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Growing up in the Thirties | To My Grandchildren

Growing up in the Thirties

PATHWAYS…collections…

 

The memories of a collector, the pathways of life, roads you were forced to take, other roads taken for pleasure; new pathways, old pathways…

 

Since early age I’ve had a passion for collecting things. As a child I’ve collected stamps, pictures, beads, fabrics, books, memories…

 

Here’s one from the collection: my life’s pathways.

 

Pathways…short, long, promising, pathways to a new life, decisive ones, wrongs ones, pathways where I’ve left everything behind so many times… so many times… and where I’ve started all over again so many times… so many times….

 

Pathways that cast me off, with burdens, to many corners of the world, merry pathways, sad, painful pathways, the ways of the wandering Jew, as my father used to say…

 

From the fog of oblivion here are some oases of memories

 

Galati…

 

I don’t know why, but fate decided that I should be born in Galati– a Danube harbor in the Romanian Kingdom – from Transylvanian Jewish parents, “boangheni”, as they used to call us then. Later we became persecuted, suspicious refugees. When my parents were born, that part of Transylvania – Satu Mare and Baia Mare- belonged to Hungary. Her whole life my mom, Laura, couldn’t speak Romanian well. When I was born they were only speaking Hungarian at home. It was only the time when I “entered the world”, in kindergarten, at the playground, that I learned  Romanian.

 

My father, Ludovic, or Lajos in Hungarian – descended from a bigoted Jewish family from Baia Mare , the oldest son of four brothers and a sister. The only school he attended was cheder ( in Orthodox Judaism, cheder is a term used to mean a private primary day school where the emphasis is placed on religious study), while two of his brothers went to study to the Trade Academy in Paris.

 

(Photo from1920s, Baia Mare; in the picture: my grandparents, my father, his two brothers Jeno and Sanyi and his sister Ella. Kalman is missing from the photo, as he had already defected to Belgium)

 

I believe that my father had good reasons to change his domicile, being a left wing sympathizer. While a prisoner of war, my father was influenced by the Bolshevism that was raging across Russia at that time. Once he returned home, he became an insignificant, naive and trustful pawn in the middle of Bela Kuhn’s  ambitions to bring the proletariat dictatorship to Hungary in 1919, the Russian’s maneuvers, and the  unification of Transylvania with Romania. It was a difficult time between Hungary and Romania, and there was he, my father sentenced to the life of a cripple, with his leg lost to a bullet above the knee.

 

His entire life the braces he wore defined who he was, his left leg giving him horrible pain constantly. My mom was always there for him, totally devoted to him, caring for him, looking after him, silently enduring his painful crises. I believe this infirmity made him become a tailor.

My father had a few good friends that shared the same left wing visions and hope for a better world as he did. They used to visit us home where my mom would treat them with delicious Hungarian dishes. Maybe they were coming there more for my mom’s great cooking than for the serious, heated conversations with my father,  discussions that no one was allowed to hear. Maybe that’s why father used to send me out to guard the front of the house and  let him know if someone was approaching. My mom never attended their meetings. She used to stay in the kitchen, sometimes knitting socks, noticing everything quietly. Father was always up to date with what was happening in the world. He had opinions about everything- he spoke few foreign languages and read serious books. That’s why he was so admired.

 

Two of my father’s brothers – Jeno with Jolan, Sanyi with Margit, and one sister Ella also lived in Baia Mare

( Note: already mentioned)

 

The Danube…

 

We used to live on Pescarilor street in the Badalan neigborhood, close to the Danube. The river, known as the Blue Danube, was far from being crystal blue and sometimes would reach my father’s workshop  when it swelled. Once, the river broke the banks and flooded the street up to our shop, and I fell in. Everybody got scared and from nowhere a neighbor, a mistress of spells, showed up, and then she pampered me and wrapped me in a blanket. Speaking in tongues, the woman and my family quenched hot embers in a glass of water to cast the spells away. After that everything was  all right.

 

During summers we used to cross the Danube by boat. The waters were restless, and my mom was sitting with a wry face, holding tight onto the edge of the boat, scared to death of the whirling waves that were shaking it. On the other side of the river there was a forest and lots of green grass ( picture), and father, despite his infirmity, used to swim against the big waves  bravely.

 

During the harsh winters the Danube froze hard and  many nights we used to shiver in fear of the wolves coming from the forest and crossing the river, scared of their sinister howl.

 

On Epiphany Day we used to gape at the daily events when a hole in the ice would be cut and the priest would hold a service and throw a cross into the dark, mysterious waters. Just watching that show I would get cold and worried for the man’s fate who would jump in the chilly waters, fumbling under the ice, looking to rescue the cross. After that, still shivering, he would be wrapped in a warm blanket and thanked with a blessing.

 

Maybe because of the harsh weather my toes were always frost-bitten during the winters  in Galati. They were red, itchy, and swollen like sausages. To warm them up, my mom would soak my feet in hot water.

 

 

My father…

My father was a modest but talented tailor, and all the clothing he had made had an impeccable line. Once someone suggested he purchase fabrics smuggled from a boat, but my father refused him, although the deal would have brought him a good profit.

 

He had a radio, and he used to read the papers daily, keeping up to date with all the domestic and international matters and the events of the day. In his workshop he had a big ironing table for his clients’ clothing. I remember how he used to move the hot iron on a wet cloth set on top of those clothes, and steam would rise in the air with a sizzle. In my nose I still have the scent of hot steam coming out of the heavy iron that mom had to warm up on the stove for him.

 

I was allowed to keep my toys on the counter. They were all hand made from leftover fabrics, threads, and whatever my father didn’t need anymore. There I stored my collection of beads, pictures, and stamps which I kept sorting in many different ways.

 

In the shop there was also a sewing machine, a Singer, with cigarette burns all over it, and there were cigarette ashes everywhere around my father. A heavy smoker, he had his fingers yellowed from the nicotine, and I remember every time I hugged him there was that smell of tobacco coming out of his clothing. My entire childhood I suffered from bronchitis mainly due to the cigarette smoke that was all over the house, coughing heavily and feeling my lungs weak.

In a corner of the workshop there was a big mirror for the clients, however, when no one was around, I used to play roles and watch myself in it, wearing my mom’s hat and her high heeled shoes.

My father had an apprentice, a young man called Oprea, and he often sent him to buy his cigarettes and newspapers. In winter Oprea used to pull me on a sled.

(Picture: Badalan – with my parents, my sisters Edit and Adela, with Ilona and grandpa.)

 

My Mother…

 

A beautiful but modest woman, my mother was from Satu Mare. Her vision was weak and she always wore glasses bought from the market. Her poor parents never had the money to take her to an eye doctor.

 

My mother was a hardworking woman, taking care of the house, cooking Hungarian and Jewish dishes, and lots of fresh fish from the fishermen. The Danube was very generous that way, and I remember the fish, still alive, jumping in the hot pan. Raised in a bigoted Jewish family that strictly observed a kosher diet, and married to a atheist, my mom abandoned the restrictions of the Judaic cuisine, but continued to prepare the most delicious traditional dishes, sinning by introducing us to the forbidden pork. She confessed that one day she put a smoked pork bone in the famous cholent (traditional Jewish stew), which was sent in a clay pot, all sealed, to the neighborhood’s kosher oven. The next day, we had the most delicious food. My mom used to say that only God knew about her sin, and we had taken much pleasure eating this dish.

 

Sometimes my mom would pierce a fresh egg at both ends and give it to us to drink, claiming this would ensure we shall have beautiful voices, just like my father’s. Her had a great voice, indeed and he used to sing many arias from Hungarian and Viennese operettas and Hungarian ballads. By no means, we- Mr. Schwartz’s daughters, and especially my sister Edit- sang beautifully. One day, a stranger passing by our street heard Edit singing a famous aria. He then entered my father’s workshop and suggested that Edit should receive a special musical education, or at least she should be sent to sing in church, because  she had such a beautiful voice. My mom didn’t have a musical ear, however she liked to listen to my father singing around the house.

 

My mother loved to get us dressed nicely, she used to sew dresses for us and for herself and knit hats. She always wore high heels shoes.

 

Where to, dear flower girl….?

 

During my kindergarten years I was in love with a handsome boy called Felix.

 

My childhood was filled with fun games that I played with the neighborhood kids. I used to organize performances for them, stretching a sheet across the yard in lieu of curtains. There were ballet shows, and I’d make up the dance steps myself- “Where are you going so early, dear flower girl? I’m heading to the beautiful valley to pick flowers”- and charging 1 leu for each performance.

 

I remember a very strange but joyful game that we played in kindergarten. There was a white ball of yummy halva, a sweet confection, hanging from the ceiling at the end of a string. The kids would circle it, and the teacher would push it softly, encouraging us to catch it by biting on it without using our hands. There was always a big fuss about this game, and happy was the kid who got a bite of halva.

 

We used to run screaming and giggling, playing hide-and-sick between the bundles of wood stored at Foresta warehouse, near our home. Oprea and Zighi were curious what a girl was made of and chased me around.

I started first grade in Galati, but finished it in Bucuresti, where we moved that year. From that period I remember learning a “patriotic” song that sounded like this:

 

Death is approaching but we don’t care

During war death is beautiful

Death is what we want

We swear! We swear to die!

 

I have vague memories of visiting a big shipping boat during a local celebration, a reason for my mom to dress me and my sister Adela nicely: Tirolean dresses, blouses and organza pinafores, lacquer shoes and hair bows. My parents were wearing their best outfits, too. The military band was playing on the deck and the sun rays were reflecting the golden brass of the trumpets.  Children were running and pushing each other, giggling around the adults. It was a festive and euphoric atmosphere, people promenading on the deck, greeting the beautiful girls (picture).

 

Buying melons…

 

Later on we moved to Brasoveni Avenue, a narrow street where trams and carts could barely run at the same time. My father’s workshop was situated at the bottom of the hill where trams would come rushing up. The drivers had to ring the bells loudly to make way. During summer, on their way to town, carts full of melons would stop nearby.

My father always complained that mother didn’t know how to choose the good melons, and one time she sent him to pick one of his liking from the cart that just parked.  Limping, my father crossed the street. Sitting on the rails leaning over the carriage, he started to knock on the melons, and smell them, when suddenly they heard the tram coming quickly and the bell ringing disparately. The horse got scared and moved the cart with one wheel going over my father’s foot, freezing him in front of the tram that was rushing up the hill. The driver panicked and applied the brakes, the tram’s door opened right in front of my father, who fell on it, flaying his entire back. People started to gather, there was trouble and we all got scared; someone fomented my father and carried him to the house, and that was his last attempt to buy melons.

 

And then, due to reasons unknown to me, we moved to Bucuresti…

 

Bucuresti…

 

Thus, in 1936 the crippled tailor moved his belongings and his family to Bucuresti, to the Filantropia neighborhood, near the medical supplies warehouse. In our family there were three daughters:  Edit, my father’s girl from his first marriage, Adela, and me. Edit’s mom died in child birth, and her relatives raised my step sister in Baia Mare till we moved to Bucuresti together. From time to time Ilona, my mother’s sister, would come and stay with us and work with my father in the tailor shop.

 

First we lived on Cluj street, in a little dark house, cramped between other dwellings of its kind, established in a small yard around a water pump.

 

Later on we moved to Turda street, where father opened his shop in the front room, with us living in the other two rooms.  The water pump was outside, the toilet in the backyard, and sometimes we would hear Mr. Marton, our neighbor, gritting his teeth while sitting on the wooden latrine. A house painter by trade, he would often come home drunk as a skunk, and he would just simply forget to get off the toilet. Mr. Marton and his wife also lived in a small two room house. On the other side of the yard lived Toni, a house painter as well,  married to a Polish woman who had recently arrived in Bucuresti with a big group of refugees from Poland (these were already turbid times in Eastern Europe ). Toni’s house had pretty curtains and his wife was nicely dressed, having her hair and make-up done all the time. Near them lived Mr. Constantinescu, a well-off grocer with a shop on the same street. My father was of the opinion that he was antisemitic, but he enjoyed talking politics with him. He often used to ask him about his ancestors. How could he be sure they weren’t Jews converted to Christianity ?

 

The front room, now converted into my father’s workshop, opened to the middle room, my mother’s territory. This was her kitchen, the living room, the bathroom – mother used to bath me in a basin put on top of a stool – , the wash room and the guest room ( for my father’s bathing they used to bring in a big tub made of tin). Full of books, this middle room also served as my father’s library; among them there was my favorite,   Flammarion, the one that gave me the idea of becoming an astronaut. In the same room me and my sister Adela did our homework. In one word, all the family activities – except for my father’s work- took place in this tiny space. There was a stove in the middle of it,  where all the inviting scents of my mom’s great food would come from. Sometimes we would go around it, hoping to grab a yummy bite before the meal was set. The stove was also our heating source, and where my mother boiled the water for bathing. She was a good wood chopper, her arms handling the ax very well, cutting those logs into sticks for our daily heating and cooking needs.

 

The back room was the bedroom, a small space just large enough for two narrow beds separated by a night stand.  The space between the beds was tiny, only sufficient to give us access to the beds. My parents slept in the one by the window, and me and Adela shared the one by the wall. Having the toilet in the backyard, we kept a chamber pot under the bed for emergencies during the night.

 

 

Ahoy, ahoy, children and brothers…!

 

During that time, in Bucuresti the winters were very heavy. The snow banks were always growing tall, blocking the traffic. But the kids were happy sledding, throwing balls, and building snowmen. On Christmas and New Year’s day the sound of carols and jingle bells filled the streets. Sometimes I joined the other neighboring kids carol-singing the star: “The star is rising, like a great mystery, the start is shining and spreading the word…” . There was a great joy among us and I loved singing with them.  Other traditional carols were sung by adults on New Year’s day. The streets were filled with merry voices, instruments and little bells.

 

The street…

 

We had a great relationship with our neighbors. On festive days we exchanged food; sometimes they would treat us with Easter eggs and sponge cake, and we would treat them with Easter cake that my father would buy from the Jewish community after Passover, when it was cheaper.

 

We used to buy the dark bread with a crunchy crust from Herdan, the bakery that had daily supplies of fresh loafs. Brought in a mini van, the bread’s warm scent would waft through the air. My mom would buy the rest of her groceries from the Oltenian farmers who would bring their produce in buckets. The streets were filled with the voices advertising their goods: vegetables, dairy items, vinegar, kerosene.

 

And there were also the gypsies, skilled men offering their services to housewives in need of little repairs to the kitchenware. Their entire family and belongings were carried in covered carts, from where they would get their tools to start working; and the smell of melted tin would attract other housewives. At each halting place, the gypsy wife would get off the cart, and accompanied by dozens of children she would explore the neighborhood, looking for potential clients for palm reading. The little ones were hanging from their colorful skirts, wiping their nose on them, while the older kids would also explore the area in search of something to filch.

 

When cold weather approached, you could see passing by plenty of carts loaded with lumber logs. My parents would get on the street and bargain with the sellers for a pile of woods enough for the entire winter. For the cold season she would also buy potatoes, carrots and parsley roots, which were then buried in sand and kept in crates in the basement, an area always invaded by snails. My mom couldn’t stand the disgusting silver traces left by the little creatures and she would sprinkle salt on them to make them disappear.

 

 

My Mom’s Household….

 

There were times when big quantities of eggs were bought, and  my mom would would  make a thin dough and lay it on a clean sheet to let it dry. She made the best noodles and dumplings in the world. She also tried to supplement our income by selling them, however, despite their great taste, she couldn’t succeed due to her lack of business skills. Although we were quite poor,   eating good food was always a priority in our house. Chicken and goose were frequently cooked.  They were bought alive from the market, and killed  outside on the street by one of those Oltenian farmers when mother asked for this service. During winter we often enjoyed crispy pork belly and fried liver, toast with goose fat and garlic, smoked bacon that father used to skewer and grill on hot embers. My mom’s noodles with poppy seeds or walnuts, doughnuts, dumplings filled with cheese and served with cream, dumpling chicken soup and many other unforgettable dishes were served at home. My father liked peppery bone marrow and he always shared it generously with the entire family. Following the Hungarian tradition, he added a hot pepper to every food, blushing and smacking his lips, making all sort of noises, blowing to calm his tongue from the hot taste.

 

Satu-Mare…

 

Only once I visited my mother’s parents in Satu Mare. They were dirt poor, living in a sketchy neighborhood where scandals and fights between gipsies were very frequent, and blood shedding was not uncommon. My grandparents were people of faith, but despite their poverty every Friday grandma would send the famous Jewish cholent – stuffed goose neck- in a clay pot to the Kosher oven, light up candles and say the appropriate prayer. Shabes, or Shabes-goy as we called him, a boy from the neighborhood, was in charge to bring it back, all hot and savory. When it came to cooking, no one was as good as grandma.

 

(Picture: Grandma with three of her daughters, my father and other relatives)

 

One day I made a huge mistake. Being asked what would I like to eat, I answered almost salivating: stuffed cabbage dipped in crème freche, exactly like my mom would cook.  Suddenly grandma’s eyes increased their size and my sister Adela, smarter than me at that age, poked me and said: Where have you heard such a silly thing? ( dairy and pork meat are totally forbidden for the faithful Jews.)

 

Grandpa, a tailor as well, was deaf – mute as a result of meningitis developed during childhood. They lived in one room only, and his sewing machine was placed in a corner, under a window, close to the bed that was used as a stool.  There was also a stove inside.

 

Grandpa was always cheerful and funny. Sometimes on Saturday mornings he would sneak out the house and go to the cinema, a totally forbidden thing for the religious Jews.

 

My mother had three siblings living in Satu Mare, a city crossed by Somes- a restless river that broke the banks every stormy spring, flooding the entire region. In summer time people went picnicking and swimming in the river, and the nearby forest was alive with music and cheer. One time, one of my aunts took me to Somes, too. It was a pleasure to explore the nature, however I got terribly scared and ran away in fear when I discovered a wig at the bottom of a tree. The religious Jewish women wear wigs, and there were many of them in Satu Mare. The most scary thing was the wig left in the grass while the woman would go and bath in the river.

 

For few days I stayed with aunt Hanely, the most beautiful of my mother’s sisters. Being so close to Somes, her house was always damped and full of bugs. In the evenings, coming home from a walk with Hanely and her husband Feri, I would switch on the light and run straight to bed in fear of the huge, black beetles that were running around and looking for a place to hide.

 

(Picture: my aunt Hanely, my uncle Feri and my cousin Anca, with one of their friends in Satu Mare)

 

My mother had also a brother who lived in Seini, and that summer I spent few days with his family, too. My uncle Sroly ( Izidor) was a confectioner and his wife Shari was a dress maker. Their little rented apartment in the town hall’s yard was damped and covered in mold. I also very well remember an after rain strong scent of green onion that was growing abundantly under their bedroom window.

My favorite thing to do was wandering among the various carts that farmers would bring with produce during market days and set in front of the town hall: wicker baskets, clay pots, carved wooden toys. The market was alive with the sound of chickens, geese, ducks, cows, and people shopping, a sight that I’ve never seen in Bucuresti….

 

At home, few times during hot summers my father would take us swimming to a little but popular stream called Straulesti.  It was a long journey by tram and bus, but well worth it. Such a trip was an event well prepared for: a picnic basket full of sandwiches, vegetables, fruits, and cheese; a blanket for my mom to sit on while the kids would splash in the water. It was fun to see my father struggling to swim in the crowded waters where children would jump and romp with great joy. Upstream there was an outdoor restaurant and you could smell the strong scent of roasted chicken with garlic sauce, mititei, those yummy grilled meat rolls, and the smoke coming from the various grills. At the end of the day we were exhausted but happy.

 

 

Elementary School…

 

The elementary school that I attended was situated on Arhitect Mincu street, near the  main road. It was beautiful and clean, with new desks and lacquered yellow parquet floors.  My teacher was short and stodgy, her face all wrinkled, talking with a rattling and deep voice.  We didn’t like her; she used to ask us to repeat the multiplication table aloud while she would leave the classroom. The door was always left open so she could hear us from the distance: “two by one makes two, two by two makes four, two by three makes six…”. She had a habit of sending one of the girls, Vlad Ileana, a tall girl that came from another school, to buy her Turkish delight and bring it to the classroom. She would eat it at the teacher’s desk with a glass of water, and with every bite a cloud of powdered sugar would land everywhere, including her nose. This is how I see her in my memory.

 

In school I had to wear uniform- a white, pleated pinafore, carefully ironed by my mother, blue bow, and well starched collar.  My school books and copybooks were wrapped in blue paper and looked really nice.

 

One day we were told to expect a delegation of German officers visiting our school. For this occasion, they picked me, a blond girl with white skin and blue eyes, the Aryan type, to greet the important guests. They introduced me to the imposing Germans, who in return caressed my cheeks not knowing they were soiling their hands by touching a Jewish girl’s face…

 

Later on, I believe in the third grade, they introduced national defense service in school and the uniform was obligatory. However I never had a complete set, the accessories- the badge, the whistle, the beret- were far too expensive for my parents who could barely afford to buy me new school books, having a lot of them used or even donated.

 

During those classes I’ve learned another “educational” song:

 

How joyous are we the alert guardsmen, and the glory is ours

The victory and the glory

When we go to war, the victory resounds for us

At the end of the street there was big, boys only high school. One day a rumor had spread that Prince Mihai will pay them a visit. A big stir spread through our neighborhood, and all the kids gathered and went to the high school to see the miracle. We glued our curious faces to the grating which surrounded the school’s yard. The pupils were neatly positioned in a square formation, awaiting the royal visit. And there he was, the prince-boy! He was handsome like an icon, and we all enjoyed his appearance.

 

 

Discrimination….

 

Christmas was an event waited by all kids impatiently. It was an occasion to rejoice, to celebrate and receive presents. At school the Christmas tree was decorated with toys, candy wrapped in gilding, eye-catching globes and sparkling tinsel. All children received great looking presents: chocolate, lollipops, oranges, nuts and toys. Heinrich Mimi and I were the only Jewish girls in the class, and we always got just a small bag of candy. Our eyes yearned for the goodies other kids received at Christmas.

One of my classmates and friend was Greek. Kimbrekos and I used to share our lunch snacks brought from home. In Greece her parents had a flock of sheep and one day she brought me a wool ball to make a scarf. I had another friend called Panait Florentina, and she invited me to her home quite often. She was a sad girl. Her mom was in mourning, wearing a hat with a black veil. She also had a sister, Miss Mimi and they lived in a dark house. In a corner of her room there was always a candle under an icon who looked as sad as she was.

At school we had a music teacher, as well. Mrs. Marinescu taught us many beautiful songs, our choir being invited to play on the radio and carols at the national theater. I loved being part of the choir. One day during rehearsals, when we were getting ready to play for the royal palace, Mrs Marinescu covered my mouth and expelled me from the choir pretending I sang off key. But I knew the real reason, my name was Schwartz and I was Jewish, and it was not appropriate to bring me along with the other kids to sing carols at the royal palace.

 

I also liked home economics. I learned how to embroider delicate forms on fine linens: beautiful little crosses, flowers, and leaves on napkins, or colorful wool thread on pillow cases.

 

At home I played with the neighborhood children: hopscotch on the sidewalk across from my father’s shop, ball, skipping rope, hide-and-sick, and tricycle racing. At the corner of the street lived a wealthy gipsy family who had a girl my age. We used to play together until one day she ran after me and punched me in the back yelling: “Jews to Palestine!” So I ran after her and punched her back crying something I probably heard on the street: “Gipsies to Adas-Abiba!” It was already something contagious in the air and the kids were catching the bug, too.

 

 

At the Cinema…

 

In our neighborhood there was an outdoor cinema called “Chic” , and sometimes in the evening we would climb the back fence and watch a movie stealthily. Other times my mom would give me two lei for a ticket to a matinee to see Shirley Temple at “Orfeu” cinema. Many times I would linger longer at the theater, not caring that I was often punished for that. My father, who never missed a propaganda movie, would take me to see a bunch of unforgettable Soviet films: “ The Merry Boys”, “The Circus”, “ The Gipsies”, “Birobidjan”…and somehow it has got into my mind that somewhere a country with a better life for us might exist…

 

Sometimes my mom would give me money and allow me to leave our street. A kiosk on Arhitect Mincu, where I would buy a crunchy bread stick supplied by Grozavescu bakery and a cup of sour milk, would be my first stop. Or I would go to a pastry shop all the way on the boulevard to buy a slice of baked pumpkin and I was on top of the world.

 

 

Mrs. Stratulat…

 

My parents couldn’t afford to pay for my high school, therefore I had to attend the fifth grade at the same school. There I had two teachers: Mrs. Trandafir for humanistic classes and Mrs. Stratulat for scientific subjects.  In addition I had to choose some homemaking classes, and my preference was  to learn the weaving machine. I weaved a little rug which I was very proud of, and fell in love with the weaving machine for life.

 

Mrs. Stratulat was a very good teacher, and I liked her a lot. I was the best in her class.

In the morning, on the way to school I would join one of our schoolmistress, Mrs. Ionescu for a walk. It was very nice of her to talk to a child like me, and I felt flattered. She told me how teachers would gather in the office during recession and regale each other with stories from their daily activities. It was very painful for my soul to find out that Mrs. Stratulat frequently talked fondly about a school girl, the best in her class, but adding with sorrow: “ Too bad she’s Jewish”. That girl was me, and the remark still haunts me. That moment I learned the meaning of antisemitism.

The relationship with my father…

 

One day we had a mysterious visit, and I was asked to leave the house. Later on I learned that my father was under the scrutiny of the political police, most probably because of his relationship with Emil Bodnaras, who was an underground communist fighter at that time. Emil’s mother came from Bucovina and stayed with us for few days during her son’s trial, where my father was called as a witness. Also, one of Emil’s brothers, Ervin, was a photographer and my sister Edit learned the skill from him and became an apprentice in his studio.

My father had a friend, Feigenbaum, who owned a gas store on Filantropia  Blvd. and a taxi business.  His three girls: Erica, who was my age, Lili and Zizi were my playing companions. I was often present in their house, and we used to play between cars, on the ramp, where everything smelled like gas. His older daughter, Clara, lived in Paris and was married with Frenkel, presumed a Trotsky sympathizer. Every visit to her parents in Bucuresti was vividly accompanied by heated discussions and loud voices. Rifca, Feigenbaum’s wife, was a stout woman, with a round face framed by short curly hair and double chin. She wore big, circular earrings that dangled while she talked, and huge rings on her short and fatty fingers. She spent her days at the cashier’s desk, but barely awake, and Mr. Feigenbaum used to yell her name whenever he caught her dozing. With them lived Mr. Feigenbaum’s mother, a short, skinny and hunchbacked old lady who hardly spoke any Romanian.

 

 

The downfall…

My father’s tailoring business started to decline. Various antisemitic signs and mocking

words showed up on the shop sign. He and his friends Feigenbaum and Arpad, Hungarian at origin, frequently visited each other and during their heated talks I started to hear words such as: legionary ( member of the Iron Guard), Germany, Soviet Union, antisemitism… We sensed a bad omen.

My father became ever increasingly unable to pay utilities and taxes, and one day the tax collector cut off the electricity and put a levy on the client’s clothing.

 

He was very unhappy without the radio, now being disconnected from the world’s events. In order to work in the evenings he bought a gas lamp, and I became the occasional courier, bringing him the limited news that I could hear on the neighbor’s radio that was blasting in the courtyard. I didn’t have the capacity to understand the latest developments, but my father seemed very concerned upon hearing them.

 

One day, while I was listening to the radio in my usual spot, the broadcast suddenly ended and a threatening voice announced plainly that Armand Calinescu has been assassinated. I realized this was an important event, and I ran home to give my father the news. I was very proud of myself for recognizing the gravity of that information. It looked like hard times would certainly come for us. My father and his friends Feigenbaum and Arpad became more and more worried and held long meetings talking about the recent events.

 

On June 28th 1940 the two big powers- Soviet Union and Germany- made an agreement to reshape the face of Europe and thus to change the destiny of its population, ours included. Overnight Romania was spliced, and its northern territories- Basarabia and Bucovia- became part of Soviet Union.

 

For the Romanian Jews there were no promises of good life, the antisemitism became  more and more virulent, more brutal, and the hope was now coming from the East, from the country which opened its arms to the ones born in the recently annexed territories.

 

Vadul Siretului….

 

It was time for important decisions to be taken. Feigenbaum’s old mom was originally from Galicia, now a new Soviet territory, therefore she and her family had the right to legally emigrate there.  So the major decision to leave Romania was made in order to take advantage of this open door to emigration.

 

Our roots were Hungarian, and we didn’t have the same lawful right to enter the Soviet land. However we accompanied, illegally and not without risk, the Feigenbaums, and the dice were cast. Feigenbaum sold his house, and so did my father. We packed lightly and father gave the keys of his shop to his friend Arpad, just in case the escape didn’t succeed. Ilona, my mother’s sister who lived with us in Bucuresti that time, joined the group, and thus she shared our fate after leaving our country, and continued to live with us during all these years of war.

 

And there we were, in a train taking us to Vadul Siretului, the new border town between Romania and the Soviet Union, traveling to an unknown world, which for us the children was more like an unexpected adventure full of optimism and new hopes. All the kids sat in a separate wagon, and one could hear joyful voices and patriotic songs coming out of that room, which apparently saved us all, as we’ve learned  later. During that night the train had a few sudden stops, and some guys passed by our wagon, looked inside , but moved on luckily.  We heard that night there were cases of Jews thrown off the train, while it  was still in motion.

Once we arrived at Vadul Siretului, we were taken into the custody of the chief of the military police, the representative of the authorities in charge. My father and Mr. Feigenbaum stayed inside his office for quite a while , negotiating and even bribing the Major. Then our belongings were put outside, on the grass, and the Major had an easy job to select the ones to be confiscated for his own benefit.

 

A little caravan in the night

 

Later that evening we managed to hire a cart and loaded all our luggage.  The old Mrs. Feigenbaum was put on top of them, the kids squeezed between the bags, and our little caravan started its journey through the night, escorted by a group of border patrol. It was very dark and we could barely see the trees that towered over the road. The silence was deep around us. There was only the voice of the cart man urging his horses, and the steps splashing in the mud. I was crowded in the cart, so I chose to walk along the adults, fighting the thick ooze that would grip my feet and where I finally lost one sandal. Suddenly our caravan was stopped and we heard a loud voice giving a frightening command: “ Load arms!”, followed by a metal clink. Understanding the situation, Grandma Feigenbaum started to weep and beg in her broken Romanian: “No ! No ! There are children…!” Only after our fathers bribed them, the guards left us alone.

 

Not long after that we arrived at the edge of the forest, and our bags were unloaded in the open field. The patrol and cart man disappeared, and we were left alone there, exhausted and scared. We were in a no man’s land. And it was for the first time seeing someone sleeping with his eyes open: my father, sitting on top of a bag, killed by worries and emotions. It was a very alien scene.

 

When the sun came up, we saw what was surrounding us: an endless wheat field, with no soul around. And there it was, our salvation, a small dot moving from the horizon towards us: a van that took us to a new world that we aspired to, or at least that’s what we thought at that time.

 

A new life…

 

We arrived at Cernauti, in that big country of triumphant socialism. There we said good bye to the Feigenbaums, and we’ve never heard from them since.

 

That year- 1940-1941- was the time in my childhood when everything I had bloomed, was stimulated and developed. It was the fullest!

 

Cernauti was a beautiful university city, with lots of green spaces and nice buildings. At the beginning we lived on Sterngasse. People spoke German a lot, the little children were plump, well fed, and  there were German nannies running after them with slices of bread with butter thick as a finger.

Although I didn’t speak the language, I decided to enroll in a school that taught Yiddish. The teachers were kind and helped me, the math teacher even translated the subjects, so I could understand them better. He was a tall, handsome man, always dressed in an elegant suit, wearing golden frames. I lay myself out to study, and sometimes I used to learn the subjects by heart even though I didn’t understand a thing. I was again the best in my class, the chief of the pioneer team, and I was active in many activity groups. I was part of the dance group, I enrolled in ballet classes at the Pioneer Palace, I was a member of the Youth Miciurin group, being interested in the natural world and gardening (Miciurin – Oct 15th 1855- June 7th 1935 was a Russian botanist, specialized in plant selection), and so on. I even tutored two children: a redhead girl with freckles and thick pig tails, and a boy who’s name is easy to remember because of its oddness: Siflinger. I also became the school’s soloist, having a great professor, Mr. Peretz, who tendered to my musical education.

 

Noli, a new friend who was also an emigrant but from somewhere in Bucovina, introduced me to a sports club, and for the first time in my life I used the training machines and I loved them.

 

My father had his own satisfaction. He got hired at a big textile factory as a supervisor for the tailoring department, and he earned good money. Ilona was also hired there. Life was good. From a German Countess who was allowed to go back to Germany we bought our superb furniture: a console table with marble top, six leather chairs with carved wooden legs, a beautiful bed with linen mattress. I was in love with the bronze rings that adorned the lions’ snouts on all the doors and drawers of the console table, and the carved legs of the chairs and dining table.

 

Who heard of Lipetzk  !?…

 

At a certain point they started to recruit young people 18 and over as volunteers for the many building yards of the communist society.  Adela and Edit decided to join them. Although she was only 15, Adela managed to fool the authorities pretending she was older. And thus my sisters went to work on a big construction project for a metallurgic factory in Lipetzk – Voronej.

 

Edit was smarter and found work in the kitchen, but Adela had the hard job carrying big blocks of stone, way over her abilities. After a short time we received letters asking my father to intervene and bring her home.  My poor dad knocked on many doors till he obtain the paperwork that allowed them to return. But Edit was 18 years old and had a boyfriend there, so she didn’t want to come back. It was only Adela who returned , thus ending her carrier of building communism.

 

We were already living on Transilvania street, not far away from the airport and the textile factory that employed my father and my aunt. Almost a year past since the Soviet powers took over the city, and Cernauti was getting ready to celebrate all the achievements in  industry, culture, etc.  The propaganda machine was in full swing. In downtown banners with pictures of our leaders were installed. My school was also getting ready for celebration, and I was told that my picture will be displayed on one of the posters. That Sunday, me and my fellows from the gardening group were supposed to work on a project outside the city. But it wasn’t meant to be…

 

The war has started!

 

It was a beautiful sunny day and I woke up seeing Adela climbing the window frame and covering the glass with paper. It was Sunday, June 22nd 1941 and the nearby airport was bombarded. The war had started! There was no way I could do my project, nor have my face posted on a banner in downtown. Our lives were turned upside down. In few days the chaos erupted. The Soviet authorities, leaders of institutions and enterprises started to evacuate from the imminent German invasion. People were desperate in the face of the approaching disaster. We had no news from Edit, and we’ve never heard from her again. The war separated us for ever.

 

My father sent Adela to various authorities to obtain a certificate of evacuation for our family. The important people and their allies managed to leave the city, but to a certain end. The Germans forced their entry east of our region, towards Kiev in Ukraine, and the evacuees fell into a trap, right behind the German front, condemned to an unmistakeable destiny: death. We were not able to leave, therefore lucky.

 

Before the retreat, my father’s workplace was liquidated: the employees received free clothing for their entire families. The moment they found out about the closures, the peasants invaded the city and robbed the textile factory, the shoe factory and many others. Their carts full of suits, coats, shoes and other merchandise bustled on the streets, rushing to load as many stolen goods as possible.

 

In the same area there was a fish canning factory that was burned before the retreat. We saw many people carrying boxes full of cans, so Adela and I went there, too. But the crates were too heavy for us, and we only could take a broken one, half empty, that we dragged home. We hid the cans in the gutters, and they came in very handy during the hard days that followed.

 

The Romania troupes  …persecution has started…

 

In one day, suddenly silence landed in our city, the hustle and  bustle disappeared, the streets were empty. We realized that the Soviets left and we couldn’t wait to see what’s next. No one dared to leave their houses. From our neighbors we learned that Romanian troupes had entered the city. A military doctor and his dog occupied the house that shared a common fence and gate with us. We felt lucky, as no soldier ever entered our yard and we were protected for a while.

 

From that moment on a famous “agency” started to be in operation: “IPA”– idishe pliotkes agentur – the Jewish Biro of Rumors, whose aim was to let people know what’s going on around them and predictions for the future. This way we heard that our neighbor’s brother, Mr. Harnic, a tall and robust man, had to hide in a crate for two days, scared of the soldiers who were hunting Jews. The same way we found out that my dear music teacher, Mr. Peretz was shot out in the street, like a dog.

 

Few days after occupation, a new order was issued that obliged all the Jews to wear the yellow David’s star on their chest. My father then made them for us and for our neighbors, the Menasche family,  who was sharing the same fate.

 

For a while it was quiet, so Adela and I decided to go downtown to check out things. We hung the cloth stars on our chests, but embarrassed we put a jacket on, too.  Our trick didn’t work out however, when a police man caught us and forced us to take the jackets off so we can show the yellow stars to everyone.

 

The Ghetto…

 

Meanwhile IPA continued its sustained activity to inform us all, thus we found out that soon all the Jews from Cernauti will be brought together in a ghetto somewhere in the city, from where they would leave to an unknown destination. Families, friends gathered to council each other, and ardent preparations started, but no one knew why, where, how, and when…

 

With his long experience in captivity, my father thought about what we needed for a lengthy journey, and, using artisan towels, for each of us- family and neighbors with whom we anticipated to be together in the ghetto and thereafter- he make a “brodsack” ( a bread bag) and a backpack, so we could carry a few necessary things and food.

 

Big fears and worries lay in anticipation. Good bye beautiful furniture, bronze lions, linen mattress, from then on who knew where we could lie our heads on. Good bye school and favorite books, who needed them? And there were plenty of dilemmas regarding what to take, what to leave behind, what’s essential, indispensable ( as if we would know…)

 

With care, my father put in our backpacks what he thought was the most needed to make sure we would survive if one of us got lost: threads and needles, scissors, measuring tape- all absolutely necessary things for a tailor to do his job- clothing that could become monetary assets, family pictures, and cans of food.

 

I believe it was in September when we, our neighbors and few other families were rounded up, and brought to the attic of a building, somewhere near the railway station where the ghetto was set up. The people were disoriented and helpless, not knowing what to expect;  it was a indescribable uproar and crush. After a while we were moved in the wet and airless basement, where one day I woke up to find a frog in my palm. We were all nervous and agitated.

 

 

Lined up….

 

I don’t remember how these senseless days went by, until one day things started to shape up. Crammed in an unwelcome place, colliding with strangers, we all went to the windows and, puzzled, we saw crowds filling the streets and moving like a torrent towards the railway station. Men, women, elderly and children were walking meekly, carrying the weight of the earth on their backs. Their life’s wealth was transported in few suitcases and bags. Where were they going? Well, we found out couple of days later, when it was our turn to line up.

 

A last revision of our luggage… far-seeing, my father attached a small tin cup to each backpack, considering them helpful and practical items for our uncertain future. It was time! It was almost like going on a trip.  My mother, plump and heavy, with a backpack? It was ridiculous. My father, carrying his braces, as well as the backpack? Ilona, Adela and I each had a rucksack, too and we all had the bread bags full of things, plus other items in our hands if we could carry them. Even a blanket was tightly packed and brought with us, hoping that one day we’ll get the chance to use it. As for me, I couldn’t leave behind the little rug that I made at school and because there was no space in the bags I tightened it with a strap to my coat.  We looked like snails carrying the house on our backs.

 

The moment arrived! Docile, we aligned in formation, moving slowly under the weight of our luggage. We knew no other destination beside the railway station.

 

The station, the train…

 

We arrived at the train station packed with people. It looked like our train was not there yet, just a long freight train, usually used to transport livestock, was sitting on the rails with its doors closed. No, that couldn’t be ours!  Our train was still to come.

 

Oh ! But that was our train. Welcome aboard! The doors opened to the unknown, and we all crowded in the dark wagons that smelled like cows and rotten hay. I don’t remember what came next. Darkness, lack of air, heavy scents, and a mixture of voices cloaked my memory. It was a nightmare. I have no clue how long the journey was, at least I was with my family.

 

Ataki…

 

Finally we arrived somewhere that people called Ataki. The wagon’s doors opened and we moved out slowly, all stiff after such a long trip in an uncomfortable position. We barely had the chance to stretch out when the brave Romanian soldiers welcomed us with their bats. You couldn’t see anything else but a bunch of them swinging in the air, getting down on our backs and on our heads, driving us in like beasts so we could move faster. I saw my mother beaten, and my father whacked on his head, almost falling. Ilona and us got the same treatment. For a long time I kept my father’s tin cups that he hanged on the backpacks and which saved us from brutal pain,  absorbing the violent shocks from all that beating.

 

Pushed by the soldiers, our group moved on hesitantly. We looked around. It was a place devastated by storms, and the path was covered in thick ooze. On each side of the road we saw houses with warped plaster, with no windows and no doors, signs of a serious recent flood. We were tired, but there was no way to stop as we got pushed by the people behind us, while in turn they were pushed by others behind them.

 

The halting place…

 

Finally we stopped for the night. Our halting place was a destroyed synagogue which barely stood up. But it offered us a kind of shelter. Some people tried to climb the stairs, but the next floor was already packed and the tread boards started to squeak from the joints. So many yelled: “menchen, se stirtz” – don’t mount, it’s going to tumble down!

 

We sat on the floor with our luggage, and for the umpteenth time we began revising its contents, knowing that from then on it would be impossible to carry everything on foot. Everybody there was doing the same thing, leaving behind countless things considered “useless” at that time. In the end I had to say good bye to my little rug, although it was very hard to lose it.

To make us laugh and relax a bit, my father made a joke peeing in a bottle and leaving it behind among other abandoned things. We imagined someone going through our things, picking the booty and rushing with greed to the yellow liquor, hoping it’s a fine one.

 

To Nistru…

 

When the sun rose, we formed a line again and started to walk slowly along the Nistru river towards a border check point. People were whispering, making all sorts of suppositions, when suddenly we heard a woman’s scream. Of course, IPA informed us that the guards found a ring on her finger- totally forbidden- and smacked her to the ground.

 

Adela and I panicked and ran into one of the dilapidated houses, and searched for my mother’s golden watch that was hidden in the coat’s seam. When we found it we threw it in the dirt, smashed it and buried it well. The same fate awaited for my mother’s ring that was concealed in my bag among bread crumbs. After we got rid of the jewelry, we breathed freely and came back to the convoy.

 

In a short time we approached a booth where decisions were to be made and our fate decided. In a matter of seconds we were not the Schwartz family anymore, but numbers, probably used in a future census.  Our Ids were confiscated, along with the family pictures that could remind us who we were in the past, a time almost surreal to us. My father’s tools-his life- were taken, too. In that madness, I was lucky to escape the search,  and some photos and tailoring tools, well packed in my backpack, were saved.  After that they left us alone and gently we went down, through the same mud, to Nistru.

 

The river carried its waters indifferently to our drama. At the edge of it there was the rocking boat-house waiting for the passengers.

 

 

 

 

The boat-house…

 

We slowly approached the river bank. The boat-house was guarded by a soldier in charge with expediting our loading, either pushing the helpless ones or yelling. I don’t know how my parents managed to climb the dock.  Being too little and unable to get in, an impatient soldier took my hand and pulled me up, when he saw the watch on my wrist. Although it wasn’t precious, it was tempting enough and he grabbed it with with greed, breaking its straps. I was then pushed on the dock, and so we crossed the famous river.

Transnistria – Moghilev…

 

Once arrived on the opposite bank, we landed in Ukrainian territory. This land between Nistru and Bug had a new name,  Transnistria – over Nistru – and was under Romanian administration. On the west side of Nistru there was a city called Moghilev. On that murky day our convoy marched on the streets, passing by indistinct, gray houses, till we reached a red brick stone building, I assume a former barracks,  where we stopped for the night. The rooms were empty, without windows, inhospitable, but at least we had shelter. We collapsed exhausted with emotion and worries about our future.

 

The next day came faster than we expected. We stood up, or better to say we were pushed to rise,  and we lined up again. We walked the same ugly streets, with the bags on our back, towards an unknown destination outside the city, the same long convoy escorted by the Romanian soldiers, all armed and ready to serve, careful not to leave any of us behind.

 

It was a nice November day, and a cold sun was shining us. Where was that unfamiliar road taking us? The trip was lengthy, but how lengthy? The convoy was long and wide, it filled up half of the street’s width. Otherwise the road was empty, no soul around, just a dead body laying on the ground. I remember him vividly. He was a robust man with round face and healthy red cheeks, and he looked like he was sleeping.   He was stripped of his clothing, having left just a shirt, a vest and underpants. Wasn’t he cold? What struck him?  For the first time I was seeing  a dead body, and his image followed me for a long time thereafter.

 

The road ahead of us stretched endlesly. We walked for miles and miles, and still we couldn’t see the end. Where were we headed ? And for how long would my parents be able to go with the those heavy bags on their backs? My heavy, plump mother, my father dragging his braces and holding on a stick, reeling under the weight of his backpack…

 

Ozarenetz…

 

At twisted road appeared on the left side of us, going downhill, then sinking out of sight, and couple of local Jewish boys, poorly dressed, turned up out of the blue.  Fortunately, our escort was not nearby, and the young guys spoke Yiddish to my father, offering a plan to escape and find refuge at their family’s house.

Immediately we took our chances and together with our former neighbors we left the convoy and took the winding path, following our young guides. The town we reached was called Ozarenetz.

For about a week that large Jewish Ukrainian family offered us shelter, hot food, and a place to rest our heads in the night. Their house was warm  and crowded, it felt like a carrousel with everybody talking in the same time about what’s to be done from then on. And for the first time I encountered lice.

 

The Lice…

 

A long battle with lice had just started. From his years of captivity, my father knew how to deal with them, and gave us the first lesson on how to detect them on the clothing and on the hair. They were very dangerous, as they multiplied fast and lay their eggs inside the seams, becoming invisible.

 

Lice hunting gave us a daily activity and getting rid of them was a constant battle. We learned how to check the seams of our clothing and bed linens. We learned how to detect them in our hair and “specialized” in killing them, but their extermination was never final.

 

Later on the lice would be the leading cause of typhoid which spread amongst the deported people, who died off by thousands due to malnutrition, poor hygiene, and lack of medical care. Thus, my father got obsessed with procuring soap, and having that item became our number one priority. We stayed healthy and untouched by the disease, even though typhoid was causing devastation around us.

 

The Military Police….

 

Meanwhile the local military police force was very busy. The Romanian soldiers were constantly searching for people to do various jobs for them. Forced labor was in full bloom, and so they caught me, a twelve year old girl, and dragged me to their headquarters. It seemed that I was well suited to wash their bedroom floors. It was a torture to slip through the narrow space under the iron beds, but even more humiliating was seeing them enjoying themselves when they forced me to creep even deeper, laughing at my desperate attempts to do the job.

 

After a while, the adults took the decision that it was better to change our residence. With the help of the young boys, we were to leave Ozarenetz unnoticed, using secret paths known to them only. But before leaving we wanted to repay our hosts’ kindness, so we gave them some of our clothing, lightening our luggage. In exchange we got their lice as souvenirs…

 

The trip wasn’t easy that late fall, especially for my parents. We used unbeaten paths, either climbing or descending, breaking a trail through the leafless bushes that scratched our hands with their dry branches.

 

The new town we were looking for seemed to simply move away from us. In the end, after climbing a hill and panting with exhaust, we arrived in front of some walls.

 

Vendiceni…

 

The place was called Vendiceni, and it became our home for a few years during the exile. The walls we saw upon arrival surrounded the local sugar factory. Although it was small like a sardine can, we all – Adela and I, my parents, Ilona, Menasche and his wife and their two boys, Iancu and Moishe, Mr. Menasche’s brother in law, Katz with his wife and two children, Mayer and Sara, occupied a room at Mr. Skripnik’s. His house was on top of a hill, on the factory’s grounds. During the night we slept on the floor, like one big body, turning from one side to the other at the same time. In fact, the children always took turns sleeping on the desk, which was suitable for our size. When someone needed to use the bathroom there was a general movement, a disturbance to the order in which we lay on the floor. Walking carefully to avoid stepping on someone, we still stumbled on each others legs and many times we preferred to hold on till morning came.

 

Soon we found out that we couldn’t remain on the factory’s grounds unless one of us got employed there. In our family there was no one capable to work in a factory. Also, we didn’t have any Ids, but soon the local authorities issued temporary papers based on which, after an arrangement with the people we lived together with, we could combine our names and become one family. Thus, on those documents my mom and I were called Katz, and being associated with the man who had a job in the factory we got the right to stay; otherwise the authorities could come and put us in another convoy of wretched people that were marching the streets on the way to Bug, the end of the Romanian administration.

 

Those convoys came daily and under guard stayed overnight in the stables or in the former granaries of the local collective farm, leaving behind their exhausted to death companions. The next day the locals were mobilized to bury the lifeless bodies at the edge of the road, tombs without stones or names, witnesses of the Transnistrian crimes.

 

So we stayed in that house for a while. We were often reminded of his powers upon our lives, when Mr. Skripnik used to flutter a blue felt hood in front of our eyes, like a warning ( my father identified the hood as part of the uniform wore by the mob group responsible for the pogrom in Ukraine).

 

 

Winter in Vendiceni…

 

Our first winter in Transnistria was a hard one for the family. We couldn’t get used with the unusual cold snaps, and the steppe’s winds that were blowing like a gale, especially on top of the hill. We were almost afraid to leave the house, but we still had to get out sometimes; and with no latrine on the grounds, we had to go out in open field, where the frost would get into your bones in a matter of seconds.

 

I was a child and no one told me anything, but when we left Cernauti my mother was pregnant. Enduring so many hardships during deportation,  one day while out in the freezing cold she lost the baby. The conditions were lamentable: no doctor, no medicine, and all of us crowded in that small room. Adela, now the leader of our family when my father couldn’t run errands due to his poor physical strength,  ran to the village and managed to bring a cart to transport my mom to the nearest hospital, in Moghilev.

 

In exchange for a suit and my father’s watch, miraculously saved during our crossing over Nistru, the man agreed to take my mom and my sister to the hospital, on a 15 mile journey through a monstrous blizzard. Due to her robust build and Adela’s urgent spirit, my mother was saved, even though the hospital didn’t have the adequate antiseptic conditions nor the appropriate medication. Later on she came back home, and slowly started to recover.

 

 

 

The tithe…

 

Meanwhile, my father and Ilona found some work to do around the neighborhood, either patching up one’s clothing, or altering men’ frocks to fit their children left at home during war time. They learned how to transform a quilted blanket filled with cotton wool into a heavy coat or a pair of moisture- proof cloth boots that were worn on top of galoshes, an excellent way to keep one’s feet warm throughout the rough Ukrainian winter. And with the leftovers I managed to spin a white cotton thread and made myself a knitted shawl that I enjoyed for a long time.

 

News about the talented Jewish tailor traveled fast, and thus my father and Ilona went to the village quite often, even when they had to fight huge snow drifts, soon having a small clientele among the villagers. Their in-kind payments consisted of beans, peas, sometimes a piece of bread, a few apples, a few potatoes, and that food kept us alive all those years. Our room mates claimed part of it in exchange for using their family name. Soon the tithe became a form of exploitation that escalated into insults and body searches if by chance we were to hide one or two grains in the pockets.  The tension became incendiary, and fights and scandals erupted frequently.

 

One of my father’s clients was the accountant at the sugar factory, a handsome man.. One day he brought a pair of pants to be refitted, and in return he promised us a bag of sugar. All the seams had to be undone and then restitched on the other side of the fabric. To my surprise I found lice inside the seams, and my father requested that I should bring all the pants’ pieces outside, so the cold could freeze the nasty creatures.  Once ready, I brought the pants to the client, and there, at his workplace, he gave me the stolen sugar and attempted to rape me. But I managed to pull free from his hands and ran without being caught and (God forbid) probably accused of stealing sugar from the factory.

 

The Jews and the People…

 

The time came when the Romanian authorities demanded from the locals an obligatory quota of gloves and socks for the army, and thus Adela and I became involved. We too traveled to the village and knitted many of those necessary items, and in exchange we got food to bring home. On occasion we slipped through remnants of material, no matter what kind, and made socks for our own use, a multicolored melange of cotton, wool and hemp.

 

Dealing with the locals we had to learn their language, and one day my father was asked such an odd question: “ In your home country did you work for people, or just for your Jews?”

 

Giulbars…

 

Our landlord Scripnik had a big German Shepard who became my best friend. His name was Giulbars, and the tan colored dog chased me everywhere. I snuggled with him, I petted him, his faithful eyes always searched mine. I felt safe in his company, and whenever my father would send me to his clients or to do other errands, he followed me on the twisted alleyways of the village.

 

My father’s fame crossed the border of Vendiceni. All the way to Trihatki, a small hamlet of three households, and to Tarasovka, a further away village of well-off Ukrainians, people heard of the limping tailor who could repair their clothing, in times when no new ones could be bought. In Trihatki the Boiko family was very welcoming to us; in Tarasovka me and Adela were famous for our knitting, and sometimes we were treated with honey and pickled cucumbers.

 

Juda kaput !..

 

One day on the way to the Boikos, while forging a trail through heavy snow with no soul but Giulbars around, out of the blue a group of loud, local ruffians appeared. Their glee was menacing, it was clear the boys wanted to have fun at my expense. I was surrounded and, giggling, one of them gripped my neck and shouted: “Juda kaput !! Juda kaput !!’ I was terrified, when suddenly I saw Giulbars jumping on him on two legs, barking with rage and ready to rip him in pieces. Scared to death, the boy let go of me and they all ran for their life, as I barely could temper the dog who was anxious to chase them. He still barked for a while, even after the boys were all gone. I don’t know how I made it to the Boiko family, frightened and shaking.

 

To the well….

 

Scripnik’s house was perched on top of a hill. The well, or better say a water pump, was on the opposite hill. Facing the terrible cold outside, it was very hard to climb down the slope and ascend the slippery, ice-covered path to reach the water source. To thee children’s joy, a real ice-skating ring formed in the valley, but our household needed water and we had to get to that pump, which in winter was decorated with all sorts of icicles of odd shapes.

With no exception, each trip to the well resulted in a few tumbles, splashing water from our buckets on the already existing glazed frost, thickening the ice crust with every drop. It was impossible to climb up the hill without spilling half of the water, many times getting home with an almost empty bucket and frozen hands and feet.

 

The sugar- beet…

 

With the sugar factory being our first residence in exile, we started to wonder what was sugar made of, and we found out that it was made of sugar-beets. Soon after that we also discovered the raw material, a pile of weathered plants covered in ice and snow, and scattered around the factory’s land in open air. Finally we overcame our fears and took some home, even the plants were sometimes frostbitten or rotten; they made a good meal baked in the oven, fried or boiled.

 

The Hmaruk family…

 

The time came to say good bye to the Menasches, the Katzs and the others; to Meyer, who constantly had his hands inside his pants and pulled out his tongue; to the redheaded girl with freckles who looked like a scarecrow since she cut her eyebrows with scissors. It was time to separate from those who extorted, humiliated and insulted us. It was time to explore the village, to see other people, to escape the crowded house where we lived.  That change implied getting down the hill, a difficult task for my mom, who was heavy, and for my disabled dad.

 

But finally we moved to Mrs. Hmarucika’s home. Her husband and elder son were gone to war for the Red Army. With the help of her other two boys,  the young Petea and the older Aliosa, himself paralyzed  in one leg due to polio, she struggled to take care of the household: a small house with a garden, a stable, a cow, a few chickens, and a pig.

 

One more cat…

 

The house was typical for Vendiceni; a vestibule, two rooms symmetrically built across from each other with small windows and with stoves where you could bake your bread. The food was cooked on top of an iron tripod called “ trinicika “, under which you could light up the fire. Once hot, the platform behind the stove became the children’s  favorite spot for sleeping. The floors were made of clay. There was no toilet in the house, just a latrine in the garden.

 

We took our room, and when finally alone looked around and made ourselves familiar with the new place where we were to live. Immediately Adela and I found the stove and made our bed behind it, when suddenly we realized there was a cat in there. We pushed her out the room, and started to unpack our few things, when we discovered another cat. Amused by the situation, we threw her out too and continued our unpacking. But Holy Moly, another cat showed up! This was a bewitched house full of cats, ’cause immediately after we found another one!  That was too much, until we solved the mystery.

 

The stove pipes that allowed the smoke to get out of the rooms through one chimney situated on the roof opened up to a common attic that covered the entire house, and where the cats could wander freely. The vestibule had no ceiling, but opened up directly to the attic. Once we threw her out in the hallway, the cat would come back to the warm room through the stove pipe.

 

The forest beyond the railways…

 

Soon we had to learn how to gather wood for fire, and for that Adela and I went along with the locals into the forest. It was a special art and not at all an easy task. First you had to procure a long and solid Y-shaped branch that served as a pole to break loose the dry, upper twigs, the best ones. After we gathered a big enough pile, the brushwood was tied together with a rope. The bunch was very heavy and both of us were needed to lift it up from the ground. Then, in order to carry it the long way home we had to prop it up over the shoulder and maintain it in balance with the help of another solid branch that formed a lever supported with the hands. My undeveloped back ached, curving under the heavy load.

However, in time we learned a few tricks, and supplying wood for fire was not a problem anymore. We could identify the trees with the most suitable branches. We also discovered a clearing or two  where we could fill up a sack of shavings left behind by the lumberjacks. But that discovery had its consequences when one day Adela was thrown down by a freshly cut falling tree and crushed by its heavy upper branches. Although my sister got out safe and sound, the scare was big and we always wondered what undiscovered internal injuries Adela carried with her after that accident.

 

Yet, at home my mom was the lumberjack. The wood we carried from the forest was too big to be used in the stove, and although it demanded a lot of physical strength she knew how to handle the axle and cut the branches in smaller pieces like a pro.

We didn’t go to the forest just to gather wood. For example, there were plenty of mushrooms to be picked, a blessing for our meals. We learned from the locals how to search for them under leaves, or by the tree trunks, and how to identify the edible ones. After a good rain we would arm ourselves with a bucket that soon was filled with yummy mushrooms, making our mom smiling with happiness for bringing home such treasured food.

Going to the forest you could have different kind of surprises. One day, crossing the railways, I passed by a Romanian soldier who was embracing a girl. I couldn’t avoid them, and I tried to keep going when the soldier shouted and ordered me to come closer. After that he punched my ear with his heavy fist, swearing at me for crossing their path without saluting him. Probably he was showing off in front of the girl, but my ear ached for a long time.

 

“Pliatzki”…

 

Besides wood we had another fuel to burn, in Ukrainian called “ pliatzki”, and one day I took part in its making. In front of the stable there was a bunch of hay. To my surprise, under it there were fermented cow droppings that Mrs. Hmarucika gathered over the year and kept covered. She explained what I had to do: barefoot I had to climb the pile and knead the warm, soft manure, mixing it with hashed hay and thus obtaining a homogenous compound  that later was molded into a sort of a pie shape. Those soft “pies” were thrown to the stable’s walls or to the fence where they stuck; once dried off in the sun over the summer, they would easily fall and could be stacked and stored away in the stable waiting for the winter.

Mrs. Hmarucika called them “pliatzki” (pies), and used them as fuel for cooking and heating up the house. Did they smell? Maybe, but who cared? They were easy to make and very useful, making big flames and generating a lot of heat. As payment for my work she gave me some and mother gladly used them in our stove.

 

Portions…

 

My mother also learned how make bread and bake it in tin molds in the stove. With each baking she obtained eight or ten loaves that looked like bricks. After a couple of unpleasant experiences, my father realized the necessity of rationing the bread, each of us getting our portion for a few days at once. If we finished the allowance ahead of time, as often happened to Adela, we would have to beg the others for a piece of crust.

 

As a matter of fact, rationing the limited food we had in equal portions, so no one would feel a sense of wrong, became the norm during our Transnistrian experience, leaving a big mark in our lives for many years to come.

 

Present!…

 

Our small Jewish community, the lucky ones who got the chance to escape the groups sent to Bug and its concentration camps, was under constant surveillance.  The military police checked up on us often, and no one could escape their vigilant eye. Periodically all the deportees had to report to the headquarter, and our names were called like at school: Eva Schwartz !…Present !… Adela Schwartz !…Present! Who would dare fail to appear?

 

The entire Jewish group living in Vendiceni was gathered regularly in a waste land in front of the police headquarter, no matter the season, nor the weather conditions. Under a dreadful sun, in the rain or in the snow, young people, old people, men, women and children, healthy or in pain, we all stand waiting to be called by name, anxious to return to our “homes”.

 

People had come there from different parts of the country, some from Cernauti, others from Dorohoi, Burdujeni, or Radauti; intellectuals, craftsmen, traders, all of us shared the same fate: uprooted and thrown away, depending on the Romanian authorities’ will and crime, subjects to the scarcity of elementary needs,  and doomed to build a new life without a proper roof, food and clothing, or medical assistance.

 

The lack of clothing, for example,  became obvious in time. My father tailored skirts for Adela and I using sack material; I matched mine with a silk blouse made from one of my mom’s shabby dresses.

Some of us found shelter by renting a room in the village in exchange for old clothing. Others, caught homeless by the winter, flooded the desolated communal bath and found their death by freezing in that building without doors and windows.  That’s how they discovered Copilovici, a man we knew: frozen and with his gold teeth missing.

 

My father and Jack Lovensohn, a lawyer from Dorohoi, became close friends and spent time analyzing and debating what was going on around us. Sara, his wife, was dressed nicely, with the few things she had left from her beautiful wardrobe. A former pianist, she was gawky in the housekeeping, wearing gloves to protect her hands, in case one day she will play the piano again.  They were the first ones to fall ill of typhoid fever, and luckily survived with our help.

 

There were also four siblings from Itcani, three boys and a girl, and rumors had it that they received assistance from back home. The Beraru brothers were handsome and smart. Much to my astonishment, later on I found out that Adela and my friend Esterica from Dorohoi, were also in love with the boy I liked, Hermi, the youngest of the brothers.

 

I remember as well a merchant from Dorohoi, a man with a round belly. Nicknamed Caracuda, he managed to live well doing all sorts of shady affairs. If you had the money, he had the source to get anything you wanted.

 

My father was recruited to stitch and to mend the policemen’ uniforms. One of the soldiers named Cirnu was kind to him, and from time to time he would sneak some food into my father’s pockets, thus having something to share at home at dinner time. The same man happened to be shot when the partisans arrived in our region. Life could be cruel to anyone…

 

My father was also recruited at the sugar factory. The new manager was Romanian, and with Christmas approaching he needed a tailor. For few days my father stayed and worked inside the factory, but at least they fed him well with all sorts of traditional Christmas pork delicacies, and also gave a nice piece of bacon to bring home.

 

The chick…

 

Behind the house Hmarucika had a vegetable garden and few chickens. For a while she put me in charge of keeping an eye on them while she was taking the cow to pasture, or working the field she had outside the village.

The mother hen was definitely my favorite. Her chicks were still small and very cute, covered in a fluffy yellow fuzz, and chasing their mother everywhere. One day, despite my care, one of them fell into the sinkhole and almost sank into the fetid compound. The chick was chirping and struggling, desperately trying to stay afloat, and I was making frantic efforts to get to him when, with no other choice left, I lay on the ground and, hovering over the pit, within an ace of falling into the hole, I managed to put my hand inside the stinking liquid and grabbed the scared bird. I ran to wash him, and blew on his limp body, warming him in my palms, hoping to bring him back to life. And slowly the little chick started to move, still unable to walk or to eat on his own. He remained in my care till he recovered completely, and seeing how preoccupied with his well being I was, Hmarucika gave me the chick.

 

Working the land….

 

During the summers, we worked the field for people who owned land outside the village. Thus we helped the peasant women dressing the ground in preparation for planting potatoes, or harvesting them in the fall. It was not an easy task for a child my age, but I was happy and proud that I was able to bring home a bucket of potatoes or a bag of beans as payment for my work.

 

We ate lunch there in the field, sitting on the ground and watching the women preparing the soup that later we shared from the same bowl. At home I couldn’t stand the idea of drinking from the same glass or eating from the same plate with my folks, but there I had no choice. I had to overcome my disgust of seeing how people licked their wooden spoons after each dip in the common soup.

 

Time was flying fast with these merry women who joked and gossiped a lot, and many times formed an impromptu chorus singing about love, outlaws, the tempestuous Nipru river, and their lovers who went to war and never came back. Their voices were so beautiful, and I learned many folk songs and thus Ukrainian language, too.

 

Harvesting peas…

 

Before the war, these fertile lands were worked within the local collective farms (kolkhoz) and the state farms (sovkhoz), but after the Soviets retreated farming was neglected, and the harvests were left unpicked until the Romanian authorities mobilized us to work the field in an attempt to save the abandoned crops.

 

I met my friend Esterica at one of those jobs. At lunch time they brought a military cauldron with food for the workers and mess kettles were distributed, one for two people. With disgust and desperation,  I looked around to see who’d be the person I could share the same bowl without throwing up. And then I saw her doing the same thing. We decided to eat together and thus we sealed our friendship.

 

Another time we were sent to Nemercea, about 10 miles away from our village, to harvest the yellow peas left untouched in the field and now invaded by worms. Together with a big group of villagers from Vendiceni, Adela and I spent the night in a shed sleeping on a huge haystack. There were still stars in the sky when a loud, masterly voice woke us up: ”Vendiceani! Vstavaite !” ‘Vendiceni! Wake up !” In a second we all got up. Then “breakfast” was served- a bowl of warm pea soup with floating white worms that looked like rice beans. To be able to eat it, we concealed the worms with pieces of bread, and at once the soup tasted good.

Outside, as far as the eyes could see the field was full of peas. The dry hulls rustled under our steps, scraping our legs and hands, irritating the skin. Under a ruthless sun, we started to harvest the pods and stacked them in piles. Not long after, my sister and I made a plan how to bring peas home, using the  sleeves as means of transport: we tied our jackets around our waist, with the sleeves hanging inside the jacket and their ends tied up as bags. Thus, the peas became one of our few provisions for the winter. When the bad weather came, we brought them to the mill and my mother used the flour to make the most delicious pies. No one remembered the worms anymore…

 

The honey pot….

 

Every bit of food that was brought home was carefully doled, ’cause we never knew what the next day would bring in. As payment for a job my father and Ilona did for him, a wealthier guy from Tarasovka gave us a honey pot, and that jar became a symbol of moderation and care for tomorrow’s needs. My father explained to us that a spoon of honey a day would be enough to keep us alive for a while, in case some time or other we’ll have nothing to eat. That honey pot stayed untouched during our entire time in Transnistria.

 

Anna Karenina of Vendiceni…

 

The winters were long, endless, with short days and dark evenings. In the earthen lamp’s light we used to kill lice and read excerpts from classical Russian authors, fragments of books brought home from  houses where we worked; mixed pages from Anna Karenina, And quiet flows the Don, The Idiot that were torn up to be used as toilet paper. Father rolled cigarettes using strips of old newspapers, and when the tobacco was gone he smoked  corn husk.

 

During the winter evenings I also had another important pursuit taking care of my frost-bite. My fingers were pink, swollen like sausages, and terribly itchy. Someone suggested I should soak my hands alternately in cold and warm water. Thus my mom put two bowls of water on the table and I don’t know why after dipping my fingers few times I felt weak, my legs softened and I fainted, splashing the water all over me. Another villager suggested I should put on a cream that cart men use for lubricating the wheels, and he even gave me a jar with that ointment. After the evening bath I would massage my hands with the cream and wrap my hands overnight.

Other nights, to make the time pass faster, my father taught us how to play poker, using beans instead of money, while my mom boiled potatoes that Hmarucika gave us with generosity.

 

What’s new?….

 

We were completely isolated in that village, with no newspapers, no radio, and no mail ( who would have sent us anything anyway?). We had no idea what was going on in the world expect for the news circulated by IPA– Idishe pliotkes agentur. That’s how we learned about the course of war, where battles were taking place, the fall of Stalingrad and Rostov on Don; about Marshall Jukov, the partisans and where they showed up, rumors about the concentration camps in Tulcin and Shargorod, where our brethren were dying of starvation, severe cold and diseases, and rarely anyone escaped alive. There was also a song about the Transnistrian experience:

 

Nister Varca, hungry and naked I run away from you

Nister Varca, I’ll never forget you

One day peace will come

I will talk about you day and night,

Nister Varca….

 

A young man who had miraculously escaped from a camp near Bug arrived in our village one day. Wondering which powers made him walk that far, everybody wanted to help the poor boy. If I remember well, he was from Radauti from an important family in the lumber business, the Ausslenders. Although handsome, he was pale, exhausted and sick, all in rags and tatters; The dysentery was taking his last vim.  My father made him some clothing, however no one could really heal him. Before escaping the concentration camp he ate wood scraps from the putrid door frames, killing his stomach. In the end, he had to find shelter in the infamous communal bath, which became his forever resting place.

 

Another day we found out that the locals from the other side of the village forbid the Jews from using their well, so they wouldn’t  spoil the water.

 

Other news….

 

A great source of information was Mrs. Rabinovici, a local Jewish woman who became my father’s friend. She told us many stories about the life under Soviets, about the famine that ravaged Ukraine at the beginning of the Soviet years, about NKVD and many others. But above all we were interested in the partisans who were spotted in our region, and what their presence meant for us. Some said they were seen in the neighboring villages, and after a police patrol was sent to confront them poor private Cirnu, the only one who was kind to my father, was killed in the fight.

Some claimed they saw light at the horizon, and heard vague booms, signs that the front was approaching. We were waiting the denouement with anxiety, fear and hope, ’cause we didn’t know if we would live to see the day German troops retreat and how that would affect us here, in Vendiceni.  But that day was not yet there. We continued to go to the forest for wood, to work the land, to eat when we had something and to expose ourselves to the many rumors that gave us courage or made us fear.

 

At Marusia…

 

So we moved again, this time in a house on a side street near the wall that surrounded the sugar factory. The owner, Marusia was a strong woman. In her backyard she grew fruit trees and made vodka she shared with my father sometimes. Even I was offered a taste, and I will never forget the reaction to my first contact with the alcohol. Suddenly the orchard seemed in bloom, and I hugged all the trees and I laughed  uncontrollably, thinking the trees were laughing, too.

 

Although the springtime was still far away, there was a gentle breeze of hope in the air. However one day, oddly enough,  two ghosts appeared at our door.  There were young German soldiers dressed in faded uniforms, two nerveless silhouettes wandering away from their base. They entered the house and asked for a drink. Scared to death, my father, who spoke German, lost his thread and rambled and bumbled in Romanian. They were two very young boys, probably recruits from  Hitler Jugend who were sent to strengthen the front that was slowly collapsing. And they were as scared as we were.

 

After they left and we breathed with ease, we realized that the end of war was approaching. What kind of an end, and what would that mean to us were still uncertain, but it had to be better than the present we were living in. The sound of bombardments was more and more frequent, and in the evenings we watched the skies to see which direction the shots were coming from. Was it from Nemercea ?! Or from Moghilev ?!

 

Liberation ?!!…

 

One day, out of the blue, a wind of craziness stirred up the village. With shouts and screams, people were running  in heaps to the main road; kids were shrieking. Our alley was all covered in mud, and my father started to cry at his infirmity : how would he be able to get to the street, through the slush, with his leg wrapped in a cloth shoe?

 

However, hearing all that noise, dressed randomly and putting on whatever shoes we found, we all ran out to the main street to see what was going on. Flooding the village, on the road were marching scores of Soviet soldiers, military women, partisans. Some were on horseback, some were walking, others were riding in military cars. We all wanted to greet the liberators, to touch them, to make sure that wasn’t a dream. It was an indescribable feeling of exaltation! With her fur cap fluttering in the air, a partisan woman on horse was shouting in delirium:

 

– Mamaliga moloko – Romania daleko…all of them were going West, evidently towards Romania.

 

Unusual days followed. Some soldiers marched West, where the front was, others stayed in the village for a short period of time, finding accommodation with the locals, who happily put them up.  A big number of soldiers found a welcome roof at Marusia, and there was cheerfulness and singing and a lot of vodka drinking in her house.

 

Meanwhile, all the emotions that I had experienced, all the physical efforts that my undeveloped body had to endure, the troubles and the shortcomings of the exile left a big mark, and I couldn’t be tough anymore. I collapsed in bed. For a while I was unwell, lethargic, more asleep than awake, when one day I felt something strange, like a cloth, touching my face. When I opened my eyes I discovered a bandaged hand softly caressing my cheeks.  It was an old man, a partisan, who was sitting by my bed, watching me tenderly. Maybe he had a daughter somewhere that he missed so badly and the war separated them. I don’t know why that encounter is imprinted so deeply in my memory, but the look in his eyes impressed me a lot.

 

April…

 

It was still April, and we thought that with liberation springtime will come, too but unexpectedly a fairytale- like snow storm came upon us. Marusia’s house full of soldiers and fun was covered up to the roof in white powder. The front door was completely blocked, and a little light tricked through the upper side of the windows. I don’t know how long it lasted, in the end soldiers dug us out from under the masses of snow.

Then step by step we started to waken up. Eventually, the springtime came and along with it thoughts and plans and dreams of repatriation. The Romanian military police vanished, thank God.  We started to recover, to look around and to search for means of transport that could take us back home to Cernauti. But for the time being there was nothing available. No passenger trains were passing by our little railway station, and going west there were only freight trains, or military trains moving towards the front. If they stopped, by chance, no one knew for how long were they there, and if we had the time to embark considering  our luggage, too.

 

My father and his ideas…

 

So then we made a plan; we shall pack and go to the railway station; we shall wait for a train to stop and we shall try to board it. If the train left before all of us could get in, the decision was to get off the next station and walk back to Vendiceni, so we will never be separated from each other. So said so done.

 

Following the plan, we packed our belongings and slowly set out towards the railway station to wait for the next train. Finally we saw one coming. Pulling different types of wagons, some enclosed, some platform-like carrying all sorts of equipment and weapons to the battlefield, the train stopped briefly. We ran towards a wagon that looked easier to climb. Adela, quicker than all of us, managed to board first and immediately the train set in motion and sped up. My father yelled after her, reminding her to get off the next station, which luckily was in the next village across the road.

 

We all returned to the house on the main alley, where we stayed another year till we managed to try leaving again. Our plan failed. The first attempt to go back to Cernauti was not a success, and eventually we had to adapt to a new, “normal” life in Vendiceni.

 

After a long walk, Adela was home, too. But her wings were growing fast, and after a while she decided to leave the village by herself. Her journey was not an easy one, but jumping from train to train she finally got to Cernauti. There she enrolled in the pedagogic school, took a room in the student dormitory, where she had to battle the rats who were eating her books. Soon we started to receive letters from her, in which she expressed the regret of not being capable of joining the other partisans such as Zoia Kosmodemianskaia and fight along them. The saps of youth!

 

One day, when peace came…

For the ex deportees there was no official organized formula of repatriation.  Each of us used our own resourcefulness and efforts, and depending on the locals or the external help from family members  everyone who was still alive and had the energy slowly left Vendiceni. It was just our family who stayed, not being able to grab on the trains that were passing the village on their way to the West. We were not agile, we needed a normal means of transport.

 

So we started to look around to see what options we had to make a living there. My father’s clientele grew. I visited the local school, where eventually I enrolled after so many years of missed education. It didn’t even matter that they only spoke Ukrainian in class.

 

When Germany surrendered, and the long awaited peace came, the village reignited. The event was celebrated with emotions inside the school, and for first time there I met my future classmates and my professors.  We danced, we sang, we cheered, I was again feeling safe, in my element.

 

With the teachers’ help, a gala where I played the role of a German General who lost the war was organized . My father showed me how to act, how to impersonate a German officer. It was a parody, and my role was played singing, for which I was very fond and proud of. After that school party I became a very popular girl; I was again living a new life.

 

My girlfriends….

 

In a short period of time I managed to make friends, and to escape the isolation of deportation. Inna and Ada were my best friends and through them I saw another of way of living, a civilized one. Locals from Vendiceni, Inna and Ada were evacuated when the war started but came back to their families now that the war was over. They both had very nice homes.

 

Roza, the smartest of all in my class, was also Jewish and didn’t have an easy life living with her drunk father. He was the barber of the village, and often  he was picked up, unable to move, from under a table in the local pub.  Twanging his voice in Yiddish, his motto was: “a bisl bronfn un a bisl knobl”(a bit of vodka, a bit of garlic to keep the typhoid away).

 

I had a great relationship with my new girlfriends, and I spent a lot of time in their company. One day we even decided to go to the big city, to Moghilev, to take our picture together. Unfortunately I didn’t have the right shoes to go on such a long journey. In the end my father found somewhere a pair of  boots with wooden soles, and bought them for me. They weren’t great, in fact walking in them through slush the snow kept getting stuck to the soles and froze, forming ice lumps that worsened  my movements. However they solved my problem, and I was able to join my friends.

 

There were about 15 miles to Moghilev. We chose to walk along the railways, jumping from one rail to the other, and every time we saw someone we asked how far the city was. There were no trains, just here and there the odd people we met, each having a different opinion about the distance to Moghilev.

I was impressed seeing buildings, shops with bright windows, sidewalks. That was a different city than the one I remembered from years ago when we landed after crossing the Nistru river.

 

We stayed overnight with one of Ada’s relatives and for the first time after so many years I slept in a normal city dwelling, on a normal bed, covered with laced linens as white as snow, fresh and starched, and rested my head on a fluffy pillow with embroidery; I  kept touching everything, sinking my face in the soft pillow, feeling finally happy.

 

The next day we went to the photograph and took pictures together and separately. On the back of the photos we wrote nice words, promising friendship for ever. Time has passed, and growing older and further away from each other we lost touch, however I still have  fond and bright memories about them after such dark times of deportation.

 

 

At the Ukrainian school…

 

Finally I was in school again. It was a great feeling to be back among pupils, to be one myself, to have a regular school schedule. Because I was out of the classroom for so many years, I had to skip sixth grade and enroll directly into seventh. Many subjects were hard to follow and understand, as they were based on knowledge accumulated in previous years of study, especially the ones taught in a new language for me. The hardest topic was algebra. The math teacher used to ask me questions every day, and in the beginning I felt somehow persecuted. Until I realized that that was her method to make me understand the subject.

We also learned Russian and we had German language classes, too. The German teacher was an older lady whose stiff neck had multiple vertical tendons coming from under the chin, like a bunch of strings. She was a strict person and we nicknamed her “Die Deutsche Canone” (The German Cannon). The chemistry teacher, Efim Timofeevici, was everyone’s source of laughter and mockery. Maybe that’s why I never learned much chemistry, there was always disorder in his classroom; students were constantly laughing and making funny gestures behind his back.

 

Procuring school supplies was a hard task. You couldn’t find any books to buy, but I seemed to overcome those myriad obstacles. In the end, even the Ukrainian language wasn’t an issue anymore.

 

We started to live again…

 

Day by day we desired again to dress up. My father managed to buy from the black market a few military mantles, and tailored them to fit us, the children. The overcoats were beautiful, close fitting, and made us feel like elegant little ladies. For each of us he also made coquettish fur caps locally called “cubanca”. Dressed like that we were not afraid of winter anymore, especially after he bought us some American military boots. Truth be told, they were very big on us, maybe double our size, but no one cared, they kept our feet warm and dry.

 

But the winter was still far away…

 

Before the cold season started again, I took Ilona and my parents on a trip to the forest, so they could see with their own eyes the long road we had to take when the family needed wood for fire. Adela and I were so young and our undeveloped bodies went through a lot to carry all that brushwood home. It was not an easy trip for them, physically and emotionally, but in the end they were rewarded with a view of an endless, mysterious and peaceful forest. Suddenly we forgot all our hardships, and we noticed how beautiful the forest was. A deep silence was reigning over the grounds, one could only hear the dry leaves rustling under our feet. It was definitely an emotional trip for my parents, and maybe the only nice memory they had from our times spent in Vendiceni.

 

Farewell, Vendiceni, I will never forget you…

 

Finally it was time to pull ourselves out of that place where I lost years of my childhood, years that should had been the happiest of my life; school years.  It was time to say good bye to that place where we suffered from cold, fear, lack of food, and so many other basic needs. It was time to leave the place of our misery and anguish that left deep marks on our minds and souls.

Few sporadic passenger trains had already started to pass the village, all crowded and overly packed with bags and people who were traveling, just like us, to an uncertain destination. We were hoping to go back to Cernauti, however we feared what we were about to find there from what we left behind years ago.

 

A different Cernauti…

 

Indeed, the city was different from the one we knew before, and we were far from retrieving anything we had when we were forced to leave Cernauti.

 

We found housing with one of my father’s friends, an older lady who had the kindness to welcome us in her apartment. Gusta lived with a dog who slept and ate in her bed covered in silk blankets. We shared the room with them,  Adela and I sleeping on a narrow sofa.

 

Gusta’s house was an old dwelling with a long porch surrounding the building, with wobbling plank flooring that threatened to break loose every time we walked, with windows facing the backyard.  Our neighbors were two Russian sisters (one of them was called Tamara). They were frequently visited by Russian soldiers, and there was a continuous bustle and agitation on the porch that constantly vibrated with the thundering sound of their military boots. One day Ilona came home panting. To answer my father’s question about the reason of her fuss, obviously embarrassed, she answered that a naked soldier was seen on the porch. And thus a running joke was born: how in the world did she know he was a soldier?

 

Outside it was a big bustle, too. The city was crowded with all sorts of people, Soviet army personnel, military cars, and it looked like everything happened on the streets. One day I was chased by a Russian soldier around a military truck, who yelled at me: “Juda caput !’ Die, Jew! It sounded so familiar. I’ve heard it before. Did I have to hear it again, this time from a Soviet liberator?

 

The war had emptied the shelves of the stores; you could barely find anything to buy. On the other hand, the Russian soldiers who traveled with missions between the German occupied side and the liberated  eastern part of the country would bring all sorts of confiscated merchandise or taken by force and sold them on the black market.  Thus my father struck up a friendship with a Jewish Soviet officer, for whom he made a lot of clothing with materials brought from Germany. The payment for his work consisted of things that we hadn’t seen since our deportation; a white silk parachute, a piece of black velvet, a piece of pink fabric, and a soft batik with flowers, all of German origin. Suddenly, we had again beautiful things to wear, my father tailoring dresses, blouses and skirts that made up our luxury wardrobe for many years to come.
I enrolled in a vocational school to learn about textiles, where all subjects were taught in Ukrainian. The students were a bunch of adolescents, a hodge-podge of nationalities,  that attended classes mainly to avoid skipping another year of school rather than learning and ensuring a future in the textile field.  There were many girls that I met during that time, but none memorable, and no friendships were made.

 

I don’t have any special memory from that school, nor did I learned anything amazing during that year, but at least the time passed like a whirl.

 

 

 

Repatriation…

 

First it all sounded like any other rumor that we were used hearing from IPA(Idische Plotke Agency). However little by little people started to believe it, to have hopes, to get informed and to make plans. It was an extraordinary rumor that the Soviet authorities might give us the right to go back to our mother land, Romania.

 

This was indeed great news. If it were true, finally we could reunite with the rest of our family from whom we had been separated from for such a long time. During all these years of deportation we had no news from them and we had no idea how affected they were by war. Of course they had no clue about our fate, and where the horrors of war took us. All we knew was that the uncles and aunts, the brothers and the sisters of my parents were living together with their families in Transylvania, in Satu-Mare, Seini and in Baia-Mare.

I already started to dream at the moment of meeting my cousins for the first time. How old were they? Were they in school?  What grade? Probably the little one, Sroli and Shari’s daugther, was still in kindergarten.

 

Going home…

 

The day we left Cernauti on a freight train going home I turned 18. We crossed the border to Romania and headed towards Satu-Mare to meet our relatives. In the same wagon with us traveled another group,  the Alper family,  who had no intention to stay in Satu-Mare but hoped that in time they could get the legal opportunity to emigrate to Viena, where Mr. Alper was originally from. Silvia, their daughter, was my age and we bonded during that journey and later she became my best friend, a camaraderie that lasted for many years.

 

In Cernauti Ilona had met again Karl, a former colleague from the textile factory where they worked together.  Karl was back in Cernauti after years of war, returning from somewhere in the eastern Russia, where a lot of refugees ended up. His new name was Chaim, and Ilona and Chaim decided to get married. After crossing the border to Romania, the couple decided to go on a different direction than us. Their intention was to emigrate to Israel, where they finally arrived after a year in a camp in Cyprus. In Israel, my new uncle had to abandon his trade as a tailor and worked in road construction, and later as a laborer in a meat factory. For few years Ilona worked as a house keeper.

 

Other journeys, other destinies of the wandering Jews.

And us? What was waiting for us in Satu-Mare ?

 

 

The cruel truth..

 

Satu-Mare, the city of my grandparents and all of my mother’s family, waited us with terrifying news. No one except Iren, my mother’s youngest sister, was alive. Grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins, they were ALL dead, and even Iren, the only survivor, returned to life with a damaged health. The same staggering news we got about my father’s family in Baia Mare. Uncles, aunts, my cousin- no one survived, no one was alive!

 

An almost surreal truth! The final solution- hard to believe and hard to accept as  our new reality!

The Nazi Germany’s final solution of exterminating the Jews caught my innocent little cousins in its tentacles, too. I didn’t even get the chance to meet them, to find them alive. I never saw my full of faith grandparents again, people who believed in a kind and merciful God with all their being. Where was God? How come He didn’t protect these innocent souls? Why were they guilty in the eyes of Nazi Germany?

 

 

1) In Hebrew  חדר means “room” and it’s a traditional elementary school that teaches the basis of Judaism and the Hebrew language.

 

2) Important military and underground communist fighter

 

3)Armand Calinescu (June 4, 1893 – September 21, 1939) was a great Romanian politician and economist who held the prime minister chair between March 1939 till his death.

 

In May 1939, seeing the result of the Nazi political pressure in Austria (Anschluss),  Calinescu eradicated The Iron Guard, ordering the arrest of its leaders, starting with Codreanu, and other important members and sympathizers (such as Nae Ionescu and Mircea Eliade). Codreanu and other leaders (probably around 300) were killed in prison, while other legion members were forced to sign a declaration of condemn of association with the Guard.  Some leaders, such as Horia Sima, escaped and ran away in Germany.

 

Armand Calinescu was assassinated in Bucuresti by members of the Iron Guard under a direct order that came from Sima, who at that time was living in exile in Steglitz.

 

The Iron Guard was an ultra nationalist movement, antisemitic and fascist, and a politic party in Romania between 1927 and the the beginning of the second world war. The group of assassins entered the Radio Society building and before the police could intervene, they interrupted the radio show and announced- through the voice for  Traian Popescu- that the prime minster has been killed.

 

4) In the country the anti-Jewish atmosphere became overwhelming, incendiary almost. Jews were beaten and killed, some were thrown out of trains, especially on the Moldavian routes. “ The Romanian Holocaust under Antonescu and his government ” by Marcu Rozen

 

 

(O nameless star shined for a  brief time and died shortly after)