mother brought her up, dressed her. We used to get clothing. They helped however they could. My mother didn’t want to adopt her, but would have given her anything, as if she was her own.

In 1947 one of my uncles came and wanted to take Eva on a trip. My mother let her go. My uncle took her to Trencin. In Trencin there lived a husband and wife who had lost their only son in the war. He was named Dr. Polak and they wanted to adopt her. They didn’t even let Eva return to us. Eva cried there, she was completely beside herself. My uncle told her that she’ll be happy there and that she should stay. My mother was crying; it was a complete circus. In the end Eva had to stay there. They were very, very good to her. They let her study, and she graduated as a pharmacist. The lady [Dr. Polak’s wife] was a very strict, grumpy person and Eva suffered a lot there. In the end we made peace with them. I used to go visit them during summer vacation and Eva would come visit us.

Eva married a doctor who, just like her, had lost his entire family. For a time they lived in Prague. Her husband got to Chicago on a study visit in medicine. In the meantime they had two children. She had two boys, Ivo and Petr. After the arrival of the Russians in 1968 she picked up and left with the two small children to join her husband in Chicago. We stayed in touch only by mail. Once in a while she sent my mother some small gift from America. It wasn’t until 1997, when I was in Los Angeles visiting relatives, that Eva came on a visit from Chicago. In Los Angeles we met after many years. At that time she told me why her aunt had brought her back to my mother. Her uncle, her aunt’s husband, had been molesting her. It began in the forest in that bunker. Her aunt noticed it, and after they returned home it continued. Her aunt wanted to prevent a family tragedy. So she rather took upon herself the burden of my mother condemning her. We talked about it all, and from that time on we’ve stayed in close contact. Last year we met at the spa in Piestany. Upon her return home, Eva felt terribly tired and went for a medical checkup, where it was found that she was suffering from acute leukemia. On 1st February [2005] Eva turned 70, and on 5th February she died. I’m an only child. For a time Eva and I grew up as sisters, together we were members of children’s organizations.

During the war we managed to save a large part of our furnishings, mainly pictures, china and carpets. My mother’s sister-in-law locked up our furnishings in a room in her apartment. So that’s how our furnishings were saved. After the war people used to come over to look, as if at a miracle, because everyone had everything lost and stolen. I remember this one episode from my childhood. My mother used to have one old lady sew dresses for me. She knew how to sew beautiful children’s clothing. She was the grandmother of Mirek Prochazka [a writer], the husband of Marie Kralovicova. She made me a beautiful dress from blue taffeta, decorated with various flowers, with a white collar and lace. After the outbreak of the Slovak National Uprising we had to leave the apartment in a hurry, and in that hurry we forgot the dress there. When we returned after the war, we found only a looted apartment. Nothing was left. We only had those things that my aunt had hidden away for us. One day I was walking along the street with my mother, and suddenly towards us is walking this man with a little girl, about as big as I was, and she was wearing my dress that had been made for me by that lady. I was utterly shocked. My mother went to buy similar material and had the same dress made for me, so I wouldn’t be so heartbroken.

After the war the Aryanizer returned our dispatch company, which we then ran until they nationalized it in 1948 or 1949. After the war the company was modernized, of course, and a few trucks were added, but we also had horses with which we delivered goods around town. After the company was nationalized it was put under CSAD [Czechoslovak Bus Lines] and my father and uncle were employed there. After the war my mother worked part-time in the Okrasa cooperative. She did light manual labor there, I think that she worked in the packing department.

My parents considered leaving for Israel, and everything was even prepared. They assessed my father with a millionaire’s tax and he had to pay the state a certain amount of money. We had no money left. My mother’s brother, Gejza, left with his family in the first wave. My father helped him. People were renting moving wagons onto which they loaded their belongings. Things were packed under the eyes of customs officials. We also had a moving wagon prepared, and suddenly they assessed us with the millionaire’s tax. And so we stayed.

After the war no one cared that we’d been baptized. It was taken as something important for our survival. Nobody in our family was a member of a Zionist organization, only I attended Maccabi. We didn’t do a lot of sports in Maccabi, I would almost say that after the war it became a cultural organization. We sang songs in Ivrit and religion was taught in a haphazard way. Occasionally we went on bicycle tours, but that’s all as far as sports go. I attended Maccabi only until 1949, as after that there weren’t enough of us children around.

After the war we celebrated the high holidays only symbolically. We also went to the synagogue only on those occasions. For Passover we ate matzot and various traditional foods prepared from matzah such as for example matzah dumplings. I also had a Jewish wedding. My father attended the synagogue occasionally, or when they needed a minyan. In time it all ceased, because there was no one to attend. My parents celebrated Christmas because of me, because as a child I didn’t want to have anything that was different from my classmates. We also exchanged gifts. Why can’t a person practice that which is nice? There’s nothing wrong with that. Up to the age of six I didn’t attend religion classes, and then the Slovak State was created and everything else that followed. The only place I learned anything was in Maccabi. It’s only now, in adulthood, that I sometimes read something about Jewish history and various events.

After the war I associated mainly with Jewish children in Maccabi. In 1949 the Aliyah came and everyone moved away to Israel. In Zilina there was no one of my age left, maybe three of us. At school I had many girlfriends, I was friends with practically all the children. It’s like that to this day.

We were a relatively large family, and met regularly with those that had survived. Mainly we stayed in contact with my mother’s brothers and their families, until Gejza left for Israel. Uncle Oskar lived beside us. Gradually everyone died, only my mother and her brother Oskar remained. That was our social circle. My parents had mainly Jewish friends, but also met with non-Jews. I can say with certainty that Jews made up the majority. As much as it was possible, we went on vacations outside of the country. I know that my mother was with my aunt in Vienna and they also used to visit Budapest. We younger ones were used to going to the seaside; my parents were no longer of an age where they could have come with us.

At first I attended a school called sirotar in Zilina. After the war, because I had been in hiding for a year and hadn’t attended school, I had to write make-up exams so I could start attending public school. After the end of public school I started attending the Girls’ Gymnazium [high school] in Zilina. I was in precisely the grade where they were making various changes and were trying to form a unified school system. By the time I graduated, I hadn’t absolved eight years of high school, but eleven. Among my favorite subjects were biology and geography. I didn’t like math and physics at all. My favorite teacher was our home room teacher. Now, in the fall [2004] we had a 50-year high school reunion, and I met him there. To this day I keep in touch with my former classmates from Zilina. Besides school I attended piano lessons for seven years. Today I don’t play any more, and I don’t know if I’d be able to play anything either. We studied German in school, which I looked forward to very much, as from home I spoke it only conversationally, while in school we improved not only our conversational skills, but also grammar. In my free time I took French lessons.

I can’t judge whether I felt any anti-Semitism in the prewar period. After 1945 there might have been some moments in school, but all in all, nothing. I didn’t feel it. I can say the same about at work. During socialism, people somehow didn’t show their anti-Semitic feelings. I would say that I meet up with it more nowadays. There are various things, like written slogans and vandalized cemeteries. We hear about it in the news, but also from our friends in Kosice, and from Presov, where they spray-painted their houses with anti-Semitic slogans.

I didn’t go to university, as I got married right after I graduated from high school. I always say that if I had to live it over again, I wouldn’t get married so early. Not because of my husband, but because your youth is gone; I got married at the age of 18. I wanted to study medicine, but as a former capitalist my father had a very bad political profile, so I also didn’t get a profile that was good enough. My entry interview was in Kosice. I could feel that due to my origins they didn’t even want to let me go on to the oral portion of the exam. I was inclined towards medicine, so that’s why I took a job in a laboratory here in Presov. I had to study nursing in another city so that I would have at least some sort of qualification. There was no school of medicine in Presov, and so I used to commute to Kosice. When my children were grown up, I finished one additional degree in my field. I’ll always regret that I didn’t go study at the Faculty of Philosophy or Pedagogy in Presov. I could have chosen a combination of language and biology, in that time I did three high school degrees. I could have also finished university.

My husband is named Otto Schvalb; he was born on 1st April 1925. There’s an age difference of eleven years between us. He was born in Presov. His father was a doctor and his mother a housewife. His mother came from Trstena na Orave. His father was a native of Presov. My husband graduated from the Faculty of Medicine in Prague, in dentistry. For some time he worked at a clinic in Kosice, but he eventually returned to his parents. He specialized in periodontology. He worked his way up to senior periodontological consultant.

My husband and I met thanks to my aunt and his mother. My mother-in-law was at a spa with my aunt, and after some time my mother in law and her son came to visit my aunt. While they were chatting my aunt remembered that they had a girl in the family and so on. We were married in 1954 in Zilina. We had the first Jewish wedding in Zilina since the war. The ceremony was held under a chuppah. I didn’t go to a mikveh before the wedding, as observance of Jewish rituals was never a hundred percent. My mother missed me very much when I left home at eighteen.

After the wedding we lived in a room at my husband’s parents’ place. The building was on the main square. In time one of the tenants moved away and we moved into the empty apartment. So that was our first apartment. One day they announced to my husband and my mother-in-law that the building was going to give way to urban renewal. They demolished the old building and we tenants got replacement apartments. That’s where we live to this day. My mother in law used to live across from us.

In 1957 my first son, Ivan Schvalb, was born. He graduated from the Faculty of Medicine, specializing in allergology. He has a private practice here in Presov. His wife Ludmila is a high school teacher. They have two sons. Michal is 21 and is a student of political science at the local university. The younger, Martin, is 14 and is currently attending high school in Presov. Our younger son, Peter Schvalb, was born in 1960. He graduated from the Faculty of Food Hygiene at the University of Veterinary Medicine in Kosice. For many years now, he has been working for a company named Imuna in Sarisske Michalany as director of sales. His wife Maria graduated from medicine, and has a private allergology practice. She’s half Jewish. Her father is Jewish. According to halakhah she’s not Jewish, but otherwise she takes after her father. My grandchildren say that they’re three-quarters Jewish. They also have two sons, both of them are in high school. The older, Tomas, is 15, and the younger, who’s named Alexander after my husband’s father, is 13.

My sons weren’t circumcised. After the war circumcisions weren’t performed very often, and we weren’t that religious of a family to consider it to be absolutely necessary. In fact, my husband’s father also refused to have him circumcised, because during the war many people lost their lives when it was discovered that they were circumcised. We brought our sons up so that they knew that they were Jews. We didn’t emphasize the religious aspects. They used to observe seder with my husband’s mother, but when she died it all departed along with her. My husband and I only symbolically observe holidays. Once I took my sons and grandsons to a Chanukkah supper in Kosice. I thought that they’d like it, but as luck would have it, the rabbi in Kosice, who didn’t yet speak Slovak very well, led an endlessly long sermon. He didn’t give them what I wanted, I would almost say that he put them off with that endless sermon.

My grandsons don’t concern themselves with religion at all. Even their parents avoid religion. As far as Jewish history goes, they know everything. They’re immensely interested in the events of World War II, the Holocaust. When a movie on this theme comes out, they analyze it in detail. They know about Israel, they know where we belong, where their grandparents belong, they know all that. My older son Ivan and his wife agreed amongst themselves that as far as religion goes, they would bring up their children neither as Jews nor as Christians. Ludmila isn’t a devout Catholic, she doesn’t observe anything besides Christmas. But I’ve taken them with me to the occasional Purim gathering in Kosice. Neither my sons nor my grandsons are registered at the [Jewish] community. My older son regularly attends the synagogue with us at Yom Kippur, but otherwise not.

Since they’ve started attending high school, I see my grandchildren once a week, on the weekend. When my one son’s boys were in elementary school, I used to see them every day. Their school was close, and so they would come over ever day. They would have something to eat, and after dinner their parents would pick them up. I saw the other grandsons only once a week, on the weekend, as they lived on the other side of town. I didn’t have such a close relationship with them. We see our sons, Ivan and Peter, practically every day.

My husband and I have so many books that we don’t know where to put them all. Whenever my husband goes downtown, he always drags some more home with him. He’s got an amazing hobby, the ‘factography’ [factual history] of World War II. Whenever a book comes out, or someone’s biography of important wartime personages, we’ve got to have it at home. We have one large bookcase in the cellar, and there we’ve mothballed fiction that we don’t read any more. In his room my husband has one large bookcase, but we can’t even fit books in there any more. After my mother died we had to get rid of her books – at least those that were in Hungarian or German. There was no one in our house to read it. My daughter-in-law, who teaches Slovak and German in high school, and thus needs literature, always asks us whether we don’t by chance have it at home. Usually we find for her the more well-known authors, like for example Feuchtwanger 13.

In Presov my husband had his circle of friends and acquaintances, with whom we associated and still do to this day. I have very good girlfriends from work. Today we’re all retired and meet regularly. I didn’t have any hobbies, so I devoted all of my free time to the children.

To this day I still cook traditional Jewish foods, mainly matzah dumplings. I know which foods should be served during which holidays. At the Passover table, besides matzot, we’re used to serving ground nuts with apples. We also have a pitcher of salty water, and wine on the table. At the seder table we have at the most one glass of wine and a wrapped matzah. I don’t have a separate set of Passover dishes, we don’t observe holidays in such detail. Everything is done only symbolically. I have a Chanukkah candle holder [menorah] at home, but have to admit that I don’t light candles. When my husband and I were younger, we used to fast during Yom Kippur. We haven’t done it for some time now, as we’re both on medication. At our age a person has a certain collection of illnesses. When we were young we fasted, but also not completely strictly. My husband sometimes had to have a cigarette, in those days he smoked on the sly, as it would make his mother upset.

My father died in November 1975 in Zilina, and my mother died here, in Presov, in March 1991. Both of them are buried in Zilina in the Jewish cemetery. I had my mother cremated, because she wanted it. I did something that isn’t according to Jewish custom and put her ashes into my father’s grave. People know and don’t know about it, it’s this public secret that isn’t talked about.

I didn’t register the onset of Communism in any unusual fashion. I was only a child. I knew that they had nationalized our business. As a child I took it that that’s how it should be. I didn’t feel that anything was wrong. In the 1950s during the Slansky trial 14 I began to think more seriously, and came to the conclusion that something wasn’t right. In school I was a pioneer [see All-Union pioneer organization] 15 and also in the Socialist Youth Union 16. I was even a leader of our pioneer troop. My father, mother and uncle were in the Communist Party [of Czechoslovakia] 17. They didn’t become members due to their convictions. After the liberation it was fashionable to join the Communist Party. Later, during screenings everyone was thrown out. Due to this I had one plus in my dossier, but that didn’t help me get into university. I never joined the Party. My husband was a member, but during the purges in the 1970s they threw him out. Since then we haven’t concerned ourselves with it, we don’t follow any political party.

During Communist times I wasn’t afraid that we’d be persecuted. Our professions weren’t in any sphere in which we could have been a threat to someone. Both of us worked in medicine. We never had any conflicts with the authorities. My husband had patients all over, and when he needed something, he always managed to get it. In 1978 he even traveled to Australia. They let him go visit his relatives. His mother also got permission to go. Now that they’ve opened the Nation’s Memory Institute 18 website, my children found his name, that he was among those that had been vetted. It was logical, as they had let him go abroad, they must have been watching him. Relatives from abroad also came here to visit us, which was a very rare thing. I never had problems at work due to my Jewish origins, for a time I was even a divisional secretary of the ROH 19.

In 1968 [see Prague Spring] 20 I was on vacation with my children in Zilina. There were horrible things happening in Zilina, I suffered a mild shock from it. Not far from where we were staying, a tank ran someone over. I was frightened, because I didn’t know how the children and I would get back to my husband. When the tension eased a bit, we managed to get to Presov. In general everyone was railing against the Russians, that they had come. People forgot that they had also liberated us, that was already history, people judged only the present. It was definitely a shock, but we got used to it. During those years they had trained us to listen and as the Germans say: Keep your mouth shut and toe the line. We did everything that was necessary. We didn’t belong among those that were in the dissident movement or engaged in similar activities. We went to work and kept on working.

We read Samizdat literature [in Czechoslovakia] 21, to this day I still have some magazines from 1968 stored in the cellar. In those days it wasn’t a problem to get them, you could do it. I have them stored away as a memento. The year 1989 [see Velvet Revolution] 22 made us very happy. It was truly unreal, we didn’t imagine that everything would collapse like a house of cards in such a short time. We experienced it with great joy. My mother was still aware of it, at that time she had already had two strokes. She was aware of it, it made her very happy that they returned our house in Zilina in 1991. They returned our building during the first restitutions. By utter chance I had documents about its nationalization at home. My mother, when she came from Zilina to live with us, brought piles of documents with her. One day my husband and I sat down and sorted them out. I threw out many unnecessary documents and papers, but by complete chance I kept the nationalization document. So I didn’t need to run around on its account.

Our building was the second in Zilina to be returned in the restitutions. I had inherited one half and my mother the other. After my mother died the building fell to me. The building stands on the main street. The apartments that were in it don’t exist any more, as even before it was nationalized, the building was being rented out by Modex. [Editor’s note: Modex is a company that manufactures women’s wear. The company has long years of experience in this field. Its history began in 1950, when it was created from a workshop of small Zilina entrepreneurs.] They set up workshops in it, they removed all interior partitions and rebuilt the entire interior. There’s a cafeteria from those days. The building also has two commercial storefronts. One of them is occupied by Dracik [a toy store] and the other by a store with high-end fashions from Trencin. We rent out the space in the building, and that’s how we make a living. Every year we divide up the rent money with our children as well. Of what use would all of it be to just us? I sold the house in the courtyard, where we used to live during the time of the Slovak State. Its interior looks completely different now. What it looked like before the war is something that exists only in my memories.

The creation of Israel is something that made me very happy, as my relatives were living there. My parents and uncle, while they were still alive, listened to news from Israel every evening. And when the wars in Israel came, we all followed it closely, really, we lived and suffered with them. I have a close relationship with Israel, and consider it to be the homeland of all Jews that live in the Diaspora. I only hope that it will all end well there, because they’re surrounded by Arabs like a grain of sand in the desert. Nothing but enemies around them. During Communism I didn’t keep in touch with my relatives in the West. It was detrimental to us. My parents, as older people, were allowed to keep in touch with close relatives. My mother corresponded with her brother and sisters in America. We used to get nice packages of clothing from them, which I ended up wearing for long years. My mother’s brother Gejza came and visited in 1962. In 1982 my mother and Uncle Oskar wanted to go visit Israel, but they didn’t get permission. They were horribly hurt that they couldn’t go see their brother.

My parents were never in Israel, they died before it was possible to travel freely. In March 1991 my mother was already very ill, so we couldn’t go anywhere. When my mother died and before then my husband’s mother as well, we were free, as before that we had had to take care of them. In the fall of 1991 we traveled to Israel. The second time we managed to get over there, with our son as well, was in the year 2000. We were in Israel in the spring and at that time everything was still fine. Then in the fall the intifada began, and the bad times have continued up to the present day.

Visiting Israel gave me a good feeling. I felt great joy that I could meet relatives and childhood friends. I felt good, because there were Jews all around me and I didn’t have the feeling that I’m unique and that someone could say to me that I’m different. I liked everything there, except for one thing. I couldn’t read the store signs. That bothered me a lot. I recalled some Ivrit songs that we had learned in Maccabi as children. So that language has remained close to me, and to this day I know what some words mean, but reading, that’s a catastrophe. I asked my cousin why they don’t write it in the Western alphabet as well. And he replied to me so rudely that it really upset me, ‘And why don’t stores have signs in Ivrit where you live?’ I didn’t like those signs. After all, there were many foreigners there as well, and not everyone necessarily knows Ivrit. When you see pictures from Asia, though they also have different writing there, they also write it in the Western alphabet so that foreigners can understand it. I think that it’s better in Israel now, because in the year 2000 it wasn’t like that any more.

Before 1989 we used to go on the customary vacations to Bulgaria, to [Lake] Balaton and to Romania. I took part in a company vacation, we went via Vienna, Graz, and Belgrade and on the way back to Budapest. In those days making that circuit was quite something. In 1969 my husband and I went on a train trip. We slept and ate on the train. We traveled through all of Italy, from top to bottom. We saw Naples, Capri and all the important cities. And in 1991 my husband and I were in Israel, and in 1992 in Sydney to see relatives. We spent at least two months everywhere we went. In 1997 – 1998 we spent two months in Los Angeles with my uncle and his daughter. Plus we were in Israel in 2000. We spent one more vacation in Tenerife in the Canary Islands. In 2001 my husband fell ill and now we only travel to Piestany and back. We’ve seen a fair bit of the world. On the way back from Sydney we stopped in Singapore for several days. Now when I look at various documentaries on TV I can say, ‘I’ve been there too.’

I saw the opening of the Western borders as a positive thing. I could freely contact my relatives, and not only that they could visit us, but we could go and visit them. Our life changed mainly with regards to finances, as they gave me back our family’s property that my grandfather had so fretted over, worrying that he would drive his family to the poorhouse. They say that Jewish property won’t survive two generations, but I’m the third generation and we’ve got it back.

My relationship to Judaism hasn’t really changed. During holidays we go to the synagogue and I make traditional foods. Nothing more than that, it’s all just symbolic. My husband and I belong to the Presov [Jewish] community. I participate in the Hidden Child Foundation in Kosice and regularly attend their events. Besides this I’m also a member of the Ester organization. We have regular meetings in Kosice and Presov. During holidays or relatives’ Yahrzeit they call my husband to the prayer hall to make a minyan. He goes as necessary. We both receive reparations for our suffering during the Holocaust from the Claims Conference.
 

Glossary

Ema Panovova
Slovakia

My family background and growing up

During the war

Glossary

My family background and growing up

I am from Holic, a little town with a population of about 7 or 8,000 people. There was a castle, Maria Theresa used to go to. Lancers used to have their regiments there and there were also many Jews in Holic. Jews spread all over the world and my relatives lived in Vienna and Budapest. I remember the time when they all came to Holic in summer and we had great fun together. We were a big family; there was a lot of laughter and joy.

The house of my grandfather, Julius Bondy, was located on the main square of Holic. He produced soda water; but it was rather his wife who ran the company. My grandfather died in our family; he was a widower. My grandmother Maria Bondyova, nee Buchwaldova, died quite early, I don’t remember her death or funeral. So my grandfather lived with us. He had three or four sisters. One of them lived in Budapest; she married a musical composer called Karol Stefanides. He wasn’t a Jew and that part of the family probably survived the Holocaust. The other two or three sisters were in Vienna and either them or their daughters were killed in the Holocaust. I don’t remember but I can find out from the family tree. My grandmother had two brothers who became Catholic priests and lived on the borderland. The family had no contact with them; they were probably resentful of them, I don’t know anything about their later fate.

It’s interesting that my grandparents used to sit on a bench in front of their house together with a future supporter of Nazism, a hairdresser, who lived opposite. My grandparents weren’t rich; they were middle class businessmen. My mother Olga Neuwirthova, nee Bondyova, their daughter, got tuberculosis and that ruined them. Though they weren’t rich they used to go to the spa in Karlsbad 1 or Marienbad 2 or Luhacovice; there were always many Jews there. This cost them all their fortune, however, she recovered in Switzerland and at Semmering, Austria. My uncle, my mother’s brother Max Bondy, was a forced laborer during the war.

My mother’s first husband was Doctor Emil Neuwirth, my father. He comes from Zilina. His father, my grandfather Moriz Neuwirth, had three or four sisters, who lived in Vienna. They were married, had children and grandchildren. One of them was Lieselotte, she emigrated to America in the last moment. My grandmother on the Neuwirth, Paula Neuwirthova, side was in an old people’s home in Nove Mesto nad Vahom during the Holocaust and died there.

Grandfather Neuwirth was a doctor. People remember him as a very good person and a very good doctor. He was from Zilina. Etelka, one of his daughters, who married in Vienna, died during the Holocaust. Her husband was a doctor, too. One of the three brothers, called Vojtech or Bela, was a captive in World War I. He was in Austria, a student then and was taken captive there along with his Hungarian colleagues, who were all internees during World War I.

My mother’s first marriage didn’t last long. Her husband caught typhus and later he became mentally ill; he was treated in a psychiatric clinic. My mother stayed alone with me, later she got divorced and married to a Russian immigrant. He wasn’t a Jew. His name was Doctor Sergej Panov and he was a doctor, too. My grandparents didn’t like him, but when the political situation got worse, my grandfather asked him to protect the family. My grandfather lived quite long and died a natural death; he wasn’t deported.

Doctor Panov adopted me and brought me up. He saved my life because with the help of his colleague doctors he proved at court that I was his daughter and that I was the child of a Jewish mother and a Christian father. He bought the house of my real father in Holic and we lived there. It was a traditional house of a doctor. He had a car and we used to go on trips. We also went to Bohemia.

During the war

In 1943 I got the documents which said I was a half-Jewish child. My foster-father, with the help of his friend Kotvan, who worked at the Ministry, could arrange on the basis of the documents, that I was allowed to continue my studies at a secondary school. In 1944 I was accepted to the final year and in the same year I passed my final exams. This was the result of the long struggle of my father: he probably just wanted for me to have a normal life, but actually it was a fight for my life.

My father took part in the underground fight, he helped the refugees to cross the border river Moravia and he sent parcels to partisans.

In 1944 it was obvious that we should either leave or hide. My father provided for us false documents and we left for Slatina nad Bebravou, or Slatinka, I can’t remember exactly. I stayed there with my mother; my father went to fight in the Slovak National Uprising 3. At the end of October the Germans attacked the region, fighter-bombers flew over our place, the valley Slatinka was surrounded by Germans. It became rather wild. We lived in a peasant’s house with false documents. Once partisans came and took away the local guard.

Later soldiers of the Vlasov brigade came and one never knew who was who. The Vlasovs also had red uniforms and looked like partisans. My mother lost her nerves, we didn’t know what had happened to our father. So I went to the German commandeer and asked for permission to travel to Bratislava. It was a very bad idea. They could have caught us already during the journey. On the journey we talked with a woman; it was clear she was fed up with the fascist regime, so I trusted her and told her about our situation. It was a lucky chance because Germans and Slovak police were patrolling at the station. Her husband, who was a policeman, met her at the station. He also hugged both my mother and me and with the words, ‘Welcome, our family, we were already waiting for you’, he took us out of the station and gave us shelter in his home.

In the end, my father found us and joined us. Once a German from Holic came and he recognized us in a roundup. We were all caught. They first took us to Vlckova Street, to a Secret Police station. My father was kept there, whereas my mother and me were brought to Sered and on 6th December we were transported to Ravensbruck. The transport was originally routed to Auschwitz, but, fortunately, Auschwitz didn’t accept us.

From the distance we saw houses which were similar to the houses built in our neighborhood. I couldn’t believe everything I heard before and at first I was happy that the rumors weren’t right. I said to my mother, that we would live and work there. On the gate there was the inscription ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’, so I thought I was right. In this camp [Ravensbruck] with its jungle law, under horrible conditions, where only few could keep their human face, even there I found some solidarity and help.

When we were still in the Waschraum, something like a bathroom, we didn’t know what would come out of the showers, if it was gas or water, because we already understood the seriousness of the situation. So I asked a French prisoner, who was there to keep order, if I could drink the water. And she answered, ‘It’s all the same, whether you die now or later’. This was such an introduction to the reality. It was water, not gas, that came out of the shower heads. Most of the girls had their heads shaved; I was somehow lucky, I wasn’t shaved. We were wet, it was December, Ravensbruck is located in the north, and we had to stand outside… I don’t know what to say about the concentration camp, it was horrible. It was really horrible…

I survived half a year there, but it marked me for the rest of my life. I caught kidney tuberculosis and I wouldn’t have survived four or five years in a concentration camp, as some girls have.

Glossary

Oto Wagner
Bratislava
Slovak Republic
Interviewer: Zuzana Slobodnikova
Date of interview: March - May 2005

Mr. Oto Wagner was born in Bratislava, and has lived in his hometown all his life – just like his parents and grandparents. At the age of 85, this gentleman lives a very active life. He devotes himself to various cultural, educational and edifying activities. His effort is that the important events of the 20th Century, like the Slovak National Uprising 1 or the tragedy of the Holocaust not be forgotten. And he of course wishes that similar terrible deeds and atrocities would never be repeated. This is also one of the reasons why he shared his life story with us.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Growing up

My family background

My paternal grandfather's name was Samuel Wagner. He was a native of Bratislava, and had a pub in Zidovska [Jewish] Street. My grandmother was a housewife; I don't remember her name. Like my grandfather, my grandmother was also from Bratislava. Thus my father was also from Bratislava, and I was also born in Bratislava. My wife was also born in Bratislava. So all the members of our family are true Bratislava natives. My grandparents dressed normally for the times. He didn't wear payes, but my grandfather Samuel didn't take more than two steps without having a hat on his head. His wife wore a wig 2.

My mother's name was Serena Wagnerova, née Polakova. She was the daughter of Zigmund and Klara Polak. My mother's parents also lived here in Bratislava. I don't remember them much. I know that my grandmother was a housewife. I don't know what her maiden name was. My grandfather Zigmund was a door-to-door salesman. He sold various goods. Alas, I don't know any more about these grandparents of mine.

My paternal grandparents were Orthodox Jews 3. Especially my grandfather was very devout. We had to attend synagogue regularly. We went and prayed every Friday and Saturday. My grandfather, as well as my father [Jozef Wagner], if I remember correctly, had a place reserved in the synagogue up in Kapucinska Street in Bratislava. Alas, that synagogue has since been demolished. My mother would also always pray in the evening. Basically they raised my brother [Alfred Wagner] and me in an Orthodox environment. But already in my youth I had broken free of that Orthodox Judaism. I was modern, and one could say sometimes also a "semi-atheist".

My grandparents, the Wagners, initially lived in Kapucinska Street. Later they moved to where the Hotel Tatra now stands. Back then there were old buildings there. I don't remember exactly anymore how it was furnished there, but their furnishings didn't differ in any way from other apartments of the time.

My mother had three siblings, three brothers. I don't know anymore in what order they were born. Alfred and Zigmund perished in Auschwitz during the Holocaust. The third was named Ignac and lived in Budapest, while Alfred lived in Vienna. I don't know much about them, I don't remember them. My father had two siblings, his sister Gizela and his brother Leo. Gizela's was married to a man named Wagmann, and they made a living as merchants. They owned and together ran a clothes story.

My parents met at some Jewish ball. For two years they were friends and saw each other. Then they finally ended up getting married. They were married in 1918, in Bratislava, in the courtyard of the Orthodox synagogue in Kapucinska St. My father had a two-year business diploma. That is, he had people's schools, council schools and a two-year business school. My mother attended five years of people's school and four years of council school 4.

I had one brother. His name was Alfred Wagner. He was four years older than I. He was born in 1920. Alfred was a high school graduate. After graduation, he apprenticed at a clothing store. The clothing store where he began was named Büchler. It was a large store that sold clothes, carpets, and similar goods. Alas, he fell in the Slovak National Uprising. He was a salesman at Büchler. He worked as a salesman at a carpet store. And then, during World War II, he joined the Slovak National Uprising, and I've already mentioned, he died in the uprising.

Growing up

My parents had me in 1924, as their second and also their last child. Like all the members of our family, I was born in Bratislava. My parents named me Oto Wagner. At home we spoke German, especially my grandparents. They also knew Yiddish. That was still the old generation. Then with our parents, we also spoke German, but they also knew how to speak Slovak well. I consider my mother tongue to be Slovak. In prewar Bratislava, hearing Slovak, German or Hungarian in the street was an everyday occurrence. Communicating in these languages wasn't a problem either. Our family was no exception.

When I lived with my parents, the first place we lived was on what was then called Hodzovo Namesti [Hodza Square]. Now it's all changed, the old buildings have long been torn down and demolished. It's all more modern there now. Then we moved to Metropolka, where the state hospital is now. Across from this hospital is this tall building, with a café upstairs and a bank in the front. That's the building where we lived. In Metropolka, we had an apartment up on the third floor. My parents, brother and I lived together there until 1936. The apartment had three rooms, and was nicely and tastefully furnished. The furniture was partly old and partly also modern. In the beginning we had household help. There was one so-called maid, who cooked, cleaned, and so on. But that was only in the beginning. Later my mother did everything. She took on all the work in the household. I'd say that we had mostly Jewish neighbors. Beside us, for example, lived Professor König, who taught at a Jewish business school. Then there was one doctor that lived there; I don't remember his name any more. In all, about 80% of the families might have been Jewish. We always got along well, and were friends. So while I lived with my parents, I mostly met only fellow Jews, because there were only Jews around me, whether at school, in the street in front of the building, or when we'd go to the synagogue. Everywhere I met up mainly with Jews.

At home we primarily bought German newspapers, and then also what we'd get from the Jewish Community. We also had a collection of books, but it didn't contain anything special. My mother always read mostly things of general interest, newspapers, magazines and so on.

Up to ten thousand Jews lived in prewar Bratislava. Back then, the city had a population of about 100,000, and of that one could say 10% was made up of Jews. Jews always got along well amongst themselves. Here in Bratislava there were synagogues in Hejdukova and Kapucinska Street, and a Neolog one on Rybne Namesti [Fish Square]. Alas, after the war they demolished that beautiful building on Rybne Namesti along with the synagogue on Kapucinska St. There were of course also many prayer halls here. A lot of these, what now one could say were cultural landmarks, are unfortunately no longer standing. Synagogues and prayer halls were demolished, whether because of World War II or modernization of the city. While we're on the subject of synagogues and prayer halls, religion comes to mind. I had my bar mitzvah [bar mitzvah - “son of the Commandments”, a Jewish boy that has reached the age of thirteen. A ceremony, during which the boy is declared to be bar mitzvah, from this point on he must fulfil all commandments of the Torah – Editor’s note] as a thirteen-year-old boy in that synagogue on Rybne Namesti. It was a very nice experience. When they called me to the Torah, I went up and read in Hebrew. All in all, it was truly pleasant and nice. I probably got money as gifts for this ceremony. We then had a celebration at home. The whole family came.

My father prayed every morning, and I had to pray with him. He didn't make a move without a cap. We strictly observed Friday and Saturday. This always upset me. The other boys would go play soccer, and we'd go to the synagogue. My brother and I had to go there no matter what, whether it was summer or winter. To sit there and pray. We conformed of course, as we wanted to obey our parents. My brother and I weren't really that devout, we were just listening to our parents. If we had had our way, we would've preferred to play soccer. We couldn't even light a lamp [Sabbath: during the Sabbath, 39 main work activities are forbidden, upon which injunctions on others are based. "The lighting of lights" belongs among forbidden activities – Editor's note].

My Mom led a kosher household 5. No ham, no pork, nothing like that. We kept strict kosher. On Friday, Mom would prepare shoulet. She'd boil beans and I had to run with a full pot, to Obchodna Street, to the baker. The baker's name was Heller. Every Friday I arrived there with a pot of shoulet, and on Saturday I had to pick it up for lunch. Mom made it mainly with goose meat. For the Sabbath, we also had barches. Our mom took care of everything around food preparation.

We observed all the High Holidays. For Yom Kippur [Yom Kippur: The Day of Atonement. The most celebrated event in the Jewish calendar. The day of “cleansing of sins”. Fasting is observed. – Editor’s note] we strictly fasted. We also celebrated Sukkot. We didn't have our own sukkah, but we used to go to our neighbors' [Sukkot: Festival of Booths. A festive atmosphere reigns during the whole week that the holidays lasts, where  the most important is to be in the sukkah – Editor’s note]. Beside us lived a man who sold beef cattle. He'd build a sukkah in the courtyard, and several families would gather there. It was an enclosed courtyard. No one besides us had access to it. There was a large steel gate there, which separated us from the world around us.

When I was still little, I attended nursery school at what was then Obchodna St, No. 21. It was of course a Jewish nursery school. Then my parents registered me in school. I absolved five grades of people's school at a Jewish school in Zochova St. Then I had three years of council school and in fourth year I transferred to a state school at Na Palisadoch. There I finished fourth year of council school. I didn't get any further education before the outbreak of World War II. I didn't do that until after, when I returned from the concentration camp. I took correspondence courses for my high school diploma and university. I remember one very good professor from school, who taught us mathematics. His name was König. Religion was of course very much emphasized at school. Physical education and singing were among my favorite subjects. I was quite sports-oriented. Eventually I was even the junior champion of Czechoslovakia in swimming.

Well, and now too, now that I'm older, a championship in swimming for "veteran" swimmers was held. I entered and won in the breaststroke and the crawl. So I'm the senior champion of Slovakia in swimming. I swam a lot since childhood. I'd say I was about seven when I started. I used to go swimming to Grössling. Professor Stahl used to train me. At first I was a member of Bar Kochba 6, which was a Jewish club. In time I transferred over to the Slovak swim team. There, non-Jews trained me. I trained hard, until I became junior champion of Czechoslovakia. I like to recall those times. There were no comments made about me in the team or amongst the swimmers, that I'm a Jew and so on. Maybe they didn't even know it, I didn't tell anyone about it. I had a German name, so I didn't differ in that either. Before the war, there were a lot of Germans and Hungarians living in Bratislava. My thick blond hair didn't give a Jewish impression either.

Our family was relatively progressive, despite the fact that our father was a supporter of Orthodoxy. We were rather left-wing. My father wasn't in any political party, though. He was a member of the Jewish religious community. He normally paid membership dues and so on. I don't remember him having some sort of important function there, and if he did do something, it was certainly just something small, unimportant. I was also a shomer [a member of the Hashomer Hatzair movement, see 7], but then it fell apart, as the guys moved away to Israel. I didn't do hachsharah 8. My classmates were all Jews. We spent our free time normally, like all children back then. We played soccer, there where Slovak Radio is today. We used to go on hikes together regularly. We'd go to see movies and so on. And what was the best, we used to just sit around and look at pretty girls. We used to go on trips around Slovakia, but mostly we just hiked around the outskirts of Bratislava. Raca [Raca, today a city ward of Bratislava – Editor's note] was already far for us, that was already the countryside. So when we went on an all-day outing, we'd go let's say to Karlova Ves [Karlova Ves, today a city ward of Bratislava – Editor's note], and that was our all-day outing. Mostly we used to walk, or go on bikes. We used to go on vacations with our parents, to visit their siblings. We had family in Vienna, as well as in Budapest. We'd go there occasionally. But we didn't go on vacations as such. We didn't do things like going to the seaside, for example. Back then people didn't know the concept of a recreational vacation. It wasn't as widespread as it is now. In the end, my parents weren't that well off financially that we could've afforded to go on vacation to the seaside. We were more or less middle-class. We weren't badly off, but didn't have extra money.

During the war

In 1939 our father had to give up his clothing store 9. After that he was unemployed. My father's sister Gizela and her husband, who had a store, then supported us financially, and helped us however they could. In 1939 I was 16 years old. I'd finished fourth year of council school, and couldn't find a job. So I worked as a helper in Richard Weinhadel's clothing store. I helped out there, and earned a few crowns. Then I went to help build a war memorial, and for that I earned ten crowns in one night [The value of one Slovak crown during the era of the Slovak State (1939 – 1945) was equal to 31.21 mg of pure gold. The rate of exchange of the German mark to the Slovak crown was artificially set at 1:11 – Editor's note]. In this fashion I managed to muddle through. I earned money here and there, wherever I could. Finally, in that year of 1941, they dragged both my parents away from Bratislava to Zilina, to a collection camp. They came to our place and told them to pack up and bring only the bare necessities. They were supposed to report in Zilina.

Luckily I had a friend, Ludovit Krajcovic was his name, who was from the town of Bahon. He lent me his papers, so I then lived in Bratislava as Ludovit Krajcovic, on Aryan papers. So my parents left for Zilina. From Zilina, in April 1942, they dragged them off to Auschwitz, where they also died. My brother was also living in Bratislava, on Aryan papers. They caught him, and then he was in the Novaky labor camp 10. During one check someone recognized me as well, or someone informed on me. So from 1942 until the start of the Slovak National Uprising, I was in the Novaky labor camp. From there I went to the uprising along with my brother and other boys, and joined the partisans.

The Novaky labor camp was a relatively modern labor camp. Jews worked in workshops there, and manufactured various products. I myself didn't have any particular job. I was a manual laborer. When they needed to dig a ditch, I dug a ditch; when something else was needed, I did it. I was in Novaky together with my brother, and we also joined the uprising together. Those that obeyed the camp rules were relatively well off. The food wasn't the worst, and we built a swimming pool and had swimming races. There were various cultural events there, movies, theater and so on. You just couldn't leave, because if they caught you, you were given worse living conditions. I made long-term friendships with my fellow inmates in Novaky. For example, I still get together with Bachnar to this day. Plus I've gotten together with Kamenciky, with Fero Chorvat, Steiner, plus many others who also lived in Bratislava afterwards. I'd say that there wasn't any great tyranny in Novaky, or drilling. Those that were obedient and did what they were told and worked like they were supposed to, and followed the rules there were left to live in peace.

On August 29, 1944, the Slovak National Uprising broke out, and young Jewish guys from Novaky and from Sered 11 joined together and volunteered for the uprising. In Novaky there was also something along the lines of illegal gunrunning, but I wasn't involved. I knew about it, but wasn't directly involved. But I do know that they used to get guns for people. After leaving Novaky, we got a crash battle course in Kostolany, because some of us hadn't ever in their life held a weapon in their hands.

I was 19, and so I got a gun; they showed me how to use a submachine gun, a machine gun, and I got a couple of grenades and they sent us to Batovany. The German army was approaching, and we were supposed to hold the positions there. A very strong German army, fresh reinforcements from Bratislava, and many of the partisans ran away from there, or returned to the villages they'd come from. The Jewish guys who'd arrived there didn't have any home. They had no place to run away to. So it's fair to say that 80% of those that fell at Batovany were Jewish. They held their positions. Gradually we retreated all the way back to Banska Bystrica.

When the Germans occupied Banska Bystrica, we retreated into the mountains. I was the commander of a recon unit in the Jegorov-Stalin 9th Battalion. My group had between five and ten guys. We then retreated along with the entire brigade up to Prasiva. From there we organized ambushes and sabotage; we'd blow up railway tracks, and attack certain villages, where we knew there was a weak German or Guardist garrison 12. In December 1944, a commando unit of the Hlinka Guard surrounded us during one attack. There were five of us, and out task was to find out where the Germans were, and beg for food from the villagers. But we were captured. Those that tried to escape were shot. The rest were captured. I had the luck that there were also some German soldiers among them, but they were Austrian soldiers, from Vienna. Because I was able to communicate with them perfectly, and I spoke with an Austrian accent, the Guardists and those German soldiers decided to not hand us over to the SS, as they'd have shot us on the spot.

They handed us over to Slovak authorities. Just then there was one transport to Bratislava ready to go. So we went on this transport in January 1945 to Bratislava, to the regional court jail. From Dolna Lhota, by Brezna, or from someplace around there, we went by transport to Bratislava, to the regional court jail, where there were political prisoners, partisans and illegals. We were jailed there up until February 1945. During February, the Gestapo took over the jail. They transferred those of us that were there, around 280 of us, to a jail on the third floor, for political prisoners and enemies of the state, and the other prisoners, criminals, were on the ground floor and on the first and second floors.

We were on the third floor until 19th February 1945, when at 5:00 a.m. they prepared a transport, five German trucks covered with canvas. We had to get onto these trucks. In each truck here were around 50 prisoners plus two SS soldiers in the back with submachine guns. In this way, on 19th February 1945, they took us to the Mauthausen concentration camp 13. We passed through Vienna, and when we were in Melk, about 80 km from Vienna, an air-raid alarm sounded. The leader of the convoy of trucks didn't react to the alert, and didn't give orders for the trucks to stop. We kept going. The English-American fighters, thinking that it was a German transport, as they were German trucks covered in canvas, began attacking us. At that point the trucks stopped.

The SS jumped into the ditches and took cover. We of course also wanted to jump out, but they were shouting "Züruck oder schiesse" – back, or I'll shoot. So we had to climb back on those trucks and I could already see the fighters approaching our trucks. So I hit the deck of the truck along with the rest of the others. At that moment they began firing. Five times they repeated that horrible barrage. Four trucks were partly demolished. Luckily, I wasn't wounded. In the meantime, Germans from Melk had arrived. There was a concentration camp in Melk too [Melk: a subsidiary camp of the Mauthausen concentration camp – Editor's note]. Those who were only lightly wounded, or not at all, had to load the dead or seriously wounded onto trucks. They took the wounded and dead to Melk, and later we found out that they'd shut them up into one room there, and let them bleed to death. Those of us that had remained alive, or were only lightly wounded, were dragged off to the Mauthausen concentration camp in Upper Austria. We were in Mauthausen until 5th May 1945, when we were freed by the American army. Mauthausen was the second worst camp after Auschwitz.

In Mauthausen we slept fifty, sixty to a barrack, either on the ground or on bunks. There were lots of these barracks there. The barracks are still standing today. Every year, I organize bus tours to Mauthausen. We had to sleep on those beds, the bunks, covered only with thin blankets, and we didn't have any pillows. It was all stuffed with grass and whatever. The way it worked was that every morning at 5:00 a.m., they'd chase us out onto the assembly grounds. When we arrived in Mauthausen, it was 19th February 1945, still winter. Ten, fifteen degrees below freezing, and we had to strip naked in some room. They shaved us bald and gave us striped clothing and thin cloth slippers. They then chased us outside, and from morning, from 5:00 a.m., until 5:00 p.m., we stood outside on the assembly grounds. Those that were packed into the middle, survived. Those on the edges, those got chilled through... Many of us also got diarrhea, which was certain death. At 5:00 p.m. they herded us back into the barracks. Food consisted of a half-liter of soup, water in which potato peels had been boiled, and a eighth of a loaf of bread.

Upon our arrival at Mauthausen, we saw emaciated prisoners, Russian soldiers and so on. For the first two days, we didn't know what it was all about. For example people, civilians, who lived in the town of Mauthausen, didn't know at all what was going on in the concentration camp. I found that out from them afterwards. For example, one nice day at 5:00 a.m., they led us out onto the assembly grounds. There was a terrible stink. Then we found out that they'd shot and burned the Russians during the night. Then we again stood outside all day and froze. I was young and healthy, and always tried to get inside the mass of people, so I wouldn't be on the edges of the crowd. Those that were on the edges of the crowd usually didn't return.

I had the luck to run into a person I knew in Mauthausen. He wasn't a Jew. He was a Czech Communist, and was in Mauthausen for being a Communist. He'd already been there for some two years perhaps, and had gotten into the office. Well, and he'd always give us a bit of food or something. We were in the concentration camp until May 5th [1945], when the American army freed us.

After the war

My life was saved three times during the war. The first time was when the Guardists and Germans caught us, that they didn't drag me off and shoot me. The second time was when I survived that air raid, where the Anglo-Americans were shooting at us thinking it was a German transport. The third time was a few days before the liberation of the Mauthausen camp, before 5th May 1945, when I came down with typhoid fever, which was certain death. And because it was a few days before the liberation, the Americans then sent me to a hospital, where they cured me. So three times my life was saved in this miraculous fashion.

At the hospital, they treated me very well and nicely. The doctors and nurses were German, but under American supervision. I knew German, so I was able to speak to them. They were very nice. And those people, the villagers, they knew about the concentration camps, but then didn't have the faintest idea what sort of atrocities were going on there. Mass murders and gassings, they didn't know about that. All they knew was that there were prisoners there, and that they were starving. That's all. I know that, because I spoke with the residents of the surrounding towns and villages, and they swore to me that they didn't know about murders in the gas chambers and similar things.

I arrived in Bratislava from the hospital in August 1945. I of course came home, and didn't find anyone. Be it my father, my mother, my brother, my uncles, all had been murdered. No one was there. I arrived in Bratislava as a complete stranger. My parents had left the apartment, and that was that. After us, someone Aryanized it. I was young, and didn't make any claims on it. What was important to me was that I'd survived. After the war, I of course was inclined towards Jews. I didn't have any other friends except for Jews. It was almost only always we Jews, who'd been together with in Novaky, or in the uprising, that would get together. We met in cafés and so on. Nothing but Jews.

I began living in a place I rented from some non-Jews. I rented for five years, from 1945 until 1950. I began taking high school correspondence courses, because I was working as a helper, a laborer. After graduating from high school, I got a job and worked in a communal company and in various organizations, and then worked my way up. I began taking economics university via correspondence. I graduated and became a commercial engineer. I didn't experience any anti-Semitic comments at work, nothing like that took place. After the Slansky trials 14 I had certain doubts about the regime, but otherwise I myself didn't have any problems, as I wasn't in a position of responsibility. I worked as a minor official, so I didn't feel anything like some sort of pressure. It didn't affect me in any way.

I was a member of the Party 15, and acted accordingly. The reason I was in the Communist Party was mainly because both my son and daughter have a university education, and it was very hard to get them into university. But when I was in the Party, they got it more easily. So at least because of the kids, I was a rank-and-file member. I worked for a communal company as a minor official. I took care of "new forms of work" and socialist competition. And then I transferred to the Slovak Geodetics and Cartography Union. I worked as an clerk, and then worked my way up to manager of the general accounting department.

Most of the people at my work didn't know that I was Jewish. I didn't make it apparent, like saying that I was a Jew and so on. I worked as the manager of the expenses section, and tried to do my work responsibly and as well as possible. I had very good contacts with the directors. I got along very well with them. They valued my work, so I didn't have any problems at work. I didn't have any problems due to my origin either. I've got this nature, as they say, that I get along with everyone. I get along well with everyone, I like to laugh, I like to crack jokes, and so on. So I can say that I was well liked by my co-workers. I tried to make by subordinates' work easier, and improve their pay. We had good bonuses and compensation. I had five people under me, and when there was less work, I let them go home early, for example.

A few years after the war ended, one very lucky thing happened to me. I was at a partisan dance, as a former partisan, and there met my current wife. She, like her father, had been an anti-Fascist. My father-in-law was an upholsterer, and during the Holocaust he hid two Jewish families in the back in his warehouse, who'd also survived. My wife isn't Jewish. Simply put, I fell in love at that dance. My wife's maiden name was Lujza Nagyova. She's also from Bratislava, like me, and was born in 1928. She worked for her parents. Her father, as I've already mentioned, was an upholsterer. My wife's mother was a housewife. My mother took care of all the administrative work in the upholstery workshop. She didn't have any siblings; she was an only child. My wife graduated from business high school.

We didn't have a Jewish wedding; we had a normal wedding, at city hall, on 27th May 1950. We got married, and we've been married for over 50 years now. After the wedding we lived with her parents in Lodna Street. My wife's parents welcomed me as a son. My friends and acquaintances that had been in Novaky with me said about my wife's father: "He's an excellent person, he supported us. He supported us financially in everything, that's one excellent person." He had an amazing relationship with Jews.

My wife didn't care that I met only with Jewish friends. She was raised to believe that all people were equal. Her father had been a member of the Communist Party since 1936. And he had a very good attitude towards Jews. He had very many Jewish friends. So he also had a lot of Jewish customers. When I got married, he immediately automatically said: "Why would you live in a sublet?!" You'll live with us." They had a five-room apartment, so of course right away my wife and I had one room to ourselves.

After finishing university, I already had a relatively good job. I worked as the manager of the general accounting department of the Cartography and Geodetics Institute in Bratislava. Then I worked as the manager of the economics division. In 1950 Dr. Gerej, the head of communal companies, issued me a two-room apartment in Laurinska St. My wife and I moved in and lived comfortably there. Later we traded that apartment for a three-room one in Spitalska St. My wife and I lived there until the 1990s. Then we traded it for our current one.

We've got two children. Our daughter Sona, and our son Petr. Sona is married. They've got two daughters, and her husband owns a company. They live in Bratislava. Our son Peter emigrated back during Communist times. He was working here in Slovakia as a phys ed teacher. He didn't agree with the regime, so emigrated to Austria. He became an Austrian citizen, and today lives in Vienna. He left for Austria alone, as his wife didn't want to go. But he used to send his wife and son here in Slovakia money. In the beginning he worked as a masseur. He then divorced his wife. His son lives in Bratislava. But we don't keep in touch that much. He'll come by when it's his name day, or his birthday. My children weren't raised in the Jewish spirit and traditions. Both our children graduated from university.

My wife didn't have any objections when I'd go, or now go to the synagogue, or to various Jewish events. I'm in very good contact with the leaders of the Central Union of Jewish Religious Communities, concretely with Dr. Weiss, as well as with Petr Salner and many others. I get along well with them, and we understand each other. So when we have some events, we always get together and have a pleasant conversation. Now I was for example lecturing for fifty, sixty Jewish people who'd been in Terezin 16. I lectured on the Holocaust.

Currently I'm the vice-president of the Central Council of the Slovak Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters 17. I'm also the president of the Association of Prisoners of the Nazi Concentration Camps Auschwitz, Mauthausen, Ravensbrück, Terezin, Stutthof [Sztutowo in Polish], and am the vice-president of the International Political Prisoners of Concentration Camps of 18 European countries.

Each year, we organize a bus trip to the Mauthausen concentration camp; the participants are former prisoners, their family members and sympathizers, but recently we've been taking students and history teachers, where I show them right on the spot, as a former prisoner, what concentrations camps were all about. I got this idea because various tours of Auschwitz and I don't know what else are put on. And once I was talking to a friend of mine, the poor guy died recently, Colonel Oto Michalec was his name. He'd been there too, and he said to me: "Oto, why don't we also put together a but tour to Mauthausen, where we'll show people right on the spot, what was there, how it was?" At first we had problems, but the Central Union of Jewish Religious Communities paid for the bus. In the morning, at 6:00 p.m., we left for Mauthausen and in the afternoon, around two or three, back to Bratislava. Then I promoted the whole thing, and I took out an ad in a newspaper named Bojovnik [Fighter] published by the Slovak Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters. I got people to sign up, and now we regularly go to Mauthausen in May, on the anniversary of the liberation.

Right after the war, in 1945, I renewed my membership in the Jewish religious community. Our children always knew about all my activities and about that I was a Jew. They live as atheists, but have a positive relationship to Jews and Jewry. Most of my daughter's girlfriends are even Jewish. Our children are just aware that their father is a Jew, and that they're from a Jewish family.

I retired in 1986. I was 60. At one time I was still working as a retiree, part-time, in cartography. I still have my positions in the various unions. I'm the vice-president of the Central Council of the Slovak Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters. I've been active in this union since 1945. I got in as a former concentration camp prisoner, and a partisan. The entire union represents former resistance fighters, illegal workers, anti-Fascists and their sympathizers. I've been vice-president for 8 years now. That was a matter of course, that my path led to this union, which fights against neo-Nazism, against Fascism. I was always active. At first I was the head of one group. Then I was secretary, then president of the western organization, so I then worked my way up to the position of vice-president of the Central Council. My work in the union entails representing the president in his absence, and I also take care of the entire agenda in cooperation with foreign resistance members in the surrounding countries. I also verify requests for compensation and so on. While we're on the subject of compensation, I also received compensation. I got 15,000 marks from Germany, then I got 40,000 crowns for my participation in the resistance, and finally 117,000 for the uprising, and for having been in a concentration camp 18. That was from the Slovak government.

As far as religious life in the community is concerned, when they invite me I go, but I don't go to synagogue regularly. I only go when there's some sort of a holiday, remembrance of the dead for example. In my free time, I get together with both Jews and non-Jews. The Jews are relatively few. If people are reputable, I don't distinguish between Jew and Gentile. I take with reserve those people who I know have a negative attitude towards questions of Jews or the uprising. Because there are also those that say that the uprising was a tragedy for the Slovak nation. But as long as a person is decent, I don't care if he's a Jew or not. That's a principle of mine. I was liked for never distinguishing whether someone was a Jew, a Catholic or a Protestant. I always took people as being in the first place human beings. But I'll discuss things with those that don't have a positive attitude towards Jews. I'll either change their mind, or I won't discuss it with them any longer. I'll tell you honestly, the people I meet, they respect me, and I them. For one, they know that I was in a concentration camp, that I was in the uprising, I was in a labor camp, and that I hold high positions. I've got all sorts of foreign awards. I was in Moscow for example, where I met Putin, and so on.

I've got a couple of awards for my lifelong successes and resolve to achieve something. The last time was on 1st January 2006, on the occasion of the national holiday celebrating the creation of the Slovak Republic. Ivan Gasparovic 19, our president, gave me the Milan Rastislav Stefanik Cross [The Milan Rastislav Stefanik Cross is awarded to citizens of the Slovak Republic who have risked their lives to defend the Slovak Republic and save human lives or significant material values. It is awarded by the president of the Slovak Republic upon nomination by the government. It was awarded to General-Major Oto Wagner in 2006 – Editor's note]. It's a state award of the order of Milan Rastislav Stefanik for merit and saving human lives while risking one's own. The Central Council of the Slovak Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters nominated me for it. I value equally an award from Austria, from the president of the Austrian Republic. It's an award for merit for the Austrian Republic, which I was given at the Austrian embassy, commissioned by the president of Austria.

We, the Slovak Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters, used to have a very good relationship with the Communists. Now, when the government is oriented towards the right, and groups itself mostly with rightists, that relationship is not as ideal [during 1998 – 2006 (thus also during the time of this interview), a right-wing government was in power in Slovakia. After the 2006 parliamentary elections, the situation changed. Currently, leftists have a parliamentary majority in the government of the Slovak Republic – Editor's note]. I attend all sorts of receptions – Chinese, Austrian, German. I meet our ministers there, we say hello, exchange a few words, but that's all. I was always oriented towards the left, and don't see it as being very rosy right now. Now I've for example found out, Janek Langos 20 is a friend of mine, and he told me that they've got two thousand names of former Aryanizers [Aryanization:  the transfer of Jewish stores, businesses, companies, etc. to the ownership of another, non-Jewish person – the Aryanizer – Editor’s note]. And I said: "Janek, but most of these people aren't alive anymore." "That doesn't matter, their children and grandchildren should know that their parents and grandparents Aryanized Jewish property." And that's supposed to be normally published like the StB records [21, 22]. I'm assuming it'll be quite unpleasant for the children and grandchildren, when they find out that their grandfather Aryanized Jewish property. I wouldn't publish it. But I don't have any influence over it. It'll just cause useless friction again.

The last few years I've been lecturing often. At one lecture, at the Central Union of Jewish Religious Communities, where there were about 200 people, mostly people that had been in concentration camps as children, I said: "We can't be angry at Germans, because it's not the fault of today's generation that their fathers and grandfathers committed such horrid things." That's what I said there, and they were all Jews there. And they weren't against it. No took issue with it. You know, we can't be angry with one young German because his grandfather was, let's say, a member of the SS and murdered people. It's not the fault of today's generation. But I do think that every school should visit a concentration camp at least once, it doesn't matter which one. Let those young people see what atrocities were committed, what war, hunger and torture are.

I was invited to one school, and was asked to tell students that were going to be graduating something about the Slovak National Uprising – as a former participant and the vice-president of the Central Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters. So I organized a talk there, and gave a lecture about the Slovak National Uprising and the Holocaust. That the Slovak National Uprising has been recorded in the history of the Slovak nation with a gold pen. Because with the help of the Slovak National Uprising, Slovakia as such was included with the victorious countries, and not with the defeated Fascist countries. So I spoke about it, and when I was finished, one graduate stood up and said: "Sir, please, I have one question." I said: "Yes, what is it?" "You say that you fought in the Slovak National Uprising, that you were the head of a recon unit, and that you were wounded and captured. You were dragged off to the Mauthausen concentration camp in Upper Austria." I said: "Yes." "So could you tell me please, what did you do in that camp all day?" This means I can't be angry with him, at that boy. They didn't study anything at all about the Holocaust and the concentration camps. They didn't know anything at all. They just knew the bare outline of the uprising, otherwise nothing. That's why I'm trying to tell this young generation what the uprising was, what the Holocaust was, and so on. So that they'll have at least some sort of a foundation. If their parents and teachers didn't tell them about it, or if they weren't interested in finding out about it, whether from books, or from magazines, I at least tell them about the past like this, orally.

Not just the Holocaust is left out of the school curriculum, but neither do they for example teach that Czechoslovakia was from the year 1918 23 a multi-ethnic state. After all, there were Jews living here, there were Germans and Hungarians living here, and everyone got along. Why, Bratislava and lots of other places in Slovakia were trilingual. That was something normal, that families spoke Slovak, Hungarian and German amongst themselves. Those of my generation that were born in Bratislava or lived here, all of us spoke Slovak, German and Hungarian. When as children we played soccer and similar games, there were Germans and Jews there, and no one cared about nationality. There weren't any problems; everyone was first and foremost a human being. There wasn't any anti-Semitism here. During the time of the Slovak State 24 these kinds of comments already existed. There was for example anti-Jewish propaganda in the newspapers. Suddenly things, that before people had looked at normally, changed. They began to paint Jewish stars on windows of shops owned by Jews, and so on. Finally it culminated in the persecution of Jews. It was all artificially created by the Fascist-Catholic government of the time. Yes, these are facts that are known today, but no one talks about them. And it's also my obligation to educate people, and mainly the young generation, about it and tell them how it was. So that what took place during the Holocaust and the Slovak National Uprising is never forgotten. Mainly, so that these tragic events and atrocities are never repeated.

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