Order Memoirs

Use this page to order free books, ebooks or PDFs of the memoirs.

Books are free of charge for Canadian students, school and university libraries, educators, post-secondary instructors and academic researchers.

For orders outside of Canada, email memoirs@azrielifoundation.org.

| 0 Complete Order

If you are not affiliated with an educational institution, you can purchase the books in English through Second Story Press or other online retailers. (The French memoirs are free for everyone and can also be ordered below.)

Order the entire Azrieli Holocaust Survivor Memoirs collection:

Order the collection for students ages 11 to 14:

Order the Secondary Collection:

Retenue par un fil/Une question de chance

Boulevard des Marronniers

Mon père était très engagé dans l’Organisation sioniste hongroise et, contrairement à d’autres Juifs hongrois, il ne se berçait pas d’illusions en espérant que les Allemands et les Hongrois « civilisés » ne s’attaquent pas aux Juifs. Il prêtait foi aux histoires incroyables de persécutions que racontaient les réfugiés des pays occupés par les nazis ; il croyait même aux récits sur ces endroits inconcevables qu’étaient les camps de concentration et que rapportaient les quelques détenus qui avaient réussi à s’en échapper. Ce printemps-là, mon père était parvenu à me procurer de faux papiers. S’agissait-il de copies ou de faux fabriqués de toutes pièces ? Quoi qu’il en soit, ils m’ont ouvert les portes de la communauté hongroise chrétienne. Grâce à l’aide de Mária Babar, une fervente catholique qui avait autrefois travaillé pour notre famille, mes parents ont pris des dispositions pour me cacher chez les soeurs ursulines.

Ma mère avait pris une décision, aussi courageuse que douloureuse, en me conduisant sous les marronniers sauvages en fête vers le couvent des soeurs ursulines de la rue Stefánia, proche de Városliget, le parc de la ville dans lequel, il y a à peine quelques mois, je jouais encore avec ma bonne. Ma mère a fait retentir la sonnette au portail de la haute grille de fer noire entourant le couvent. Derrière elle, on découvrait un jardin dont, si je me souviens bien, l’herbe hirsute, qui avait grand besoin d’être entretenue, était parsemée de pissenlits jaunes. Lorsque j’ai réussi tout récemment à contacter les soeurs ursulines hongroises, elles m’ont envoyé la photographie du couvent tel qu’il était en 1944. Ma mémoire concernant la grille de fer était exacte.

Le jour où ma mère et moi sommes arrivées à la maison mère des Ursulines, une femme étrange, revêtue d’une longue robe noire, nous a ouvert la grille. On ne pouvait apercevoir qu’un coin de son visage derrière le strict bandeau blanc qui barrait son front et auquel était attachée une guimpe blanche amidonnée. Aucun cheveu ne dépassait derrière le voile de soie noire qui tombait du bandeau jusqu’au-dessous de ses épaules et qui était fixé par une épingle au sommet de sa tête.

C’était la première fois que je voyais une religieuse d’aussi près. Il m’a semblé que mon estomac se contractait autour d’un caillou que je n’avais pourtant pas avalé. C’est là une sensation dont je me souviens précisément, une sensation qui revient à chaque fois que je suis confrontée à une crise inévitable. Sans doute m’a-t-elle souri lorsque ses mains se sont échappées des larges manches de sa vaste robe pour s’emparer des miennes car, tandis que je la suivais le long de l’allée qui conduisait au pavillon de stuc jaune à deux étages, ce caillou dans mon ventre a commencé à disparaître.

Ma mère m’a certainement fait signe de la main lorsqu’elle s’est éloignée de la grille qui s’est refermée sur moi. Nous n’allions pas nous revoir avant un an. Comment m’a-t-elle dit au revoir ? Il se peut qu’elle ait dit quelque chose se terminant par pipikém (ma poulette), le terme d’affection qu’elle utilisait en hongrois à mon égard. Je me souviens seulement que je me suis sentie étrangement soulagée lorsqu’elle m’a autorisée à suivre toute seule ma nouvelle compagne. Autour de la taille de cette femme vêtue de noir se balançait un cordon de grandes perles orné d’une croix qui rebondissait à chacun de ses pas vifs. Lorsqu’elle a ouvert la porte d’entrée, elle s’est adressée à moi pour la première fois en utilisant mon nouveau nom, « Ilona » ou son diminutif « Ili ». Personne n’allait plus m’appeler « Judit » ou « Juditka » pendant près d’un an. Maintenant, le jeu commençait pour de bon. Je devais devenir Ilona Papp, une fillette catholique, provisoirement séparée de ses parents dans la campagne hongroise.

Tenuous Threads

Chestnut Boulevard

My father was actively involved with the Hungarian Zionist Organization and, unlike other Hungarian Jews, he did not lull himself into a false sense of security, trusting that the “civilized” Germans and Hungarians would never harm the Jews. He believed the unbelievable stories of persecution told by the refugees from Nazi-occupied countries; he believed even the inconceivable accounts of concentration camps that the few escaped inmates had brought with them. That spring my father had managed to procure false documents for me. Were those documents copied or forged? In any case, they were my entry into the Christian Hungarian community. With the help of Mária Babar, a devout Catholic who had previously worked for our family, it was arranged for me to hide with the Ursuline nuns.

My mother had made a courageous and painful decision by taking this walk with me under the festive wild chestnuts toward the convent of the Ursuline nuns on Stefánia Street near the Városliget, the city park where I had played with my nanny only a few months before. My mother rang the outer bell on the gate of the tall, black iron railing that surrounded the convent. Behind it was a garden, where I seem to remember yellow dandelions dotting the shaggy grass that looked as though it badly needed a trim. When I recently managed to contact the Hungarian Ursuline nuns, they sent me the photograph of the convent building as it was in Budapest in 1944. My memory of the iron grill railing was accurate.

On the day my mother and I arrived at the Ursuline Mother House a strange woman in a black floor-length gown opened the gate. Only a patch of her face was visible under the stiff white band across her forehead to which a starched white bib-like collar was attached. There was no glimpse of hair under the black silk veil flowing from the band to below her shoulders and secured by a pin at the top of her head. 10 tenuous threads

It was the first time I had ever seen a nun this close up. My stomach seemed to constrict around a pebble I hadn’t swallowed. This is a feeling I remember distinctly, a sensation that returns whenever I confront an unavoidable crisis. She must have smiled as her hands escaped from the full sleeves of her ample dress to reach for mine because when I followed her along the path toward the yellow stucco two-storey villa, that pebble in my middle began to dissolve.

Surely my mother waved as she turned from the gate that closed behind me. We would not see each other again for more than a year. How did she say goodbye? She may have said something that ended in pipikém (my little chicken), her favourite endearment for me in Hungarian. I only remember feeling strangely relieved as she released me to follow on my own behind my new companion. From this black-clad woman’s waist swung a string of large beads ending in a cross that bounced at every lively step. When she opened the front door she had addressed me for the first time by my new name, “Ilona,” or its diminutive, “Ili.” Nobody would call me “Judit” or “Jutka” or “Juditka” for almost a year. The game now began in earnest. I was to become Ilona Papp, a Catholic child temporarily separated from her parents in the Hungarian countryside.

My Introduction to Misery

Six Lost Years

For the next five months, we experienced some tranquility; we had more freedom and peace. Radom had a large Jewish population before the war and it had become larger due to the influx of Jews from surrounding areas. It was not paradise or like life before the war, but we managed to sustain some quality of family life.

My brother Ben befriended a younger man whose father was a watch repairman. Being so mechanically inclined, Ben was fascinated with the mechanism of watches and picked up the profession in no time. He also befriended a young lady, Etta, and soon insisted on marrying her.

Then, by April 1941, the ghetto in Radom was established. At first, it was easier to endure than the ghetto in Lodz or Warsaw, but with the influx of Jews from other communities, it soon also became crowded. With a shortage of apartments and work, the picture started to look like Warsaw again – people begging and sleeping in the streets, with some never waking up.

In the ghetto, the Nazis formed a Jewish police force. Ben was invited to join but declined. We were allowed to go out only if we had work outside the ghetto. We had to have official papers showing our place of work, were forced to wear white armbands with a blue Star of David and had a 7:00 p.m. curfew. After that time, we kids congregated on the stairway of our apartment building to entertain ourselves.

Through the Jewish Council, who were in charge of the ghetto’s administration (under Nazi orders), Ben got a job as a superintendent and handyman in the German Security Service, or “SD,” which occupied an entire six-storey building. The Germans took a liking to him; sometimes he came home with bread, salami or cheese. He also received a bicycle and special papers permitting him to leave the ghetto at any time. The bike had a plate on it saying: “This bicycle belongs to the Department of Special Forces,” and nobody could claim it. It was unusual for a Jew to possess a bicycle, but its purpose was to allow Ben to go to work on the spur of the moment.

Ben had a gift. People always took a liking to him. He was handy and inventive, and had built an AM and shortwave radio at age fourteen. He was a mechanical genius and could fix anything. He mastered watchmaking and photography, and he even fixed guns. I asked Ben if he could get me a job as his assistant. He asked his boss and sure enough, I became Ben’s helper. He showed me how to install electrical lines and outlets, make window blinds and fix small appliances. We worked together on many projects.

Working in a military building, we saw Poles who had been brought in from the underground organizations and from the Polish intelligentsia – leaders, lawyers, priests, doctors and teachers. They were interrogated and tortured; we saw them beaten beyond human imagination. Their screams still ring in my ears.

Six années volées

Le début de mes souffrances

Les cinq mois suivants furent relativement calmes ; nous avions plus de liberté et de paix. Avant la guerre, nombre de mes semblables vivaient à Radom, mais ils étaient désormais encore plus nombreux du fait de l’arrivée des Juifs venus des environs. Ce n’était pas le paradis ni les conditions d’avant-guerre, mais nous parvenions à conserver une certaine qualité de vie familiale.

Mon frère Ben s’est lié d’amitié avec un garçon plus jeune dont le père était horloger. Passionné de mécanique, Ben était fasciné par le mécanisme des montres et, en un rien de temps, il est devenu expert dans le métier. Il s’est également lié d’amitié avec une jeune fille, Etta, qu’il a rapidement voulu épouser.

C’est alors qu’en avril 1941, le ghetto de Radom fut établi. Au début, il était plus facile d’y vivre que dans celui de Łódź ou de Varsovie, mais avec l’arrivée des Juifs venus d’autres localités, il s’est trouvé rapidement surpeuplé. Avec la pénurie de travail et de logements, la situation s’est mise à ressembler à celle de Varsovie – des malheureux mendiaient et dormaient dans la rue, certains pour ne plus se réveiller.

Les nazis ont organisé la Police juive du ghetto ; invité à s’y joindre, Ben a refusé. Seuls ceux qui travaillaient à l’extérieur étaient autorisés à sortir du ghetto. Il fallait disposer de papiers officiels indiquant le lieu d’affectation, porter un brassard blanc avec une étoile de David bleue et respecter le couvre-feu de 19 h. À partir de cette heure, nous, les enfants, nous retrouvions pour jouer dans l’escalier de l’immeuble.

Par l’intermédiaire du Conseil juif chargé d’administrer le ghetto (sous les ordres des nazis), Ben a décroché un emploi de concierge et d’homme à tout faire au Service de sécurité, ou SD, qui occupait un bâtiment de six étages. Les Allemands appréciaient mon frère ; parfois il rapportait à la maison du pain, du salami ou du fromage. Il a aussi obtenu un vélo et un permis spécial l’autorisant à quitter le ghetto n’importe quand. Sur le vélo était fixée une plaque portant l’inscription « Propriété du Département des Forces spéciales », dissuadant quiconque de s’en emparer. Posséder une bicyclette était inhabituel pour un Juif, mais le but était de permettre à Ben de se rendre au travail à tout moment.

Ben avait un don et tout le monde l’appréciait. Il était inventif et habile de ses mains : à 14 ans, il avait construit une radio à ondes courtes et à modulation d’amplitude. En mécanique, c’était un génie qui pouvait réparer n’importe quoi. Il était expert en horlogerie et en photographie, et savait même réparer des armes à feu. J’ai demandé à Ben s’il pouvait me prendre comme assistant. Il en a fait la demande à son patron et, comme on pouvait s’y attendre, ce dernier a accepté. Je suis donc devenu l’adjoint de mon frère. Il m’a montré comment installer des fils électriques et des prises de courant, fabriquer des stores et réparer de petits appareils. Nous avons fait ensemble de nombreux travaux.

En travaillant dans un bâtiment militaire, nous avons croisé des Polonais qui appartenaient à des organisations clandestines et à l’intelligentsia – des dirigeants, des avocats, des prêtres, des médecins et des enseignants. Ils étaient interrogés et torturés ; nous les avons vus être battus au-delà de tout ce qu’il est humainement possible d’imaginer. Leurs cris résonnent encore à mes oreilles.

In the Hour of Fate and Danger

A Fragile Liberation

Just as we have completely caught up with the head of the column, we spot, on the left side of the bend, a strong, slim young man looking down on us from the top of a hill covered with rocks and brush. His gaze is confident; he has a quick-firing gun in his hand and is wearing a black felt cap with a red star on the front. He stands all alone on the peak. A few times, he motions toward the bottom of the hill with a wide sweep of his arm, as if he were signalling our arrival to his army.

The man is a Tito Partisan. He aims his weapon at the deathly pale guards. “Put your rifles, handguns, magazines and bayonets in the middle of the road!” he shouts with blood-curdling determination, and we hear him cock his gun. No sooner has the Partisan finished giving his orders than the soldiers guarding us throw down their weapons helter-skelter. They stand around the discarded weapons looking lost: without their guns, they are naked. They are whining and there is fear in their eyes; they are afraid of retribution.

The second Partisan, who has just appeared on the top of the hill, gives instructions to us in Hungarian, “Collect the guns and stack them in a pyramid shape. Use separate piles for handguns, hand grenades and magazines. Don’t lay a finger on the guards.”

The despondent prisoners are about to be seized by the urge to start lynching.

The Adam’s apple of one of the sergeants is bobbing in his throat; his handlebar moustache is trembling. The foul-mouthed corporal who wanted to leave us rotting in a dirty rathole now begs us for civilian clothes. He has already cast off his uniform, along with his soldier’s honour; he starts blubbering, imploring his former prisoners to hide him and give him some clothes.

As if the Holy Ghost had entered some of the older men, the limp­ing pharmacist pulls out a T-shirt that mice have gnawed holes in to give to the corporal. He is about to hand over the raggedy garment, but the others attack him, angrily berating him and calling him a filthy traitor.

If someone were to make a movie now, he would observe what a poor, pitiable, ghostlike bunch of people we are; we simply cannot process what has happened to us. The orderly rows have broken up, but it hasn’t dawned on us yet that we are liberated from bondage, from the murderers and their henchmen, from those who filled us with anguish, from the thieves who sold the bulk of our provisions on the black market.

The two Partisans on the hilltop direct the rescued men impatiently from the road to the mountain path covered in shrubs and wildflowers. We retrieve the weapons and ammunition from their stacks and distribute them among ourselves. The guards now march in the middle like a flock of sheep. Deathly pale, they walk as slowly as altar boys before Mass.We are in the Erzgebirge, in the woods of the Homolje mountains, somewhere near Žagubica; the other village, Laznica, cannot be too far off.

Les Mots enfouis : Le Journal de Molly Applebaum

Cher journal

Dimanche 14 mars

J’ai rouvert mon carnet après une assez longue pause. Car aujourd’hui, nous passons la journée debout dans l’écurie, afin de nous étirer un peu. Et comme ce n’est vraiment pas confortable pour moi d’écrire allongée, j’ai emmené mon carnet là-haut. Mais les conditions ici ne sont pas bonnes non plus. Bien que nous soyons à la mi-mars, que le temps soit magnifique, que le soleil brille et que la terre dégage un doux parfum, je suis glacée jusqu’à la moelle. J’aimerais pouvoir franchir le pas de la porte de l’étable et m’asseoir sur le perron... C’est tellement loin et tout simplement hors d’atteinte que malheureusement, je ne devrais même pas m’aiguiser l’appétit et y songer. J’ai déjà du mal à imaginer une autre vie que celle que je mène actuellement. Sera-ce toujours comme cela ? Les souffrances s’arrêteront-elles un jour ?

Mercredi 7 avril

Le monde est si vaste, si incroyablement grand, qu’on ne peut en faire rapidement le tour ou en réaliser l’immensité, même par la pensée. Presque toute la surface du globe est habitée. Il paraît même que des gens vivent sur la face cachée de la lune et aussi sur Mars. Sur Terre, il y a de la place pour tous les êtres vivants. Hélas, il n’y a pas de place sur Terre pour deux pauvres créatures abandonnées. Ces deux pauvres et malheureuses créatures sont obligées de vivre sous terre, serrées dans une petite caisse dans laquelle on peut à peine s’allonger et où on se sent à l’étroit. S’asseoir est la seule chose dont on puisse rêver. Ces personnes sont allongées dans cette caisse depuis de longs mois et n’en sortent que trois heures par jour pour aller à l’étable. L’enfermement — la saleté, la vermine, l’obscurité et le manque d’air —, tout est comme dans un cercueil. Mais ces créatures sont heureuses que la situation soit ainsi et pas pire, et expriment leur reconnaissance pour ce « cercueil » dans leurs prières quotidiennes. Elles ne disent rien, elles ont cessé de se plaindre car elles savent qu’il n’y a pas de place pour elles sur Terre. Sommes-nous destinées à refaire surface un jour ?

Buried Words

Dear Diary

Sunday, March 14

I have opened my notebook again after a rather long break. And it is because today we are standing for the whole day in the stable to stretch ourselves out a little. And because it is very uncomfortable for me to write lying down, I brought the notebook upstairs. But the conditions are not favourable here either, because I am chilled to the bone even though it is mid-March and the weather is beautiful, the sun is shining brightly and the earth is fragrant. If only I could walk out of the stable door and sit on the threshold... It is so distant and simply unattainable, that, unfortunately, I should not even whet my appetite and dream about it. I already cannot imagine a life different from the one I am living. Shall it always be like this? Is the evil ever going to end?

Wednesday, April 7

The world is so large, so extremely enormous, that you cannot go around it fast or comprehend its vastness, not even with your mind. Almost the entire globe is inhabited by people. Apparently people live even on the other side of the moon and on Mars, too. There is a place on the surface of the earth for all living creatures. Sadly, there is no place on the surface of the earth only for two miserable, abandoned living creatures. So these two poor, miserable human beings are forced to live under the surface, squeezed in a small box, where you can merely lie down and still feel cramped. And you can only dream about sitting. And these creatures lie in this box for months on end and they emerge into the stable for only three hours a day. Confinement — dirt, bugs, darkness and stuffiness — as in a grave. But these creatures are so happy that it is as it is and not worse and they are thankful for this ‘grave’ in their daily prayers. And they say nothing, they do not even complain anymore because they know that there is no place for them on the surface of the earth. Are we destined to ever emerge onto the surface?

Le Colis caché

La Séparation

Avant que j’aille me coucher, mes parents m’ont annoncé qu’Ollie et moi partirions le lendemain avec un dénommé Pauw. Ils voulaient attendre le matin pour en parler à Ollie. J’ai demandé qui était ce Pauw que je ne connaissais pas, mais je n’ai pas cherché à savoir pourquoi nous devions partir. Je comprenais que Mam et Pap devaient avoir de très bonnes raisons. J’ai repensé aux propos qu’ils avaient échangés au cours de l’après-midi et que j’avais surpris à leur insu.

Au tout début de la guerre, les Allemands avaient installé des roquettes dans le parc proche de notre maison. Des sites de lancement semblables existaient dans divers pays d’Europe ; aux Pays-Bas, c’était à Rotterdam. La nuit, quand les roquettes fusaient, elles produisaient un vacarme assourdissant. Couchée dans mon lit, je ne pouvais éviter de les entendre. Je m’y étais plus ou moins accoutumée, mais cette nuit-là, elles faisaient plus de bruit que jamais. Je me suis bouché les oreilles, en vain. Chaque fois que les projectiles passaient au-dessus de notre maison, je tremblais de peur. Mais ce que j’allais vivre le lendemain m’inquiétait encore davantage. Comment allais-je annoncer à Ollie que nous devions quitter Mam et Pap ?

Tous les jours, nos parents nous réveillaient à 7 heures. Mais en ce matin d’octobre, quelque chose clochait dans leur comportement. Pendant le petit-déjeuner, ils avaient l’air tendus et chuchotaient entre eux. Après, ils nous ont demandé de faire très attention à ce qu’ils allaient nous dire. Ils nous ont alors expliqué qu’Ollie et moi allions habiter ailleurs pendant un certain temps. J’étais déjà au courant mais j’en ai conçu de la peur malgré tout, car je ne savais rien de notre destination ni de la durée de cet éloignement.

Croyant que nous partions en vacances avec Mam et Pap, Ollie a fait sa petite valise, très heureuse à l’idée de cette aventure. De deux ans ma cadette, elle ne saisissait pas que nos parents nous éloignaient d’eux. Moi, par contre, je comprenais très bien qu’il ne s’agissait pas d’un voyage d’agrément.

Avant de partir, nos parents nous ont bien fait comprendre qu’il ne fallait jamais adresser la parole à des inconnus. Nous devions nous comporter comme les nièces de notre nouvelle famille, où nous aurions à faire semblant d’être chrétiennes. Nous devions dire à quiconque nous posait des questions que notre mère était à l’hôpital et que notre père travaillait en Allemagne. C’était une histoire parfaitement plausible à laquelle nous devions nous tenir si nous voulions survivre. Personne ne devait jamais savoir que nous étions juives.

Un peu plus tard, un inconnu, qu’on nous avait dit d’appeler « oom Pauw », est venu nous chercher. Je n’avais toujours pas demandé à nos parents la raison de notre départ – je savais que nous n’avions pas le choix. Après avoir toutes deux fait nos adieux à Mam et Pap, nous sommes parties avec oom Pauw, un membre de la Résistance. Nous avons pris le train à la gare de Rotterdam. Nous devions nous rendre à Soestduinen, éloigné d’une centaine de kilomètres à peine, qui semblait pour moi se trouver à mille lieues de Rotterdam et de notre maison.

Je me souviens encore d’oom Pauw nous hissant dans le train, car le marchepied était trop haut pour nous. J’ai aussi le souvenir d’un transfert – je crois que c’était à Amersfoort –, où nous avons attendu notre correspondance dans la gare. Oom Pauw nous a donné à manger. Tout en avalant nos sandwichs, nous observions par la fenêtre les soldats qui patrouillaient sur le quai. Oom Pauw voulait éviter qu’on nous remarque. Il nous a recommandé de ne pas avoir peur, de ne regarder personne, de simplement nous concentrer sur nos sandwichs.

Nous ne savions pas exactement où il nous emmenait, mais après une heure de train, nous sommes arrivés chez notre nouvelle famille à Soestduinen, qui signifie « les dunes de Soest ». À proximité de ce petit village, situé au bord de la mer du Nord, se trouvait la résidence d’été de notre reine. Après son départ forcé du pays en 1940, dès le déclenchement des hostilités, son palais a été tantôt inoccupé, tantôt utilisé par les nazis. Nous étions loin de Rotterdam, loin de Mam et Pap.

The Hidden Package

Separation

Before I went to bed, Mam and Pap told me that Ollie and I were to go away with someone named Pauw the next day. They wanted to wait until the morning to mention it to Ollie. I asked who Pauw was, as I hadn’t met him, but I didn’t question why we would be going away. I understood that Mam and Pap must have had a very good reason. I thought about what they had said to each other in the afternoon, even though I was not supposed to be listening.

Ever since the outbreak of the war, the Germans had installed rockets in the park next to our house. These rockets were fired from various locations in Europe and, in Holland, from Rotterdam. At night, when the rockets were sent, the noise was deafening. Lying in bed, I couldn’t help hearing that horrible screeching sound. I had been getting somewhat used to it, however, that particular night, they sounded louder than ever. I plugged my ears, but it didn’t help. Every time they flew over our house it was scary enough, but I was even more worried as to what I was going to face the next day. How was I going to tell Ollie that we had to leave Mam and Pap?

Every morning, Mam and Pap would wake us up at 7:00 a.m. On that particular morning in October, their greeting seemed different. They appeared nervous while we had our breakfast, and they were whispering to each other. When we finished eating, they asked us to listen very carefully. Then they told us that we, Ollie and me, were going away for a little while. Although it wasn’t a surprise to me, I was still afraid because I didn’t know where, and for how long, we would be gone.

My sister, being two years younger than me, thought that she was going on a holiday with Mam and Pap. She packed her little suitcase and was excited to go away. Ollie didn’t understand that our parents were sending the two of us away without them. I, however, understood very well that we were not going on a holiday.

Before we left, we were given strict instructions never to talk to strangers. We were to act as nieces of our new family and we would be brought up as Christians. We were to tell anyone who asked that Mam was in the hospital and that Pap was working in Germany. It was a very believable alibi, a fabrication we would be forced to tell in order to survive. No one was ever to know that we were Jewish.

A little later, a stranger whom we were told to call Oom Pauw came to pick us up. I still didn’t ask our parents why we had to go; I knew we had to. We both kissed Mam and Pap goodbye and went with Oom Pauw, the Resistance worker, to the train station in Rotterdam where we boarded a train. Our destination was Soestduinen, less than a hundred kilometres away but, to me, far away from Rotterdam, our home.

I can still remember how Oom Pauw lifted us up into the train because the step was much too high. I also recall that we had to transfer and I believe it was in Amersfoort where we waited inside the station for our connection. Meanwhile, Oom Pauw gave us something to eat. While we were eating our sandwiches, through the window we saw soldiers marching up and down the platform. Oom Pauw didn’t want to draw attention to us and he told us not to be afraid and not to look at anyone, just to pay attention to our food.

We didn’t know where exactly Oom Pauw was taking us but after an hour’s train ride we arrived at our new home in Soestduinen, “the sand dunes of Soest.” This little village on the coast of the North Sea was located near the queen’s summer palace in Soest. Her palace either stood empty or was occupied by the Nazis when our queen was forced to leave Holland in 1940 at the outbreak of the war. We were far away from Rotterdam, far away from Mam and Pap.

Joy Runs Deeper

The Home that Was Lost

On July 21, a beautiful sunny day in 1944, I found myself sitting in the ruins of our house, crying bitterly. The little town of Kozowa, where I was born on December 9, 1920, had been destroyed. After I could cry no more, I just sat there thinking and dreaming, watching my life pass before me.

My hometown, Kozowa, was in Poland (now western Ukraine), the area known as Galicia. It was built among meadows and fields of corn and wheat that stretched for miles. In my mind it came to life in front of my eyes like an oasis in the middle of a desert. I could see the centre of town where there was a marketplace with a round building containing three stores and two groceries. Around the marketplace, streets branched out in all directions. I used to love to run down the hill from the marketplace to my home. At the top of the hill was the drugstore, and as I ran down I would pass a fence, then the pump where we got water, and then our neighbour’s house before getting to our home. After turning the corner and walking up a few steps, I would reach our big, brown front door.

I loved living in Kozowa. The summers were beautiful, not too hot or humid, and the air was always clean, making it a pleasure to take a deep breath. I used to go for long walks in the fields to pick wild flowers or just to get a little sun on my face. On a nice sunny afternoon in July or August, I would dress in a dirndl and sandals, put a ribbon in my hair and walk down to the train station with one of my girlfriends. It was a beautiful walk. We would take a short cut through the schoolyard and then through a garden that looked almost like a park. The garden was private property but had a path that led to the Koropiec River. The water was so shallow that we could even walk across it. The riverbed was uneven and the water ran swiftly downstream, like a miniature waterfall. Over that waterfall was a little bridge. Well, that’s what we called it, but actually it was just a board lying across our tiny river. We would take our shoes off and walk across the board in our bare feet.

On the other side of the river was another path between gardens – mostly vegetable gardens – where a herd of goats roamed. We often talked to the goats, and sometimes they even followed us. It took maybe an hour to reach the train station. We made sure to get there before three o’clock, when the train arrived. The station was a beautiful structure with an iron fence and a garden in back. We waved to the passengers in the windows of the train, and when the train left we walked home with the thought of coming back in a few days. Somehow I never got tired of that walk. I was always excited to go to the train station again.

When I didn’t have anyone to walk around with, I wouldn’t go very far by myself. I walked only to the river, where I’d sit down to read my book, talk to the goats or just listen to the birds. Sometimes peasant girls came to do their washing at the river. One might think this was hard work but it seemed to me, as I watched them, that they were having a lot of fun. They laughed, giggled and told jokes while beating the wash with a flat stick. I don’t think they would have enjoyed themselves more at a picnic or even in a theatre. The girls had long braids and wore tight vests and long, wide skirts, with one hem of the skirt tucked into the waistband. They were barefoot and carried the wash on their backs or in pails. Walking to the river, they made up part of the beautiful picture.

Despite these idyllic scenes, life in our town was not all that glamorous. Maybe we didn’t know better, or maybe we were just smart enough to make the best of it. For instance, we had no running water, so even taking a bath was quite an ordeal. If you were fortunate enough to have a tub in the house, you had to bring water from the pump, heat it in a big basin on the stove, and pour it into the tub.

When you were done, you had to pour the water out again. This is why many townsfolk went to the public bathhouse to take a bath or even a steam bath instead. I don’t know exactly how the steam was made – an old man, Ludz, attended to that. When the steam was ready, another old man, Mikola, went around the streets banging two scythes together to let people know it was time to go to the steam bath. This happened only once a week, on Fridays, when everybody had to get ready for the Sabbath. In the afternoon, all the men left their work or place of business to bathe. The women went later, when Sabbath preparations were done.

Every Friday morning my aunt, who lived around the corner from us, baked cheese buns. They were the best cheese buns in the whole world, and she baked enough for a whole week. My mother, Malka Esther’s, specialty was cinnamon buns. By noon on Friday, the buns were ready – first my mother gave me some cinnamon buns, then I went to Auntie for some cheese buns, and then I took them all to my grandmother’s house. And what a lady she was! My grandmother was very neat and always wore a long skirt, high-laced shoes and a vest.

She had vests in every colour, but especially loved to wear bright colours. Once, she bought a long sweater and, after trying it on, decided it was too dark for her, so she gave it to my auntie and bought a red one for herself. My grandmother’s head was always covered with a clean, starched kerchief. She used to say that she wished she lived in a town where there was no mud so that her shoes could always stay clean. In our town the roads and the side streets were not paved, so after it rained everything turned to mud. We had to wear galoshes or high boots.

[…]

There were so many types of people in Kozowa that I could write a whole book just trying to describe them. And nobody was called by his or her real name; everybody had a nickname. For instance, next door to us lived the shoychet, the ritual slaughterer. His name was Benzion, so his wife was called Benzinachy. What a character she was! She was a religious woman who covered her shaved head with a kerchief, as other religious women in the town did. Yet, somehow that poor woman always looked helpless. She was large, with an apron always tied around her waist, and her face was always dirty.

For as long as I’d known her she had only one front tooth, and she was constantly chewing because it took her such a long time to chew her food. Benzinachy was a good woman who wouldn’t hurt a soul. Many of her children had died young of various diseases, and she was left with only a boy and a girl. She and her husband also adopted a boy named Gedalieh. I remember once when I visited her, she sent Gedalieh down to the cellar to bring her potatoes and said to him,“Gedalieh, keep talking to me the whole time that you are in the cellar.”

When I asked her why he had to do that, she told me that she had preserves and jams in the cellar, and if he was talking she would know that he was not eating up the goodies!

[…]

All the people in town were like one big family. The ones that were a little better off gave meals and clothing to the less fortunate ones. Despite everything, we helped one another in times of need.

Plus forts que le malheur

Le foyer disparu

Le 21 juillet 1944, par une belle journée ensoleillée, je me suis retrouvée assise au milieu des ruines de notre maison, pleurant amèrement. La petite ville de Kozowa, où j’étais née le 9 décembre 1920, avait été rasée. Une fois mes larmes taries, je suis simplement restée immobile, à penser, à méditer, à voir ma vie défiler devant moi.

Kozowa, aujourd’hui en Ukraine occidentale, faisait alors partie de la Pologne dans une région connue sous le nom de Galicie. La ville se trouvait au coeur de champs de maïs et de blé qui s’étendaient sur des kilomètres à la ronde. En ce jour de juillet 1944, ma ville natale a repris vie sous mes yeux, telle une oasis au milieu d’un désert. Je revoyais son centre-ville, avec sa place du marché et son bâtiment circulaire abritant trois magasins et deux épiceries. De là, des rues rayonnaient dans toutes les directions. J’aimais beaucoup dévaler la colline de la place du marché jusqu’à chez nous, partant de la pharmacie, tout en haut, longeant une clôture jusqu’à la pompe où nous allions chercher l’eau, et parvenant enfin à la maison de nos voisins. Je tournais ensuite le coin, et en quelques enjambées, je me retrouvais en face de notre grande porte d’entrée en bois brun.

J’adorais vivre à Kozowa. Les étés étaient magnifiques, ni trop chauds ni trop humides. L’air était toujours si pur qu’on se plaisait à en prendre de bonnes bouffées. J’avais l’habitude de faire de longues marches dans les champs pour cueillir des fleurs sauvages ou simplement sentir la chaleur du soleil sur mon visage. Par un bel après-midi de juillet ou d’août, j’enfilais un dirndl (une robe à longue jupe plissée) et des sandales, je mettais un ruban dans mes cheveux, puis je me rendais à la gare en compagnie d’une amie. C’était une belle promenade. Nous passions par la cour de l’école, puis coupions à travers un jardin qui tenait presque du parc. Il s’agissait d’une propriété privée, mais un petit sentier la traversait qui menait à la rivière Koropiec, si peu profonde que nous pouvions même la traverser à gué. Son lit était inégal, et le courant rapide ; on aurait dit une chute miniature. Un petit « pont », comme nous l’appelions, enjambait cette chute, mais en réalité, il ne s’agissait que d’une planche de bois. Nous enlevions nos chaussures et traversions la planche pieds nus.

De l’autre côté de la rivière, nous empruntions un sentier tracé au milieu de jardins – surtout potagers –, où errait un troupeau de chèvres. Souvent, nous leur parlions, et parfois elles décidaient de nous suivre. Nous mettions environ une heure à nous rendre à la gare. Nous nous assurions d’y être avant 15 heures, pour l’arrivée du train. C’était une belle gare, entourée d’une clôture en fer et dotée d’un jardin à l’arrière. Nous saluions les passagers de la main, puis, le train disparu, nous rentrions à la maison en nous promettant de revenir quelques jours plus tard. Pour une raison ou une autre, je ne me suis jamais lassée de cette randonnée. J’étais toujours ravie de retourner à la gare.

Quand je n’avais personne pour m’accompagner dans mes promenades, je ne m’aventurais pas bien loin. Je marchais seulement jusqu’à la rivière, où je m’asseyais pour lire mon livre, parler aux chèvres ou simplement écouter les oiseaux. Parfois, de jeunes paysannes venaient faire leur lessive. On aurait tort de croire qu’il s’agissait d’une corvée pénible, car, à les voir, elles semblaient vraiment s’amuser. Tout en battant le linge avec leur palette de bois, elles riaient, gloussaient, se racontaient des blagues. Je pense qu’elles ne se seraient pas diverties davantage à un pique-nique, ni même au théâtre. Les jeunes filles aux longs cheveux nattés portaient un corsage serré et une longue jupe ample, avec le devant remonté à la ceinture. Se rendant pieds nus à la rivière, le linge sur le dos ou dans des seaux, elles faisaient partie intégrante de ce magnifique décor.

En dépit de ces scènes idylliques, la vie dans notre ville n’avait rien de raffiné. Peut-être ne connaissions-nous rien d’autre, peut-être étions-nous assez intelligents pour y trouver notre bonheur malgré tout. Prendre un bain, par exemple, n’était pas une mince affaire, parce que nous n’avions pas l’eau courante. Si l’on avait la chance d’avoir une baignoire chez soi, il fallait aller chercher de l’eau à la pompe, la faire chauffer dans une cuvette sur le poêle, puis la verser dans la baignoire. Le bain fini, il fallait ensuite vider l’eau. C’est pourquoi beaucoup de gens se rendaient aux bains publics, où certains y prenaient même un bain de vapeur. J’ignore comment ce dernier fonctionnait – un vieil homme, Ludz, veillait à sa bonne marche. Dès que la vapeur était prête, un autre vieil homme, Mikola, venait l’annoncer à tous dans les rues en frappant deux faux l’une contre l’autre. Cela ne se produisait qu’une fois par semaine, le vendredi, alors que la population se préparait pour le Shabbat. En cours d’après-midi, tous les hommes quittaient leur travail pour aller aux bains. Les femmes s’y rendaient plus tard, une fois les préparatifs du Shabbat achevés.

Le vendredi matin, ma tante, qui vivait à un coin de rue de chez nous, confectionnait des petits pains au fromage – les meilleurs au monde –, et elle en préparait assez pour toute la semaine. De son côté, ma mère, Malka Esther, cuisait des petits pains à la cannelle, sa spécialité. À midi le vendredi, les petits pains étaient prêts. Ma mère me donnait quelques-uns des siens, j’allais ensuite chercher des pains au fromage chez ma tante, puis j’allais porter le tout chez ma grand-mère. Quelle femme, ma grand-mère ! Très soignée, elle portait toujours une longue jupe, une veste et des bottillons à lacets. Elle possédait des vestes de toutes les teintes, mais elle préférait les couleurs vives. Un jour, elle s’est acheté un long pull, mais après l’avoir essayé, elle l’a trouvé trop sombre pour son goût. Elle a donc décidé de le donner à ma tante, puis elle est allée s’en acheter un rouge. Ma grand-mère se couvrait toujours la tête d’un impeccable fichu empesé. Elle répétait souvent qu’elle aurait préféré vivre dans une ville sans boue pour que ses chaussures puissent rester propres. La chaussée n’était pas goudronnée dans notre ville, si bien qu’après une pluie, les rues devenaient boueuses. Il fallait porter des caoutchoucs ou des bottes hautes.

[...]

On trouvait tant de personnages différents à Kozowa qu’il me faudrait écrire un livre entier pour les dépeindre. Et aucun habitant n’était jamais désigné par son vrai nom : chacun était affublé d’un sobriquet. Par exemple, comme le shoẖet (l’abatteur rituel), qui habitait à côté de chez nous, s’appelait Benzion, on appelait sa femme Benzinatchy. Quel personnage que cette femme ! Elle couvrait sa tête rasée d’un fichu, comme le faisaient les autres femmes pratiquantes de la ville. Pourtant, la pauvre femme semblait toujours désemparée. Elle était corpulente, avec un tablier perpétuellement serré à la taille et le visage immanquablement sale. Du plus loin que je me souvienne, elle n’a toujours eu qu’une seule dent de devant et mâchouillait perpétuellement quelque chose étant donné le temps qu’il lui fallait pour mastiquer sa nourriture. Benzinatchy avait bon coeur : elle n’aurait jamais fait de mal à une mouche. Plusieurs de ses enfants étaient morts en bas âge de diverses maladies. Il ne lui restait qu’un garçon et une fille. Son mari et elle avaient également adopté un enfant du nom de Gedaliè. Un jour que je lui rendais visite, elle a envoyé Gedaliè chercher des pommes de terre à la cave en disant au garçonnet : « Continue de me parler jusqu’à ce que tu sois remonté ! » Quand je lui ai demandé la raison de son ordre, elle m’a expliqué qu’elle gardait de la confiture à la cave et que tant qu’il bavardait, elle savait qu’il n’était pas en train de s’en empiffrer !

[...]

Tous les habitants de notre ville formaient une grande famille. Les plus nantis donnaient de la nourriture et des vêtements aux moins privilégiés. En dépit de tout, nous nous entraidions dans les moments difficiles.

Escape

Unsung Heroes

The Jews of Budapest, now concentrated in designated Jewish houses, were given new laws and regulations daily by a non-Jewish superintendent, whose job it was to carry out the prevailing anti-Jewish regulations. At the outset, the curfew was strict and only allowed us to move around the city for three hours, from 2:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. The curfew regulations were posted inside Jewish houses and outside on bulletin boards. Slowly, the curfew relaxed and the time for free movement became longer — 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. But suddenly, on one Thursday in October, our movement from the Jewish houses was shut down — no in and out anymore. Previously, I would sneak out without the star to get supplies unavailable to us in our allotted hours.

Long before the occupation, many food items — such as sugar, flour, butter, jam and cold cuts — were rationed because of the war. Each person was given a certain number of coupons for an item. The allotments were very small and often the item was not available. But sometimes you could get things that normally were rationed. In the mornings, people lined up at bakeries to get fresh buns. I used to line up and, if I was lucky, I would get a bag full of kaiser rolls, which we all loved. My mom would fry onions with some red paprika; the fresh buns filled with these finely cut fried onions were a real delicacy.

But now we were locked in the Jewish house with no chance of escaping. The following week, that changed for me. One day before noon, our house superintendent came to our apartment with a man in civilian clothes in the style that Hungarian detectives wore. The superintendent, in a high-pitched voice, said that this guy had a document that ordered me to go with him to work with the International Red Cross. I have to point out that any Hungarian kid from the age of twelve had to belong to a paramilitary organization called the Levente. I had attended a number of this organization’s meetings. The meetings had two parts: disciplinary training and emergency work, for which we were taken to clean building sites that had been bombed. So when I saw this detective type, I connected him to my Levente activity. My mother got really scared, not knowing what this order meant. The man discreetly told my mother to give me a coat or sweater where the yellow Star of David was fastened with pins for easy removal. This gave my frightened mother a clue that he was friendly. So I said my goodbyes and went with him.

As soon as we left my house, his eyes searched the area to see if it was safe, and when he seemed satisfied, he told me to remove the yellow star. He told me he was a member of my Hanhac organization and that he was taking members of my kvutza from the locked Jewish houses to an office that was part of the Zionist underground. This was my first encounter with one of our group wearing a disguise. I learned later that wearing some sort of uniform as a disguise gave members freer movement on the streets of Budapest, especially during air raids.

He took me to an office building on Mérleg utca, a street in the prestigious business district close to the Danube. When we arrived, I met some of our leaders and also some members of my kvutza. It was both a happy and a sad reunion: happy because we were together again, sad because of the unknown future awaiting our loved ones.

A Promise of Sweet Tea

Escape by the Back Door

The next time the Germans came to Kortelisy there was a completely different ending, and all hope of survival was shattered. It was Sunday, July 12, 1942, a week before my tenth or eleventh birthday. My parents had decided that we would stay overnight with my paternal grandparents; for some reason, they felt a little bit safer at the other end of the village, next to the church square.

Early that Sunday morning, while it was still dark and we were all sleeping, there was a powerful pounding on the front door and roaring in German — Aufmachen! Open up! This was not a gemütlich sound of invited guests arriving for breakfast. The Germans had come to kill us, and the pounding and roaring put the fear of God into us. I was not ready to die. I can still hear the sound of it, and it still frightens me and gives me the shivers; I still have the urge to run and hide. We all woke up. Anticipating danger, we ran out through the back door, straight into the fields of tall rye that grew at the edge of my grandparents’ house. Somehow we were calm and accepted the situation as part of being Jewish, running away from the Hamans and the pogroms, as our ancestors did. Once inside the dense rye fields, we ran in different directions. But my mother, as usual, held on to me and my brother. Sonia, a young schoolteacher who had arrived with the Soviets in 1939 from Kyiv to teach in the local school and was a colleague and girlfriend of my uncle Ben-Tsion, was holding on to my mother. Sonia was dark and beautiful, with deep black eyes; the Russian song “Ochi Cherney” (Dark Eyes) could have been written about her. She proudly insisted that she was a true yevreyka, Jewess, even when the Germans arrived.

The four of us stayed together, tucked inside a furrow in a rye field without moving a muscle the whole day, afraid of disturbing the rye and giving away our hiding place. We didn’t know what was happening to the Jews in the village. We had no food or water all day and emerged in the evening and returned to my grandparents’ house, where we reunited with our father, paternal grandparents, Ben-Tsion and my mother’s parents, who had also managed to escape.

Not everyone was that lucky. Some twenty innocent Jewish men, women and children — entire families of Kortelisy — were rounded up, murdered in cold blood and buried in the green grazing fields outside Kortelisy, in a flat, unmarked communal grave. Among the murdered was a family of four, whom I still remember. The father’s name was Binyomin, and one of the boys, who’d had his bar mitzvah two or three years earlier, was called Bentse. Later in the evening, when we returned to our own home and walked through the open door and saw everything in disarray, we realized how close we had been to being included among the victims. Father immediately pronounced that our staying over with Zeyde and Bobeh was nothing short of a miracle. Being the first house as one enters the village from the west, we would have most certainly been caught in our sleep and killed. We had no back door to escape from even if we had been awake.

If Home Is Not Here

Occupation and Escape

I noticed that at regular intervals the German guards strolled over to the next post quite a distance away, stopping to chat for up to half an hour at a time. Everything seemed to be in my favour except for the fact that the sun would soon be setting and it would be much too difficult to make my escape in the dark. I didn’t look forward to the prospect of spending the night in an open field, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. Fortified by the wonderful sandwiches my aunt had prepared for my journey, I settled down for what felt like the longest night I had ever experienced. As twilight gradually turned into pitch darkness and I could no longer see anything through my binoculars, I tried to use my backpack as a pillow and fall asleep. But try as I might, I couldn’t get comfortable and I spent a very cold and restless night. Daylight couldn’t come soon enough.

By the time dawn broke, all I wanted was a hot café au lait. My wristwatch told me that it was five o’clock, and it was becoming fairly light out. When I looked through my binoculars, however, I wondered if I was hallucinating. There were no Germans anywhere. By some strange miracle they had all vanished, leaving me free to safely make my escape across the river. I was so nervous that I kept checking to make sure that they weren’t just napping or hiding, ready to jump out and grab me. I gathered up my courage, picked up my backpack, slung it across my back and cautiously moved toward the German control post until I was near enough to see that, beyond a doubt, the German sentry was not at his post.

To say I was baffled would be an understatement, but without any further hesitation, I took advantage of the situation and went straight to the river and took off all my clothes except for the bathing suit I wore underneath. I then packed my clothes into the backpack and strapped it tightly across my shoulders. With one final look all around through the binoculars to satisfy myself that I was alone, I plunged into the frigid river. The sudden shock left me gasping for air and my cumbersome backpack made every stroke more laborious than the last.

I wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer and could only swim short distances before running out of breath. I also tended to panic unless I stayed close to the shore. Under the circumstances, I had to rely entirely on willpower to keep me going. The freezing water temperature was only a minor concern compared to the far more serious problem of remaining afloat. As my strength waned, my arms felt as heavy as lead, forcing me to stop and rest. I went into a real panic when several times I swallowed mouthfuls of water. When I checked my progress after these incidents, I saw to my dismay that I had only covered about a third of the distance. Using every ounce of energy to increase my pace, I forced myself to labour on mechanically, afraid that my strength would give out at any moment.

The realization that the Germans might spot me and shoot me gave me the impetus to keep going. By the time that I had covered two-thirds of the distance and was within reach of the free zone, however, my strength began to seriously fade and I was consumed with fear. I was so exhausted that I could only occasionally kick my legs. At the very moment when my strength gave out completely and I was no longer able to stay afloat, on the verge of going under, I found within myself a renewed energy that came from pure determination. I managed to fight off my fatigue and before long I found myself grasping the shores of the unoccupied zone of France and my entry into freedom.

Citoyen de nulle part

L’Occupation et l’évasion

J’ai remarqué que les gardes allemands flânaient jusqu’au poste suivant, qui se trouvait assez loin, puis s’arrêtaient pour bavarder, parfois pendant près d’une demi-heure. Tout semblait jouer en ma faveur si ce n’était que le soleil n’allait pas tarder à se coucher et qu’il me serait beaucoup plus difficile de faire la traversée dans le noir. Je n’avais pas envie de passer la nuit au beau milieu d’un champ, mais je n’avais guère le choix. Requinqué par les merveilleux sandwiches que ma tante avait préparés pour mon voyage, je me suis installé pour ce qui allait sans doute être la nuit la plus longue de ma vie. Alors que le crépuscule cédait peu à peu aux ténèbres les plus noires et que je ne voyais plus rien derrière mes jumelles, j’ai essayé de me servir de mon sac à dos comme oreiller et j’ai tenté de dormir. En dépit de tous mes efforts, je n’arrivais pas à trouver une position confortable. Étant de plus complètement frigorifié, j’ai passé une nuit plutôt agitée. L’aube n’arriverait-elle donc jamais ?

Lorsque le jour s’est enfin levé, je n’avais qu’une seule envie : boire un café au lait. Ma montre indiquait 5 heures et il commençait à faire assez clair. Lorsque j’ai regardé à travers les jumelles, je me suis demandé si j’avais des hallucinations. Il n’y avait pas un seul Allemand en vue. Par quelque étrange miracle, ils avaient tous disparu, me laissant libre de m’enfuir et de franchir la rivière en toute sécurité. J’étais si nerveux que je n’arrêtais pas de vérifier pour bien m’assurer qu’ils n’étaient pas juste en train de faire un somme ou de se cacher, prêts à bondir pour m’arrêter. J’ai rassemblé tout mon courage, ramassé mon sac que j’ai remis sur mon dos, puis je me suis avancé prudemment vers le poste de contrôle allemand jusqu’à ce que j’en sois suffisamment près pour constater qu’effectivement, sans l’ombre d’un doute, la sentinelle allemande n’était pas à son poste.

J’étais franchement perplexe, c’est le moins qu’on puisse dire ! Cependant, sans hésiter plus longtemps, j’ai tiré parti de la situation et j’ai foncé droit vers la rivière. J’ai enlevé tous mes vêtements, à l’exception du maillot de bain que je portais en dessous, puis j’ai rangé le tout dans mon sac à dos avant de le sangler solidement sur mes épaules. Après un dernier coup d’oeil alentour à travers mes jumelles pour m’assurer que j’étais bien seul, j’ai plongé dans les eaux glacées de la rivière. Le choc brutal m’a coupé le souffle. Mon sac à dos qui était encombrant rendait chaque brasse plus laborieuse que la précédente.

N’étant pas particulièrement bon à la nage, je n’étais capable de couvrir que de courtes distances avant de m’essouffler. J’avais aussi tendance à paniquer dès que je m’éloignais du bord. Dans ces circonstances, je ne pouvais compter que sur ma volonté pour continuer. La température glaciale de l’eau ne représentait qu’un souci mineur comparé au problème nettement plus sérieux consistant à me maintenir à flot. À mesure que je faiblissais, mes bras semblaient être de plomb, m’obligeant à marquer une pause. J’ai alors réellement cédé à la panique après avoir bu plusieurs fois la tasse. Lorsque j’ai vérifié où j’en étais après ces incidents, j’ai constaté à mon grand désarroi que je n’avais franchi qu’un tiers de la distance. Puisant dans toutes les réserves d’énergie qui me restaient, et malgré ma crainte de voir mes forces me lâcher, je me suis forcé à accélérer et à continuer à nager machinalement.

Je me suis dit que les Allemands pouvaient me repérer et m’abattre, ce qui m’a donné l’élan dont j’avais besoin pour poursuivre. Cependant, alors que j’avais couvert les deux tiers de la distance et que je me trouvais à portée de la Zone libre, mes forces ont commencé à me faire réellement défaut. J’étais submergé par la peur et tellement épuisé que je ne parvenais qu’à battre sporadiquement des pieds. Au moment même où je me suis senti complètement vidé, incapable de me maintenir à flot une seconde de plus et sur le point de sombrer, j’ai trouvé au fond de moi une énergie nouvelle tenant de la pure détermination. J’ai réussi à surmonter l’épuisement et, quelques instants plus tard, je touchais la berge opposée. J’entrais enfin en Zone libre, en terre de liberté.

Daring to Hope

Safe and Thankful

My brother Shieh, after running around asking people to hide us, finally found Panie Boguszewska, who was willing to take us in for two weeks. … At Panie Boguszewska’s we regained our strength. She fed us bet­ter than Klemens had, and most importantly, she treated us like hu­man beings. But the place was extremely cramped. There was only enough room for us to sit or lie down, but not to walk about much.

Our Chanale felt miserable. She was lonesome for little Shieleh, who she had played with when we were all together. Through the same cracks that let in the light for us to work by, she could see other children playing outside. The house and barn were in a village, and it was late spring, early summer, May and June, when everything grows and blossoms. Even the birds sang better in the spring. Well, during this time, Mother would tell Chanale all kinds of stories from the Bible and from Jewish history. All the stories had a happy ending for Jews, and Chanale constantly demanded, “When will that miracle happen to us? When will I be able to go outside and play with the children?” Her longing for the outside was unbearable. She envied the chickens she saw pecking at their food and the sheep she saw run­ning in the fields — she wanted to be one of them — but, most of all, she wanted to be a bird. “The Germans wouldn’t reach me. I would fly higher and higher. I would spit in their faces.”

We tried to feed her on the hope that soon, soon our liberation would come. But we knew that freedom was a long way off. Though they were slowly retreating, the Germans were still deep in the Soviet Union.

By this point we had given away almost everything we had and were desperate to get our things back from Mikolai. Shieh and one of the young men went to ask for them, but Mikolai told them that Germans had searched his house and taken everything. Shieh knew that this was a lie, having asked one of the neighbours about it, so I asked Panie Boguszewska if she would take a letter and personally place it in Mikolai’s hand when he left the office where he worked. She agreed.

I wrote a long letter reminding Mikolai of our family friendship. You shouldn’t be corrupted by the idea of possessing another suit or article of clothing, I wrote. You won’t enjoy wearing them, knowing that those same things could have bought another few days or weeks of life for my family and me. I also reminded him that there is such a thing as having to live with oneself, that no matter how he might try to forget the wrong he was doing, and it might be buried deep, it will never go away. I told him that he shouldn’t let himself be influenced by his wife, who wanted our belongings, but should rather make her understand what they were doing to desperate, half-dead people. I reminded him how he had once told me with pride about his experi­ences in World War I, when he had warned Jewish families who were about to be robbed. I tried to make him understand that the world wouldn’t come to an end after the war, and that whoever survived would have on his conscience every wrong he had done. When Panie Boguszewska came back, she asked me what I had written to Mikolai. She told me that when he read the letter, he start­ed to cry and didn’t stop, even when he finished it. Then Mikolai told her, “No matter what, tell them to come for their things.” A few evenings later, I went with Avrumeh and we got our belongings back.

Passport to Reprieve

The Passport

In late fall 1940, we received what was to become Father’s most significant and crucial letter during the entire period. In it, he told us that he had become a Nicaraguan citizen and that, according to the laws of Nicaragua, the same citizenship had been conferred on us, his family. “Be of good cheer,” he wrote, “for your new passports are on the way, and, as foreigners, you will be permitted to join me.”

Our first reaction was that of utter disbelief. In our boldest dreams of rescue, such an esoteric, unique possibility had never occurred to us. It bordered on magic and the supernatural. How did Father manage all those miracles? We marvelled at the constant, unrelieved thinking about our plight that he had been engaging in to come up with such mind-boggling ways to be useful to us. We could almost physically feel his presence, despite the distance separating us, for in his heart and mind he was not really away at all.

After our initial sense of wonder and exultation had subsided, I did some serious thinking and began to worry all over again. While it was true, I mused, that we might have a better chance of getting an exit visa as neutral aliens, how were we going to convince the Gestapo that the whole thing was genuine? After all, everybody knew that we had been living in Tarnów for many years, and that Father had gone to Canada, not to Nicaragua. I argued with myself that the Gestapo did not know it, and our friends were not about to enlighten them. Worn out from our endless talks all starting with, “Wonderful, but what if...?” the three of us finally decided to cross this newest of bridges when we came to it.

We came to it soon enough. Toward the end of 1940, the Polish postman brought us a thick manila envelope, covered with stamps and official-looking seals on both sides, on which the return ad­dress read: The Consulate General of the Republic of Nicaragua, New York, U.S.A. We were practically falling over one another to have a look when the contents began to emerge. Finally, while we held our breaths, Mother took out three light-blue folders. Even though Father had alerted us to their imminent arrival, it was still beyond belief to discover that they were actual passports, one for each of us, with re­cent photos of ourselves (which we had sent to Father earlier on his request) staring at us from the page, with unmistakably Spanish print listing the usual passport particulars, and with a highly conspicuous, large stamp of the Republic of Nicaragua across the printed informa­tion. We realized that the passports had been issued in New York and were definitely genuine; we had enough experience, by now, to spot forged documents.

I had practically given up all efforts to obtain the elusive exit visa, but I was now catapulted into action once again. First, I discussed the new situation with my trusted friends, Meyer, Jurek, Resia and Klara. They handled and studied my passport with reverence approaching awe. My father, whom they had all liked and respected, rose in their estimation to almost God-like proportions. He seemed to be able to accomplish what nobody else could or dared imagine — the impossible. Later, on sober reflection, they all counselled me that if I wanted to turn the extraordinary documents to our advantage, I had to register our new status with the puppet Polish authorities as well as with the Gestapo. At that point, I began to feel as though the ex­changes between Father and us were like some carefully staged game of volleying a ball back and forth. The ball was now in our court. It was our turn to act.

My friends’ advice confirmed the decision I had already made but on which, at least for the moment, I was too frightened to act. All the “what ifs” haunted me, robbing me of my sleep, and making me go robot-like about my daily chores. I thought of the murders, tortures and hastily dug graves I had both seen and heard about, and feared that we three would become added drops to the huge bloodbath as soon as we came near anyone wearing a cap with a skull and cross­bones on it. But I also knew that I could not delay much longer what was obviously necessary to do. Besides, if I did not take all possible steps, it would be tantamount to the betrayal of Father, who, thou­sands of miles and a whole battered continent away, was watching over us, never stopping his attempts to perform the miracle of our reunion. As inaction was unthinkable, I plunged in.

The Nightmare

Across the Rivers of Memory

I remember the cold, rainy autumn day in October 1941 when the youngster at City Hall announced that all Jews must be at the train station at 5:00 p.m. sharp. We were to pack food for three days and take only as much as we could carry. The youngster yelled out the order with a voice full of hatred, sneering at us with the authority of someone assigned full control over our destinies. Privately, to protect me from hearing, my father told my mother the final words of the ordinance. She repeated his words in shock: “Anybody found after the train has left will be shot.” Because we had been told to pack enough food for just three days, we naturally assumed, as any level-headed person might, that we would be returning home after three days. How could it possibly be otherwise? Such a thought was beyond our imagination. After packing, Mama started obsessively cleaning the house, demanding that I help her as she quickly moved from sofa to chair. I couldn’t understand why. The house was already so clean; hadn’t she cleaned it just the day before? I knew better than to question her – she was in such a terrible mood. We were ready to leave when Mama noticed that I had left my apron on the kitchen chair instead of hanging it up on the hook where it belonged. She screamed at me and I had to go and put it back in its place. That is how I remember the very last moment in our home.

My mother layered me in three pairs of long underwear, three sweaters and two coats, explaining as she was dressing me that it was very, very cold. It reminded me of my mother’s compulsion to fatten me up with “reserves,” always protecting me in case of an emergency. I was wearing my backpack when we left to walk to the train station. My parents carried the heavy bundles as well as pots full of food: schnitzels, which my mother had made that day from chicken breasts, and hearts of wheat as a side dish. We had just enough for three days for the three of us.

At the station, I stood with my parents, surrounded by our family: my aunt Mila and uncle Armin Treiser; my maternal grandmother, Rebecca Siegler; and my paternal grandparents, Beile and Elkhanan Steigman. A little farther away were more aunts, uncles and cousins. Most of the adults around us were silent, as if hypnotized; some were moaning and groaning. Kids were chattering and babies were crying. Now and then there was a burst of screaming when someone lost their child or their parents in the crowd. I asked myself, “How come everybody is travelling tonight, all at the same time, all to the same place, all with the same train?”

I saw that passenger trains were coming and leaving without stopping for us and knew instinctively that something was off. It was almost dark, getting colder, and we were still waiting in the rain. We began to get impatient. “In the train, it will be warm,” I reassured myself. I was leaning against my mama and closed my eyes. We stood there from about 5:00 p.m. until 9:00 p.m., with passenger trains going back and forth, back and forth. To keep my mind busy, I was thinking about how cold it was in the forest and how the animals must be freezing. I felt bad for them.

Suddenly, a very long, brown train pulled in and stopped. It was a cattle train meant for beasts, not people. The doors, as big as walls, slid open with a thud. The soldiers were screaming at us, shouting, swearing, pushing, pulling, and barking orders for us to get in. Frantically, people began running, slipping in the mud, falling down and getting up. Everybody was moving and yelling. We were being herded with rifle butts into the cars. For a few minutes, I couldn’t see my parents. I panicked. Then, I fell in the mud and got a nosebleed. Somebody stepped on my hand. “Don’t step on me!” I yelled. I was pulled from the mud. I was afraid Mama would be angry because there was mud and blood all over my face, my mittens and my coat. The next thing I knew, I was picked up and thrown into the train.

After hours of waiting in the cold rain, we were stuffed, body touching body, into the train and the huge doors were slammed shut. The train stood in the station for at least two more hours before surging violently forward. We had no idea to where, for how long or why we were being taken away from our homes.

Hide and Seek: In Pursuit of Justice

The Secret

Going to church was easier than doing homework; I only had to imitate what Aunt Minn did. I had no awareness of pretending to be Catholic. When going to church, I felt I was Catholic, and I had no sense that being Christian was a different religion than being Jewish. But one time, I did confide in one of my young friends. We were at school when I whispered to him, Do you know how to keep a secret? He whispered back, Of course! I told him, I’m Jewish. He was sur­prised, and then gave me a huge smile. He whispered: That’s amazing! You’re the same religion as Jesus! He then glanced at me with admira­tion. I quickly said, Please tell no one! He nodded while I put a finger over my mouth. Your secret is safe with me, he whispered. As far as I know, he never told anyone. We simply continued our childhood camaraderie and never spoke about it again. I was oblivious to the danger I had put myself in.

After school, it was time for fun. One of my favourite games was hide-and-seek. My classmates and I would hide in the various nooks and crannies of the church when it was empty of adults. My best hid­ing place was in one of the confession booths. But after hiding there several times, I decided that it was a sin. So, on confession day, when my classmates and I lined up in front of the confession booth, I told the priest that I was very sorry I had hidden in his booth. He asked if I had stolen anything from the church or if I had broken or destroyed anything in the church. I replied that I hadn’t and was upset that the priest would even think that I might steal or break something. The priest told me that I was forgiven; I just shouldn’t hide there again. I was relieved to be free of sin and became a very happy little boy. I planned how, when I saw my mother, I would tell her the priest had forgiven me. You see Mama. I was a good boy after all.

A Symphony of Remembrance

The Cauldron

An order came in the first week of September: everybody from our factory and from the other factories was to go to the Umschlagplatz. Not to go would be to risk death. The day was Sunday, September 6, 1942, and that day’s German action was referred to as “The Cauldron.” My mother was very weak and emaciated, but she bravely summoned all her strength, got dressed and put on lipstick in an attempt to look as well as possible to avoid deportation.

The sun was shining. It was a warm day. We walked together among crowds along Smocza Street toward the Umschlagplatz, supervised by German SS men and Jewish ghetto policemen. I heard a Jewish policeman reporting to a German SS officer, repeating, “Jawohl, Herr Commandant!” (Yes, Mister Commander!) as the German repeatedly slapped his face. We arrived at the entrance to the Umschlagplatz, which looked to me to be a large green field. An SS officer was motioning people to the left, toward the trains, or to the right, from where one would return to one’s workplace. My mother was motioned to the left and I was motioned to the right. We looked at each other and then had to move on. I never saw my mother again.

The action of The Cauldron resulted in about fifty thousand peo­ple going to their deaths in Treblinka, some dying in the trains on the way to the camp, suffering horribly dehumanizing conditions, without food, water or basic hygienic facilities.

After the selection, I returned to where we lived near the factory. Mr. Rechthand was there, but his wife and sister-in-law had been detained at the Umschlagplatz with my mother. It was sometimes possible to get people back from the Umschlagplatz using bribes, American dollars. Mr. Rechthand succeeded in getting his wife and sister-in-law out, but not my mother. I am sure it was not for lack of trying; my mother looked feeble from illness, and that might have made the task impossible. I was devastated and depressed. I felt hope­less, sick and unable to go to work. I begged Mr. Rechthand to issue me a certificate that I was sick so that I could stay off work. He likely had limited authority but reluctantly complied with my request. After a day or so I resumed my work duties. I struggled over the next few weeks and tried to carry on.

A Cry in Unison

Kol Nidre

That year, 1944, everybody came: the believers, the atheists, the Orthodox, the agnostics — women of all descriptions and of every background. We were about seven hundred women, jammed into one long barracks. We were all there, remembering our homes and families on this Yom Kippur, the one holiday that had been observed in even the most assimilated homes. We had asked for and received one candle and one siddur from the kapos. Someone lit the candle, and a hush fell over the barracks. I can still see the scene: the woman, sitting with the lit candle, starting to read Kol Nidre, the opening prayer of Yom Kippur.

The kapos gave us only ten minutes while they guarded the two entrances to the barracks to watch out for SS guards who might come around unexpectedly. Practising Judaism or celebrating any Jewish holiday was forbidden in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp. The Nazis knew it would give solace to the prisoners. But this particular year, some of the older women had asked two kapos for permission to do something for the eve of Yom Kippur.

Most of the kapos were brutalized and brutal people, but a few of them remained truly kind. We knew these particular two were ap­proachable. One of the kind kapos was a tall blonde Polish woman, non-Jewish. The other one was a petite red-headed young Jewish woman from Slovakia.

When they had heard that we wanted to do something for Kol Nidre, the red-headed kapo was simply amazed that anyone still wanted to pray in that hellhole of Birkenau.

“You crazy Hungarian Jews,” she exclaimed. “You still believe in this? You still want to do this, and here?”

Well, incredibly, we did — in this place where we felt that instead of asking for forgiveness from God, God should be asking for forgive­ness from us. We all wanted to gather around the woman with the lit candle and siddur. She began to recite the Kol Nidre very slowly so that we could repeat the words if we wanted to. But we didn’t. In­stead, all the women burst out in a cry — in unison. Our prayer was the sound of this incredible cry of hundreds of women. I have never heard, before or since then, such a heart-rending sound. Something was happening to us. It was as if our hearts were bursting.

Even though no one really believed the prayer would change our situation, that God would suddenly intervene — we weren’t that na­ive — the opportunity to cry out and remember together reminded us of our former lives, alleviating our utter misery even for the short­est while, in some inexplicable way. It seemed to give us comfort.

Even today, many decades later, every time I go to Kol Nidre ser­vices, I can’t shake the memory of that sound. This is the Kol Nidre I always remember.

Getting Out Alive

The German Occupation

I was sent to a labour camp somewhere in greater Budapest. I believe it was in Kispest (“little Pest,” a southern suburb) or Újpest (“new Pest,” a more northerly suburb). I stayed in greater Budapest throughout my career as a forced labourer. At the main camp, the commander and the guards were indifferent, but not sadistic. The inmates were a cross-section of Hungarian Jewry. Among them were Orthodox Jews who worked wearing their skullcaps and who prayed wearing their prayer shawls every night, and assimilated Jewish inmates – those who were not Jewish in any religious sense, but who were Jewish by virtue of Hitler’s edict. The forced labourers represented all parts of the economic spectrum, all ages and all levels of education. I shovelled dirt with Dr. Schisha, a vascular surgeon (who had operated on my varicose veins when I was fourteen) and with a Justice of the Kúria, the highest court in the land. There were, of course, a lot of less accomplished fellows as well. The food was edible, lots of mutton that did not smell very good, but care packages from home improved the menu. We had occasional day passes to go home to be with family and friends, have a hot bath and savour mother’s cooking.

Such was life in the main camp. From the middle of July to the middle of September, I, along with a large group of young people from various camps in and around Budapest, was sent to Hárossziget (Haros Island), an island south of Csepel (an island south of Budapest), which was a very punishing experience. What made it worse was the sadistic camp commander and the nasty, mean-spirited guards who worked under his command. Rubble from the bombdamaged city was trucked to the island and piled up in pyramid-like heaps. Our job was to quickly level these pyramids. I remember when big chunks of the wire-mesh glass roof of our bombed-out railway stations arrived at the island. Without the benefit of work gloves, we had to break it up and handle the dirty jagged glass. Apparently, the purpose of the job was to fill up the marshy part of the island. But it was a make-work project, as they could have trucked the stuff directly to the marshes.

Around the middle of September, we were relieved by a new group, so we returned to the main camp. Occasional day passes were given and at times I would be home at the same time as my father and Jancsi. They were in separate camps in Budapest and coping quite well. Mother lived in our apartment at Hold Street No. 6 III. Her brother Feri, his wife, Blanka, and several friends had moved in with her. Each room housed a family, which lessened the chance that the authorities would put strangers into the apartment.

It was in this atmosphere, when we all happened to be at home on October 15, 1944, that Admiral Horthy spoke to the nation via radio during a midday broadcast. He conceded that Germany and Hungary had all but lost the war. He urged the population to avoid further bloodshed and to stop resisting the Soviet army, which stood about fifty kilometres east of Budapest. It was a happy moment. We all laughed and cried and hugged as we believed his speech signalled the end of the war and that we had all miraculously survived. We knew that most of the Jews in the countryside beyond the capital had been deported, and that most of them had been killed. But we believed that Horthy’s last minute change of heart, which was most likely motivated by his desire to alter his quisling-like image for post-war effect, gave us a reprieve. We believed that time had run out for the Nazis. The Soviets would soon be here and all would be well.

The euphoria lasted for almost an hour. Then we began hearing conflicting reports. Finally, news came that Horthy had been arrested by the Gestapo and that Ferenc Szálasi, the head of the extreme right Arrow Cross Party, had been appointed by the Germans to form a government. His reign of terror began that afternoon. That was the last time I saw my father. We had a long talk and agreed on two principles: 1) As long as our respective labour camps remained in Budapest, we would be safer in those camps than if we were to escape and start hiding prematurely; and 2) Before the camps were moved, we should make every effort to escape in order to avoid deportation.

Objectif : survivre

L'Occupation allemande

J’ai été envoyé dans un camp de travail quelque part dans la banlieue de Budapest, soit à Kispest (« la petite Pest », située au sud de la ville) soit à Újpest (« la nouvelle Pest », plus au nord). Je suis resté dans la banlieue de Budapest tout le temps que j’ai effectué des travaux forcés. Dans le camp principal, certes le chef et les gardes restaient indifférents à notre sort, mais ils n’étaient pas sadiques. Les détenus étaient représentatifs de l’ensemble de la société juive hongroise. Il y avait parmi nous des Juifs orthodoxes qui portaient la kippa en travaillant et priaient tous les soirs en châle de prière et des Juifs assimilés – ceux qui n’étaient pas juifs dans le sens religieux du terme, mais qui se retrouvaient « juifs » en vertu du décret de Hitler. Les travailleurs forcés étaient de tous horizons sociaux, de tous âges, de tous niveaux d’études. Je maniais la pelle aux côtés du Dʳ Schisha, le chirurgien vasculaire qui m’avait opéré des varices quand j’avais 14 ans, et d’un juge de la Kúria, la plus haute cour du pays. Il y avait bien sûr beaucoup d’autres personnes bien moins notables. La nourriture était correcte. Le plus souvent, c’était du mouton qui ne sentait pas bon, mais des colis venus de la maison venaient améliorer l’ordinaire. Nous avions de temps à autre des laissez-passer pour la journée et nous pouvions rentrer chez nous, retrouver nos familles et nos amis, prendre un bain chaud et savourer la cuisine familiale. Ainsi allait la vie dans le camp principal. De la mi-juillet à la mi-septembre, j’ai été envoyé, avec de nombreux autres jeunes provenant de différents camps situés à l’extérieur de Budapest, à Háros-sziget, une île située au sud de l’île de Csepel, au sud de Budapest. Cette expérience a été d’une dureté extrême. Elle a été pire que la précédente du fait du sadisme du chef de camp et de la méchanceté et de la malveillance des gardes qui travaillaient sous ses ordres. Les décombres de la ville bombardée étaient transportés sur l’île par camion et déversés en tas de forme pyramidale. Notre travail consistait à niveler rapidement ces pyramides. Je me rappelle le moment où sont arrivés sur l’île de gros blocs provenant des toits en verre armé de nos gares bombardées. Sans gants de travail, nous devions les casser en petits morceaux et manier ces fragments coupants et sales. Officiellement, le travail avait pour but de combler la partie marécageuse de l’île. Mais en fait, il s’agissait simplement de nous faire travailler, puisque tout ce fatras aurait pu être transporté et déversé directement des camions dans les marais.

Vers la mi-septembre, un nouveau groupe est venu prendre le relais et nous sommes donc retournés dans le camp principal. Des laissez-passer d’une journée étaient distribués occasionnellement et il m’arrivait parfois de rentrer à la maison en même temps que mon père et que Jancsi. Ils travaillaient dans des camps différents à Budapest et tenaient bien le coup. Maman habitait notre appartement au numéro 6 ter de la rue Hold. Son frère Feri, la femme de ce dernier, Blanka, et plusieurs amis avaient emménagé avec elle. Chaque chambre abritait une famille, ce qui réduisait le risque que les autorités n’installent des étrangers dans l’appartement.

C’est dans cette atmosphère que, le 15 octobre 1944, nous nous sommes tous retrouvés à la maison au moment où nous avons entendu à la radio, en milieu de journée, l’amiral Horthy parler à la nation. Il a avoué que l’Allemagne et la Hongrie avaient quasiment perdu la guerre. Il appelait la population à éviter toute autre effusion de sang et à arrêter de résister à l’armée soviétique qui se trouvait à environ 50 kilomètres à l’est de Budapest. La nouvelle nous a remplis de joie. Nous nous sommes tous mis à rire, à crier et à nous embrasser, pensant que ce discours annonçait la fin de la guerre et que nous avions tous miraculeusement survécu. Nous savions que la majorité des Juifs qui habitaient la campagne, à l’extérieur de la capitale, avaient été déportés et tués. Mais le revirement soudain de Horthy, très certainement motivé par le désir de modifier son image de collaborateur en prévision de l’après-guerre, nous accordait un sursis. Nous pensions que les nazis avaient fait leur temps. Les Soviétiques arriveraient bientôt et tout irait bien.

L’euphorie a duré à peine une heure. Puis nous avons commencé à recevoir des nouvelles contradictoires. Finalement, nous avons appris que Horthy avait été arrêté par la Gestapo et que Ferenc Szálasi, le chef du parti d’extrême droite des Croix-Fléchées, avait été désigné par les Allemands pour constituer un nouveau gouvernement. Dans l’après-midi même, il entamait son règne de terreur.

C’est cet après-midi-là aussi que je voyais mon père pour la dernière fois. Nous avons eu une longue conversation et nous nous sommes entendus sur deux choses : premièrement, tant que nos camps respectifs se trouvaient à Budapest, nous y serions plus en sécurité que si nous essayions de nous échapper et de nous cacher immédiatement et, deuxièmement, juste avant que les camps ne soient déplacés, nous ferions tout notre possible pour nous enfuir afin d’échapper à la déportation.

A Childhood Unspoken

I was on a farm, I think — I’m not sure which one; the child Mariette didn’t organize time like we do, and I never learned names or faces — and it was my birthday, and the woman I was living with took me back into the city, into Brussels, so that I could celebrate my birthday with my mother. I hadn’t been home for a long time, so I was excited to see Maman. I remember walking with this woman down the street, and in the distance I could see my mother, and with her was my brother Albert. And I remember thinking how beautiful she was, all dressed up to celebrate. I could see her hair, and how carefully she had done it, in waves. I was so happy to see her again, and I thought how lucky I was to be able to spend my birthday with my mother and that this was the best present I could have been given. Suddenly, the woman I was walking with took hold of me roughly and covered my mouth, just as I was going to call Maman, to stop me from yelling. A truck had driven up to where my mother and brother were and stopped. Ger­mans flooded out and grabbed my mother and brother and put them in the truck. Just like that. I never saw them again.

Since then, I have refused to celebrate my birthday, which is on May 10. For many years, I didn’t explain to my husband or children why. I would just say that it was close to Mother’s Day and Mother’s Day was enough. How do you share such a painful memory? How do you say, as a grown woman, that the child in you relives that memory each year on her birthday, and how can you celebrate anything while reliving such a painful event?

For many, many decades I thought I had seen my mother be­ing taken away in 1942, around my seventh birthday. Very recently I learned that this happened in 1943. Documents in the Belgian archives list my mother’s arrest date, along with Albert’s, as May 27, 1943. So I surmise that I was returning home to celebrate my eighth birthday, not my seventh birthday, as I remembered. This detail may seem minor, but it is incredibly important to me, and it was also an enormously relieving discovery. For so long I had lived with this memory inside me but could not say for sure that was how it had happened. To find out that your memory, your truth, is also real…that is a feeling I cannot easily describe.

Retenue par un fil/Une question de chance, Judy Abrams, Eva Felsenburg Marx

Deux fillettes, nées à six mois d’écart et dans deux pays différents, sont plongées brutalement dans la tourmente et la terreur de la Deuxième Guerre mondiale. Filles uniques, elles connaissent des parcours remarquablement similaires, Judit en Hongrie et Eva en Tchécoslovaquie. Séparées de leurs parents, obligées de se faire passer pour des chrétiennes, confrontées à des situations qui les dépassent, les deux fillettes vivent une enfance qui restera marquée à jamais par l’Holocauste. Leurs mémoires évoquent de manière expressive et personnelle les parcours parallèles et néanmoins uniques de ces deux enfants qui ont survécu là où tant d’autres ont péri.

Préface de Mia Spiro

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Judy Abrams:
Hungary
Hidden child
Passing/false identity
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Educational materials available: Enfants cachés
Judy Abrams activity
Eva Felsenburg Marx:
Czechoslovakia; Slovakia
Hiding
Passing/false identity
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
French

256 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Judy Abrams

Judy Abrams, born in Budapest, Hungary, on April 28, 1937, immigrated to Montreal in 1949 and later taught French at the UN International School in New York City. Judy and her husband live in Montreal.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

About the author

Photo of Eva Felsenburg Marx

Eva Marx was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic), on October 21, 1937. She immigrated to Montreal in 1949, where she became an elementary school teacher. Eva Marx lives in Montreal.

Tenuous Threads/One of the Lucky Ones, Judy Abrams, Eva Felsenburg Marx

Two Jewish girls born six months apart — Judit Grünfeld (Judy Abrams) in Hungary and Eva Felsenburg (Marx) in Czechoslovakia — are only children when they are thrown into the turmoil and terror of World War II. At seven, Judy’s mother leaves her at a convent where she must adopt a new Christian identity. Eva is first sent away at two, then again at six, in disguise and tearful. Separated from their parents, forced to “pass” as Christian children, coping with dangers they barely understand, these evocative and lyrical memoirs describe childhoods irrevocably marked by the Holocaust. Tenuous Threads and One of the Lucky Ones tell us the parallel but unique stories of two children who were able to survive when so many others perished.

Introduction by Mia Spiro

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Judy Abrams:
Hungary
Hidden child
Passing/false identity
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Educational materials available: Hidden Children
Judy Abrams Activity
Eva Felsenburg Marx:
Czechoslovakia; Slovakia
Hiding
Passing/false identity
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
English

224 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Judy Abrams

Judy Abrams, born in Budapest, Hungary, on April 28, 1937, immigrated to Montreal in 1949 and later taught French at the UN International School in New York City. Judy and her husband live in Montreal.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

About the author

Photo of Eva Felsenburg Marx

Eva Marx was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic), on October 21, 1937. She immigrated to Montreal in 1949, where she became an elementary school teacher. Eva Marx lives in Montreal.

Six Lost Years, Amek Adler

“How much longer could we last?” sixteen-year-old Amek Adler laments, after arriving at yet one more concentration camp in the spring of 1945. From the Lodz and Warsaw ghettos to the Radom forced labour camp, and from the Natzweiler concentration camp to Dachau, Amek has witnessed too much destruction and tragedy to bear any more suffering. To hold onto hope for his survival, he dreams of the life he had with his parents and three brothers, reminiscing about holidays, social events and dinners; he dreams of a life without pain and starvation; and he dreams of the future. When Amek is finally liberated, he is determined to embrace all the opportunities that freedom offers. Six Lost Years is a story of the courage it takes to confront the past, live for the present and embrace the future.

Introduction by Idit Gil

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Lodz ghetto, Warsaw ghetto, Radom ghetto
Forced labour and concentration camps
Dachau concentration camp
Postwar Italy, displaced persons camp; Sweden
Arrived in Canada in 1954
Adjusting to life in Canada
Educational materials available: The Warsaw Ghetto: From Persecution to Resistance
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

144 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Amek Adler

Abram (Amek) Adler was born in Lublin, Poland, on April 20, 1928. He was liberated in April 1945, eventually reuniting with his mother and two of his brothers. Amek lived in Italy between 1945 and 1947, immigrated to Sweden in 1948 and then to Canada in 1954 with his wife, Ruth. In Toronto, Amek succeeded in both the fur industry and the jewellery business, becoming president of the Canadian Jewellers Association in 1989. Amek spoke to numerous audiences about his experiences during the Holocaust and educated countless students on March of the Living. Amek Adler passed away in 2017.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Six années volées, Amek Adler

« Combien de temps pourrions-nous encore tenir ? » déplore Amek Adler, 17 ans, à son arrivée dans un énième camp de concentration au printemps 1945. Dans les ghettos de Łódź et de Varsovie, au camp de travaux forcés de Radom, au camp de concentration de Natzweiler puis à celui de Dachau, Amek a été témoin de trop de scènes de destruction et de tragédie pour pouvoir endurer davantage de souffrances. Pour tenir bon et survivre, il s’accroche aux souvenirs heureux partagés avec ses parents et ses trois frères ; il se remémore les vacances, les soirées et les soupers ; il imagine une vie sans souffrances et sans faim ; il rêve de l’avenir. Quand sa détention prend fin, Amek est déterminé à saisir toutes les possibilités que lui offre sa liberté nouvellement acquise. Six années volées évoque le courage qu’il lui a fallu pour affronter le passé, profiter du jour présent et se projeter dans l’avenir.

Préface de Idit Gil

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Lodz ghetto, Warsaw ghetto, Radom ghetto
Forced labour and concentration camps
Dachau concentration camp
Postwar Italy, displaced persons camp; Sweden
Arrived in Canada in 1954
Adjusting to life in Canada
Educational materials available Dans le ghetto de Varsovie : entre persécutions et résistance
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

152 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Amek Adler

Abram (Amek) Adler was born in Lublin, Poland, on April 20, 1928. He was liberated in April 1945, eventually reuniting with his mother and two of his brothers. Amek lived in Italy between 1945 and 1947, immigrated to Sweden in 1948 and then to Canada in 1954 with his wife, Ruth. In Toronto, Amek succeeded in both the fur industry and the jewellery business, becoming president of the Canadian Jewellers Association in 1989. Amek spoke to numerous audiences about his experiences during the Holocaust and educated countless students on March of the Living. Amek Adler passed away in 2017.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

In the Hour of Fate and Danger, Ferenc Andai

In the lush mountains of Serbia in 1944, thousands of Hungarian Jewish men are held captive as slave labourers, their pain and suffering echoing in the silence of their surroundings. Within the beauty and the devastation, nineteen-year-old Ferenc Andai is forced to work to exhaustion, subject to the whims of cruel Hungarian commanders and German overseers. For Ferenc, the only relief from his harsh reality is his company — an artistic and literary circle of men that includes the renowned poet Miklós Radnóti. As liberation inches closer and a fierce battle for power between Nazi collaborators and resisters rages on in the region, Ferenc faces decisions that will determine whether he lives or dies. Powerful, evocative and lyrical, In the Hour of Fate and Danger is the true story of Ferenc’s chilling and suspenseful journey through Nazi-occupied Serbia.

Introduction by Robert Rozett

Read a review of In the Hour of Fate and Danger.

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Hungary; Yugoslavia; Serbia; Romania
Bor, Serbia, forced labour camps
Resistance
Tito Partisans
Poetry by Miklós Radnóti
Arrived in Canada in 1957
Published in Hungarian in 2003
Winner of 2004 Miklós Radnóti Prize
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

276 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Ferenc Andai

Ferenc Andai (1925–2013) was born in Budapest, Hungary. He arrived in Canada in 1957, where he obtained an MA in Slavic Studies from the Université de Montréal and a teaching diploma from McGill University. He also earned his PhD in history (summa cum laude) from Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest. Ferenc was a history teacher and then head of a high school social science department. His book Mint tanu szólni: bori történet (To Bear Witness: A Story of Bor) was published by Ab Ovo in 2003 and awarded the Radnóti Miklós National Prize in 2004.

Les Mots enfouis : Le Journal de Molly Applebaum, Molly Applebaum

Sensitive Content Sensitive Content

À l’automne 1942, les rafles de Juifs à Dąbrowa Tarnowska, en Pologne, obligent la jeune Molly Applebaum, 12 ans, et sa cousine Helen à trouver refuge dans une ferme où elles se cachent dans une caisse ensevelie sous terre. Enfermée dans ce « cercueil » de 1943 à 1945, Molly n’a pour seule compagnie que sa cousine et son journal. Au fil des jours, Molly décrit l’espace froid et obscur, la crasse et la vermine, la faim et la relation compliquée avec les deux fermiers polonais qui risquent leur vie pour sauver la sienne. Elle nous livre sans détours ses craintes, ses secrets et surtout son désir ardent de survivre. Les Mots enfouis présente l’extraordinaire journal de Molly, suivi des mémoires qu’elle a rédigés dans les années 1990. Ces deux textes, écrits à 50 ans d’écart, constituent un témoignage courageux et passionnant de son parcours pendant et après la guerre.

Préface de Jan Grabowski

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Hiding
Wartime diary paired with postwar memoir
Postwar Austria and Germany, displaced persons camps
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
2022 Wolfe Chair Holocaust Studies Student Impact Prize
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
French

184 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Molly Applebaum

Molly Applebaum was born in Krakow, Poland, in 1930. After the war, she spent three years in displaced persons camps before immigrating to Canada as a war orphan. Buried Words is the first English translation of the diary Molly wrote in Polish from March 1942 to January 1945, accompanied by the memoir she wrote in the 1990s. Molly Applebaum lives in Toronto.

Buried Words: The Diary of Molly Applebaum, Molly Applebaum

Sensitive Content Sensitive Content

In the fall of 1942, roundups of Jews in Dąbrowa Tarnowska, Poland, lead twelve-year-old Molly Applebaum and her cousin Helen to find refuge on a nearby farm, where their only hope for survival is to be hidden away underground — in a box. Confined “in a grave” from 1943 to early 1945, Molly has only her older cousin and her diary to keep her company. As one day passes into the next, Molly writes of the cold, dark space; the ever-present dirt and bugs; the unbearable suffering from insufficient food; and the difficult, complicated reliance on two Polish farmers who are risking their own lives to save her. A unique and poignant document, Molly’s diary is a stark confession of her fears and anxieties, her despair and her secrets and, above all, her fervent wish to stay alive. Buried Words presents Molly’s extraordinary diary, never before published in English, and also the memoir she wrote in the 1990s. Molly Applebaum’s courageous words, written fifty years apart, offer a fascinating reflection on both her wartime experiences and her postwar life.

Introduction by Jan Grabowski

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Hiding
Wartime diary paired with postwar memoir
Postwar Austria and Germany, displaced persons camps
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
2022 Wolfe Chair Holocaust Studies Student Impact Prize
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

184 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Molly Applebaum

Molly Applebaum was born in Krakow, Poland, in 1930. After the war, she spent three years in displaced persons camps before immigrating to Canada as a war orphan. Buried Words is the first English translation of the diary Molly wrote in Polish from March 1942 to January 1945, accompanied by the memoir she wrote in the 1990s. Molly Applebaum lives in Toronto.

Le Colis caché, Claire Baum

Près de 40 ans après la fin de la guerre, Claire Baum a ouvert un colis que lui a fait parvenir une inconnue de Rotterdam, déclenchant un flot de souvenirs d’enfance refoulés. En replongeant dans son passé, Claire a mis au jour le sacrifice et le courage de ses parents, de la Résistance néerlandaise et des familles qui lui ont procuré un refuge ainsi qu’à sa sœur, Ollie. Le Colis caché met en scène ses années passées en clandestinité et rend hommage à tous ceux qui ont joué un rôle dans sa survie et ainsi, assuré la pérennité de sa famille.

Préface de Carolyne Van Der Meer

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
The Netherlands
Hidden child
Wartime letters and drawings
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Educational materials available: Enfants cachés
Claire Baum
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
French

144 pages, including index

2015 Moonbeam Children's Book Award Bronze Medal

About the author

Photo of Claire Baum

Claire Baum was born in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, in 1936. She and her sister were liberated by the Canadian Army on May 5, 1945. She arrived in Canada with her family in 1951 and married Seymour Baum in 1956. Together they raised three children and built a very successful business. Claire has been a Holocaust educator since 1984, speaking predominantly to younger students about her experience during the war and her appreciation for living in Canada, the land of her liberators. Claire lives in Toronto.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

The Hidden Package, Claire Baum

Almost forty years after the end of the war, Claire Baum opens a package from a stranger in Rotterdam, unleashing a flood of repressed memories from her childhood. As Claire delves into her past, she uncovers the personal sacrifice and bravery of her parents, the Dutch resistance and the families that selflessly gave shelter to her and her sister, Ollie. The Hidden Package portrays Claire’s years spent in hiding and pays tribute to all those who played a part in saving her life and ensuring a future for the next generations of her family.

Introduction by Carolyne Van Der Meer

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
The Netherlands
Hidden child
Wartime letters and drawings
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Educational materials available: Hidden Children
Liberation through the Eyes of a Hidden Child
Claire Baum activity
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
English

132 pages, including index

2015 Moonbeam Children's Book Award Bronze Medal

About the author

Photo of Claire Baum

Claire Baum was born in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, in 1936. She and her sister were liberated by the Canadian Army on May 5, 1945. She arrived in Canada with her family in 1951 and married Seymour Baum in 1956. Together they raised three children and built a very successful business. Claire has been a Holocaust educator since 1984, speaking predominantly to younger students about her experience during the war and her appreciation for living in Canada, the land of her liberators. Claire lives in Toronto.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Joy Runs Deeper, Bronia Beker, Joseph Beker

Bronia Rohatiner and Josio (Joseph) Beker grow up in the shtetl of Kozowa, Poland, a small town filled with lively culture, eccentric characters and extended family. When nineteen-year-old Bronia meets the older, handsome Josio, she is charmed by his confidence and fearlessness. Separated when Josio is drafted into the army, reunited amid the chaos of the war, their connection endures as their persecution intensifies. After tragedy strikes Bronia’s family, Josio strengthens her will to live. When everything they hold dear is lost, together they build a new future.

Introduction by Jeanne Beker

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding
Escape
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

144 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Bronia Beker

Bronia (née Rohatiner) Beker was born in Kozowa, Poland (now Ukraine), on December 9, 1920. She married Joseph Beker in 1945 and they came to Canada in 1948, where they raised their two daughters, Marilyn and Jeanne. Bronia passed away in 2015.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

About the author

Photo of Joseph Beker

Joseph Beker was born in Kozowa, Poland (now Kozova, Ukraine), in 1913. In 1948, he immigrated to Canada with his wife, Bronia, where they worked and raised a family. Joseph Beker passed away in 1988.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Plus forts que le malheur, Bronia Beker, Joseph Beker

Bronia Rohatiner et Josio (Joseph) Beker ont grandi dans le shtetl polonais de Kozowa. Quand Bronia, 19 ans, a rencontré le beau Josio, elle a été charmée par son assurance et son audace. Séparés quand Josio a été incorporé dans l’armée, puis réunis dans le chaos de la guerre, les jeunes gens ont consolidé leur attachement tandis que les persécutions s’intensifiaient. Lorsque la tragédie a frappé la famille Rohatiner, Josio a su redonner le goût de vivre à Bronia. Après avoir perdu tout ce qui leur était cher, ils ont pu reconstruire ensemble un nouvel avenir.

Préface de Jeanne Beker

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding
Escape
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Introduction by Jeanne Beker
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

160 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Bronia Beker

Bronia (née Rohatiner) Beker was born in Kozowa, Poland (now Ukraine), on December 9, 1920. She married Joseph Beker in 1945 and they came to Canada in 1948, where they raised their two daughters, Marilyn and Jeanne. Bronia passed away in 2015.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

About the author

Photo of Joseph Beker

Joseph Beker was born in Kozowa, Poland (now Kozova, Ukraine), in 1913. In 1948, he immigrated to Canada with his wife, Bronia, where they worked and raised a family. Joseph Beker passed away in 1988.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Unsung Heroes, Tibor Benyovits

In 1944, after German forces invade Hungary, the Zionist youth organization that twelve-year-old Tibor belongs to goes underground to avoid detection. When Tibor is separated from his family, he must rely on the support of his network, a courageous group under immense pressure to save as many Jews as possible in Budapest. Inspired by these Unsung Heroes, Tibor joins the resistance effort and bravely acts as a courier for the group, delivering false identity documents and protective papers to Jews in danger. When the war ends and Tibor must face all that he has lost, his group remains his lifeline, giving him hope and helping him find freedom.

Introduction by Laura Brander

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Hungary
Hiding
Passing/false identity
Resistance
Arrow Cross regime
Siege of Budapest
Postwar Israel
Arrived in Canada in 1962
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

192 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Tibor Benyovits

Tibor (Ted) Benyovits was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1932. He immigrated to Israel in 1949, where he met his wife, Miriam, and where their first child was born. At the encouragement of relatives, they came to Toronto in 1962, where Ted eventually established a successful machinery business. He was a devoted and active member of his synagogue, Beit Rayim, and his love for Israel and Jewish life remained strong throughout his life. Ted Benyovits passed away in 2020.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

A Promise of Sweet Tea, Pinchas Eliyahu Blitt

A Jewish community comes alive in this vividly told story of a childhood interrupted by the Holocaust. In his wry and evocative prose, Pinchas Blitt conjures Kortelisy — a humble, vibrant village in the backwoods of western Ukraine. Young Pinchas lives in fear of Cossacks and wolves and the local antisemitic children, but he finds belonging in the rich texts and traditions of his ancestors. When the Soviets invade, Pinchas’s life is infused with new meaning as he innocently devotes himself to the teachings of Comrade Stalin. Then the Nazis arrive, and Pinchas witnesses his beloved village being brutally attacked. As his family seeks safety in the marshes and forests, their precarious existence brings Pinchas face to face with his own mortality and faith, and with a sense of dislocation that will accompany him throughout his life.

“These memoirs are so full of life, of dialogue, of laughter through tears, that they might easily belong in the Yiddish theatre” — David G. Roskies, Introduction

The memoir was launched in July at Montreal's Segal Centre for the Arts, and is slowly gaining wide literary acclaim. Here's multi award-winning novelist, Jim Shepard, author of The Book of Aron:

"A Promise of Sweet Tea is at once a haunting glimpse of one small corner of the Holocaust, in all of its agony, perfidy, and caprice, and a heartening celebration of family and home that lovingly commemorates a lost world. Pinchas Eliyahu Blitt’s memoir is also, sadly, more relevant than ever in terms of where the world in 2021 has found itself."

- Jim Shepard (The Book of Aron)

This follows similar reactions from Heather Reisman OC, CEO of Indigo Books and Music and Sarah Rindner (First Things, Jewish Review of Books)

"Pinchas Blitt is a master storyteller. The poignant saga of his and his family’s escape into the Ukrainian woods reminds us of the dangers of social ideologies on the march, as it brings a precious, lost world to life."

- Heather Reisman OC, founder and chief executive of Indigo Books and Music

"A Promise of Sweet Tea, simultaneously heart-wrenching and life-affirming, is about much more than one person’s story of survival. Pinchas Blitt’s memoir is in equal parts a revival of a world that has been lost, a story that sheds light on lesser understood horrors of the Shoah, and a profound philosophical meditation with relevance for today. Blitt, an actor in Yiddish theater, is a master storyteller, and I could not put this book down until its powerful, poignant end."

- Sarah Rindner (First Things, Jewish Review of Books)

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Western Ukraine / eastern Poland
Pre-war Jewish life
Hiding
Postwar Germany, displaced persons camp
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Yiddish theatre and music
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

344 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Pinchas Eliyahu Blitt

Pinchas Eliyahu Blitt was born in Kortelisy, Poland (now Ukraine) in 1931 or 1932. Pinchas and his family immigrated to Canada in 1948 and settled in Montreal, where he attended teacher’s college and law school. In addition to a long career as a lawyer, Pinchas was involved in the Yiddish theatre community in Montreal for many years. Pinchas has three children. He lives in Montreal with his life partner, Gisele.

If Home Is Not Here, Max Bornstein

Max Bornstein’s epic account of a poor Jewish boy born in 1920s Poland is breathtaking in scope. Not quite two when he immigrates to Canada, he returns to Europe in 1933, the year that Adolf Hitler came to power. Barely surviving as a stateless refugee in 1930s Paris, he manages to escape as France falls to the Nazis only to be interned in a Spanish concentration camp. Rich in details of pre-war life in Poland, France and Canada and life for Jewish refugees in wartime Britain, If Home Is Not Here gives rare insights into the experiences of a Jewish boy caught up in political forces beyond his control.

Introduction by Amanda Gryzb

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland; France; Spain; England
Returned to Europe from Canada in 1933
Escape
Spanish concentration camp
Mental health struggles
Postwar England
Arrived in Canada again in 1947
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

328 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Max Bornstein

Max Bornstein was born in Warsaw, Poland, in 1921. After living in Canada as a child, he arrived back on Canadian soil fourteen years later, in 1947. In Toronto, Max worked in the garment industry, married Minnie and raised two children. He maintained an avid interest in quantum physics, international politics and in Judaism and Israel. Late in life, Max discovered his ability to play the piano and frequently entertained the residents in his long-term care home. Max Bornstein passed away in 2015.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Citoyen de nulle part, Max Bornstein

Max Bornstein retrace le parcours d’un petit garçon juif né dans une famille pauvre en Pologne dans les années 1920. À 2 ans, il émigre au Canada, mais retourne en Europe en 1933, l’année de l’accession de Hitler au pouvoir. Réfugié apatride dans le Paris des années 1930, il réussit à fuir lors de la prise de la capitale par les nazis, mais sera interné dans un camp de concentration en Espagne. Citoyen de nulle part décrit la longue errance physique et psychologique vécue par un jeune homme juif emporté dans la tourmente politique de son époque.

Préface de Amanda Gryzb

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland; France; Spain; England
Returned to Europe from Canada in 1933
Escape
Spanish concentration camp
Mental health struggles
Postwar England
Arrived in Canada again in 1947
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
French

376 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Max Bornstein

Max Bornstein was born in Warsaw, Poland, in 1921. After living in Canada as a child, he arrived back on Canadian soil fourteen years later, in 1947. In Toronto, Max worked in the garment industry, married Minnie and raised two children. He maintained an avid interest in quantum physics, international politics and in Judaism and Israel. Late in life, Max discovered his ability to play the piano and frequently entertained the residents in his long-term care home. Max Bornstein passed away in 2015.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Daring to Hope, Chana Broder, Rachel Lisogurski

When Rachel and her husband, Avrumeh, escape from the Siemiatycze ghetto in Poland one cold winter night in 1942 with their four-year-old daughter, Chana, they are desperate for refuge. Turned away by their closest friends, they are forced to wander the countryside looking for places to hide and asking for help from strangers and acquaintances. For close to two years, every day is filled with uncertainty for them and for the courageous farmers who eventually hide them. Throughout, young Chana is fiercely protected by her parents, who teach her not to cry, not to even make a sound. After liberation, Chana’s childhood truly begins, and decades later, she finally has the opportunity to honour those who res­cued her family. Told from the perspective of both mother and daughter, Daring to Hope reflects on the darkness of wartime and the love that held a family together.

Introduction by Barbara Engelking

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding
Postwar Italy, displaced persons camp
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Arrived in Israel in 1972 (Chana) and 1985 (Rachel)
Adjusting to life in Israel
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

248 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Chana Broder

Chana Broder was born in Siemiatycze, Poland, in 1938. After the war, she lived in a displaced persons camp in Italy before immigrating to Montreal in 1948. In Montreal, she continued her education, married and raised a family. In 1972, Chana and her family moved to Israel, where Chana became an ESL teacher. In 2013, she reunited with the descendants of her wartime rescuers and had them recognized as Righteous Among the Nations. Chana lives in Israel.

About the author

Photo of Rachel Lisogurski

Rachel Lisogurski was born in Grodzisk, Poland, in 1911. After the war, she and her family lived in a displaced per­sons camp in Italy before immigrating to Montreal in 1948. Rachel first wrote her memoir in 1967 as a way to improve her English. In 1985, she moved to Israel to join her daughter and family there. Rachel Lisogurski passed away in Israel in 1998.

Passport to Reprieve, Sonia Caplan

As seventeen-year-old Sonia prepares to leave her childhood home in Tarnów, Poland, to study journalism in Paris, antisemitism is on the rise. It is spring 1939, and her father is leaving for Canada to set up a new life there for his family. Stranded in Canada when war breaks out in Europe, he is frantic to reunite with them. Sonia, caught in the grips of the Nazi regime, suddenly finds herself responsible not only for herself but for her mother and younger sister too. Sonia’s father works feverishly from Canada to get them out to safety, even managing to become a citizen of neutral Nicaragua, sending Nicaraguan passports to his family. In Tarnów, Sonia faces the Gestapo again and again, armed with these documents as anti-Jewish laws escalate and the daily violence intensifies. As Sonia bravely tries to shield her family from the atrocities in the Tarnów ghetto, she feels torn between temporary triumphs and an agonizing sense of futility. In the face of deportation, Sonia’s wait for a reprieve turns ominous. Will her determination and deception be enough to save her and her family?

Introduction by Natalia Aleksiun

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland; Germany; Switzerland
Ghetto
Internment camp
Documentation as Nicaraguan citizen
Arrived in Canada in 1945
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

312 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Sonia Caplan

Sonia Caplan (née Roskes) was born in Białystok, Poland, in 1922 and was raised in the city of Tarnów. After being held in the Tarnów ghetto for more than two years and the Liebenau internment camp in Germany for another two years, Sonia was released to Switzerland with her mother and sister in January 1945, and they arrived in Canada in February 1945. In Montreal, Sonia reunited with family, married and raised three children while pursuing studies in literature, her lifelong passion. Sonia Caplan passed away in 1987.

Across the Rivers of Memory, Felicia Carmelly

Ten-year-old Felicia Steigman is confused by the sudden disruption to her life when she is expelled from school and forced to wear a yellow star. But she is completely unprepared for what happens next — the forced abandonment of her home and a gruelling journey, overseen by cruel Romanian Nazi collaborators, to Transnistria, a squalid place that doesn’t even exist on a map. Surviving three years surrounded by devastation and death, Felicia’s innocence disappears. When her family’s suffering is silenced and dismissed, Felicia boldly confronts the past, speaking out against injustice and commemorating the forgotten killing fields of Transnistria.

Introduction by Diana Dumitru

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Romania; Transnistria
Deportation
Death march
Postwar Romania
Life under Communism
Israel
Arrived in Canada in 1962
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

200 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Felicia Carmelly

Felicia Carmelly was born in Vatra Dornei, Romania, on September 25, 1931. In 1959, Felicia and her family emigrated from Communist Romania to Israel. Three years later they immigrated to Canada, where Felicia earned her master’s degree in social work. Felicia founded Toronto’s Transnistria Survivors’ Association in 1994 and published the anthology Shattered! 50 Years of Silence: History and Voices of the Tragedy in Romania and Transnistria in 1997. Felicia Carmelly passed away in 2018.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Hide and Seek: In Pursuit of Justice, Ben Carniol

When Ben’s parents pick him up from kindergarten one day in 1942, he doesn’t yet know that it is the last time he will see them. The Nazis have invaded his hometown of Brussels, Belgium, and Ben’s parents, sensing the danger that awaits them, send their only child to the countryside to live with a non-Jewish couple who are active in the Belgian resistance. There, in the village of Baudour, Ben learns to be a good Catholic boy amid the explosions of war and the frightening presence of German soldiers. After the war, Ben, now an orphan, finds a home in Ottawa, Canada, with his extended family. As he grows into adulthood, Ben reclaims his Jewish identity and begins a lifelong journey toward personal and societal healing. In Hide and Seek: In Pursuit of Justice, Ben Carniol, social work educator, activist and author, describes a childhood filled with loss and violence and his response to it: a deep commitment to creating a safe and just society for all.

Read a review of Hide and Seek: In Pursuit of Justice.

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Belgium
Hiding and passing/false identity
Arrived in Canada in 1947
Life in Canada
Accessible ebook
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

240 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Ben Carniol

Ben Carniol was born in Teplitz-Schönau (Teplice-Šanov), Czechoslovakia (now Teplice, Czech Republic), in 1937 and moved with his parents to Brussels, Belgium, in 1939. He immigrated to Canada as an orphan in 1947 and was adopted by his mother’s family in Ottawa. Ben became a social worker and worked in the fields of social advocacy, social services and social work education in Cleveland, Montreal, Calgary and Toronto. He authored the seminal book Case Critical: Social Services and Social Justice in Canada. Ben is professor emeritus at Toronto Metropolitan University, was scholar-in-residence at Laurier University’s Indigenous Field of Study social work program and was awarded an honorary life membership for distinguished contributions to social work education in Canada by the Canadian Association for Social Work Education. He and his wife, Rhona, live in Toronto.

A Symphony of Remembrance, Stefan A. Carter

Stefan Carter grows up in Warsaw, Poland, between two very different worlds. Barely aware he is Jewish, he and his family are part of a small, assimilated community that is steeped in Polish language, literature and music. But in 1939, when Nazi Germany occupies Poland, Stefan and his family suffer the same fate as the rest of the Jewish community — forced into the Warsaw ghetto and at constant risk of violence and deportation to the Treblinka death camp. Stefan manages to escape the ghetto, but his years in hiding are marked by isolation and the danger of being exposed as a Jew. After the war, Stefan focuses on building a new and meaningful life in Winnipeg, pursuing a career in vascular medicine, developing a passion for classical music and engaging in Holocaust education. In A Symphony of Remembrance, Stefan Carter composes a tribute to his family and friends, and to the brave people who helped him survive. He also sounds an urgent call to learn from the past, acknowledge ongoing human suffering and create a more just future.

Introduction by Katarzyna Person

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Poland
Warsaw ghetto
Hiding
False identity
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Accessible ebook
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

208 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Stefan A. Carter

Stefan Carter was born in Warsaw, Poland, in 1928. In 1948, he immigrated to Winnipeg, Manitoba, and enrolled in medical studies at the University of Manitoba. Stefan graduated from the Faculty of Medicine in 1954 and went on to have an illustrious career in vascular medicine. In 1958, he married Emilee Horn and they raised two children. Stefan was an advocate for Holocaust education in Winnipeg and spoke to many students about his wartime experiences. He was a long-time badminton player and classical music aficionado, and his book Mozart: A Meditation on His Life and Mysterious Death was published in 2006. Stefan Carter passed away in 2023.

A Cry in Unison, Judy Cohen

Judy Weissenberg is the mischievous and lively youngest child growing up in a large family in Debrecen, Hungary. But as the Nazis rise to power in Europe and anti-Jewish laws tear her family and community apart, Judy’s joyful youth becomes marred by fear and the hushed whispers of the adults around her. Then, in 1944, Germany occupies Hungary and Judy’s world is shattered. One terrifying event follows another, and soon Judy is faced with the incomprehensible — Auschwitz-Birkenau. In the shadow of the gas chambers, she clings to her sisters and “camp sisters,” who are her only hope of enduring the miseries that are to come.

In A Cry in Unison, Holocaust survivor, educator and human rights activist Judy Weissenberg Cohen weaves her riveting story of survival with descriptions of the political and social forces that upended her life. Her voice is a powerful call to honour the unique experiences of women in the Holocaust and to refuse to be silent in the face of injustice.

Introduction by Karin Doerr

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Hungary; Germany
Debrecen ghetto
Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp
Bergen-Belsen concentration camp; forced labour camp
Death march
Postwar Hungary and Germany, displaced persons camp
Garment Workers Scheme (Tailor Project)
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Women’s experiences in the Holocaust
Audiobook available
Principal’s Appreciation Award from University of Toronto Mississauga
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

232 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Judy Cohen

Judy Weissenberg Cohen was born in Debrecen, Hungary, in 1928. She is an active speaker and Holocaust and human rights educator, and in 2001 she founded the website “Women and the Holocaust,” which collects testimony, literature and scholarly material exploring the specific gender-based experiences of women in the Holocaust. Judy Cohen lives in Toronto.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Getting Out Alive, Tommy Dick

Nineteen-year-old Tommy Dick was killed, only to resurface in an almost unfathomable series of twists and turns that miraculously resulted in his survival. Born into a Hungarian family that had converted from Judaism in a country where antisemitism was a constant reality, Tommy soon found out that in the eyes of the Nazis he was still a Jew, still a target for deportation and annihilation. Getting Out Alive is a fast-paced, gripping account of courage and tenacity in the face of overwhelming terror as, on the run and in disguise, Tommy is chased by luck as much as he is by death. Ultimately, the combination of courageous acts by others, unshakeable friendships and his own extraordinarily quick wit conspired to save the life of an adventurous and determined young man in the cruellest of times.

Introduction by Kalman Weiser

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Hungary
Born Christian
Forced labour camp
Escape
Arrow Cross regime
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

96 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Tommy Dick

Tommy Dick was born in 1925 in Budapest, Hungary. In 1948, he immigrated to Canada and eventually settled in Calgary. At the age of thirty-six, Tommy enrolled in law school and practiced law in Calgary for thirty years. Tommy Dick passed away in 1999.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Objectif : survivre, Tommy Dick

Né dans une famille juive hongroise qui avait renoncé au judaïsme, Tommy Dick se rend rapidement compte qu’aux yeux des nazis, il est resté « un Juif », susceptible d’être déporté et assassiné. À l’âge de 19 ans, il est fusillé sur le bord du Danube. Sa survie miraculeuse sera le début d’une incroyable suite de rebondissements. En cavale et déguisé, il défie la mort à plusieurs reprises. Ses mémoires nous font voir comment, en pleine barbarie, certains actes de bravoure, la force inébranlable d’amitiés et une remarquable présence d’esprit ont contribué au succès d’un plan qui a sauvé la vie de ce jeune homme résolu et audacieux.

Préface de Kalman Weiser

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Hungary
Born Christian
Forced labour camp
Escape
Arrow Cross regime
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

104 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Tommy Dick

Tommy Dick was born in 1925 in Budapest, Hungary. In 1948, he immigrated to Canada and eventually settled in Calgary. At the age of thirty-six, Tommy enrolled in law school and practiced law in Calgary for thirty years. Tommy Dick passed away in 1999.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

A Childhood Unspoken, Marie Doduck

Mariette is only five years old when the Nazis invade her hometown of Brussels, Belgium, in 1940. Soon her family is torn apart, and Mariette and her siblings are scattered across the city and countryside, hiding with non-Jews and in convents and orphanages or working for the resistance. Seeing violence and death all around her, Mariette learns the skills she needs to survive — how to throw a knife, jump from a moving vehicle and, most importantly, stay silent. Mariette emerges from the war quick-thinking, fiercely independent and ready to start a new life in Canada. As she navigates a transition to a new identity as Marie — an industrious and resourceful community member, mother and advocate for children’s rights — Mariette, the silent child, begins to find her voice.

Introduction by Lauren Faulkner Rossi

Read an excerpt

Order the book

+
At a Glance
Belgium
Hiding
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1947
Adjusting to life in Canada
Accessible ebook
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

216 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Marie Doduck

Marie (Mariette) Rozen Doduck was born in Brussels, Belgium, in 1935. She immigrated to Canada in 1947 as a war orphan with three of her siblings and settled in Vancouver. In 1955, she married her husband, Sidney, and raised three children. Marie has received awards for her community leadership work and activism. She is actively involved in Holocaust education and is a cofounder of the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre.

Explore this story in Re:Collection

Free Books and Educational Materials

We help teachers bring the subject of the Holocaust into their classrooms, using first-person narratives as a way for students to connect with the history of the Holocaust through survivors’ experiences. Our Holocaust survivor memoirs, educational resources and programming are free of charge and available in both French and English.