Order Memoirs

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.

L’Enfant du silence

C’était le jour de mon anniversaire et je logeais dans une ferme, il me semble. (Je ne saurais dire laquelle, car à l’époque, l’enfant que j’étais ne ressentait pas le passage du temps comme aujourd’hui, et puis je n’ai jamais retenu les noms ou les visages.) La dame chez qui je vivais m’a raccompagnée à Bruxelles pour que je puisse fêter mon anniversaire avec ma mère. Je n’étais pas rentrée chez moi depuis si longtemps qu’il me tardait de revoir Maman*.
Alors que je marchais avec cette femme dans la rue, je me souviens d’avoir aperçu au loin mon frère Albert et ma mère, que je me rappelle avoir trouvée magnifique, spécialement apprêtée pour l’occasion. J’avais remarqué ses cheveux et le soin avec lequel elle les avait coiffés et ondulés. J’étais si heureuse de revoir ma mère et mesurais la chance que j’avais de pouvoir passer ce jour de fête avec elle. C’était le plus beau des cadeaux, mais soudain, la femme qui m’accompagnait m’a saisie brusquement et a couvert ma bouche de sa main au moment même où j’allais appeler Maman*. Un camion était arrivé à la hauteur de ma mère et de mon frère puis s’était immobilisé. Des soldats allemands en sont descendus en groupe et les ont empoignés pour les faire monter dans le véhicule. Tout s’est déroulé en l’espace de quelques secondes à peine. Et je ne les ai jamais revus.
Depuis ce jour, je refuse de souligner mon anniversaire, qui est le 10 mai. Pendant de nombreuses années, je n’en ai pas expliqué la raison à mon mari ni à mes enfants. Je me contentais de dire que c’était proche de la fête des Mères et que cette dernière me suffisait. Comment partager un souvenir aussi douloureux ? Comment expliquer, en tant que femme adulte, que l’enfant qui est en vous ressasse ce souvenir chaque année, et comment peut-on célébrer un quelconque événement tout en revivant un épisode aussi déchirant ? Pendant des dizaines d’années, j’étais persuadée d’avoir vu ma mère être emmenée en 1942, aux alentours de mon septième anniversaire. J’ai appris très récemment que cela s’était déroulé plus précisément en 1943. Selon des documents des archives belges, la date d’arrestation de ma mère, comme celle d’Albert, est le 27 mai 1943. Je suppose donc que je rentrais chez moi pour fêter mon huitième anniversaire, et non le septième, comme je le pensais. Ce détail, même s’il peut paraître anodin, s’avère crucial pour moi, car j’ai été incroyablement soulagée en prenant connaissance de cette information. Pendant si longtemps, j’avais conservé en moi ce souvenir sans pouvoir affirmer avec certitude que les faits s’étaient déroulés ainsi. Apprendre que votre mémoire – votre vérité – correspond à la réalité est un sentiment qu’il m’est difficile de décrire.

* Les termes en italique suivis d’un astérisque sont en français dans le texte original.

Fleeing from the Hunter

In the Ghetto and Beyond

I felt that my survival depended on how far away I could get from the ghetto.

I found out how to get to Dubeczno from the stationmaster in one of the villages I used to visit. A train to Chełm, in the Lublin area, passed by the station in that village and stopped there briefly every day. After getting the information, I quickly decided to put my plan into action. In April 1942, I said goodbye to my dear friends the Cytryns, who had treated me like their own. I knew so many ways of getting in and out of the ghetto that I wasn’t about to risk being captured by leaving Otwock from the railway station, or by bringing attention to myself when buying a ticket. Instead, I hiked out of town to the village station where I had gotten the information from the stationmaster, and I boarded the train there.

The journey to Dubeczno, including changing trains in Chełm and stops along the way, took twenty-four hours. The journey seemed endless and I worried because Jews were forbidden to use public transportation – I fully expected the German military police to stop the train and check the passengers’ identities. I didn’t sleep or, if I did, I could not distinguish my nightmares from my conscious fears. Luckily, no German military police checked the train. I arrived without any problems at the last station before Włodawa. Because the train had changed its schedule and wasn’t going any further, I had to continue to my destination on foot. I walked for some time with other passengers until we reached Włodawa. It was nearly evening, and through a heavy mist we could see the city as it slowly became more visible.

By the time I arrived it was dark and I was afraid to walk the streets of Włodawa looking for some of my other relatives, cousins on my mother’s side, who lived there. I decided to go directly to my uncle’s instead. I asked around for directions to the road leading to Dubeczno and finally a passerby pointed me in the right direction. Surrounded by darkness, in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of the city, I felt insecure and tired. I was aware of all the dangers that threatened a Jew at the end of April 1942. I knew that I was on the outskirts of Włodawa, but I wasn’t sure exactly where. I decided to look for a night’s lodging through the method I had used in my previous wanderings – by getting the assistance of the soltys. I must stress that whether the procedure had existed already before the war, or whether the Germans had ordered it, for me it was heaven-sent.

While searching for the soltys, I found myself on a road where there were only isolated farmhouses, each far away from one another. These houses were like shacks with thatched roofs. I entered one and bravely asked for directions to the house of the soltys, explaining that I needed a note for a night’s lodging. The occupants were friendly and seemed glad to have a guest. They laughed at the very official way I was going about trying to get lodging and said the soltys lived a long way off. It was already dark, so the farmer invited me to stay the night there. Of course, the family asked me a lot of questions over supper and, even in my exhaustion, I invented answers almost naturally. My reward for telling half-lies was a warm bed and a hot breakfast the next morning. Such hospitality and kindness from strangers! Would they have acted the same way had they known I was Jewish?

Traqué

Le départ du Ghetto

Je pressentais que ma survie dépendait de mon éloignement du Ghetto. J’ai trouvé un moyen de me rendre à Dubeczno, grâce au chef de gare d’un des petits villages où j’avais l’habitude d’aller. Un train pour Chełm, dans la région de Lublin, passait quotidiennement par cette gare dans laquelle il s’arrêtait brièvement. Après avoir obtenu cette information, j’ai décidé de rapidement mettre mon plan à exécution. En avril 1942, j’ai dit adieu à mes chers amis, les Cytryn, qui m’avaient traité comme l’un des leurs. Je connaissais beaucoup de trajets pour aller et venir hors du Ghetto et je ne voulais pas prendre le risque d’être capturé à la gare en quittant Otwock ou d’attirer l’attention en achetant un billet. Je me suis donc rendu à la gare du village où j’avais recueilli les renseignements du chef de gare et c’est là que je suis monté à bord du train.

Le voyage jusqu’à Dubeczno, avec le changement à Chełm et les divers autres arrêts, m’a pris 24 heures. Le trajet m’a semblé interminable et je m’inquiétais, car il était interdit aux Juifs d’utiliser les transports publics – je m’attendais toujours à ce que la police allemande arrête le train et vérifie l’identité des passagers. Je n’ai pas dormi – ou, si je l’ai fait, je n’ai pas distingué mes cauchemars de mes peurs conscientes. Par chance, la police militaire n’a pas contrôlé le train. Je suis arrivé sans problème au terminus, la station avant Włodawa. On avait changé les itinéraires des trains et celui-ci n’allait pas plus loin. J’ai donc été obligé de continuer à pied. J’ai marché avec d’autres voyageurs jusqu’à Włodawa. Il faisait presque nuit et nous voyions les contours de la ville se dessiner petit à petit à travers un épais brouillard.

Au moment où je suis arrivé, il faisait nuit et j’ai eu peur de marcher dans les rues de Włodawa à la recherche de mes autres parents, des cousins du côté de ma mère qui vivaient là. J’ai plutôt décidé de me rendre directement chez mon oncle. J’ai demandé à des passants quelle direction prendre pour aller à Dubeczno et une personne m’a finalement montré le bon chemin. Je me sentais inquiet et fatigué, j’étais seul, dans le noir, à la périphérie de la ville, au milieu de nulle part. Je connaissais tous les dangers que courait un Juif à la fin avril 1942. J’avais conscience que j’étais dans les faubourgs, mais je ne savais pas exactement où je me trouvais. J’ai décidé de chercher un endroit où passer la nuit, comme je l’avais fait lors de mes précédents voyages – en demandant au soltys. Je ne saurais dire si le procédé existait avant la guerre ou si les Allemands l’avaient institué, mais, pour moi, il était providentiel.

En quête du soltys, je me suis retrouvé sur une route longeant des fermes isolées, éloignées les unes des autres. Ces maisons étaient des sortes de cabanes aux toits de chaume. J’ai pris mon courage à deux mains et je suis entré dans l’une d’elles pour demander mon chemin. J’ai expliqué que j’avais besoin d’un mot afin d’obtenir un abri pour la nuit. Les occupants étaient accueillants et semblaient heureux d’avoir de la visite. Ils ont ri de la façon très formelle dont j’essayais de trouver à me loger et m’ont dit que le soltys vivait très loin de là. Il faisait déjà sombre, aussi le fermier m’a-t-il convié à rester. Évidemment, la famille m’a posé mille questions pendant le repas et, bien que très fatigué, j’ai trouvé les réponses presque naturellement. Ma récompense pour ces quasi-mensonges a été un lit chaud et un bon petit déjeuner le lendemain matin. Quelle gentillesse et quelle hospitalité de la part d’étrangers ! Auraient-ils agi de même s’ils avaient su que j’étais juif ?

Miraculous Escape

Always Remember Who You Are

We didn’t know where my mother had been taken. Nobody knew anything in our part of Poland. We had heard rumours of murder by gas. But who could believe this? The Nazis deliberately withheld information from their victims for fear of resistance or reprisal. They were the kings of deception.

After this incident, my father seemed to have lost his will to live but became desperate to protect me, his only child. He knew that if I remained in the ghetto, I would be caught in the next Aktion. He did not know exactly what had happened to those who were taken, but he understood that they were not coming back. We heard that the transports from our region were taken to a camp in the small town of Bełżec. The rumours that circulated about the mass murders underway there were terrifying. My father no longer kept any secrets from me. Since he was desperately trying to save me, he told me exactly what was going on. I trusted my father and knew that he would do everything in his power to keep me safe.

Once the Germans realized how valuable my father’s accounting skills were, they moved him into the office hut in our hometown permanently. There he came into contact with non-Jews, who were permitted to live outside the ghetto walls. My father quickly befriended a Polish Catholic man, Josef Matusiewicz, who had been brought from his town to serve as the stock-keeper.

[…]

My father did not know where to turn or what to do after the loss of my mother. He was scared of the day when he would come home from work to find that I, too, had disappeared. But asking Josef to help me was a dangerous proposal. In German-occupied Poland, strict laws prohibited people from helping Jews in any way, including providing food rations or hiding Jews in their homes. Any person caught or even accused of helping a Jew risked their own life, as well as the lives of their family and, sometimes, communities.

When he agreed to take me, Josef knew he was violating Nazi law. Josef had not been a family friend, and I did not know him. Many years later, I learned about the night Josef told his wife that he wanted to bring a little Jewish girl into their home. He explained the situation and what he had been asked to do. Josef’s adopted daughter Lusia told me that her mother, Paulina, was dismayed by the request: “Are you crazy? You’re going to bring a little Jewish girl into our house? You’re going to endanger our lives, you cannot do that!” I believe that Josef was an extremely courageous man and responded that God would help. They were a very religious family and fervently believed that God would help them protect me. Josef saw my father’s desperation and could not look away. At tremendous personal risk, the decision was made to take me in.

My father tried to prepare me for another major change. He explained that it was very important that I understood that he could not keep me safe. Every day in the ghetto was dangerous for me. I knew that being Jewish was dangerous. My mother was already gone. I did not want to lose him, too. My father reassured me that I would live with people who would be good to me and care about me. Life would be much better for me there than it was in the ghetto. Before we had come to the ghetto, I was terribly spoiled, an only child. Needless to say, after a year in the ghetto, I was not spoiled any longer. I did not want to go. But my father made it absolutely clear that I had no choice in the matter. I had to go. Otherwise, he told me, I might die. And I had seen death in the ghetto. I am not sure if I understood at the age of eight what it meant to die, but I knew that it was final.

My father assured me that he would be fine, and that we would be together shortly. “It won’t take long. Everything will be fine. I’ll come and see you and I’ll take you home.…” He promised me everything a parent would promise an eight-year-old child. And so, when Josef Matusiewicz came to get me, I went along with him. I was petrified because I didn’t really know this man, whom I had met only a handful of times. I didn’t want to leave my father.

Josef Matusiewicz’s position granted him special access to the otherwise restricted ghetto, and one night he was able to get into the ghetto to collect me. I had to say goodbye to my father. I clung to him and did not want to let go. When we could no longer delay the inevitable, Josef put me in a large bag and carried me out of the ghetto like I was a sack of potatoes. I was cautioned not to make any noise, not to move, not to draw any attention to myself. Years later I learned that there was a police station located right next to where we left the ghetto. I don’t know how Josef managed to take me out. It really was a miracle that we were not caught.

A Light in the Clouds

When Childhood Ended

In that fall of 1940, the dormant, underlying hatred of Jews — which no doubt had existed for countless years in the country — was exploding in Romania. A movement called the Iron Guard was expanding, whose members wore green uniforms and devoted their time to terrorizing helpless Jews. There was nothing now to hold them back; they were in their element, having the backing of the Romanian government. A period of lawlessness had begun; the police seemed to vanish or may very well have been part of the new movement. All we saw were these green-shirted individuals spreading terror everywhere they could.

Then, almost one year after the Soviet occupation, unbelievably and without any warning or loss of life, the scene abruptly changed. Overnight, the dreaded German and Romanian armies arrived, marching in ceremoniously. It was a show of threatening might when troops wearing high boots marched in. It is difficult to forget the sound of the German army — their rhythmic, clicking steps in unison as they marched, their endless tanks, a variety of heavy arma­ments parading through the main street for all to see. The intention was probably to intimidate the population. To me, it felt as though Germany was taking over the country, a part of their quest to control and occupy all of Eastern Europe. The Nazis and the other Axis powers, which included Romania, had pushed the Soviets out of Edineți and were invading the Soviet Union and Soviet-occupied areas.

The population did not welcome the German and Romanian armies. People stayed home, listening intently and nervously to news on radios in fear and horror of what was to come. My sister and I were not told much but we sensed awful changes that were taking place almost overnight. It was as if a huge dark cloak had descended, enveloping us in a sense of deep, grim foreboding. We heard adults whispering, and their conversation stopped when we entered a room, as parents do to protect their children’s innocence. We were young, but old enough to understand the implications of what was happening around us.

It was to be the end, the loss of everything we knew — home, stability, comfort, school and our peaceful existence, the normal family life we had started to get used to. Although we were still totally unaware of how tragically the situation would affect each one of us, for my sister and me, and countless others, the arrival of the Germans and Romanians heralded the brutal end of our childhood.

In Dreams Together

Excerpt from the diary of Leslie Fazekas

Leslie’s diary entries are all addressed to his girlfriend Judit, whom he has been separated from since July 1, 1944, after they were deported from Debrecen, Hungary, and sent to different forced labour camps in Vienna, Austria. Leslie’s diary entries and letters to Judit span from August 1944 to April 1945. Translation from Hungarian by Péter Balikó Lengyel.

Sunday, December 31 [1944] at 8:30 a.m.

My dear Judit,

If my keeping a diary has been reduced to writing on special days only (and each Sunday is special, in that it was on this day of the week that we last saw each other) today I shouldn’t be doing anything other than writing and writing and writing. And this day is at once another important anniversary: It was precisely one year ago, on December 31, 1943, that our paths first crossed. So it has been one year since we have lived our lives joined together, if separated in space. Ultimately it would not matter if that preordained first tryst had happened a day sooner or later. As it happens, we have just closed the chapter on one year — mine so productive and successful in terms of all the new knowledge I absorbed. Now we embark on our second year, amid profoundly changed circumstances.

It must have been around this time of the day that the doorbell of the apartment under Vörösmarty [street] 14 rang. It was Judit showing up for our date; we had agreed to go out to the woods to take some pictures. She had an exercise class at 11:00 and I wanted to do my skating later in the morning, so I picked up my skates and camera, and we took the tram to the woods [the Nagyerdő, Great Forest park]. We got off at the Vigadó and started roaming around. We walked to the small hill by the pond, where I took pictures on the footbridge and of the two of us sitting on a bench with our arms around each other. It was past 10:30 when we decided we couldn’t put off leaving a minute longer. You said you were very cold. I wasn’t, so I unbuttoned by overcoat and told you to huddle up to me. We held each other tight there among the freezing woods. Our lips were close, and we kissed. I felt a dizziness come over me. Then a policeman strolled by, and we fluttered apart. You caught your tram at the university, I jumped on the tram step after you, and we quickly agreed to go see a movie together in a few days… I was musing over that kiss, the very first kiss of my life, which would engender a string of hundreds and hundreds of more kisses to come. I had never kissed before because I knew, and kept telling myself, that kissing a woman was a serious choice for me. I will become engaged to the woman I kiss. Therefore, my dear Judit, what we performed that day was nothing less than an act of engagement. That is why I remember that day as faithfully as I do.

…

I never saw you a second time that day, as you spent New Year’s Eve in Laci’s company, but you and I were together in our thoughts the whole time. At least, you were on my mind all night long. So this was the story of that memorable day, the day of our engagement, as we bade farewell to a fine year and stepped into a sad new one. Interestingly, every New Year’s Eve I would ask myself the same question that seemed so obvious to ask: Are we all going to live to see the next year, together in good health and spirits, as in the old year? That night, however, I had no doubt that nothing could come between us, that the road ahead of us would be an easy one. And today? It sends shivers down my spine just to think of the next New Year’s Eve and the year that lies ahead. Is it possible it will find me reduced to decaying bones? In the past, I would wish for the next New Year’s Eve to find us together as before, a company celebrating in good spirits. Now I wish only that it simply finds us alive, if separated. But what the new year will bring this time I dare not even think about. We have so little agency in controlling our own destiny that it is futile to make advance calculations. Although the direction our life is to take is out of our hands, I am certain that the new year will bring many changes. On New Year’s Eve I have the habit of glancing back at the past year. Such a glance would fill one hundred pages this time, and I do not have that much paper to write on. So here is a shorthand version. January 3: a day to remember; Judit leaves her mark on every month. February: my last good month, full of fun, the baths, and a lot of study. March 19: our German allies march in. April: ecstatic swoon of love with Judit. May 1 to June 2: Good times in Haláp, with Peti, Tomi, Horo [Horovitz] and Janka.¹  June 2, the bombing of Debrecen. To June 16: clearing rubble from the ghetto.²  June 16 to 28: the brickyard. Never been so resourceful before, inspired by Judit. Helping each other a lot. Then the cattle car, an unconscious spell with Judit beside me. July 1: Strasshof, the first air raid, the day we are separated. July 2: The Vienna hub. We are assigned to Saurer’s here. I have been working the night shift since July 10. Going hungry much of the time at first, and longing for Judit. By now we have gotten used to this life; Judit is with me forever. And now here is this New Year’s Eve, a holiday I am going to distinguish from other days by simply sleeping through the night.

¹ Out of this group of young men, only Leslie and “Horo” (Gábor Horovitz) survived the Holocaust. “Janka” refers to Leslie’s classmate András Frank (1925–1944). Regarding the fates of Peti and Tomi, see the memoir.
² The ghetto inmates were taken to clear rubble in the bombed sections of the city, not in the ghetto, which was not bombed.

Spring's End

Departure

In April 1942, the population of our town fell by nearly a thousand. We had been notified that we were to appear with our luggage at a large warehouse near the railway station. The Jews of Budějovice were a civilized lot – we did not fuss much. We were used to doing what we were told, so we checked into the warehouse, presented our documents, were assigned numbers and prepared for the night. A few children whimpered and some of the older boys started to fool around.

The next day, we were told to board a passenger train that would take us to a gathering place. Our main worry was whether this new place would be in Czechoslovakia. Somehow there seemed less to worry about as long as we stayed in our own country. As the train began to move, we got our first glimpses of the cruel SS men (Schutzstaffel) – the Nazi elite troops who guarded the concentration camps. They were dressed in perfectly ironed uniforms and had animal-like expressions on their faces. One such beast – a high official with many stars on his uniform – inspected the train. Shouting orders in German, he kicked and slapped several people who got in his way.

The train sped north toward Prague, then west. At the end of the day we were unloaded at the gathering place, Terezín. Terezín was an old town that had many soldiers’ barracks, massive three-storey brick buildings and several large yards. The town had a moat all around it, making escape impossible.

That first night in Terezín we slept in a large warehouse, body to body, with just enough room to move around on our tiptoes. The next day, all the families were separated. Women were moved to one of the large barracks, and men to another. There was not much time to say goodbye as we had to line up quickly. Food was distributed from large barrels into small pots that were assigned to all the inmates in Terezín. Bread, potatoes and gravy comprised our main daily meal.

We stayed in Terezín from April 1942 until November 1943. The town grew more and more crowded from the incoming transports of Jews from other parts of Czechoslovakia. Old people and sick people started dying quickly. Every morning, bodies covered with white sheets were seen piled up in wagons, waiting to be moved to the crematorium.

At first, we all lived in the barracks, many to a room, sleeping on the floor. Somehow, amidst all this, children were allowed a little fun. We were permitted to play in the yard, to sing and play word games. One of my memories is of a teacher who would sing his and my favourite song, “Spring Will Come Again, May Is Not Far Away.”

La Fin du printemps

Le Départ

En avril 1942, la ville a perdu près d’un millier d’habitants. On nous avait informés que nous devions nous présenter avec nos bagages à un vaste entrepôt situé près de la gare. Les Juifs de Budějovice avaient un sens civique aigu – nous ne faisions pas d’histoires. Nous avions l’habitude de faire ce que l’on nous disait de faire, nous nous sommes donc rendus à l’entrepôt, avons présenté nos documents, des numéros nous ont été attribués et nous nous sommes préparés pour la nuit. Des enfants pleuraient et quelques garçons plus âgés ont commencé à chahuter.

Le jour suivant, on nous a dit de monter à bord d’un train de passagers qui nous emmènerait à un lieu de rassemblement. Notre souci principal était de savoir si ce nouvel endroit se trouvait en Tchécoslovaquie. C’était comme si nous avions moins de souci à nous faire tant que nous restions dans notre propre pays. Lorsque le train s’est mis en branle, nous avons eu pour la première fois l’occasion d’apercevoir les cruels SS (Schutzstaffel, escouade de protection) – les troupes d’élite nazies qui surveillaient les camps de concentration. Ils portaient des uniformes parfaitement repassés et leurs visages avaient des expressions quasi animales. Une de ces bêtes – un officier de haut rang avec de nombreuses étoiles à son revers – a inspecté le train. Aboyant des ordres en allemand, il a donné des coups de poing et des coups de pied à plusieurs personnes qui se trouvaient sur son passage. Le train a filé vers le nord, en direction de Prague, puis vers l’ouest. À la fin de la journée, on nous a débarqués à Terezín, le lieu de rassemblement. Terezín était une ville ancienne et comptait de nombreuses casernes de soldats, des immeubles de briques massifs à trois étages et plusieurs grandes esplanades. Un fossé faisait tout le tour de la ville, ce qui rendait toute tentative d’évasion impossible.

Lors de cette première nuit passée à Terezín, nous avons dormi dans un vaste entrepôt, accolés les uns aux autres, avec juste assez d’espace pour nous déplacer sur la pointe des pieds. Le lendemain, toutes les familles ont été séparées. Les femmes ont été emmenées dans l’une des grandes casernes et les hommes dans une autre. Nous n’avons pas eu beaucoup de temps pour nous dire au revoir car nous devions nous mettre en rang rapidement. La nourriture était distribuée à partir de grands tonneaux dans de petits pots qui étaient attribués à chacun des détenus de Terezín. Notre principal repas quotidien se composait de pain, de pommes de terre et de jus de viande.

Nous sommes restés à Terezín d’avril 1942 à novembre 1943. La ville était de plus en plus surpeuplée avec les convois de Juifs arrivant d’autres parties de la Tchécoslovaquie. Les personnes âgées et les personnes malades ont commencé à mourir rapidement. Chaque matin, nous voyions des corps recouverts de draps blancs être empilés dans des wagons, en attendant d’être transportés au crématorium.

Au début, nous habitions tous dans les casernes, à beaucoup dans une pièce, dormant par terre. Pourtant, en dépit de tout, les enfants trouvaient le moyen de s’amuser un peu. Nous étions autorisés à aller jouer dans la cour, à chanter et à jouer aux devinettes. Je me rappelle un enseignant chantant une chanson qui était sa préférée et ma préférée aussi : « Le printemps reviendra, le mois de mai n’est pas loin. »

Too Many Goodbyes

Fear

I woke up to the sound of gunfire, and fear returned to my heart. I wondered what was going on. My mother tried to set my mind at ease, telling me not to worry, but she failed to reassure me. My fears were well-founded, we soon found out. Hungary wasn’t surrendering. The Germans kidnapped Horthy’s son, forcing Horthy to resign, and the fascist Arrow Cross Party, also called the Nyilas, took possession of the government, with Ferenc Szálasi, a ruthless Jew-hater, as its leader. The Nyilas were thugs, robbers and criminals.

Rumours were rampant about the goings-on outside, about groups of people marching on the street — we heard that the Jewish houses on either side of us were emptied and that the Jews were being led to God knows where. I was frantic with fear and terrified for my life. There was nowhere to go. I was convinced that whoever was removed would be killed. What else could they do with us with the Russians almost on our doorstep? The gate to our building was locked and we couldn’t leave. I begged my mother to get a message to my gentile uncle to try to get us some false papers, to get us out somehow. I could not imagine dying. She agreed to ask a gentile neighbour to do it. My uncle himself came for us, but the superintendent refused to let us leave. I remember trying to figure out some escape route, but of course there was none.

We feared for the worst. A few weeks later the Arrow Cross men came with gendarmes and policemen. They entered our building and ordered us all to come down to the courtyard, where they sorted us according to age. My mother was among the women who were instructed to immediately pack and be ready to leave. One man timidly inquired whether he may remain, as his fiftieth birthday was imminent. He was allowed to stay.

The expression on my mother’s face as we said goodbye was familiar. I remembered it as the same one my father wore when I last saw him — an intensive stare meant to capture and hold my image.

Un combat singulier : Femmes dans la tourmente de l’Holocauste

Si seulement le monde avait réagi plus tôt by Rebekah (Relli) Schmerler-Katz

Deux semaines après notre arrivée au Ghetto, on nous a conduits à un cimetière. Nous étions quelques centaines, debout en rangs par cinq, à attendre. En cette belle journée de mai, chaude et ensoleillée, la nature verdoyante se réveillait et les fleurs s’épanouissaient. Malgré la quantité de personnes rassemblées, pas un bruit ne se faisait entendre, hormis le gazouillis des oiseaux et les pleurs d’un bébé ici et là. Devant nous, des gendarmes hongrois ont commencé à aligner des mitrailleuses. Puis ils ont passé un moment à ajuster et réajuster ces armes braquées sur nous. Ces sadiques semblaient prendre un malin plaisir à lire dans nos yeux une terreur grandissante. Un homme de notre groupe a osé demander à l’un de nos tortionnaires ce qui allait nous arriver. Le gendarme a alors répondu haut et fort : « Ce soir, vous mangerez tous des pissenlits par la racine. » Cette explication cruelle était inutile : nous savions tous ce qui allait nous arriver.

J’étais jeune et j’adorais le printemps, ma saison favorite. Jetant un regard alentours, j’ai tenté de me souvenir de tout ce qui m’entourait pour la dernière fois. Pourtant, notre périple ne s’est pas achevé dans ce cimetière. Les gendarmes nous ont fait subir un à un une fouille complète, y compris corporelle, à la recherche d’objets de valeur. Je me tenais à côté de mon père qui avait nos cinq certificats de nationalité dans la pochette de son veston. Comme je l’ai mentionné précédemment, ces papiers étaient extrêmement précieux et nous y tenions comme à la prunelle de nos yeux. Dès que le gendarme a mis la main sur les documents dans la poche de mon père, ce dernier s’est écrié, paniqué : « Ce sont nos certificats de nationalité ! » Le policier les a déchirés et jetés à terre en hurlant : « Vous n’en aurez plus besoin ! »

Les gendarmes nous ont ensuite fait traverser des tentes qui menaient à un champ où nous attendait un long train de marchandises. Ils nous ont fait monter groupe par groupe dans les wagons. Mes parents, ma soeur, mon frère et moi nous tenions serrés les uns contre les autres. Lors du comptage des groupes, les gendarmes se sont arrêtés juste après mes parents et ma soeur et leur ont ordonné de monter dans un wagon. Cela signifiait que mon frère et moi prendrions le suivant. Mes parents se sont alors mis à supplier qu’on ne nous sépare pas. Deux personnes ont même offert de changer de place avec nous. En vain. Quand j’ai imploré les gendarmes à mon tour, ils m’ont battue à coup de matraque.

Mon frère, le regard triste, est demeuré silencieux durant tout le trajet. On aurait dit qu’il savait que ce serait notre dernier voyage et que nous ne nous reverrions jamais. Je lui ai dit de se souvenir de deux mots : « Duparquet, Québec », le nom de la petite ville minière au Canada où vivait le frère de ma mère. « Si nous survivons, ai-je ajouté, c’est là que nous devons nous retrouver. »

Je ne me souviens plus combien de jours et de nuits nous avons passé dans ce train, à dormir par terre, privés de nourriture, ne nous arrêtant qu’une seule fois par jour pour qu’on vide les seaux hygiéniques qu’on nous avait donnés. Nous avons fini par comprendre que nous roulions plein nord, vers la Pologne. Nous pouvions apercevoir des villes complètement détruites par les bombardements, où seuls subsistaient des moignons de murs. Je me souviens de Cracovie, noircie par la fumée et les incendies. Nous avons poursuivi notre course vers le nord, puis nous avons bifurqué vers l’ouest.

Tôt un matin, le convoi s’est arrêté. En regardant dehors, nous avons aperçu de jeunes hommes revêtus de pyjamas rayés bleu et gris, et munis d’un calot sur la tête. J’ai vite compris que ce que j’avais pris pour un pyjama constituait en fait l’uniforme des détenus. Nous avons dû attendre quelques heures avant de pouvoir descendre du train à notre tour. Les détenus en uniformes rayés nous aidaient à sortir. Mon frère et moi avons retrouvé nos parents sur le quai. Un énorme vacarme régnait, où dominaient les cris et les hurlements. Nous étions complètement perdus. Des militaires allemands flanqués de gros chiens arpentaient le quai. Les détenus en uniformes rayés – des Juifs polonaise – nous criaient après en nous pressant de nous mettre en rang par cinq. Au milieu de cette terrible panique, j’ai constaté qu’on séparait notre groupe des enfants, des personnes âgées et des hommes.

Un détenu m’a regardée en me demandant de lui montrer qui était ma mère. Quand il l’a vue, il m’a dit : « Embrasse ta mère. Embrasse-la encore. » Comprenant soudain que je ne la reverrais jamais, j’ai demandéau détenu : « Allons-nous rester en vie ? » Il m’a répondu, catégorique : « Vous, les jeunes, oui. »

Before All Memory Is Lost: Women's Voices from the Holocaust

If the World Had Only Acted Sooner by Rebekah (Relli) Schmerler-Katz

After two or three weeks in the ghetto, we were gathered and taken to a cemetery. We were a few hundred people lined up in fives, standing and waiting. It was the month of May, on a beautiful sunny and warm day. Everything was green and in full bloom. In spite of the hundreds of people lined up, there was no sound, except for the birds chirping and here and there a cry of a baby. In front of us, the Hungarian gendarmes started to line up machine guns. Every few minutes, they adjusted their guns aimed at us again and again. It seemed like those sadists enjoyed seeing the fear in our faces. Someone in the crowd dared to ask one of our tormentors what would happen to us. The gendarme answered clearly and loudly, “By tonight, all of you will smell the violets from the bottom.” This inhuman explanation was not needed. We all understood what would follow.

I was young and loved spring, my favourite season of the year. I looked around and wanted to take in everything around me for the last time. But our journey didn’t end at the cemetery. We were taken away one by one and our pockets and bodies were searched for valuables. I was standing next to my father. He had our five citizenship papers in his breast pocket. As I mentioned before, these papers meant life to us. When the police touched my father’s breast pocket, he frantically uttered, “These are our citizenship papers.” The police tore out the documents, threw them to the ground and yelled, “You will not need these anymore!”

The gendarmes marched us through some tents until we arrived at a field where there was a long freight train. We were counted and a number of people were sent into each railway car. The five of us were holding on to one another. As we were counted, they stopped right after my parents and my sister and loaded them into the boxcar. That meant my brother and I would have to go in the next one. At this point, my parents and I started to beg to be together. Although two people offered to change places with us, they were not allowed. Again, I pleaded with the gendarmes, and this time they beat me up with a club.

My brother was quiet and sad during the whole journey. He looked as if he knew that this was our last trip and that we would never see each other again. I told him to remember the words Duparquet, Quebec. This was a little mining town in Canada where my uncle, my mother’s brother, lived. If we survived, I said, this should be our meeting place.

I can’t recall how many days and nights we were on the train sleeping on the floor without any food, only stopping once a day when the pails, which were given to us to relieve ourselves, were emptied. We realized that we kept going north, toward Poland. We saw cities destroyed completely, only shells of buildings after heavy bombardments. I remember seeing the city of Krakow black from smoke and fire. We kept going north, and then west.

One early morning the train stopped. We looked out and saw young men in striped blue and grey pyjamas, cloth caps on their heads. I soon figured out that what I had considered to be pyjamas were prisoners’ uniforms. It took a few hours until our turn came to be unloaded. My brother and I met with our parents on the platform. The men in the striped clothes helped us off the train. There was a lot of noise, screaming and yelling. We were completely confused. There were Germans in uniforms holding big dogs walking up and down the platform. The prisoners in the striped clothes were Polish Jews. They yelled and hurried to line us up by fives. Amid the terrible panic, I realized that our group was separated from the children, the older people and the men.

One of the prisoners looked at me and asked me to show him my mother. When he saw her he told me, “Kiss your mother; kiss her again.” I suddenly realized that this was a goodbye forever. I asked him, “Will we stay alive?” He answered emphatically, “You young ones, yes.”

A Childhood Adrift

The Train

Early one morning, Mama came into the room where I had stayed overnight with Dutch friends. Roused from my sleep, I was shocked to see her in tears as she ordered me to get up and dress quickly because the police were waiting for us in front of the hotel. She pleaded with me that I should cry, so that perhaps I might soften the heart of the policemen. But strangely enough, I, who had hitherto been something of a crybaby, could not bring myself to shed a tear. I looked at Mama with pleading, frightened eyes, yet felt too numb to cry. Once out on the street we were gathered into a large crowd of Jews who had been collected from our hotel and elsewhere in town. To my further dismay, I discovered that Papa was not with us. He had gone out before the police arrived, perhaps to buy a newspaper, or could it be that he pursued a lead to a possible hiding place for us? I shall never know.

Like a lugubrious procession we were marched along the street that led to the railway station. The police chief in charge was a burly brute with a moustache like Stalin’s; he swore at us, spouted antisemitic insults and shoved and bullied our pitiful flock all the way. What awaited us when we reached the square in front of the railway station was a veritable coup de théâtre, a sudden turn of events: by an unbelievable coincidence Aunt Fella had arrived on the night train from Limoges and happened to walk out of the station at the very moment when we were brought there! I still hear her cry of astonishment, “Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe?” (Oh my God, what is happening?) Then, seeing that I happened to be at the end of the queue and that the police chief had momentarily turned away from it, she pulled me by the hand whispering, “Viens, sauve-toi avec moi!” (Come, run away with me.) But I was too dumbfounded to run. A moment later the police chief turned around; he saw my aunt pull me away and raced after us, slapped my tiny, frail aunt on both cheeks, and violently seized me by the hair and the seat of my trousers. Thus holding me kicking and screaming, that brute ran inside the station and toward the awaiting train on the first platform, past Mama, whom I saw being dragged over the station floor struggling and crying. The entire station was a scene of bedlam, with men, women and children being pulled, shoved and hurled into the train….

Just as the police chief was about to throw me into the train as well, two gendarmes in khaki uniforms appeared in the nick of time to stop him. Without a word he let go of me. One of the two officers took me aside and gently pressed my head to his chest, so that I would see no more of these horrendous scenes. After a moment he turned me around, saying, “Look, your mother is in that window over there waving goodbye to you.” The train then moved. That was the last time I saw my mama.

Une enfance à la dérive

Le Train

Tôt un matin, Maman est entrée dans la chambre où j’avais passé la nuit avec des amis hollandais. Tiré de mon sommeil, quelle n’a été ma surprise en voyant ma mère en larmes m’ordonnant de vite me lever et de m’habiller parce que la police nous attendait devant l’hôtel. Elle m’a supplié de pleurer dans l’espoir d’attendrir les policiers. Mais, curieusement, alors que j’avais été assez pleurnicheur jusqu’alors, je ne suis pas parvenu à verser une seule larme. J’ai regardé Maman avec des yeux effrayés et suppliants, mais je me sentais trop hébété pour pleurer. Dans la rue, nous avons rejoint un grand groupe de Juifs raflés comme nous dans notre hôtel mais aussi ailleurs en ville. À mon grand désarroi, j’ai découvert que papa ne se trouvait pas parmi nous. Il était sorti avant l’arrivée de la police, peut-être pour acheter un journal, ou peut-être était-il parti en quête d’une éventuelle cachette pour nous ? Je ne le saurai jamais.

On nous a menés en une lugubre procession le long de la rue qui menait à notre destination, la gare. Le chef de police responsable de notre groupe était une brute solidement charpentée arborant une moustache à la Staline ; il nous a injuriés, nous a lancé des insultes antisémites, bousculant et malmenant notre pitoyable troupeau jusqu’au bout. Ce qui s’est passé ensuite lorsque nous sommes arrivés sur la place devant la gare a été un véritable coup de théâtre : grâce à une incroyable coïncidence, tante Fella était arrivée de Limoges par le train de nuit et sortait de la gare au moment même où l’on nous y amenait ! J’entends encore son cri d’étonnement : « Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe ? » Puis, voyant que je me trouvais en bout de colonne et que le chef de police s’en était momentanément détourné, elle m’a tiré par la main en chuchotant : « Viens, sauve-toi avec moi ! » Mais j’étais trop abasourdi pour courir. Un instant plus tard, le chef de la police s’est retourné et a aperçu ma tante qui tentait de me faire sortir du rang. Il s’est précipité sur nous, l’a giflée sur les deux joues – elle, si menue et si fragile – et m’a brutalement attrapé par les cheveux et le siège de mon pantalon.

Tout en me maintenant fermement tandis que je me débattais et hurlais, la brute s’est ruée dans la gare vers le train à l’arrêt, passant à côté de Maman en larmes qu’on traînait par terre malgré son opposition violente et ses cris. À la gare régnait une panique totale tandis que l’on poussait et bousculait les hommes, les femmes et les enfants pour les forcer à monter à bord du train...

Juste au moment où le chef de la police allait me jeter dans le train, deux gendarmes en uniforme kaki ont fait irruption pour l’en empêcher. Sans un mot, la brute m’a relâché. L’un des deux gendarmes m’a tiré à part, puis m’a doucement pressé le visage contre sa poitrine pour m’épargner la vue de ces scènes atroces. Au bout d’un moment, il a pris ma tête dans ses mains pour la tourner vers le train : « Regarde, ta mère est à la fenêtre là-bas et elle te fait signe de la main pour te dire au revoir. » Son train s’est alors ébranlé. C’était la dernière fois que je voyais ma mère.

Flights of Spirit

Syringes on a Tray

The most dramatic event in my life happened in the summer of 1944. I was sixteen years old and I was facing my death. In wartime, death can occur at any time. But today, death would come not from the hand of my enemy — it would come from the hand of my beloved mother.

I was hiding in a basement with my mother, my father, my three uncles and my aunt. We had covered the entrance to the room with an old cupboard and we sat there listening to every sound coming from outside. We had all agreed that we would rather die here than be captured and shot on the killing fields of the Ninth Fort in Kaunas, Lithuania.

My mother, who was a surgical nurse in the ghetto hospital, had been given the task of arranging our communal suicide. She had filled several syringes with a potent heart drug. The plan was to inject an excessive dose of the drug in our veins and cause a heart attack.

I watched my mother as she prepared a serving tray covered with a clean white cloth. On the tray, there was a bottle of medical alcohol and beside each syringe lay a ball of cotton wool. I thought this was funny, so I reminded my mother that as this was a final injection it did not have to be a clean one. Everyone laughed, except my mother; but she took away the cotton wool.

It was very boring to sit for days on end in that dim basement. I had a lot of time to think and I had many questions: How does it feel to die? Does the brain go on working for a time after the heart stops? My mother was a strong woman and I trusted her but would she have the strength to give me, her only child, the first injection?

I tried to imagine my mother injecting the six of us and then, finally, herself. Then I tried to imagine the seven of us lying on the floor waiting for the drug to kick in. What would we say to each other? Would we laugh or cry? Would it be painful? As I tried to picture the scene, I decided it would be good to go first — I did not wish to see it.

I will now try to describe the circumstances that would make a woman like my mother ready to kill her son and her family. That suicide pact came after we had spent three years, from 1941 to 1944, in the Kaunas ghetto — which became the Kauen concentration camp — in Lithuania. My story can only be understood after knowing what was happening in the Kaunas ghetto during those three years.

Stronger Together

Letter from the Ghetto

By the end of November, a ghetto was formed in the heart of the city. What happened from that point on is described in a letter I wrote on January 30, 1945, only two weeks after our liberation from the ghetto. The purpose of my letter was to write down what had happened to us, while it was fresh in my memory, and give it to Zolti, who I was sure would come out of that hell alive. I still have the original letter, written in pencil by the light of a single candle, the pages now yellowed with time and the words faded away.

Budapest, January 30, 1945

My dearest love!

Nine months ago, on May 9, 1944, when you kissed me goodbye, I told you my life would be worthless if you did not come back. “I will be back, sweetheart, because I love you and our little son. Don’t worry, my dear,” you replied to me. Now we are home and safe and so are your parents, and I feel that you will come home, too. I feel it very strongly. Our little son prays for you every night with his tiny hands clasped together.

Where should I begin to tell you of our sufferings? I want to tell you everything that has happened to us. Maybe I’ll go back to October 15, 1944. Our Regent, Horthy, spoke on the radio, and we were told that Hungary would no longer fight in the war, so nobody had to worry. We were tremendously glad to hear it. We had all crowded into the yard of our building to hear our Regent’s declaration from the janitor’s radio. We were jumping with joy and tearing off the yellow stars from our chests. We thought it was the end of our sufferings. We had had enough. The yellow stars were discriminatory – unlike other citizens, we were not allowed to go out of the house except between five and seven in the evening to buy groceries, and of course by that time there were not many groceries left. We were forbidden to go to any public places like cafeterias, soda shops, movies or playgrounds. On the streetcars or buses we could only sit at the back. In many of the stores you could read this: “Dogs and Jews forbidden to enter.” There were many other awful things but now we thought that an end had finally come to these orders. We were wrong. Even more bad things started. Our Regent had the best intentions, but he was weak, and on the same day, the fascist Arrow Cross Party, with its leader, Ferenc Szálasi, took over the presidency. Szálasi was bloodthirsty. He swore that he would help the Germans to annihilate the Jews.

The next morning I saw sixty or more people – men, women and children – marching with their hands raised above their heads. Fascists escorted them. Later on the same day, some police and fascists with swastikas on their arms came to our building. One of them roared, “Every Jew down to the yard or I shoot!” We were very scared. You know, dear, by then about three hundred people lived in the building, most of them Jews. We had no time to pack anything. I just grabbed the knapsack, little Andy’s winter coat and a blanket. Those things were all ready in case of an air raid. We had to raise our hands like criminals and form a double line in front of the house. When Andy heard those words “hands up” he took his hand out of mine and raised his, too.

First they took us to the nearest open ground and robbed us. We had to throw all money, wristwatches, rings and flashlights on a blanket. We had to put our hands up again so they could inspect if any rings were left. If they found something, they beat our hands with a whip. I put my wedding band in Andy’s coat pocket. I wanted to save it.

After we were robbed, we were ordered to form a double line once more and to march to an unknown place. While we were marching, still with raised hands, you couldn’t imagine what the crowd on the sidewalks did to us. They were enjoying watching our march. They hit us and spat on us. One man grabbed the blanket from my hand, so Andy had no cover for the night. Others took the coats off of people’s shoulders. One man beat your father and smashed his eyeglasses. At that point, Andy and I lost your parents in the crowd. On the route, I saw that we were being led to the Tattersall racetrack. There, we spent two horrible days and nights. It was like a nightmare. When we arrived, it was already dark. We had to sit down on the bare ground, which was covered with dung from the horses. There were a lot of people, collected from every part of the city. Many of them didn’t even have a place to sit, so they stood all night. The children fell asleep in their mother’s laps. Andy too fell asleep and I hugged him all night to keep him warm. We adults were awake the whole night waiting for the morning. What would happen to us? Finally, morning came. We were ordered once more to form a line of four and to walk around a platform where some Arrow Cross bandits were pointing machine guns at us. One of them roared, “You rotten Jews! All of you will die within a few hours.” But nothing had happened yet except that we had no food, water or roof above our heads.

During the day we walked all over the place looking for Mama and Papa. There were Arrow Cross women with whips, and they hit everybody around them. I tried to avoid those beasts. From time to time, Andy and I sat down on the ground and I fed him some crackers and apples from the knapsack. I couldn’t take a bite. After that, we again went to look for your parents. Finally in mid-afternoon, we found each other. We were crying and hugging to try to comfort each other. We all sat down on the ground again to try to keep Andy warm. Then came the second night. About 3 a.m. we suddenly saw a bright light and a man on a loudspeaker announced that we could all go home. The order came from the chief, Szálasi, who had become the head of the government. As soon as we got out, German soldiers shot among us at random. Many were wounded and killed, but somehow we got home. Little Andy’s first words were “Hello, my red tricycle. You say hello to me, too.” You know, dear, he had just received that red tricycle from Joe, our superintendent, before we were taken away.

Memories in Focus

Memories of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising

I took my book, Gone with the Wind, which I had been reading for a while, with me to the bunker and I read it front to back many times. There must have been light in the bunker, as well as a trap door that could be opened so we could go out for some fresh air, but only at night, when the Nazis usually didn’t operate. Even so, we had to be careful when we went out because there were informers who would come at night, mix with people and beg them to be let into their bunkers. That’s how they found out where the bunkers were and the next day they would go and tell the Germans, who would come with flame throwers and artillery and announce that if the people didn’t come out in half an hour, they would burn the bunker down. Eventually, the Germans levelled the whole ghetto that way.

We were in the bunker for about three weeks, and for the last few days we stayed inside and didn’t venture out. People spoke only in hushed tones, which had a hint of hysteria in them. Then, the first week in May, the inevitable knock came on the trap door and we heard voices through the air vents. We had been found out. The voices — I can’t recall if in German or Polish — said that if we didn’t come out within half an hour, they were going to throw gas bombs into the bunker and we would all die. When we emerged, we saw Germans squatting with machine guns and they set the building on fire anyway.

One image has stayed clearly in my mind: As we left the bunker, we saw German paratroopers dressed all in black, like the devil himself, with black helmets and machine guns strapped across their chests. They kept shouting, “Hände hoch! Hände hoch! Nicht schiessen!” (Hands up! Hands up! Don’t shoot!) They thought that we had guns and they were afraid of us. I felt very proud.

We were all searched and then forced to lie down next to the building, where Ukrainians guarded us. Now the collaborators were either Ukrainians, Latvians or Lithuanians. We stayed that way for a long time while they gathered up a large column of people. By the time we started walking, it was dark and we were surrounded by burning buildings. People were trying to escape, running away from the column, and one man ran toward the flames of a burning building as one of the guards aimed his rifle and shot after him. The guard was laughing himself silly as he shot, not even seeming to care whether he hit the man or not since it really didn’t matter whether the man died of a bullet or in the flames.

That image became my first recurring nightmare; for years I would dream that I was being shot in the back and was dying as I ran into the flames.

J’ai emporté dans le bunker mon livre, Autant en emporte le vent, que je lisais depuis un moment, et que j’ai lu et relu plusieurs fois. Notre abri était éclairé et muni d’une petite trappe par laquelle nous pouvions aller prendre l’air durant la nuit, quand les nazis n’étaient habituellement pas en faction. Même ainsi, il fallait nous montrer prudents lorsque nous sortions, car des informateurs se faufilaient parmi nous et suppliaient qu’on les laisse entrer dans les bunkers. C’est ainsi qu’ils découvraient nos cachettes et en révélaient l’emplacement aux Allemands dès le lendemain. Ces derniers venaient alors avec des lance-flammes et de l’artillerie, et avertissaient les occupants que, s’ils ne sortaient pas dans la demi-heure, leur abri serait réduit en cendres. Les Allemands ont fini par détruire entièrement le ghetto en opérant de la sorte.

Nous vivions dans le bunker depuis trois semaines et nous n’avions pas mis le nez dehors depuis plusieurs jours. Nous ne parlions qu’à voix basse avec une pointe d’hystérie dans le ton. Puis la première semaine de mai, les inévitables coups ont retenti sur la trappe, et des voix nous sont parvenues des bouches d’aération. Nous avions été découverts. Les voix – je ne me souviens plus si c’était en allemand ou en polonais – disaient que, si nous ne sortions pas d’ici trente minutes, ils allaient lancer des bombes à gaz à l’intérieur et que nous allions tous mourir. Lorsque nous avons émergé, nous avons vu des Allemands accroupis, munis de mitraillettes. Ils ont incendié l’édifice malgré tout.

J’en ai gardé une image très nette : alors que nous sortions du bunker, nous avons vu des parachutistes allemands entièrement vêtus de noir, comme le diable en personne, affublés de casques noirs et munis de mitraillettes qu’ils portaient en bandoulière. Ils ne cessaient de hurler : « Hände hoch ! Hände hoch ! Nicht schießen ! »
(Les mains en l’air ! Les mains en l’air ! Ne tirez pas !) Ils pensaient que nous avions des armes et ils avaient peur de nous. J’en ai éprouvé une grande fierté.

Ils nous ont fouillés et forcés à nous allonger le long de l’immeuble, nous plaçant sous la surveillance de soldats ukrainiens. Désormais, les collaborateurs étaient ukrainiens, lettons ou lituaniens. Nous sommes restés ainsi durant un long moment alors qu’ils rassemblaient les habitants, les regroupant en files. Il faisait sombre quand nous nous sommes mis en marche, au milieu des bâtiments incendiés. Certains prisonniers tentaient de s’échapper en quittant leur file en courant ; un fugitif a détalé tout droit vers un immeuble en feu lorsqu’un des gardes l’a visé et a déchargé son arme sur lui. Hilare, le tireur ne semblait même pas se préoccuper d’avoir atteint sa cible ou non, car peu lui importait que l’homme meure par balle ou brûlé vif.

Ce souvenir a été le premier à me hanter régulièrement dans mes cauchemars. Pendant des années, j’ai rêvé qu’on me tirait dans le dos et que je mourais après m’être jeté dans les flammes.

As the Lilacs Bloomed

A Glimpse at Life and Missing Auschwitz

All of a sudden, we arrived at a city. It was well-lit and we could see the streets from the station. My God, how this made me feel! Never before had I experienced such bitter heartache. Was it true that there were still people with a life? Elegantly dressed women, babies with smiling faces. We hadn’t seen children for five months. During those five months, our minds had dulled – perhaps we didn’t even have a soul anymore. All that interested us was not to starve and not to be so cold.

From the train, I could see through a window into a house. The gentle light of a lamp fell on a table covered with a white cloth, a family seated around it. A father, mother and four children were having dinner. No, this was impossible to bear, too much of an ordeal for us who had not sat on a chair for five months, who instead had to crouch, backs bent, to avoid hitting our heads on the bunk above. We thought of our old homes only as if they were part of a beautiful dream, from which we would awaken to the harsh reality. I sensed that we would never see our loved ones again; I didn’t know where to locate them in my thoughts. My weak, tall, lanky son, János, who lived only for his books. My dear husband, who shared my very thoughts. Where could they be living, if they were living at all?

The tears were streaking down my face as I closed the train curtains, and the optimism that had filled us at our departure evaporated as the train pulled away. We were like falling leaves in the current of the autumn wind…. A miserable night passed and toward dawn, while it was still dark, we arrived at our unknown destination in the pouring rain. As we got out of the carriages, I saw an undulating, menacing body of dark water in front of us. There was water wherever I looked and water streaming down our necks. At last we could decipher the name of the station: Schlesiersee. This was the name of the lake and also of the small town situated on its shore.

Rows of five and marching. The outlines of a pretty little town became visible in the grey, pre-dawn light. Mansions, each one more beautiful than the last, and tidy streets. Not a soul to be seen at this early hour, but behind a few windows a woman’s hand would pull aside a snow-white curtain, so suggestive of a peaceful home, and a pair of curious eyes peered out. I wonder what they felt, what they were thinking, as they caught sight of two thousand women marching in a downpour.

We marched for hours. We left the town behind us and all we saw around us were barren fields. Not a factory chimney in sight, even though it had been our hope to work in a factory. After all, it was almost the end of October – what could we possibly do in the fields? We saw all sorts of windmills, which, previously, I had only seen on Dutch postcards. My first time seeing a windmill, soon to become the thousand times cursed backdrop to the tragedy that played out on these fields, whose ill-fated protagonists we would become.

“We talked about Auschwitz as we had before about our dear old bourgeois homes.”

We passed through two villages. People who had just gotten up were shaking their heads, watching our sad, drenched company. The rain that had plagued us since the beginning of our exile was still cascading down on us incessantly, trickling down our skin. Our new attire, which we were so proud of, turned into wringing-wet, foul-smelling rags. My stockings, which I had stopped readjusting, slipped down, and I trampled on them; they were in tatters by the time we arrived in front of a small farm that stood all by its lonely self in the fields.

Fear pierced my heart. Could this be the place where we were going to live? In the autumn? In the winter? No! This was unbelievable, surpassing even our most pessimistic imaginings and yet, at the same time, nothing was impossible or unbelievable. We marched into the courtyard of the farm and were made to stand in a quadrangle-shaped formation. Never, not even on my arrival at Auschwitz, did I feel this level of hopelessness. The lack of civilized amenities had been my fear all along. In Auschwitz, I had been reassured by the presence of electricity and Waschraums. Now, even the gas chamber seemed better than perishing in this place. From the outset, I was convinced that we would never survive a winter here.

Pendant la saison des lilas

Fenêtre sur la vie et la nostalgie d’Auschwitz

Soudain, nous nous sommes arrêtées dans une ville. L’endroit était bien éclairé, et de la gare, nous pouvions apercevoir les rues. Mon Dieu, quelle émotion j’ai pu ressentir à ce moment-là ! Jamais je n’avais connu une peine aussi amère. Était-ce bien vrai qu’en ce monde, des gens continuaient de vivre normalement ? Existait-il encore des femmes élégamment vêtues, des bébés aux visages souriants ? Nous n’avions croisé aucun enfant en cinq mois – cinq mois qui nous avaient anesthésié les sens. Peut-être avions-nous même perdu notre âme. Désormais, nos deux seules préoccupations étaient d’éviter les morsures de la faim et celles du froid.

Du train, je pouvais observer un intérieur de maison. Une lampe diffusait sa douce lumière sur la table recouverte d’une nappe blanche autour de laquelle la famille avait pris place. Un père, une mère et quatre enfants dînaient tranquillement. Non ! Que cesse cette vision insupportable ! C’en était trop pour nous ! Depuis cinq mois, nous n’avions pas pu nous asseoir sur une chaise ; nous devions nous accroupir, l’échine courbée, pour ne pas nous cogner la tête à la couchette du dessus. Nos maisons à nous n’appartenaient plus qu’au monde des rêves dont nous émergions pour replonger dans l’impitoyable réalité. J’avais le sentiment que nous ne reverrions jamais nos proches ; je ne savais pas où les situer dans mes pensées. János, mon grand échalas de fils, un être fragile qui ne vivait que pour ses livres ! Mon cher mari, qui partageait jusqu’à mes pensées mêmes ! Où se trouvaient-ils à présent ? Étaient-ils seulement en vie ?

Le visage ruisselant de larmes, j’ai fermé le rideau de la fenêtre. Quand le train est reparti de nouveau, il ne restait plus rien de l’optimisme qui nous habitait en quittant le Lager. Nous étions comme ces feuilles mortes emportées par le vent d’automne. Une nuit affreuse s’est écoulée puis, peu avant l’aube, alors qu’il faisait toujours noir et que tombait une pluie battante, nous sommes arrivées à notre destination. Elle nous était restée inconnue jusqu’alors. À la descente du train, j’ai pu distinguer devant nous une masse d’eau ondoyante et menaçante. L’eau nous entourait de toutes parts : celle du lac s’étendant à perte de vue et la pluie qui nous dégoulinait dans le cou. Enfin, nous avons aperçu le nom de la gare : Schlesiersee. Il désignait à la fois le lac et la petite ville sur sa rive.

En rangs par cinq, nous avons entamé notre périple. Les contours de la petite ville se révélaient dans la lumière grise qui précède l’aube. Des maisons cossues, toutes plus belles les unes que les autres, des rues bien entretenues. Personne en vue à cette heure matinale, mais derrière certaines fenêtres, nous voyions apparaître ici et là une main de femme soulevant un de ces rideaux blancs comme neige si typiques des demeures paisibles, puis une paire d’yeux curieux. Je me demande à quoi pouvaient bien penser ces gens en voyant une colonne de deux mille femmes avancer sous la pluie diluvienne.

Nous avons marché pendant des heures. La ville a disparu derrière nous et nous ne voyions plus que des champs dénudés. Pas une seule cheminée d’usine à la ronde, ce qui nous a déçues car nous avions espéré que notre prochain travail ait lieu à l’abri. Nous étions à la fin octobre, après tout : qu’y avait-il à faire dans les champs ? Nous apercevions toutes sortes de moulins à vent ; je n’en avais jamais vu que sur des cartes postales envoyées de Hollande. Ils deviendraient la toile de fond de la tragédie qui se jouerait bientôt sur ces terres et dont nous serions les malheureuses protagonistes. Nous sommes passées par deux villages. Les gens, qui venaient tout juste de se lever, secouaient la tête en observant la triste colonne détrempée que nous formions. La pluie qui nous avait tourmentées depuis le début de notre exil continuait de nous ruisseler dessus. Nos nouveaux vêtements, dont nous étions si fières, n’étaient plus que des chiffons dégoulinants d’eau. Je marchais sur mes bas, que j’avais cessé de tirer. Ils étaient en loques quand nous sommes arrivées devant une petite ferme qui se tenait toute seule, au milieu des champs.

La peur m’a transpercé le coeur. Était-ce là que nous allions vivre ? En automne ? En hiver ? Non ! L’endroit dépassait nos scénarios les plus pessimistes. C’était inimaginable. Pourtant, il n’y avait rien d’impossible, rien d’incroyable. Nous nous sommes avancées dans la cour et on nous a fait placer en formation carrée. Jamais, pas même en arrivant à Auschwitz, je n’avais ressenti un tel désespoir. Depuis le début, je redoutais l’absence d’installations adéquates. À Auschwitz, l’électricité et les Waschräume m’avaient rassurée. À présent, même les chambres à gaz semblaient préférables à la mort dans cet endroit. Dès que j’ai vu cette ferme, j’ai été convaincue que nous ne passerions pas l’hiver.

From Dream to Nightmare

The Vale of Tears

I worked with all my strength. I pictured our house, the synagogue and my street on the eve of Yom Kippur. Jews would be rushing to and from the bathhouse, wishing each other “a good year” and “may you have a good inscription in the Book of Life.” Some would hurry to synagogue early, bringing large wax candles. I pictured my mother standing in front of the candles, piously praying with tears in her eyes. Around her, we, her children, always stood crying, as was traditional for us on Yom Kippur eve. Looking at the position of the sun, I ascertained that it was probably time to light the candles. My poor mother was at this moment most certainly crying her eyes out for me, her only son, who was not with her. My mother’s suffering broke my heart. I put away my work and went over to a nearby tree. I rested my tired head there and my tears began to flow. I made every effort to stop my tears, to control my emotions, but my efforts were in vain. Leaning my head against the tree, I stood crying like a little boy. My tears fell on the dusty ground and on my dusty clothes. I felt strangely better. I felt lighter, revitalized. I had completely forgotten that I was supposed to be working and that all around me were Nazi murderers. I began to float in higher realms. My grandfather stood before me. I saw my grandfather in his kittel and his tallis, standing on the bimah and exhorting the congregation to repent from the bottom of their hearts.

Suddenly, from out of the blue, a hail of blows landed on my bent back. I lost my bearings, not so much from the beating but from the unexpectedness and suddenness with which the blows had so murderously and mercilessly targeted my back. Nevertheless, I collected myself immediately, realizing where I was in the world. It was not my grandfather but a Nazi overseer that stood before me. His eyes glowered with violent rage. He was ready to kill me. I went straight back to work.

A Part of Me

Escape

In October 1942, rumours came from Dubno that the last roundup of Jews there had been completed. Even those with special skills, now no longer needed, were murdered. I cried for my sister and her child. But my sorrow was even greater when those who were taken to work on the highways returned home with news that Nazi soldiers were surrounding our ghetto. We understood what this meant. My husband’s mother begged me to leave my child with her and said I should try to escape on my own. As a devoted mother, I refused and declared, “Whatever will happen to me, will also happen to my child.”

I picked up my darling daughter in my arms, parted from my friends, with whom I had lived for the last three years and learned to love, and left. I knew this was the end. When I left my mother-in-law and her home, I broke all ties with my past, all that had been my support, my entire defence. I was now almost totally alone, dependent on my own strength and the caprice of fate. With me was my daughter — a helpless little being who depended on me for solace, comfort and protection — and a piece of bread, which was not nearly enough. I ran out of the house with my beloved Lucy in my arms and the hope that God would not desert me.

We Sang in Hushed Voices

Survival

The small acts of courage were what made it possible to survive. One evening, for example, we were made to stand for hours and hours in the Appellplatz for roll call. When we were finally released, some of the women who needed to go to the bathroom went straight to the barracks to relieve themselves in the latrines. When they got there, however, the doors were locked. A few of the poor women were truly in agony after holding it in for so long. Not being allowed to empty their bladders was torturous. This was the last straw for some of us, and we began to shout in resistance, “Let us pee!” over and over again. “Don’t let them suffer!” I called out. “Don’t torture people so much!” One of the female SS guards heard us yelling and came to the barracks.

The guard must have recognized my voice because she came directly over to me, as if I were to blame for the rebellion. The other women were sure that I would be killed. Then, something unexpected happened. A friend of mine from Mukačevo, a woman named Hilda, came to my aid. I had known her before the war, and she was normally very quiet and reserved. Yet, she rallied everyone together and encouraged them all to shout. All seven or eight hundred women in the area began shouting so loudly and with such intensity that the female SS guard grew afraid and left.

There was another way that we could resist – with hope. As we sat on the hard wooden bunks in our barracks, with only our thin, torn dresses to cover us, we still hoped that we would survive. Some of us even tried to learn new languages. By that time, I had already learned some English and spoke it quite well. I also still remembered Hebrew from high school and taught Hebrew words to my friends. It was a time of emptiness, pain and desperation, a time when it was impossible to imagine a way out. There was no way out. But I often thought about miracles.

An extremely important part of our resistance was singing. Although it seems paradoxical to talk about music and Birkenau in the same breath, singing was a key part of our existence. When our work was done and the guards weren’t present, we could find safe moments to sing Hebrew songs. We had to be careful never to sing in front of the SS because they would have beaten us to death. I couldn’t sing well, but it didn’t matter. None of us were really singers. I would teach my friends the words to songs I had learned in school and the women with good voices would figure out the tune. Together we combined words and voices, our voices hushed so that no one would hear us. It gave us encouragement and lifted our spirits; in those moments, we didn’t speak about death and killing.

These were not the only music events in the camp. There were also concerts organized by the SS – although these were hardly happy occasions for the Jewish prisoners. I recall one concert that was spontaneously arranged under orders from the camp administration. We were called out to the Appellplatz and commanded to sit on the ground. What we saw in front of us was a group of men in their filthy, striped prison uniforms, emaciated from hunger, each one holding a violin, a cello or a wind instrument. They were told to take their places on a platform and began to play – and, oh, how beautifully they played. Starving and ill, the musicians played waltzes by Johann Strauss II while the SS guards danced to the music.

I began to cry. I cried inconsolably because those musicians were playing music that had been created to make the world a more harmonious and beautiful place. Yet, these men, imprisoned and starving, were forced to play through suffering and humiliation. Strauss’s waltzes and operettas, which brought joy to listeners for a hundred years, had nothing in common with Hitler and his ideology.