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L’arrestation de Papa

Papa a mis son chapeau de travers, le col de son paletot est à l’envers. Maman lui tend sa petite valise : « Voilà quelques vêtements… » précise-t-elle avec tristesse.

Ils descendent en débandade. Je les regarde éberluée, du haut de l’escalier, puis je suis maman, comme une somnambule, jusqu’à la fenêtre de la cuisine. Papa veut entrer aux cabinets, ils l’en empêchent ! Ils l’empoignent par le bras et le traînent comme un forçat !

La concierge trouve ça rigolo, à l’abri derrière sa fenêtre. Elle m’énerve celle-là ! « À bientôt ! » hurle papa, penchant sa tête en arrière. Il n’est pas bête, mon père, elle verra quand il reviendra ! Les agents et papa vont si vite que, lorsque nous arrivons à la fenêtre sur la rue, ils sont déjà loin. « Il ne s’est même pas rasé et n’a rien mangé… » balbutie maman, affligée.

Nous voyant, ma soeur et moi, elle change de ton : « Habillez-vous, on va l’accompagner ! » Je ne me suis jamais tant pressée. Maman s’est joliment arrangée. Elle tient un paquet dans ses mains, au cas où papa en aurait besoin. Elle part avec Henriette, sans fermer la porte. Elle revient me prendre et fonce à toutes jambes, Henriette nous suit.

Nous voici dehors. Ouf ! Ils sont encore là ! Nous allons revoir papa ! Nous sommes chaussées de nos pantoufles. Il est en conversation avec le Dʳ David, le Dʳ Waïsman qui est dentiste, M. Salonès et d’autres gens. « Moëshalé… Moëshalé ! » appelle maman. Ça y est! Il nous a vues ! Il se retourne, bras tendus. Je suis émue. Il fait un grand pas en avant. « Halte-là ! Bougez pas de là ! » fait un homme méprisant. Nous nous approchons toutes les trois. Et d’un bond, ma soeur et moi sommes dans ses bras. C’est incroyable ce qu’il me serre, je ne m’en fâche pas, au contraire! Je m’attache à son corps et je dévore son visage. Il ne partira pas sans moi ! Je l’embrasse malgré les piquants de sa barbe. Il me regarde droit dans les yeux. Je ne pourrai plus le lâcher…

Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce vacarme ? Une voiture vient d’arriver. Les policiers braquent leurs armes! « Mes chères petites, Henriette et Marguerite, il faut se quitter maintenant, mais pas pour longtemps! Soyez gentilles avec maman, évitez les tracasseries inutiles, c’est promis ? » Nous faisons signe que oui.

Quelqu’un ouvre la belle grille et on place les hommes en file. Papa relâche son étreinte en se baissant pour nous faire descendre toutes les deux. Je ne veux rien entendre. « Voyons mes enfants, c’est au tour de maman ! » Je m’agrippe encore plus, j’ai le droit à mon âge. « Il faut se quitter, je dois parler avec elle. » Il me repousse doucement. Elle pleure, il la console et la cajole à mes dépens. Dans ma douleur, je suis jalouse.

Il enlace tendrement son épouse : « Calme-toi, Rokhalé, calmetoi, s’il te plaît ! » Ils se chuchotent des choses à l’oreille… « La liste est complète ! On embarque, messieurs dames ! » Les agents font l’appel, séparent brutalement les femmes des hommes : « David ! Eliash ! Solanès ! Waïsman ! …» On les entasse comme des sardines dans la traction kaki. Papa s’incline et crie : « Courage, Rachel! Courage, mes enfants! À bientôt!»

J’ai trop de peine. Maman marmonne entre ses dents : « Courage, Moïshinké, courage ! » J’ai mal au ventre, il faudrait que je rentre. Les tractions démarrent à vive allure. Nous faisons des signes de la main vers la voiture, qui disparaît dans le lointain.

Le jour se lève, avec ma haine. J’ai le coeur si lourd…

Desperate Efforts

Behind the Red Curtain

At dawn one morning in mid-September 1941, a neighbour raised the alarm, informing us that screams had been heard at the boundary streets of the Old Town. The Germans were seen going from door to door, taking Jews. We thought they were taking young men and women to work, as they had done the week before. My mother asked Nyusya to take me to her rooms and rushed to the garden with Grandfather and Adya, Aunt Sonya’s husband. Aunt Sonya stayed at home with her granddaughters because everybody thought that the Germans would not take old people and children for work. Nyusya put me in the same bed where her three children were sleeping. At that moment, the Germans came in, accompanied by a Ukrainian policeman. They asked Nyusya what nationality she was. Frightened to death, with her hands shaking, she showed them her Ukrainian passport. As the Germans pointed to the children Nyusya told them, “These are my children.” With that decisive statement, this brave woman saved my life. The Germans left, heading to the house extension where Aunt Sonya and her granddaughters were. In a few minutes, they were brought out. I could see through the window that they hadn’t been allowed to put on proper clothes. Sonya carried the younger girl, Vita, who was wearing only a short nightgown.

That day, Nyusya took her children and me and we all moved to her mother’s house. Knowing nothing about my mother’s fate, I stayed with Nyusya for two or three days more. Meanwhile, the news spread across Vinnitsa that the Germans had taken at least ten thousand Jews out of town to the nearest forest, where a huge trench was dug; all of them were executed there. There were many wounded, as well as children, who were thrown in the trench alive, buried together with the dead. People said that for several days it looked like the earth was moving.

Bits and Pieces

The War

My first encounter with Nazi cruelty came very soon. I was standing near the window of our apartment watching my father cross the street to get to a store to change some money. To my horror, I saw two German soldiers approach him, push him and order him to walk in front of them. I immediately ran out and begged the soldiers to let him go. I pleaded with them, telling them that he was my daddy and that they could not do this to him. They laughed, pushed me away, collected a few more Jewish men and marched them off toward the city centre. I marched beside them, together with my mother and some other Jewish women. The men were forced to dig trenches in the middle of the city until late that night. When my father was released, we ran home through the empty streets. My sister, Chava, was waiting for us with a hot meal. From that moment on, my father never left the apartment. We were constantly on the lookout and when we would see German soldiers rounding up Jewish men and dragging them from their homes, we would run home and lock my father in the apartment. They never took my father again.

On the ground floor of our house was a bakery owned by an elderly German couple. During the first days of the war, they would sell loaves of bread to their neighbours. They did it before opening the store, so that neighbours would not have to queue up a whole night in order to get bread. This helped us a lot. We would buy four loaves of bread and could exchange some for eggs and butter. Food was already scarce, and what was available was quite expensive. Even before the war began, people were discussing food shortages.

My father told us that he had taken our winter shoes to the shoemaker to make hiding places in the shoes’ heels for money and for my mother’s golden watch, her only valuable piece of jewellery. He wanted each of us to have some money in case we were separated. I do not know how much money we had, but I am sure it was not a lot. Nor did we know how long the war would last.

After a while our German neighbours stopped being generous to their Jewish neighbours and we had to line up like everyone else. The store opened in the morning, but people began to line up the evening before. One evening, we went down to join the line. My father stayed behind, locked in the apartment. I stood behind my mother, with my sister, Chava, behind me. Early the next morning, the doors opened and the line advanced in a slow but orderly fashion. I was not far from the door when suddenly a German soldier appeared with a little Polish boy not more than five or six years old. The little boy pointed at me, telling the soldier, “Jude! Jude!” (Jew! Jew!) The soldier kicked me out of the line. I ran home and said nothing to my father. I threw myself on the bed, tears streaming from my eyes. I could not stop crying. My world was collapsing and nothing was the same anymore. I was bewildered and could not understand what had just happened. I was humiliated and angry. I could not control my rage. My mother came up and tried to console me. “Don’t cry. You see, I have two loaves. I took one and hid it under my shawl and then went to the other salesman and got another one, for you. Don’t cry.” The finger of that little Polish boy pointing at me, telling the German soldier that I was a Jew, pierced my twelve-year-old heart. To this day, I still feel this hurt.

Fragments de ma vie

La Guerre

Ma première rencontre avec la cruauté nazie ne s’est pas fait attendre très longtemps. Je me tenais près de la fenêtre de notre appartement et je regardais mon père traverser la rue pour aller faire de la monnaie dans un magasin. C’est alors que j’ai vu avec horreur deux soldats allemands l’approcher, le pousser et lui ordonner de marcher devant eux. Je suis immédiatement sortie en courant pour supplier les soldats de le laisser partir. Je les ai implorés, en leur disant que c’était mon papa et qu’ils ne pouvaient pas lui faire ça. Ils ont ri, m’ont poussée sur le côté, ont rassemblé d’autres hommes juifs au passage et les ont tous emmenés de force jusqu’au centre-ville. Je marchais à leurs côtés, accompagnée de ma mère et d’autres femmes juives. Ils ont forcé les hommes juifs à creuser des tranchées au beau milieu de la ville jusque tard dans la nuit. Quand mon père a été relâché, nous avons couru jusque chez nous en traversant les rues désertes. Ma soeur Chava nous attendait avec un repas chaud. À partir de ce moment-là, mon père n’a plus jamais quitté l’appartement. Nous étions constamment sur nos gardes et lorsque nous voyions des soldats allemands rassembler des hommes juifs et les tirer hors de chez eux, nous rentrions à la maison en courant pour enfermer mon père à l’intérieur. Ils n’ont plus jamais emmené mon père.

Au rez de chaussée de notre maison se trouvait une boulangerie tenue par un vieux couple d’Allemands. Les premiers jours de la guerre, ils vendaient des pains à leurs voisins. Ils le faisaient avant d’ouvrir la boutique pour leur éviter de faire la queue toute la nuit, ce qui nous a beaucoup aidés. Nous achetions quatre pains et nous en troquions certains contre des oeufs et du beurre. Les produits d’alimentation se faisaient déjà rares et les articles disponibles étaient assez chers. Avant le début de la guerre, les gens parlaient déjà d’une pénurie de vivres. Mon père nous a annoncé qu’il avait apporté nos chaussures d’hiver chez le cordonnier pour fabriquer des cachettes dans les talons où nous pourrions dissimuler de l’argent et la montre en or de ma mère, le seul objet de valeur qu’elle possédait. Il voulait que chacun de nous ait de l’argent sur soi au cas où nous serions séparés. Je ne sais pas combien d’argent nous avions, mais je suis sûre que ça ne représentait pas grand-chose. Nous ne savions pas non plus combien de temps durerait la guerre.

Quelque temps plus tard, nos voisins allemands ont arrêté de se montrer généreux avec leurs voisins juifs et nous devions attendre comme tous les autres. La boutique ouvrait ses portes le matin, mais les gens commençaient à faire la queue la veille au soir. Un soir, nous sommes descendues pour rejoindre la file d’attente. Mon père est resté enfermé dans l’appartement. Je me tenais derrière ma mère et devant ma soeur Chava. À l’aurore le matin suivant, la boulangerie a ouvert et la file a commencé à avancer lentement et dans le calme. Je n’étais pas loin de la porte lorsque, soudain, un soldat allemand accompagné d’un petit garçon polonais, qui n’avait pas plus de cinq ou six ans, est apparu. Le petit garçon a pointé un doigt sur moi en disant au soldat : « Jude ! Jude ! » (Juif ! Juif !). Le soldat m’a fait brutalement sortir de la file d’attente. Je suis rentrée en courant sans rien dire à mon père. Je me suis jetée sur le lit, le visage inondé de larmes. Je ne pouvais pas m’arrêter de pleurer. Mon univers s’effondrait et plus rien n’était comme avant. J’étais déconcertée et je n’arrivais pas à comprendre ce qui venait de se produire. J’étais humiliée et en colère. Je ne parvenais pas à contenir ma rage. Ma mère est arrivée et a essayé de me consoler. « Ne pleure pas, regarde, j’ai deux pains. J’en ai pris un et je l’ai caché sous mon châle, puis je suis allée voir l’autre vendeur et j’en ai acheté un autre pour toi. Ne pleure pas. » Le doigt de ce petit garçon polonais pointé sur moi, disant au soldat allemand que j’étais juive, a transpercé mon coeur de jeune fille de douze ans. Aujourd’hui encore, ce souvenir reste douloureux.

Little Girl Lost

Encountering the Truth

I packed a knapsack, as I had on my journey out of Poland, but now I was on my way back. This time, though, my knapsack was larger and nicer. I also took a suitcase small enough to drag along with me since I had some nice clothes that were precious cargo. I was lucky to be travelling with Joseph – in times of hardship, it is nice to have a good companion and he was good to me.

By this time it was late March 1945 and spring was approaching. The trip wasn’t as bad as we had anticipated; maybe it was because I was getting used to all kinds of adventures. This time we at least had enough money to buy food, no matter how expensive it was. This hadn’t been the case when I was travelling south to Georgia from Arkhangelsk. Now, although we slept on railway station benches, we had some blankets with us to make them a little softer, and to our great surprise we were always able to find seats on the trains. We even managed to stop a few times in small towns and find a local public bathhouse to wash up. The only terrible encounters we had were with groups of men who had left labour camps and were also trying to get back to Poland. They were like walking ghosts, human skeletons. Big, staring eyes, tautly drawn skin, faces full of fear. We tried to talk to them and they barely answered; they only mumbled in Polish or Yiddish.

At first, I couldn’t understand why those people hadn’t been taken care of, as my group had been. We asked them where they had been and eventually pieced together the information that they had been sent to extremely hard labour camps, where very few had survived. I had been lucky to be in Arkhangelsk. We also saw some Soviet citizens who had survived labour camps, but we couldn’t understand them very well. They all seemed too dazed and bewildered to communicate; we couldn’t figure out why they had been freed or where they were going. The sight of them remained engraved in my memory for a long time.

After six weeks or so of travelling we reached the city of Lvov…

We came across some Jewish people and started hearing rumours about what had happened to the Jews during the war, but I wasn’t yet prepared to listen to what they were saying. I closed my mind. I tried to postpone the encounter as long as possible. For the rest of the trip, the few days it took to reach Lodz, the two of us were very quiet, each buried under the weight of our inner fears, almost embarrassed to face each other so as not to show the agony we felt. My thoughts were so mixed up, jumping from one member of my family to the next. The years I had spent away had been completely erased. All I could think was, what if? Suddenly, I didn’t want to go home. If only I could use some magic trick and disappear, or become somebody else. I was torturing myself to the point that Joseph later told me that he thought I had lost my mind.

When we finally arrived in Lodz, I was so mentally exhausted that I really was afraid that I was having a breakdown. “I can’t do it now, but I went through so much, how can I give in now? I must stop this; I must go on.” I kept talking to myself and poor Joseph didn’t know what to do with me. Somehow I got a hold of myself – after all, I was a survivor.

Lodz had been liberated some time ago – it had taken the Red Army a few months to march from there to Berlin – so we did encounter some Jewish survivors in the streets, a group of young people who looked so normal compared to those we had seen on the train. We couldn’t figure them out at all. We told them we had come back from the Soviet Union and asked if they would tell us where to go, what to do. They gave us all the necessary directions as to where to go first – to the Jewish Committee, where we could get assistance in various social services. We walked into a room in a building located on a main street of Lodz, which was buzzing with people and had lists posted on the walls. There was a whole army of people to help us, speaking almost every language, but I looked around and felt like a trapped animal. This was it. This was the end of the road. I understood that the fate of my family was posted on the long lists that covered all the walls. The Jewish Committee had made the task of searching easier by listing only the names of survivors.

At this point, we still didn’t know anything. I walked away from Joseph. I didn’t want him to be near me when I learned about my family. I needed to pull together all the inner strength I had and force myself to walk toward the lists, to look under the letter K. I was shaking. I didn’t see anybody around me. I was all alone, alone with my pain. My eyes moved down the list of Ks. I stopped at the end, closed my eyes for a minute and started all over again. Maybe I had missed our name…. The letters became very hazy. My head was spinning. Neither of my parents nor any of my brothers’ names were there – could it be that they didn’t have all the survivors’ names yet? It’s only the beginning, I told myself. They might still show up. Somebody had to have survived. My two parents. My four brothers. In my great shock, I forgot that my sister’s name wasn’t Kohn – her husband’s name was Laziczak. I quickly looked under L. There she was! She was alive! I was overjoyed to see that she had survived, but what about the rest? Was she the only survivor? I looked at Joseph, pale and shaken. He leaned against the wall and announced in a faint voice, “No one from my people is on the wall.”

Seule au monde

Confrontée à la vérité

J’ai rempli mon sac à dos, comme lors de mon départ de Pologne. Mais j’étais maintenant sur le chemin du retour : cette fois, je disposais non seulement d’un sac beau et grand, mais aussi d’une valise, assez légère pour que je puisse la garder avec moi, car j’y avais mis mes vêtements les plus beaux. J’avais de la chance de voyager avec Joseph – dans les périodes difficiles, c’est réconfortant d’avoir un bon compagnon et c’est ce qu’il était.

Nous étions à fin du mois de mars 1945 et le printemps commençait à s’installer. Le voyage s’est mieux déroulé que nous ne l’avions prévu. L’habitude des aventures de toutes sortes y était peut-être pour quelque chose. Nous avions assez d’argent pour acheter de la nourriture, quel qu’en ait été le prix – ce qui n’avait pas été le cas durant mon odyssée vers la Géorgie. Nous dormions certes sur des bancs de gare, mais nous avions maintenant des couvertures qui les rendaient un peu plus confortables. Et, à notre grand étonnement, nous réussissions toujours à dénicher une place assise dans les trains. Nous nous sommes même arrêtés à quelques reprises dans des petites villes pour trouver des bains publics où nous avons pu faire notre toilette. Notre plus grande épreuve a été de croiser des groupes d’hommes qui revenaient des camps, eux aussi en chemin vers la Pologne. On aurait dit des fantômes, des squelettes ambulants : de grands yeux hagards, les traits tirés, le visage marqué par la peur. Nous avons bien tenté de les questionner, mais ils n’émettaient pour toute réponse qu’un marmonnement en polonais ou en yiddish.

Au début, je ne comprenais pas du tout pourquoi ces gens n’avaient pas été pris en charge comme nous l’avions été. Nous leur avons demandé d’où ils venaient et nous avons fini par comprendre qu’ils avaient été envoyés dans des camps extrêmement durs, où très peu avaient survécu. J’avais eu de la chance de m’être retrouvée à Arkhangelsk. Nous avons également rencontré des rescapés soviétiques, mais nous ne les comprenions pas très bien. Tous semblaient trop hébétés et confus pour communiquer. Nous ne savions rien, ni de la raison de leur libération ni du lieu où ils se rendaient. La vue de ces gens est restée gravée dans ma mémoire pendant longtemps.

Après presque six semaines de voyage, nous sommes arrivés à Lvov. Cette ville, polonaise avant-guerre, était passée aux mains des Soviétiques après le partage du pays entre eux et les Allemands en 1939. Elle figurait parmi nos centres urbains comptant le plus grand nombre de sites historiques, culturels et architecturaux, mais je n’y avais jamais mis les pieds. C’est là que, le 15 mai 1945, nous avons pris connaissance de la grande nouvelle : la capitulation de l’Allemagne. Naturellement, l’annonce de la fin de la guerre a donné lieu à une grande fête populaire : les foules ont envahi les rues en criant leur joie et en entonnant des chants patriotiques. Comme le voulait la coutume en Union Soviétique, des haut-parleurs diffusaient la musique dans toutes les rues.

Pour ma part, il s’agissait d’une victoire douce-amère. Convaincue que cette guerre n’avait épargné à peu près personne, il m’était impossible de participer aux réjouissances. Mon esprit était ailleurs, tout comme celui de Joseph. Nous parlions à peine – la tension était palpable, nous n’osions pas aborder le sujet tabou de nos familles. Plus nous approchions de notre destination, Łódź, plus j’avais peur. J’ai songé à fuir de nouveau, mais pour aller où ?

Nous avons croisé des Juifs et des rumeurs sont arrivées jusqu’à nous concernant le sort de nos coreligionnaires pendant la guerre. Mais je n’étais pas encore prête à entendre ce qu’ils avaient à dire. Sur ce point, j’écartais toute pensée, tentant de repousser le moment de vérité le plus longtemps possible. Tout au long du trajet qu’il nous restait à parcourir jusqu’à Łódź – quelques jours de voyage encore – Joseph et moi sommes demeurés très silencieux, recroquevillés sous le poids de nos appréhensions ; nous évitions presque de nous regarder pour ne pas montrer l’angoisse qui nous dévorait. J’étais désorientée. Mes pensées s’embrouillaient, passaient de mes parents à mes frères et à ma soeur. Les années d’exil lointain que je venais de vivre avaient complètement disparu. Une seule question me hantait : « Et si ma famille…? » Soudain, je n’ai plus souhaité ce retour. Comme j’aurais aimé user de magie pour disparaître ou devenir quelqu’un d’autre… Je me torturais tant que Joseph m’a avoué plus tard avoir craint pour ma santé mentale.

Lorsque nous sommes enfin arrivés à Łódź, j’étais si épuisée que j’ai vraiment cru sombrer dans la dépression. Je me parlais sans cesse à moi-même : « Je ne peux pas me laisser aller… J’ai traversé tant d’épreuves… Comment pourrais-je abandonner maintenant ? Je dois me ressaisir… Je dois continuer. » Le pauvre Joseph ne savait plus que faire. Mais j’ai réussi à surmonter mon désarroi, je ne sais trop comment – j’étais une survivante, après tout.

Après la libération de Łódź par l’Armée rouge, il avait fallu longtemps aux Soviétiques pour atteindre Berlin et faire tomber le Reich, marquant ainsi la fin de la guerre. Cela faisait donc plusieurs mois que l’Armée rouge avait reconquis la ville polonaise et on y croisait de nombreux survivants juifs dans les rues. Nous avons rencontré un groupe de jeunes qui nous semblaient plus normaux que les gens que nous avions vus dans le train. Mais, là encore, nous n’arrivions pas du tout à les comprendre. Nous leur avons dit que nous revenions d’Union soviétique et leur avons demandé s’ils pouvaient nous indiquer où aller, que faire… Ils ont fini par nous expliquer que nous devions d’abord nous rendre au Comité juif, où nous recevrions l’aide de divers services sociaux et ils nous en ont montré le chemin. Nous sommes parvenus à un immeuble sur la rue principale : c’était une vraie fourmilière avec des listes affichées partout. Il y avait là toute une armée de gens prêts à nous aider, dans pratiquement toutes les langues possibles. Mais, en jetant un regard autour de moi, je me suis sentie comme un animal pris au piège. Cette fois, ça y était. C’était le bout de la route. J’ai compris que le destin de ma famille était inscrit sur ces longues listes qui tapissaient tous les murs. Pour faciliter la recherche, le Comité juif n’avait mentionné que les noms des survivants.

À ce moment-là, nous ne savions toujours rien. Je me suis éloignée de Joseph : je ne voulais pas l’avoir près de moi lorsque je découvrirais ce qui était arrivé à ma famille. J’ai rassemblé toutes mes forces et me suis obligée à approcher des listes, pour regarder à la lettre K. Je tremblais. Je ne voyais personne autour de moi. J’étais seule, seule avec ma douleur. J’ai parcouru la liste des K de haut en bas. Je me suis arrêtée à la fin, j’ai fermé les yeux quelques instants et j’ai recommencé à partir du début. J’avais peut-être sauté notre nom… Les lettres s’embrouillaient. La tête me tournait. Ni les noms de mes parents ni ceux de mes frères et de ma soeur n’y figuraient. Peut-être n’avaient-ils pas encore recueilli tous les noms ? Ce n’est que le début, me disais-je. Il y avait encore une chance qu’ils y apparaissent. Quelqu’un devait bien avoir survécu ! Mes deux parents. Mes quatre frères. Ma soeur. Dans l’état où j’étais, j’avais oublié que cette dernière s’appelait désormais Laziczak, comme son mari. J’ai vite examiné la liste des L. Elle s’y trouvait ! Elle était en vie ! J’étais submergée par la joie ! Mais qu’était-il arrivé aux autres ? Était-elle la seule survivante ? J’ai regardé Joseph, qui était pâle et bouleversé. Il s’est appuyé contre le mur en annonçant d’une voix faible : « Aucun des miens ne figure sur la liste. »

E/96: Fate Undecided

Invasion

That night we bedded down on whatever was available and, being ten years old and tired, I just stretched out on the ground next to the truck and slept. We didn’t have much to eat, only the remnants of what we had managed to gather over the previous two days. The next morning, my parents woke me up at sunrise and we were on the move again. The driver had somehow managed to get some gasoline and bread from either the farmer or the hamlet down the road. It seemed that even in that chaos, you could still find the essentials – for a price.

We wanted to cross the River Somme, thinking that we would be safer on the other side, but we never reached it. The German army had gotten there before us and had been only temporarily stopped by a blown bridge. They were turning back refugees, urging people to go home, telling them that the war was finished for them. This was all done in a very nice way by the smiling young German soldiers exulting in their success in battle. They offered us bread, canned foods and Leberwurst, the famous liver sausage. When they heard that we were short of oil and gasoline, they climbed down from their armoured car, crawled under it and drew some oil from their engine and handed it to us. This was a particular relief because the old truck was badly leaking oil. Still with big smiles, they also gave us gasoline, all the while repeating that the war was over for us and we should go home. Unable to do otherwise, we turned around and headed back north, to Belgium, Antwerp and home.

The Jewish World War I veteran who had joined our group in De Panne didn’t hide his dislike of the Germans and, despite warnings from all the adults, persisted in declaring his status as a Belgian veteran and Jew. When we stopped for gasoline in the town of Amiens, we pulled up in front of the Kommandantur – the German military headquarters – to find the tall, grey-haired commandant standing out in front. Somebody may have alerted him to the presence of the Jewish veteran or perhaps the old man did so himself with his insistence on so proudly declaring his identity and his opinion of the Germans. Whichever it was, the officer ordered the man off the truck, threatening that unless he did, he would not give us gasoline. “Jew,” he said. “You walk.”

We continued on our way with heavy hearts. On our journey back to Antwerp, we saw much evidence of the rout of the Allied troops and the overwhelming power of the German army. Tanks and more tanks – small, medium and large – thundered down the road, pushing the column of refugees to the side. Everywhere we looked in the meadows beside the road we saw German soldiers cleaning their weapons and machines. Above all of this, the sun shone brilliantly and incongruously from a clear blue sky.

Matricule E/96

L'Invasion

Cette nuit-là, nous avons dormi sur ce que nous avons trouvé et comme j’avais dix ans et que j’étais épuisé, je me suis juste étendu sur le sol à côté du camion et je me suis endormi. Nous n’avions pas grand-chose à manger, seulement les restes des provisions que nous avions réussi à recueillir les deux jours précédents. Le lendemain, j’ai été réveillé à l’aube par mes parents et à nouveau, nous avons repris notre route. Le chauffeur s’était arrangé pour obtenir de l’essence et du pain dans une ferme ou dans le hameau que nous avions traversé. Il semblait que même dans cette confusion, on pouvait trouver l’essentiel – en y mettant le prix.

Nous voulions traverser la Somme, pensant être plus en sécurité de l’autre côté, mais nous ne l’avons jamais atteinte. L’armée allemande y était arrivée avant nous et avait été temporairement stoppée par la destruction d’un pont. Il y avait des réfugiés qui rentraient chez eux, incitant les gens à s’en retourner et leur disant que la guerre était finie pour eux. Tout se passait de façon fort civile, avec de jeunes soldats allemands souriants se réjouissant de leur victoire dans la bataille. Ils nous ont offert du pain, des conserves et des Leberwurst, les fameuses saucisses de foie. Quand ils ont su que nous manquions d’huile et d’essence, ils sont descendus de leur voiture blindée, ont rampé dessous et ont siphonné de l’huile de leur moteur qu’ils nous ont remise. C’était un soulagement pour nous car le vieux camion perdait dangereusement son huile. Toujours avec de grands sourires, ils nous ont aussi donné de l’essence, répétant sans arrêt que la guerre était finie pour nous et que nous devions rentrer à la maison. Incapable de faire autre chose, nous avons fait demi-tour et nous sommes repartis vers le nord, vers la Belgique, Anvers et notre maison.

Le vétéran juif de la Première Guerre mondiale qui avait rejoint notre groupe à La Panne ne cachait pas son aversion pour les Allemands et malgré les avertissements de tous les adultes, persistait à se déclarer vétéran belge et juif. Nous nous sommes arrêtés à Amiens pour prendre de l’essence à la Kommandantur – le quartier général militaire allemand – et nous y avons trouvé le commandant, un homme de grande taille, aux cheveux gris, qui se tenait juste devant. Quelqu’un l’avait peut-être averti de la présence du vétéran juif ou peut-être est-ce à cause de l’insistance de ce dernier à affirmer si ostensiblement son identité et son opinion des Allemands. Toujours est-il que l’officier a ordonné au vieil homme de descendre du camion, menaçant de ne pas nous donner d’essence s’il n’obtempérait pas. « Vous, le Juif, vous marchez » a-t-il dit. Nous avons continué le coeur gros. Tout au long de notre voyage de retour vers Anvers, nous avons constaté les marques de la défaite des troupes alliées et l’écrasante domination de l’armée allemande. Toujours plus de chars – petits, moyens et gros – grondaient sur les routes, repoussant les colonnes de réfugiés sur les bas-côtés. Où que nous regardions dans les champs au-delà de la route, il y avait des soldats allemands nettoyant leurs armes et leurs machines. Et au-dessus de tout ce spectacle, le soleil brillait de façon incongrue dans un ciel parfaitement bleu.

Tracks in the Snow

Silent Refuge

Our stay with the Granlis came to an unexpected and abrupt end. In March 1942, the lensmann paid us a visit with some very disturbing news. A German raid of the villages in his district was imminent, and he urged us to leave for Buahaugen immediately. Travelling to Buahaugen at this time of year and with no advanced planning was a terrifying prospect. We did not know how we would manage all by ourselves or how we would get all the necessary provisions. Nils promised to look for someone to bring us what we needed at regular intervals, and we had no choice but to believe him. So on a bright, sunny day, we set out on skis with one of our neighbours, each of us carrying as many supplies as we could.

It took several hours of skiing through deep and heavy snow to reach the seter, but since there were four of us, we made deep tracks in the snow. We hardly recognized Buahaugen when we arrived — the landscape looked like it was frozen in time. Our neighbour helped us carry wood inside and start a fire in the fireplace and the stove to warm up the cottage. And then he left. We were all alone in the great expanse of snow and ice.

The brook was frozen, too, except for a small opening, where we were able to fetch drinking water — on skis, of course. When we needed water with which to wash ourselves and our clothes, we melted snow in a large pot. At night, the cottage got freezing cold, and it was usually my mother who got a fire going before my father and I arose in the morning. We could not go outside without putting our skis on. It was almost inconceivable that we could stay here all alone until the farmers came up for the summer. But that was what we did — at least that was what my parents did.

After a few days in the mountains, I did something that was probably the most selfish thing I have ever done in my whole life. My only excuse is that I was only thirteen years old. I told my parents that I wanted to go back to Rogne, to stay with Nils and Alma and to go to school. Their reaction was predictable. I was their only link to the village in the event that something happened to my father, and now I wanted to leave them completely on their own. In the end, they let me go, provided that I agree to return to the mountains every weekend with provisions.

So I set out on my skis, retracing the tracks we had made a few days earlier. I felt free as a bird — for a little while. Then I began to realize that I was now all alone in the great snowy expanse I had to cover. What would happen if I fell and could not get up?

Le Refuge du silence

Des traces dans la neige

Nous avons toutefois quitté les Granli bien avant l’été et de façon abrupte. En mars 1942, le lensmann est venu nous transmettre une nouvelle fort inquiétante : une rafle allemande était imminente dans les villages de la région. Il nous exhortait à partir sur-le-champ pour Buahaugen. Nous étions terrifiés à l’idée de nous rendre au seter à cette période de l’année sans préparation. Comment allions-nous nous débrouiller seuls là-haut ? Comment allions-nous nous approvisionner ? Nils promettait de trouver quelqu’un qui nous acheminerait régulièrement le nécessaire. Nous n’avions pas d’autre choix que de le croire. C’est ainsi que, par une belle journée ensoleillée, nous avons chaussé nos skis et nous sommes partis accompagnés d’un voisin, chacun transportant le plus de provisions possible.

Puisque nous devions avancer dans une neige épaisse, il nous a fallu plusieurs heures avant d’atteindre le seter, même si notre progression en file se faisait dans les traces profondes laissées dans la neige par le premier d’entre nous. À notre arrivée, nous avons à peine reconnu Buahaugen : le paysage semblait figé dans le temps. Notre voisin nous a aidés à transporter du bois de chauffage à l’intérieur, puis à allumer un feu dans la cheminée et dans le poêle pour réchauffer le chalet. Cela fait, il est reparti, nous laissant seuls dans la vaste étendue de neige et de glace.

Le ruisseau était gelé, à l’exception d’une petite ouverture par laquelle nous puisions de l’eau à boire. L’opération se faisait bien évidemment à ski. Lorsque nous avions besoin d’eau pour nous laver ou faire la lessive, nous faisions fondre de la neige dans une grande marmite. La nuit, il faisait terriblement froid dans le chalet, et c’était généralement ma mère qui allumait le feu le matin avant que mon père et moi nous levions. Nous ne pouvions nous aventurer dehors sans chausser nos skis. Il était bien difficile de croire que nous tiendrions le coup jusqu’à l’arrivée des paysans au début de l’été. Mais c’est ce que nous avons fait, ou du moins mes parents.

Quelques jours à peine après notre arrivée dans les montagnes, j’ai fait la chose la plus égoïste qui soit, avec mon jeune âge pour seule excuse. J’ai annoncé à mes parents que je souhaitais retourner à Rogne pour habiter chez les Granli et aller à l’école. Leur réaction était prévisible. Moi, le seul lien qu’ils avaient avec le village s’il arrivait un malheur à mon père, je voulais les abandonner ? Ils ont néanmoins fini par me laisser partir à condition que je revienne toutes les fins de semaine avec des provisions.

J’ai donc chaussé mes skis pour reprendre la piste que nous avions tracée quelques jours auparavant. Pendant un instant, je me suis sentie libre comme l’air, avant de me rendre compte que j’étais seule dans un immense désert blanc qu’il me fallait traverser. Que m’arriverait-il si je tombais sans pouvoir me relever ?

Traces of What Was

Children’s Aktion and the Liquidation

It was at the end of March 1944, on a cool, bright and sunny day, the beginning of spring, the time of renewal of life, that the SS came to take the children. The survivors of the camp know it by its German name, Die Kinderaktion. It sounds so benevolent, like kindergarten or a children’s game, but on that sunny day they came to take the children to be killed. Why? Because they were of no use to the German war effort. The children had to be fed but produced nothing. There was little warning, but word spread like wildfire and mothers and fathers began searching for places to hide their children. Mother knew someone who had built a hiding place and so we ran there, but they had no place for us.

We could hear the commotion from downstairs – the Nazis were searching everywhere. What to do? Where to hide? We were standing in the corridor as people ran by us, with Mother holding Monik tightly in her arms, Miriam clinging to Fruma’s skirt. I told Mother and Fruma about the hiding place in the attic and we ran to the stairwell and up the stairs. There were people there, some rushing up, some down.

At the next landing was a little boy. I knew him. I don’t remember his name but he was about my age, but smaller. He was an artist. He made magic with a pencil and paper, producing amazing drawings of people, objects and landscapes. He mostly kept to himself, did not run with our gang and did not know about our hiding place. I asked him to come with us, but he just stood there in the corner of the landing, frozen. I had to keep moving. Once more I called to him from the top of the stairs, but he remained where he was, staring at me with his large, dark eyes.

Up in the attic some people with children were already hidden behind the beam. Mother, Miriam, Monik and I quickly crawled in and pushed the cut-out log back in place; Fruma remained outside to make sure it was even with the rest of the beam, then left. We crawled as far back as we could, all the way to where the slanting roof met the floor, and waited in silence. For a long time it was very quiet and then we heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, then the sound of someone in the attic, walking slowly, coming closer. Mother held my little brother tightly. No one moved. I held my breath. Would the soldier see the cut in the beam? He didn’t, and soon he was gone. For a long while we lay still and listened but no one else came to the attic. Slowly and quietly, we began moving from our cramped positions. I was able to look through the narrow space between the roof and the floor. I could see the gate and the area around it, a truck covered in dark green canvas inside the gate and a man in uniform standing at the back of the truck, facing a woman with a kerchief on her head who held a young child in her arms.

The soldier took hold of the child but the woman wouldn’t let go; she made as if to go in the truck with her child, but the man shoved her hard and wrenched the child from her and put the child in the back of the truck. That’s what I saw; that’s what I remember.

How many Jewish children did they take to be destroyed, their worth unknown? The boy on the landing might have been a great painter. But I never saw him again.

Sur les traces du passé

L’Aktion des enfants et la liquidation

Nous étions à la fin du mois de mars 1944. C’est par une journée froide, claire et ensoleillée, au début du printemps, le temps du renouveau, que les SS sont venus prendre les enfants. Ceux qui ont survécu au camp connaissent cet événement sous son nom allemand : Die Kinderaktion. Ce mot semble avoir une connotation si bienveillante, comme « jardin d’enfants » ou « jeu d’enfants ». Mais en ce jour ensoleillé, c’est pour massacrer les petits que les SS sont venus. Pourquoi ? Parce qu’ils n’étaient d’aucune utilité à l’effort de guerre allemand. Il fallait nourrir ces enfants, mais ils ne produisaient rien en retour.

Nous n’avions pas été avertis, mais dès que l’opération a débuté, la rumeur s’est répandue comme un feu de forêt. Les mères et les pères se sont précipités pour trouver des endroits où cacher leurs enfants. Ma mère connaissait quelqu’un qui avait construit une cachette et nous avons couru pour nous y abriter, mais il n’y avait plus de place.

On entendait le fracas en bas – les nazis fouillaient le moindre recoin. Que faire ? Où se cacher ? Nous nous tenions dans le couloir tandis que les gens passaient devant nous en courant. Ma mère serrait fort Monik dans ses bras, et Miriam s’accrochait à la jupe de Fruma. J’ai alors révélé à ma mère et à Fruma l’existence de notre cachette au grenier et nous nous sommes aussitôt dirigés vers la cage d’escalier, puis nous avons gravi les marches. Il y avait du monde. Certains filaient vers le grenier, d’autres en descendaient.

À l’étage suivant, nous avons croisé un petit garçon que je connaissais mais dont j’ai oublié le nom. Il était plus petit que moi alors qu’il avait à peu près mon âge. C’était un artiste. Il faisait des merveilles avec du papier et un crayon, des dessins étonnants de personnes, d’objets et de paysages. Plutôt solitaire, il ne courait pas avec notre bande et n’était pas au courant de notre cachette. Je lui ai demandé de venir avec nous, mais il est resté là, au coin du palier, pétrifié. Il fallait que j’avance. Je l’ai appelé encore une fois depuis le haut de l’escalier, mais il n’a pas bougé, me fixant de ses grands yeux sombres.

Au grenier, quelques personnes étaient déjà cachées avec leurs enfants derrière la poutre. Ma mère, Miriam, Monik et moi nous sommes empressés de nous faufiler à l’intérieur avant de remettre en place la partie sciée. Fruma est restée dehors pour s’assurer qu’elle ne dépassait pas du reste de la poutre, puis elle est partie. Nous avons rampé aussi loin que possible, jusqu’à l’endroit où le toit en pente rejoignait le plancher, puis nous avons attendu en silence. Pendant longtemps, tout est resté très silencieux, puis nous avons entendu quelqu’un dans le grenier. Il marchait lentement, se rapprochait. Ma mère a serré fort mon petit frère. Personne n’a bougé. J’ai retenu mon souffle. Ce soldat verrait-il l’entaille dans la poutre ? Non, il ne l’a pas vue. Il est bientôt parti. Nous sommes restés pendant un long moment immobiles, à l’écoute, mais personne d’autre n’est venu au grenier. Lentement et en silence, nous avons commencé à nous dégager de ce lieu exigu. J’ai pu regarder à travers l’étroite fente qui séparait le toit du sol. Je voyais le portail et la zone alentour, un camion couvert d’une bâche vert sombre à l’intérieur des barrières et un homme en uniforme qui se tenait à l’arrière du véhicule face à une femme avec un foulard sur la tête et un jeune enfant dans les bras.

Le soldat s’est emparé de l’enfant, mais la femme refusait de le lâcher. Elle a fait mine d’entrer dans le camion avec son petit, mais l’homme l’a repoussée brutalement avant de lui arracher l’enfant des bras pour le placer à l’arrière. Voilà ce que j’ai vu. Voilà ce dont je me souviens.

Combien d’enfants juifs ont-ils emmenés pour les anéantir, sans qu’on sache ce qu’ils auraient pu devenir ? Le petit garçon sur le palier aurait pu être un grand peintre, mais je ne l’ai jamais revu.

Arrival at Auschwitz

Dignity Endures

We were pulled down from the cattle cars and the selection began. On the platform, excellent music played by inmates in striped uniforms welcomed us. By the fence, Nazi soldiers were waiting for the sick and feeble, promising to take them to the hospital right away. Another lie. They were thrown into what looked like ambulances, and we found out later that they had been immediately taken to the gas chambers and gassed instantly. Next came the mothers with small children. The Jewish inmates warned the mothers with children to give their children to their elderly relatives to try to save themselves but hardly anyone listened and almost all of them were killed. A few minutes later, my father disappeared with my brother Shimon, and I never saw them again.

As I was standing huddled with my mother and little brother, along came a high-ranking SS officer, who we later found out was Dr. Josef Mengele, the Nazis’ infamous Angel of Death, and he started the selection among the women. He sent all of the older women to one side, separating them from the young, healthy-looking younger women. All those in the latter category went to the other side where they lined up, five in a row.

Her maternal instinct must have inspired my mother to do what she did next. In front of us stood four tall, good-looking girls, whom we knew from the ghetto. They were holding hands with three children, their little nieces and nephew, whose parents were hiding in Budapest. My mother pulled the children to her side and pushed me to be the fifth in the row with the four girls. “I will take care of the children” she told them, “and you take care of Judith.”

I started to protest and turned around to go back to her, but within a minute my mother had disappeared with the three small children and my little brother. That was the last time I saw her.

The End of My Childhood

In Search of Light

After the Nazis took power, they confiscated part of our house and gave it to German army officers, including a number of SS. Once, a German officer told my father, “Herr Doktor, wir haben das Krieg verloren.” (Doctor, we have lost the war.) My father was absolutely terrified. He couldn’t say yes and he couldn’t say no; he didn’t know how to react because it could have been a provocation. Remember that this was 1944, late in the war, so some soldiers might have realized that the war was not going all that well. But Hitler’s propaganda was extremely powerful and effective nonetheless.

At one point, the German officers told my mother and father that they wanted to have a party in our house and that my mother should cook for them and my father should help with the cleaning. My parents were not allowed to leave, and they were very afraid that the soldiers might get drunk, and then God knows what might happen. My parents told me to leave the house and stay overnight with some friends, and they also told me that if the officers killed them that night, I should go to a certain person who would help me. I still remember vividly that, at ten years old, I did not cry; at this point I felt like I was an adult looking at the world the way it was, not the way it had looked in my childhood dreams.

In early May, the second of the month, a high school teacher, an ethnic German, came and knocked on the window of our house and told my father that the next morning we were going to be taken away. There was nowhere to go, there was nowhere to hide, and so we just got up and packed during the night. But before getting to this point, the preceding months had been so terrifying that I don’t actually remember when I grew up. I just knew that over a period of a few months, I was no longer a child.

Indeed, on the morning of May 3, 1944, members of the Hungarian csendőrség (gendarmerie) came to our house, forced us to unpack and take less than we had planned — allowing for only one change of clothes — and put us in a truck to be carried away. In the truck, an officer noticed that my parents still had their wedding rings on and said that they were not allowed to keep them. My dad then took off my mother’s wedding ring and his own and threw them on the road. Interestingly, and very touchingly for me, these are the only things that survived from all our belongings. Everything else disappeared, but my parents found the two wedding rings in an envelope at the city hall when we got back.

The gendarmes took us to a ghetto in a brick factory some distance out of town, where, among the Jews, they were two of three medical doctors. When we got there, an SS officer took out his gun and, holding it against my parents’ heads said, “Well, if somebody escapes, I am going to shoot you, or you, or you.” I watched that, and the image is still vivid in my mind. But nobody had a chance to escape. It was just another way to terrorize us.

Never Far Apart

In the Dark

Ellen:

One day I no longer had to go to school and I no longer had to be afraid of the neighbour lady. In June 1944, a law was passed that all people who were Jewish had to move into segregated apartment buildings that were only for Jews. My mother had already sewn a yellow star on my coat, and we walked to another building, where to my great delight I found my uncle Latzi’s wife, Serena, and my cousins Hedi, Imre and baby Gyurika. Hedi, like her two brothers, had blue eyes and blond hair. She and I had lots of fun playing together every day. Every so often my aunt Margaret came over with some food, and one day she even brought my sister, Kati, who was never as much fun to play with as Hedi and Imre. My mother looked so happy when she saw her, and I was happy too.

What more could anyone ask for? I had my best friends playing with me every day, I never had to go to school and my mother was always at my beck and call if I needed her, because living in this new place she never had to go out, so she never left me alone in the apartment. It was a dream come true.

Soon enough, the dream turned into a nightmare. All the grown-ups became very upset. They started to pack everything they had into one suitcase. My aunt Serena sent word to her husband that our building was to be evacuated and everyone who lived there was going to a new location. My mother, too, was troubled. She did not say anything, but I could tell. To my surprise, my uncle Latzi showed up, bringing my sister with him. He said that he would take us children with him and keep us safe. I was torn from my mother and we left, walking in the darkness to a place where children were supposed to be safe.

Uncle Latzi took us to a building that had a sign with a red cross. I knew about the Red Cross. They helped people. After my uncle left us there, our heads were shaved so we wouldn’t get lice, and we were shown where we could sleep on a mat in one of the large rooms, with lots of other children. We were also given something to eat, though I don’t recall what. All I remember is being hungry. But I wasn’t too scared, because my sister was with me, and I knew that she would make sure that I was safe. We must have been there for at least a few months. Hedi looked after her brothers, and I stayed by Kati’s side all the time. It was cold there, but not as cold as outside. When it was dark, and even in the daytime, we huddled next to each other on the mat to keep warm. I don’t recollect anyone playing or singing, but some of the children made scary sounds from their throats because they were deaf. I had warm enough clothes on, but my shoes had holes in them, which my mother had covered up on the inside with cardboard. This didn’t matter to me until we were made to walk outdoors when men with guns came to the building. They were angry looking and had sharp bayonets attached to these guns, so they could both shoot and stab with them. The sight was threatening and frightful.

We all lined up outside in the dark. A Red Cross nurse told Hedi that she could hide our baby cousin because he had blue eyes and blond roots, he wasn’t circumcised and he hadn’t yet learned to talk. Hedi trusted this lady, who seemed kind, although she was a stranger to us and we never even knew her name. The lady went away with Gyurika before the soldiers could see her. Then we were marched away from the building of safety, going where, we didn’t know. I held on to Kati because I had a hard time walking. The cardboard covering one of the holes in my shoes let in the slush, and when the snow stuck to it and froze, it made that shoe higher than the other. We could not stop to scrape off the ice. Hungry, scared and freezing, I marched alongside my sister, limping as if I had one leg longer than the other.

Kitty:

It seems that members of the Nazi-approved Arrow Cross Party had decided to march us children into an enclosed area called the ghetto. The Budapest ghetto was established on November 29, 1944, in the last months of the war, when Germany and Hungary were in a life-and-death struggle with the Allies. Nevertheless, even in those desperate times the Nazis were still determined to finish the job of killing all the Jews of Europe in a process called the “Final Solution.” To that end, they collected all the remaining Jews of Hungary, those not in hiding or protected by some neutral government like Sweden, and placed them in an area separated from the non-Jewish population. Guarding them with armed soldiers, enclosing them within stone walls and fences, the Nazis made sure that no food could go in and nobody could come out. By keeping the Jews completely cut off from the world, it was easy for the Nazis to continue moving large, defenceless groups of people from this holding tank of misery to slave labour camps, where the Jews were used, if capable, for providing much needed labour that would free up men in the general population to be soldiers.

The people remaining inside the ghetto received no humanitarian services. Surrounded by garbage and excrement, crowded together, the starved and weakened children and the elderly easily fell sick from typhoid and other diseases. Many died horribly. They were left out in the streets, or in areas not as plainly seen.

After Ilonka and I were shown to an apartment in a building, we stayed inside with one group of children, huddling because of the cold. Hedi and Imre were separated from us and put into another apartment, and I lost sight of them. Years later, I found out that my cousin Imre had decided to explore his unfamiliar surroundings. As he walked into a bombed, half-destroyed stairway, he stumbled and fell on top of a dead man. I don’t think he ever got over it.

I was aware of the scary situation we were in, but unlike Ilonka, I did not feel scared. In fact, I did not feel much of anything at all, except cold and hungry. As I lay beside Ilonka, I thought of all the food I had refused to eat when my sweet and caring mother had tried to get me well, but I did not think of my father or my mother or my aunt Margaret being marched away, possibly to their deaths. I just daydreamed about food and wished that it could be warmer in the apartment in the middle of a harsh December.

I hunted around the apartment and found a closet full of abandoned clothes. Since we had no blankets, I put on layers of them and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, I awoke with a terrible itch all over my body. When daylight came and I looked at the clothes I had found, I saw they were full of bugs and eggs. That is when my feelings broke through. On my own, without adults, degraded by the filth and by the bugs that attacked my body, I bowed my shaved head in despair and started to sob uncontrollably. Then I had to stop so as not to frighten my already terrified sister.

Unies dans l’épreuve

Dans les ténèbres

Ellen :

Du jour au lendemain, je ne suis plus allée à l’école et, de ce fait, je n’ai plus été victime des intimidations de la voisine. En juin 1944, une loi a obligé tous les Juifs à emménager dans des immeubles qui leur étaient exclusivement réservés. Ma mère avait déjà cousu une étoile jaune sur mon manteau et nous sommes allées à pied jusqu’à un autre bâtiment où, à ma grande joie, nous avons retrouvé la femme de mon oncle Latzi, Serena, et mes cousins Hedi, Imre et Gyurka, le bébé. Hedi avait les yeux bleus et les cheveux blonds, comme ses deux frères. Elle et moi nous amusions beaucoup lors de nos jeux quotidiens. De temps en temps, ma tante Margaret venait nous apporter de la nourriture et, une fois, elle a même amené ma sœur Kati, mais je ne m’amusais pas autant avec elle qu’avec Hedi et Imre. Ma mère semblait très heureuse quand elle l’a vue et je l’étais aussi.

Que pouvait-on demander de plus ? Chaque jour, je jouais avec mes meilleurs amis, je n’allais jamais à l’école et ma mère était toujours à ma disposition. Elle n’avait jamais à sortir depuis qu’elle vivait dans ce nouvel endroit, et elle ne me laissait donc jamais seule dans l’appartement. C’était le rêve !

Mais bientôt, le rêve a tourné au cauchemar. D’un coup, les adultes sont devenus très inquiets. Ils ont commencé à empiler tout ce qu’ils avaient dans des valises. Ma tante Serena a envoyé un message à son mari pour lui dire que notre immeuble allait être évacué et que tous les occupants déménageaient. Ma mère aussi se faisait du souci. Elle ne disait rien, mais je le sentais. À ma grande surprise, mon oncle Latzi s’est présenté chez nous avec ma sœur. Il a déclaré qu’il allait mettre les enfants en sûreté. J’ai été arrachée à ma mère et nous sommes partis à pied dans les ténèbres, vers un endroit où nous serions à l’abri.

Oncle Latzi nous a emmenés dans un immeuble qui portait un grand symbole de la Croix-Rouge. Je connaissais cette organisation, elle aidait les gens. Après le départ de mon oncle, on nous a rasé la tête pour que nous n’attrapions pas de poux et on nous a indiqué où nous allions dormir : sur des matelas dans une des grandes pièces où se trouvaient déjà beaucoup d’autres enfants. On nous a aussi donné quelque chose à manger, mais je ne me rappelle pas quoi. Je me souviens essentiellement d’avoir eu faim. Mais je ne vivais pas dans la crainte, car ma sœur se trouvait avec moi et je savais qu’elle veillerait sur moi. Je suis demeurée dans cette habitation quelques mois au moins. Hedi s’occupait de ses frères et, pour ma part, je ne quittais pas ma sœur Kati d’une semelle. Il faisait froid, mais pas autant qu’à l’extérieur. Quand la nuit tombait, et même pendant la journée, nous nous blottissions les uns contre les autres sur le matelas pour nous tenir au chaud. Je ne me souviens pas que quiconque ait joué ou chanté, mais certains des enfants émettaient des sons de gorge bizarres et effrayants, car ils étaient sourds. J’avais des vêtements assez chauds, mais mes chaussures étaient trouées et ma mère les avait « réparées » en mettant du carton à l’intérieur. Les chaussures trouées ne m’avaient pas affectée, mais quand on a dû aller dehors, elles ont posé problème. Car des hommes armés sont venus à l’immeuble pour nous demander de sortir. Ils avaient l’air en colère et ils portaient des baïonnettes acérées à leurs fusils, ce qui fait qu’ils pouvaient aussi bien tirer que poignarder. Ils étaient aussi effrayants que menaçants.

Dehors, nous nous sommes mis tous en rang dans la nuit obscure. Une infirmière de la Croix-Rouge a chuchoté à Hedi que ce serait facile de mettre le bébé à l’abri et qu’elle s’en chargerait, car il avait les yeux bleus, les cheveux blonds, n’était pas circoncis et ne savait pas encore parler. Hedi a fait confiance à cette femme qui semblait bienveillante, bien qu’en réalité nous ne la connaissions pas du tout. D’ailleurs, nous n’avons jamais appris son nom. Elle a emporté Gyurika pendant que les soldats avaient le dos tourné. Ensuite, on nous a donné l’ordre de marche et nous avons quitté l’immeuble où nous avions été en sécurité, en route vers une destination inconnue. Je m’accrochais à Kati, car j’avais du mal à marcher. Le carton couvrant un des trous de mes semelles est devenu mouillé dans la boue, puis la neige s’y est attachée et a gelé, rendant la semelle de cette chaussure plus épaisse que l’autre. Nous ne pouvions pas nous arrêter pour racler la neige accumulée. J’avais faim, j’avais peur et j’étais transie de froid ; je marchais à côté de ma sœur en boitant comme si j’avais une jambe plus courte que l’autre.

Kitty :

Les membres du parti des Croix fléchées, d’inspiration nazie, semblaient avoir décidé de conduire les enfants dans l’enclave fermée du Ghetto. À Budapest, le Ghetto a été établi le 29 novembre 1944, durant les derniers mois de la guerre, alors que l’Allemagne et la Hongrie étaient engagées dans un affrontement sans merci contre les Alliés. Néanmoins, malgré une situation désespérée, les nazis étaient toujours aussi décidés à achever de détruire les Juifs d’Europe, selon la ligne directrice de leur projet d’annihilation, la tristement célèbre « Solution finale ».

Dans ce but, ils rassemblaient tous les Juifs de Hongrie qui restaient, ceux qui ne s’étaient pas cachés ou qui n’étaient pas protégés par un gouvernement neutre, comme celui de la Suède, et ils les parquaient dans une zone qui les tenait séparés de la population non juive. Les nazis avaient placé des soldats armés pour les garder, et clôturé l’endroit au moyen d’une enceinte en brique et en bois. Ils s’assuraient en outre qu’aucune nourriture ne pouvait y entrer et que personne ne pouvait en sortir. Les Juifs étant complètement coupés du monde, les nazis pouvaient plus facilement rassembler de grands groupes d’individus sans défense, pris dans ce réservoir de misère, et les envoyer comme esclaves aux camps de travail. Ces détenus, du moins ceux qui en étaient capables, accomplissaient les travaux essentiels, permettant ainsi aux non-Juifs de servir dans l’armée.

Les gens à l’intérieur du Ghetto ne recevaient aucun secours. Entourés de déchets et d’excréments, entassés les uns sur les autres, affamés et affaiblis, les enfants et les personnes âgées attrapaient facilement la typhoïde et d’autres maladies. Beaucoup sont morts de façon horrible, abandonnés dans les rues et recoins du Ghetto.

Ilonka et moi avons été conduites à un immeuble, dans un appartement où nous sommes restées avec un groupe d’enfants, blottis les uns contre les autres pour nous protéger du froid. Hedi et Imre ont été séparés de nous et emmenés dans un autre logement, et j’ai perdu leur trace. Beaucoup plus tard, j’ai appris que mon cousin Imre avait décidé d’explorer son nouvel environnement et, en montant un escalier à moitié détruit par les bombardements, il avait trébuché et était tombé sur le corps d’un homme mort. Je crois qu’il ne s’en est jamais remis.

J’avais conscience de la situation effrayante dans laquelle nous nous trouvions, mais contrairement à Ilonka, je n’avais pas peur. En fait, je ne ressentais pas grand-chose, à part le froid et la faim. Étendue auprès d’Ilonka, je pensais à toute la nourriture que j’avais refusé de manger quand ma douce mère si attentionnée essayait de me faire recouvrer la santé, mais je ne pensais ni à ma mère, ni à mon père, ni à ma tante Margaret qui avaient été emmenés, et très probablement assassinés. Je ne rêvais que de nourriture et d’un peu plus de chaleur, au cœur de ce mois de décembre si rude.

J’ai fouillé le logement et j’ai trouvé un placard rempli de linge abandonné. Comme nous n’avions pas de couvertures, j’ai enfilé plusieurs couches de ces vêtements pour dormir. Je me suis réveillée au milieu de la nuit parcourue de terribles démangeaisons. Quand le jour s’est levé, j’ai pu observer les vêtements de près et constater qu’ils étaient couverts de poux et de lentes. C’est à ce moment-là que j’ai craqué. Toute seule, sans adultes, réduite à vivre dans la crasse et les punaises qui m’attaquaient, j’ai baissé ma tête rasée et pleuré à gros sanglots irrépressibles. Mais j’ai vite dû prendre sur moi afin de ne pas effrayer ma sœur déjà suffisamment terrifiée.

Escape from the Edge

Crossing Over

It took us about half a day to work our way agonizingly down the mountainside, through the trees and underbrush, to the Doubs River. As much as possible, we tried not to slide down, so as not to tear our pants or ruin our clothes.

We had found ourselves at a spot in the Jura Mountains where the Doubs River runs through a steep but narrow gorge. The rocky bluffs covered with tall trees dropped abruptly to the water, but in spots a fringe of beach emerged beside the water, which we had made our way down to. The channel of the river along this strip was not very wide, but the water was deep and swift. On one side was France; on the other, Switzerland.

So we had finally reached the riverside, and no patrols were about. We could cross, but the river was wild, and I couldn’t swim. Piefke jumped in and swam across. I thought maybe I would be able to swim, that maybe fear would force me to swim.

I jumped in the water, but I still couldn’t swim and almost drowned. Clutching at some reeds, I managed to keep myself afloat and pull myself out of the water.

I was still on the French side. Piefke was already on the other side and called out to me. I thought, Holy God, I’m going to be caught here. The patrols would be coming by soon; I could hear the police dogs barking.

I scurried around and saw a boat chained to a metal stake on the bank. Could I tear the chain free or pull the stake out of the ground? Could I tear the boat loose? I had no tools, no equipment. I tore at the chain and pulled and tugged. I kept on pulling, tearing, straining. Almost anything is possible in extreme situations. I tore the stake out of the ground.

The boat was loose, but there were no oars in it. I jumped in and paddled with my hands. It was very awkward, and I could scarcely control the boat.

By sheer luck, I manoeuvred the boat into the middle of the river. At that point I stood up and heaved myself out. In one leap, I almost reached the other side. I scrambled to my feet and waded the rest of the way.

I was on the Swiss side and began to climb the slope. I had completely lost sight of Piefke. It was growing dark, and there were dense woods by the riverside.

I had barely made it to the Swiss side before I heard German voices on the other. They were shouting that the boat was gone, their patrol boat was gone. They hollered, “Wo ist das Boot? Das Ruderboot ist verschwunden. Etwas stimmt nicht.” (Where’s the boat? The rowboat is loose. Something’s wrong.)

The dogs were barking fiercely — so fiercely, I thought they were going to cross the river. It was rumoured that German patrols sometimes crossed to the Swiss side to pick up whomever they were after, and that the Swiss weren’t guarding the border diligently. I didn’t see any Swiss guards at all, but the Germans didn’t come across.

In the morning, I met Piefke high up on the hill. When we reached the top together, we lay down in the sun to dry our clothes, which were still soaked through.

We hugged and congratulated each other on our accomplishment. “We’ve done it! We’re free! We’re in a free country. We’ve put those miseries behind us.”

We had succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. Together we had managed to enter Switzerland in late August 1942 without any money and without a guide. We had crossed three borders in about six weeks, a remarkable feat considering we had done everything more or less on our own.

Sur la corde raide

D’une rive à l’autre

Nous avons passé une demi-journée atroce à descendre le versant de la montagne, nous frayant péniblement un chemin jusqu’au Doubs à travers les arbres et les broussailles. Nous faisions attention à ne pas glisser afin de ne pas déchirer nos pantalons.

Nous étions rendus à un endroit du massif jurassien où le Doubs coule dans une gorge escarpée mais étroite. Les falaises rocheuses couvertes de grands arbres tombaient à pic dans l’eau, où de petites bordures de plage émergeaient parfois. Là où nous avions abouti, le chenal de la rivière n’était pas très large mais profond, et le courant était rapide. D’un côté se trouvait la France ; de l’autre, la Suisse.

Quand nous avons enfin gagné la rive, nous avons constaté qu’il n’y avait aucune patrouille en vue. Nous pouvions traverser, mais le courant était fort, et je ne savais pas nager. Piefke a sauté à l’eau et a franchi la rivière à la nage. Je me suis dit que je parviendrais peut-être à le suivre, que la peur me pousserait à avancer.

J’ai sauté, mais je n’ai pas réussi à nager. J’ai failli me noyer. M’agrippant à quelques roseaux, je suis parvenu à garder la tête hors de l’eau et à regagner la rive. Je me trouvais toujours du côté français. Déjà de l’autre côté, Piefke m’interpellait. J’ai pensé : « Oh, mon Dieu, je suis coincé ici, je vais me faire prendre. » Les patrouilleurs ne tarderaient plus à s’approcher : j’entendais leurs chiens aboyer.

Courant dans tous les sens, j’ai aperçu une barque attachée à un piquet de métal par une chaîne. Serais-je capable de libérer la chaîne ? De sortir le piquet de terre ? De détacher la barque ? Je n’avais rien pour m’aider. J’ai empoigné la chaîne, puis j’ai tiré et tiraillé. J’ai continué de tirer, de forcer. En situation extrême, il n’y a à peu près rien d’impossible. J’ai fini par arracher le piquet.

La barque était détachée, mais il n’y avait pas de rames. J’ai sauté à bord et je me suis servi de mes mains pour ramer. C’était très difficile. Je contrôlais à peine l’embarcation.

Par une chance inouïe, j’ai réussi à manœuvrer la barque jusqu’au milieu de la rivière. Je me suis redressé, puis je me suis élancé hors de l’embarcation, atteignant presque la rive d’un seul bond. Me relevant avec difficulté, j’ai pataugé hors de l’eau.

Je m’étais rendu du côté suisse. J’ai commencé à gravir le versant. J’avais complètement perdu Piefke de vue. Il commençait à faire nuit, et la forêt longeant la rivière était dense.

Je venais à peine d’atteindre la rive suisse quand j’ai entendu des voix allemandes de l’autre côté. Ils criaient que la barque avait disparu, que leur embarcation de patrouille n’était plus là. Ils beuglaient : « Wo ist das Boot ? Das Ruderboot ist verschwunden ! Etwas stimmt nicht ! » (Où est le bateau ? La barque a disparu ! Il y a quelque chose qui cloche !)

Les chiens aboyaient férocement – tellement que je craignais qu’ils traversent la rivière. On racontait que les patrouilles allemandes passaient du côté suisse pour rattraper quiconque leur avait échappé et que les gardes suisses ne surveillaient pas la frontière avec autant de zèle. Je n’ai vu aucun garde suisse, et les Allemands sont restés de l’autre côté.

Le matin venu, j’ai retrouvé Piefke très haut dans la montagne. Après avoir atteint le sommet, nous nous sommes étendus au soleil pour faire sécher nos vêtements encore tout trempés.

Nous nous sommes étreints en nous félicitant mutuellement : « Nous avons réussi ! Nous sommes libres ! Nous sommes dans un pays libre ! Toutes ces souffrances sont derrière nous. »

Nous avions réussi au-delà de nos espérances les plus folles. Ensemble, à la fin du mois d’août 1942, nous avions été capables de pénétrer en Suisse, sans argent, sans guide. Nous avions franchi trois frontières en six semaines à peu près, un exploit remarquable sachant que nous avions accompli tout cela plus ou moins par nous-mêmes.

Going Underground

Dangerous Measures

One morning, as I was having my usual coffee and roll in the kitchen of the hotel, a fascist militiaman approached me. He told me who he was and advised me not to leave the hotel that day. I was completely bewildered. My mind raced as I considered whether or not he was deceiving me — what were his motivations? Was he stating the truth? I calmly responded that I didn’t see any reason why I should not leave the hotel. I did leave and walked about sixty to eighty metres when I was stopped and directed to go to a certain spot. The people assembled there were then taken in groups to a movie theatre nearby. We stood in line to be interrogated by a member of the French fascist militia. There were Jews in front of me in the line. Some were afraid to make use of their false papers or could not withstand the questioning, and when they were recognized as Jews, the beatings started without delay. The fascist thugs were relentless with their fists and boots. The louder the screams of protest, the more frenzied and monstrously violent they became.

It was my turn. The questioning went along in a quiet manner, though they insisted that I must have a Jewish parent or grandparent. My steadfast denial and insistence on the identity in my documents gave them some doubts, and they took me to a well-guarded bus with several others. I was taken to a jail where I was placed in a small cell. It was well into the evening when a priest was placed in my cell too. The priest immediately befriended me and started to curse the fascists. He also had some food with him and he offered me some; since I was very hungry, I accepted. We sat there together while he incessantly cursed the fascists. I smelled a provocation, so I interjected, defending them with the justification that they were only doing their job. He slept in the same cell as me that night, and in the morning he was removed. Once again I was questioned, but this time on the subject of anti-Vichy and anti-German activities. I applied my well-practised character of stupidity, and they feigned interest in my opinions on this topic. I had to sleep one more night in the solitude of the cell but was steadfast not to slip out of character.

Survival Kit

Searching for Safety

Before these tragic times, Jewish life in Humenné was vibrant and had three places of worship. The Orthodox synagogue where my father had worshipped was the most widely attended, with an impressive new building that had been constructed in the early 1930s. Long before the war, when the Jewish community was thriving, the synagogue had commemorated all of the Czechoslovak national holidays and invited local dignitaries, including the mayor and even the colonel of the local military squadron, on significant national occasions.

When Jozef advised me of what had happened, I dressed quickly, asked him to stay with my anxious mother and ran looking for the Jewish Council representatives, hoping for assistance. I located one man whom I knew fairly well, but he was very discouraging. He told me that a transport was due again and the police needed to fill a quota of one hundred people by that evening. He concluded that it was pointless to go after my father. I left for the police headquarters alone.

I arrived at the headquarters at seven a.m. The building was still, as if in a deep sleep. The main office would not be open for another hour. I searched through the few hallways and finally found the officer on call, a man who was not familiar to me. His face was expressionless and he appeared to be totally disinterested in me or my dilemma. I urged him to release my father so that he might go home to his sick wife. I could not have pleaded more passionately if I had been down on my knees. I heard myself claiming that he had been taken mistakenly, that he was a Christian and his presence at the synagogue was a mistake. I promised it would never happen again. The policeman looked closely at the clock hanging on the wall. By this time it was seven fifteen. Without saying a word he left the office and with his finger indicated that I should follow him. I waited outside the office on the stairs.

When I finally saw my father almost half an hour later, he looked shattered, still clutching his navy-blue velvet bag that held his prayer book, tallis – prayer shawl – and tefillin – phylacteries. In my father’s pocket was the certificate of conversion. The officer made no comment about the bag, or its contents, and paid no attention to my expressions of gratitude either. Maybe his thoughts were elsewhere, or maybe he was nervous. Lucky for us, he didn’t seem particularly dedicated to the requirements of his job. I only wish that more officials in his position had behaved similarly. Eventually, he said, “Go. And go fast!”

On the way home my father and I held hands tightly as we silently approached our apartment. We arrived to find Jozef still there, waiting, with my mother. They stared at us, unable to believe their eyes.

When I re-examine this event, and the many others associated with my eventual survival, I wonder what force pushed me. What prompted me to go to the police headquarters? Did I lack the instinct for self-preservation? Maybe I wasn’t smart enough to see the danger I was in. Maybe, like most young people, I overestimated my invincibility. I could barely endure the places in which I was forced to hide, yet when my father was taken, I threw myself into the lion’s den!

Trousse de survie

Trouver un lieu sûr

Avant cette période tragique, Humenné abritait une communauté juive dynamique et florissante. Nous avions trois lieux de culte, dont le plus fréquenté était la synagogue orthodoxe où se rendait mon père. Il s’agissait d’un nouvel édifice impressionnant, construit au début des années 1930. Bien avant la guerre, on y célébrait toutes les fêtes nationales tchécoslovaques et lors d’événements nationaux, on y invitait les notables locaux, dont le maire et même le colonel de l’escadron militaire de la région.

Après avoir écouté les explications de Jozef, je me suis habillée en vitesse, je lui ai demandé de rester auprès de ma mère inquiète, puis je me suis lancée à la recherche des membres du Conseil juif en espérant qu’ils pourraient m’aider. J’en ai trouvé un que je connaissais assez bien, mais il s’est montré très pessimiste. Il m’a révélé qu’un autre convoi se préparait et qu’il fallait que la police puisse remplir son quota de 100 personnes pour le soir même. Selon lui, il était inutile d’aller porter secours à mon père. Je me suis donc rendue seule au poste de police.

Je suis arrivée sur place à 7 heures. Tout était calme ; l’édifice était plongé dans un profond silence. Le bureau principal n’ouvrait qu’à 8 heures. M’aventurant dans les rares couloirs, j’ai fini par trouver l’officier de service. Le visage impassible, l’homme, qui m’était inconnu, semblait totalement indifférent à ma présence et à mon problème. Je l’ai supplié de libérer mon père pour qu’il puisse retourner auprès de sa femme souffrante – c’est tout juste si je ne me suis pas jetée à ses genoux. J’ai déclaré sans marquer d’hésitation qu’il s’agissait d’une erreur, que mon père était chrétien, qu’il n’aurait jamais dû se trouver à la synagogue. J’ai promis que cela ne se reproduirait jamais plus. Le policier a regardé l’horloge : elle affichait alors 7 h 15. Sans mot dire, il a quitté le bureau en me faisant signe que je sorte aussi, puis il m’a fait patienter dans les escaliers.

Quand j’ai aperçu mon père près d’une demi-heure plus tard, il avait l’air anéanti, pressant toujours contre lui son sac en velours marine qui contenait son livre de prières, son tallis (châle de prière) et ses tefillin (phylactères). Son certificat de conversion se trouvait dans sa poche. L’officier n’a fait aucun commentaire concernant le sac ni son contenu et n’a prêté aucune attention à mes expressions de gratitude. Ses pensées étaient peut-être ailleurs, ou peut-être avait-il peur. Heureusement pour nous, il ne semblait guère soucieux de se plier aux exigences de son travail. Si seulement plus de fonctionnaires dans sa situation avaient agi comme lui ! Finalement, il a lancé : « Partez, et ne traînez pas ! »

Sur le chemin du retour, alors que nous approchions silencieusement de notre appartement, nous nous serrions la main très fort, mon père et moi. À notre arrivée, Jozef était toujours là qui attendait avec ma mère. Ils nous ont dévisagés, n’en croyant pas leurs yeux.

Lorsque je repense à cet événement et aux nombreux autres épisodes liés à ma survie, je me demande quelle force me poussait. Qu’est-ce qui m’a incitée à me rendre au poste de police ? N’avais-je pas l’instinct d’assurer d’abord ma propre protection ? Peut-être n’étais-je pas assez futée pour percevoir le danger qui me menaçait. Peut-être surestimais-je mon invincibilité, comme le font la plupart des jeunes gens. Moi qui supportais à peine mes cachettes forcées, je me suis précipitée dans la fosse aux lions dès que j’ai su que mon père avait été arrêté !

The Violin

The Ghetto

On the morning we were forced to leave our home, our farm and our animals, we awoke to silence. We had locked the doors and windows securely the night before and Bobby, our dog, had been sleeping outside. But Bobby was not barking that morning – I never heard or saw him again. At the crack of dawn, the Germans had surrounded our house and were waiting for us to get up. When Bubbie Frida stepped outside, her greatest fear was realized. “Get out, you filthy Jews.”

German police stood in our yard, pointing guns at us and shouting in German. My bubbie, who knew a little German, asked if I could go up the mountain and say goodbye to my friend. Strangely, they agreed. My bubbie whispered to me, “Stay up there. Don’t come back.” So I ran up the mountain to say goodbye. When I was ready to leave Mecio, his mother told me she would come down with me and ask permission to keep me with her family. The answer she got from the Germans was short and to the point. “No. Get out of here.” Hurriedly, my bubbie put a few of her dresses into a small suitcase and we were chased out of our home, forced to leave everything else behind.

As they pushed us into the road, my zeyde, who had remembered to take his prayer book, realized he had forgotten his eyeglasses on the windowsill. He started back to the house to get them. One of the Germans kicked him and he fell to the ground. As he lay on the road, another German pulled as hard as he could at his beard. My zeyde, moaning in pain, began to lose consciousness. With what appeared to me to be enjoyment, the German police continued to pull at each strand of my zeyde’s beard. When they had pulled out almost all of his long beautiful beard, they cut with a knife what they could not pull out with their hands. I closed my eyes and hid myself between my mother and my bubbie.

Hungry, thirsty and stunned, we were ordered to walk in the direction of Kołomyja. As we stumbled toward the town, we were joined by other Jewish families. If anyone stepped out of line or tried to escape, they were immediately shot. My uncles took turns carrying me. At the time, it seemed a miracle that we all made it to Kołomyja alive. There, we were reunited with friends from the surrounding areas and with Aunt Mina and Luci. I was six years old.

The Kołomyja ghetto was located in the central part of the city, near the farmers’ market where peasants from the surrounding villages used to gather to sell their goods. This particular area and some of the nearby houses were ringed by a gate that separated it from the rest of the city. The non-Jewish families who lived there had been evacuated and given the vacated houses of Jews outside the ghetto walls. The Jewish families who lived inside the gated ghetto remained in their homes, but had to share them with Jews who were brought in from elsewhere.

Armed with rifles, the soldiers stood at the gateway, policing the Jews in the ghetto. We were forced to wear armbands with embroidered Stars of David on them. Our shoes were taken away and a strict curfew was imposed. Those who disobeyed were shot on the spot. For the first time in my life I knew what fear really was.

Le Violon

Le Ghetto

Le matin où nous avons été obligés de quitter notre maison, notre ferme et nos animaux, tout était silencieux à notre réveil. Nous avions cadenassé les portes et les fenêtres la veille au soir et Bobby, notre chien, dormait dehors. Mais ce matin-là, Bobby n’a pas aboyé et je ne l’ai jamais plus revu ni réentendu. Dès l’aube, les Allemands avaient cerné la maison et attendaient que nous nous levions. Lorsque boubè Frida est sortie, sa plus grande crainte s’est réalisée.

« Sortez de là, sales Juifs ! »

La police allemande se tenait dans la cour, nous menaçant de leurs fusils et criant des ordres en allemand. Ma boubè, qui parlait un peu cette langue, leur a demandé si je pouvais me rendre chez mon ami qui habitait à flanc de montagne pour lui dire au revoir. Curieusement, ils ont accepté. Ma boubè m’a ordonné à voix basse : « Reste là-haut. Ne reviens pas. » J’ai donc grimpé le chemin de montagne en courant pour aller faire mes adieux. Alors que je m’apprêtais à quitter Mecio, sa mère m’a déclaré qu’elle allait me raccompagner en bas et demander la permission de me garder avec elle et sa famille. La réponse des Allemands a été brève et nette : « Non. Fichez le camp. » À toute vitesse, ma boubè a rangé quelques-unes de ses robes dans une petite valise et nous avons été chassés de chez nous, obligés d’abandonner tous nos biens.

Les Allemands nous ont poussés vers la route et mon zeydè, qui avait veillé à emporter son livre de prières, s’est tout à coup aperçu qu’il avait oublié ses lunettes sur le rebord de la fenêtre. Il a fait quelques pas en direction de la maison pour aller les chercher ; mais un des Allemands lui a assené des coups de pied et il est tombé. Alors qu’il gisait sur le chemin de terre, un autre Allemand a tiré de toutes ses forces sur sa barbe. Mon grand-père, gémissant de douleur, était sur le point de s’évanouir. Avec un réel plaisir, m’a-t-il semblé, les policiers allemands ont continué à arracher la barbe de mon zeydè, poignée par poignée. Lorsqu’ils ont eu quasiment fini de lui arracher sa barbe, si longue et si belle, ils ont pris un couteau pour couper ce qu’il en restait. J’ai fermé les yeux et me suis cachée entre ma mère et ma boubè.

Souffrant de la faim et de la soif, totalement hébétés, nous avons reçu l’ordre de nous mettre en marche en direction de Kołomyja. Tenant à grand-peine sur nos jambes, nous sommes partis pour la ville et avons été rejoints en route par d’autres familles juives. Si quelqu’un sortait du rang ou essayait de s’enfuir, il était aussitôt abattu. Mes oncles se sont relayés pour me porter. À l’époque, nous avons vraiment eu le sentiment que c’était un miracle d’être tous arrivés vivants en ville. Nous y avons retrouvé des amis des alentours, ainsi que tante Mina et Luci. J’avais 6 ans.

Le ghetto de Kołomyja était situé au centre de l’agglomération, près du marché agricole où les paysans des villages environnants se rassemblaient régulièrement pour vendre leur marchandise. Cet espace et certaines maisons voisines étaient entourés d’un mur qui les séparait du reste de la ville. Les familles non juives qui habitaient dans la zone ainsi délimitée avaient été évacuées, recevant en échange les maisons, désormais libres, des Juifs vivant à l’extérieur du Ghetto. Les familles juives ayant toujours vécu dans l’enceinte du Ghetto ont été autorisées à rester chez elles mais ont dû partager leur logement avec les Juifs relocalisés. Armée de fusils, la Gestapo se tenait aux portes du Ghetto et surveillait les Juifs à l’intérieur. Nous avons été contraints de porter un brassard marqué de l’étoile de David. On nous a privés de nos chaussures et un couvre-feu strict a été instauré. Ceux qui y contrevenaient étaient abattus sur-le-champ. Pour la première fois de ma vie, j’ai réellement connu la peur.

"You Are the Only Hope"

Chaos to Canvas

I remember my mother repeated to me many times, “Try to save yourself.” And then, “I don’t know how. I can’t help you, as I myself don’t know what to do. I know we are doomed to die. Try to walk away when you’re outside. If there is any opportunity you might have outside, just try to save yourself. Just be strong, my son, and take a chance, and God will be with you. If you won’t take this chance, you will not survive. Try, my son. I am helpless, but I know that you’re capable. You can do it. Just try. There is probably nobody left from our family except for us. If you follow me, it will be the end of our family. You are the only hope.”

My mother made me feel important. She made me feel like an adult, a person on whom you could depend, like a man and not a child. She continued talking quietly and constantly. She was sure that if I walked away, I would survive, and if I remained with her, I would die. She urged me to save myself and gave me the courage I needed to continue living. During the entire war, and throughout all the unimaginable hardships I endured, her words were my hope, my security and my strength to continue living. Her advice made me strive to save myself and gave me the inspiration that I needed.

Later, when I was alone in the woods, I used to talk to God. I screamed at him in my mind. When I was in a horrific situation and needed to express my pain, I appealed to God. I wanted him to help me when I needed help: when I was cold and hungry, when I was wet and living outside in the open during winter, when I was sick with a cold or a fever or when I was injured. Who was there for me to complain to? Most people have their mother, father, a member of their family or a friend. I had no one. I had only God. Sometimes I spoke loudly, hoping he would take notice. I would raise my voice as I would with my mother when I was angry. The difference was that my mother used to listen and help. God simply listened, but I felt that at least I had someone to cry to about my pitiful existence. I was extremely angry with God when I was wearing rags and was alone and starving in the cold. God is a witness to my suffering.

The next day, my mother and sister and I were forced to walk to an awaiting truck — like cattle being transported for slaughter. Not knowing where we were going, we were panicking. Hundreds of people and children were there, and the police were shouting and shooting. People were hysterical as they were falling over each other and were being separated from their families. We could not climb onto the trucks quickly enough, so we were violently pushed, kicked and beaten with clubs. I witnessed two policemen pick up a child by an arm and a leg as she struggled to climb onto the truck and throw her in like a bag of garbage.

I clearly remember Zonia’s arms around our mother. Then my mother pushed me away from boarding the truck and insisted, “Now is your chance to run.” I knew I could not run because if I did, I would be shot. But I stripped off my armband and began walking slowly toward the nearby bridge. The bridge over the Strypa, so familiar to me, split the city in half. It was not a large bridge, possibly fifty or sixty feet long. It was made out of wood and was only wide enough for people, horses and wagons to cross. I started to walk across and was approximately halfway when I saw an SS officer walking from the opposite side. Immediately, I froze and thought, What do I do now? Should I continue walking?

Cachée, Marguerite Élias Quddus

« Au revoir mes enfants ! Quand vous partez, ne vous retournez pas… »

Avec ces derniers mots de leur mère, deux petites filles, Marguerite et sa sœur aînée, vont commencer une longue errance qui durera deux ans. Munies d’une nouvelle identité, elles doivent se couper de tout ce qui constitue leur univers familier. Menées de fermes en couvents, elles apprennent à se taire, à faire semblant, à mentir, à s’adapter et surtout à garder espoir, envers et contre tout. Le récit magnifiquement illustré que nous livre Marguerite Élias Quddus nous prend à cœur et nous laisse entrevoir l’Histoire à travers les yeux d’une toute jeune enfant.

Préface de Elizabeth Lasserre et Naomi Azrieli

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At a Glance
France
Vichy France
Roundups
Hidden child
Wartime documents
Arrived in Canada in 1967
Illustrations by author
Audibook available
Educational materials available: Enfants cachés
À l’écoute de l’Histoire : une lecture à voix haute des mémoires des survivants
Marguerite Élias Quddus
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
French

308 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Marguerite Élias Quddus

Marguerite Élias Quddus was born in Paris, France, in 1936. In 1967, Marguerite immigrated to Canada, first to Vancouver and then to Quebec, where she became a volunteer teacher’s aide. Marguerite lives near Montreal, where she is extremely active in giving talks about her wartime experiences.

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Behind the Red Curtain, Maya Rakitova

Maya Rakitova’s family has already faced innumerable obstacles and hardships together, having lived through the Communist Party purges that culminated in the disappearance of Maya’s father. But when the Nazis occupy their hometown of Vinnitsa, Ukraine, in 1941, new and terrifying threats surround them. Nine-year-old Maya quickly learns to hide her Jewish identity as her mother, with “uncommon courage,” fights to protect her, relying on the kindness of friends and strangers. A story of survival and victory over the dual terrors of the Stalinist and Nazi regimes, Behind the Red Curtain is Maya’s testament to her mother’s love and strong will.

Introduction by Karel Berkhoff

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At a Glance
Soviet Union; Ukraine; Transnistria
Passing/false identity
Hiding
Postwar Ukraine; Poland
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1981
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

112 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Maya Rakitova

Maya Rakitova was born in Smolensk, Russia, on June 4, 1931. In 1954, she graduated from the Faculty of Radio and Television at the Bonch-Bruevich Leningrad Electro-Technical Institute of Communications. Maya, her husband and their youngest daughter immigrated to Montreal in 1981. There, Maya worked at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) for seventeen years. Maya Rakitova lives in Montreal.

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Bits and Pieces, Henia Reinhartz

Lodz, Poland, 1944. Teenaged Henia Rosenfarb sits with her family in a small, secret room, hiding from the Nazi soldiers who are looking for them. Little can the fiery redhead imagine the path her life would take, from wartime Poland to contemporary Canada. Hoping to elude the net that tightens around her as World War II advances, Henia makes two promises to herself: the first is that she will one day travel to Paris, and the second, that she will become a teacher. Supported by her family and by her commitment to the Bund, a political movement dedicated to social justice, Henia keeps her focus on those promises. These “bits and pieces” of her life give us a glimpse of a tumultuous past and a faith in the future.

Introduction by Sara Horowitz

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At a Glance
Poland
Lodz ghetto
Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp
Bergen-Belsen concentration camp
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

112 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

2008 Canadian Jewish Book Award

About the author

Photo of Henia Reinhartz

Born in Lodz, Poland, in 1926, Henia Reinhartz endured the Lodz ghetto and survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. After the war, she moved to Paris, where she graduated as a Yiddish and Hebrew teacher and met her husband. Henia immigrated to Canada in 1951. Henia Reinhartz passed away in 2021.

Fragments de ma vie, Henia Reinhartz

Lodz, Pologne, 1944. Henia et sa famille se cachent des nazis qui les pourchassent. La jeune femme est loin d’imaginer le chemin que prendra sa vie, de la Pologne en guerre au Canada. Si elle survit, Henia se fait la promesse d’aller à Paris et de devenir enseignante. Plus tard, soutenue par sa famille et son engagement dans le Bund, un mouvement politique défendant la justice sociale, Henia réalise les promesses qu’elle s’était faites. Fragments de ma vie nous laisse entrevoir un passé tourmenté et une foi profonde dans l’avenir.

Préface de Sara Horowitz

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At a Glance
Poland
Lodz ghetto
Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp
Bergen-Belsen concentration camp
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

128 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

2008 Canadian Jewish Book Award

About the author

Photo of Henia Reinhartz

Born in Lodz, Poland, in 1926, Henia Reinhartz endured the Lodz ghetto and survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. After the war, she moved to Paris, where she graduated as a Yiddish and Hebrew teacher and met her husband. Henia immigrated to Canada in 1951. Henia Reinhartz passed away in 2021.

Little Girl Lost, Betty Rich

Sixteen-year-old Basia Kohn (now Betty Rich) escapes the invasion of her small hometown and, crossing the border into Soviet-occupied Poland, she begins a journey that takes her thousands of kilometres from a forced labour camp in subarctic Russia to subtropical Soviet Georgia. Always optimistic and ready to take on new adventures as she struggles to survive in exile without family, Rich’s memoir, Little Girl Lost, is a “montage of graphic snapshots and moments in motion….” Wherever she finds herself, whatever she has lost, Betty is determined to survive on her own terms.

Introduction by Phyllis Lassner

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At a Glance
Poland; Soviet Union
Escape
Soviet labour camp in Siberia
Wartime postcards
Postwar Poland
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

256 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Betty Rich

Betty Rich was born Basia Kohn in Zduńska Wola, Poland, on June 10, 1923. After the war, Betty lived in Lodz, where she married her husband, David Recht. They fled the Polish Communist regime in January 1949 and arrived in Toronto later that year. Betty worked in mortgages and investments until her retirement. Betty Rich passed away in 2017.

Seule au monde, Betty Rich

À 16 ans, Basia Kohn (aujourd’hui Betty Rich) fuit l’invasion de sa ville natale. Elle passe en Pologne occupée par l’urss et se lance dans un périple de plusieurs milliers de kilomètres qui va la mener d’un camp de travaux forcés en Russie subarctique vers la Géorgie soviétique subtropicale. Exilée et sans sa famille, la jeune Basia garde pourtant son optimisme et n’hésite pas à se lancer dans l’inconnu pour survivre. Betty Rich compose ses mémoires sous la forme d’un « montage d’instantanés graphiques et de moments en mouvements… » Son style, introspectif et personnel, fait de ces mémoires un précieux témoignage.

Préface de Phyllis Lassner

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At a Glance
Poland; Soviet Union
Escape
Soviet labour camp in Siberia
Wartime postcards
Postwar Poland
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1949
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

288 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Betty Rich

Betty Rich was born Basia Kohn in Zduńska Wola, Poland, on June 10, 1923. After the war, Betty lived in Lodz, where she married her husband, David Recht. They fled the Polish Communist regime in January 1949 and arrived in Toronto later that year. Betty worked in mortgages and investments until her retirement. Betty Rich passed away in 2017.

E/96: Fate Undecided, Paul-Henri Rips

The son of a diamond merchant in Antwerp’s famous diamond exchange, Paul-Henri Rips was ten years old when the Nazis invaded Belgium in May 1940 and ended what he calls his “golden childhood” forever. Vividly told from a child’s perspective, this fascinating account explores the diverse inhabitants of Belgium and France during the Nazi occupation and the experiences of one family against the backdrop of large-scale events. Guided throughout by his father’s words of wisdom – “A klapt vargayt, a wort bestayt” (A blow will go away again, but a word lasts forever) and “Sei a mensch” (Be a decent human being) – Rips conveys his unwavering belief in the importance of holding on to one’s own humanity in the face of unfathomable inhumanity.

Introduction by Mark Webber and Naomi Azrieli

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At a Glance
Belgium; France
Deportations and roundups
Hidden child
Internment and transit camps
Wartime documents
Arrived in Canada in 1997
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

160 pages, including index

2009 Moonbeam Children’s Book Award Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Paul-Henri Rips

Paul-Henri Rips was born in 1929 in Antwerp, Belgium. He left Antwerp in 1950 and moved to the Belgian Congo and then to South Africa, where he married his wife, Lily. In 1997, the couple immigrated to Toronto to join their children and grandchildren. Paul-Henri Rips passed away in 2023.

Matricule E/96, Paul-Henri Rips

Paul-Henri Rips, fils d’un diamantaire de la célèbre bourse du diamant d’Anvers, était âgé de dix ans lorsque les nazis ont envahi la Belgique en mai 1940, mettant un terme définitif à ce qu’il appelle sa « jeunesse dorée ». Ses mémoires donnent à voir à travers ses yeux d’enfant ce qui se déroule autour de lui et les personnages nombreux et divers qui ont jalonné son parcours en Belgique et en France sous l’occupation nazie. En définitive, ce que Paul-Henri Rips gardera des terribles expériences qu’il a dû traverser se résume à deux recommandations de son père : « A klapt vargayt, a wort bestayt » (Un coup reçu peut s’oublier, mais un mot reste pour toujours) et « Sei a mensch » (Sois quelqu’un de bien). Son histoire rend hommage à la conviction de son père pour qui une profonde humanité reste la seule réponse à l’inhumanité absolue.

Préface de Mark Webber et Naomi Azrieli

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At a Glance
Belgium; France
Deportations and roundups
Hidden child
Internment and transit camps
Deportations and roundups
Wartime documents
Arrived in Canada in 1997
Educational materials available: À l’écoute de l’Histoire : une lecture à voix haute des mémoires des survivants
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

176 pages, including index

2009 Moonbeam Children’s Book Award Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Paul-Henri Rips

Paul-Henri Rips was born in 1929 in Antwerp, Belgium. He left Antwerp in 1950 and moved to the Belgian Congo and then to South Africa, where he married his wife, Lily. In 1997, the couple immigrated to Toronto to join their children and grandchildren. Paul-Henri Rips passed away in 2023.

Silent Refuge, Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

In Oslo, Norway, eleven-year-old Margrit Rosenberg and her parents have been living in safety since fleeing from Nazi Germany in 1938. When Germany invades and occupies Norway in April 1940, the Rosenbergs escape the city and shelter in the small, remote village of Rogne. But anti-Jewish perse­cution intensifies throughout the country, and the Rosenbergs must find an even more secluded refuge – a small, rudimentary cabin in the mountains. At first, in a landscape frozen in time, the isolation offers relative security and tranquility. But in 1942, as the Nazis begin to arrest and deport the Jews of Oslo, the Rosenbergs are forced to make a fateful decision to trust the Resistance and plan a dangerous escape from Nazi-occupied Norway to neutral Sweden.

Introduction by Robert Ericksen

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At a Glance
Germany; Norway; Sweden
Escape
Hiding
Postwar Norway
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Educational materials available: Margrit Stenge Activity
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
English

272 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

Margrit Rosenberg Stenge was born in Cologne, Germany, on December 27, 1928. After the war, Margrit moved back to Oslo with her family and got married. She and her husband, Stefan, immigrated to Canada, settling in Montreal, in 1951. Margrit worked in administration for forty years, after which she translated six books from Norwegian to English, including Counterfeiter: How a Norwegian Jew Survived the Holocaust by Moritz Nachtstern (2008). Margrit Rosenberg Stenge passed away in 2021.

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Le Refuge du silence, Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

Margrit Rosenberg, 11 ans, et ses parents vivent à Oslo quand les nazis envahissent la Norvège en avril 1940. Rattrapés par ceux qu’ils avaient fuis en quittant l’Allemagne dix-huit mois plus tôt, les Rosenberg se réfugient alors dans le village de Rogne. Quand les persécutions des Juifs s’intensifient dans tout le pays, Margrit et les siens effectuent plusieurs séjours dans un refuge reculé, au cœur des montagnes surplombant Rogne. Au début, cet isolement leur assure une certaine sécurité ; cependant, quand les nazis commencent à déporter les Juifs d’Oslo au cours de l’année 1942, les Rosenberg n’ont d’autre choix que de se laisser guider par la Résistance et de préparer leur fuite périlleuse vers la Suède, un pays neutre.

Préface de Robert Ericksen

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At a Glance
Germany; Norway; Sweden
Escape
Hiding
Postwar Norway
Arrived in Canada in 1951
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
French

288 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

Margrit Rosenberg Stenge was born in Cologne, Germany, on December 27, 1928. After the war, Margrit moved back to Oslo with her family and got married. She and her husband, Stefan, immigrated to Canada, settling in Montreal, in 1951. Margrit worked in administration for forty years, after which she translated six books from Norwegian to English, including Counterfeiter: How a Norwegian Jew Survived the Holocaust by Moritz Nachtstern (2008). Margrit Rosenberg Stenge passed away in 2021.

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Traces of What Was, Steve Rotschild

Ten-year-old Steve Rotschild learns to hide, to be silent, to be still – and to wait. He knows the sound of the Nazis’ army boots and knows to hold his breath until their footsteps recede. Rotschild takes us on a captivating journey through his wartime childhood in Vilna, eloquently juxtaposing his past, furtive walks outside the ghetto with his long, liberating walks through Toronto fifty years after the war. Vividly evoking his experiences, this story of survival and a mother’s tenacious love leaves the reader indelibly marked by Traces of What Was.

Introduction by Menachem Kaiser

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At a Glance
Poland; Lithuania
Vilna ghetto
Labour camp
Hiding
Arrived in Canada in 1956
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

144 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Steve Rotschild

Steve Rotschild was born in Vilna, Lithuania, in 1933. After the war, his mother remarried, and their new family immigrated to Israel. In 1956, Steve married Lillian in Montreal, where their two daughters were born. After moving to Phoenix, Arizona, for a few years, they made Toronto their final home. Steve wrote several short stories and painted wilderness scenes throughout his lifetime. He also enjoyed fishing in Algonquin Park, using lures that he crafted himself. Steve Rotschild passed away in 2020.

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Sur les traces du passé, Steve Rotschild

Steve Rotschild, âgé de 10 ans, apprend à se cacher, à se taire, à rester immobile. Il reconnaît le claquement des bottes nazies et sait retenir sa respiration jusqu’à ce que s’éloignent les soldats. Rotschild nous entraîne dans un voyage captivant au cœur de son enfance à Vilnius durant la guerre, juxtaposant avec éloquence ses sorties d’autrefois hors du Ghetto avec ses longues promenades libératrices dans Toronto, 50 ans après l’Holocauste. Sur les traces du passé raconte la survie du garçonnet et l’amour inébranlable de sa mère, laissant une marque indélébile dans l’esprit du lecteur.

Préface de Menachem Kaiser

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At a Glance
Poland; Lithuania
Vilna ghetto
Labour camp
Hiding
Arrived in Canada in 1956
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

152 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Steve Rotschild

Steve Rotschild was born in Vilna, Lithuania, in 1933. After the war, his mother remarried, and their new family immigrated to Israel. In 1956, Steve married Lillian in Montreal, where their two daughters were born. After moving to Phoenix, Arizona, for a few years, they made Toronto their final home. Steve wrote several short stories and painted wilderness scenes throughout his lifetime. He also enjoyed fishing in Algonquin Park, using lures that he crafted himself. Steve Rotschild passed away in 2020.

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Dignity Endures, Judith Rubinstein

When the train from Hungary to Auschwitz brings Judith face-to-face with death, her mother’s quick actions save her. At twenty-four years old, separated from her family, she struggles to stay alive in a system bent on humiliation and degradation, where surviving the daily violence is a matter of luck. Judith endures the destruction of her family, holding close the memories of those she loved. Feeling hopelessly alone after the war, she must figure out how to put her life back together and where to find home. Weaving together her story with those of cherished friends and family, Judith’s poetic reminiscences show how Dignity Endures even through the worst of human tragedies.

Introduction by Eli Rubinstein

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At a Glance
Hungary
Deportation
Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp
Auschwitz-Birkenau Uprising
Concentration camps
Postwar Italy, displaced persons camp
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

192 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Judith Rubinstein

Judith Rubinstein was born in Mezőcsát, Hungary, in 1920. After the war, she spent more than two years in displaced persons camps in Italy. Judith immigrated to Canada in 1948 with her husband, Béla, and their new baby, Robert Eli. She lived a full life in Toronto, as mother of Robert and her daughter, Rochelle, grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of eleven, as well as being a writer of short stories and memoir, a voracious reader and a popular speaker at the Neuberger Holocaust Centre. Judith Rubinstein passed away in 2013.

In Search of Light, Martha Salcudean

Martha Salcudean is ten years old when her childhood comes to an abrupt end. The war has been raging around her for years, but in Northern Transylvania, now a part of Hungary, the atrocities intensify with the Nazi invasion in 1944. Suddenly, Martha and her family are imprisoned in ghettos and surrounded by incomprehensible cruelty. As she and her family are lined up in front of a cattle car train, a split-second decision her father makes changes their fate in an instant — instead of heading to almost certain death in Auschwitz, Martha and her family become destined to be saved by Rudolf Kasztner, a man riskily negotiating with the Nazis. After the war, Martha returns home, only to be caught in the grip of a new Communist dictatorship. Martha’s journey In Search of Light takes her through the darkness of two oppressive regimes to the beginning of freedom in Canada, where she is finally able to choose her own path.

Introduction by Zoltán Tibori Szabó

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At a Glance
Romania (Northern Transylvania); Hungary; Switzerland
Postwar Romania
Ghettos
Kasztner’s train
Bergen-Belsen concentration camp
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1976
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

232 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Martha Salcudean

Dr. Martha Salcudean was born in 1934 in Cluj, Romania, and immigrated to Canada in 1976. She was a professor at the University of Ottawa before becoming head of mechanical engineering at the University of British Columbia. She received three honorary doctorates and a number of prestigious awards and honours for her extensive contributions to science and engineering. Martha Salcudean passed away in July 2019.

Never Far Apart, Kitty Salsberg, Ellen Foster

Kati and her younger sister, Ilonka, arrive in Canada with painful memories from the Holocaust, which has taken both of their parents. Their harrowing time alone in the Budapest ghetto is fresh in their minds, as are their fragile hopes to be adopted. But their lives in Toronto are far from what they expected, and full of broken promises. As the sisters navigate their new surroundings, they each grow fiercely strong and independent, while holding onto the comfort that they will be Never Far Apart.

Introduction by Adara Goldberg

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At a Glance
Hungary
Budapest ghetto
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

208 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Kitty Salsberg

Kitty (Kati) Salsberg was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1932. She immigrated to Canada in 1948, where she enjoyed a long and fulfilling career as a teacher. Kitty lives in Toronto.

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About the author

Photo of Ellen Foster

Ellen (Ilonka) Foster was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1935. She immigrated to Canada in 1948. Ellen moved to Los Angeles in 1952, where she worked and raised a family. Ellen Foster passed away in 2022.

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Unies dans l’épreuve, Kitty Salsberg, Ellen Foster

Kati et sa jeune sœur, Ilonka, arrivent au Canada marquées par l’Holocauste qui les a privées de leurs deux parents. La période éprouvante qu’elles ont passée seules au ghetto de Budapest est encore fraîche dans leur mémoire et elles ont l’espoir fragile d’être adoptées. Mais leur vie à Toronto est bien loin de ce qu’elles avaient imaginé et pleine de promesses non tenues. Au fur et à mesure que les deux sœurs s’adaptent à leur nouvel environnement, elles deviennent fortes et indépendantes, se raccrochant à l’idée qu’elles resteront toujours Unies dans l’épreuve.

Préface de Adara Goldberg

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At a Glance
Hungary
Budapest ghetto
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

232 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Kitty Salsberg

Kitty (Kati) Salsberg was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1932. She immigrated to Canada in 1948, where she enjoyed a long and fulfilling career as a teacher. Kitty lives in Toronto.

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About the author

Photo of Ellen Foster

Ellen (Ilonka) Foster was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1935. She immigrated to Canada in 1948. Ellen moved to Los Angeles in 1952, where she worked and raised a family. Ellen Foster passed away in 2022.

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Escape from the Edge, Morris Schnitzer

Narrow escapes and bold decisions define the life of teenager Morris Schnitzer. Fleeing from Nazi Germany before the onset of World War II, Morris ends up in the Netherlands only to watch the country be invaded by the Nazis. With his father’s warning to never set foot in a concentration camp echoing in his mind, Morris resolves to fight — and survive. As he assumes false identities and crosses endless borders in search of safety, Morris never acquiesces to the Nazi occupiers in Western Europe. In his epic journey to Escape from the Edge, Morris endures imprisonment and gruelling work as a farmhand, joins the resistance in Belgium and ultimately enlists in the American army, vowing to take revenge for all that he has lost.

Introduction by Bob Moore

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At a Glance
Germany; the Netherlands; France; Belgium
Kristallnacht
Kindertransport
Escape
Passing/false identity
Resistance
Postwar Netherlands
Arrived in Canada in 1947
Audiobook available
Educational materials available: Hearing History: A Holocaust Survivor Memoir Read Aloud
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
English

196 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Morris Schnitzer

Morris Schnitzer was born in Bochum, Germany, in 1922. In 1947, he immigrated to Montreal, where he earned both a BSc and MSc at McGill University, going on to earn his PhD in 1955. In Ottawa, Morris worked at the Canadian government’s Department of Agriculture as a principal researcher in the chemistry of soil organic matter. He won the prestigious Wolf Prize in Agriculture in 1995 and wrote three books and more than four hundred scientific papers over the course of his distinguished career. Morris Schnitzer passed away in Ottawa in 2020.

Sur la corde raide, Morris Schnitzer

Le jeune Morris Schnitzer doit sa survie à des décisions audacieuses qui lui ont permis d’échapper à plusieurs reprises aux nazis. À la veille de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, il parvient à fuir l’Allemagne de Hitler pour se réfugier aux Pays-Bas, où il ne reçoit pas l’accueil chaleureux qu’il a tant espéré. Animé par le conseil de son père – éviter de finir dans un camp de concentration –, Morris multiplie les ruses pour franchir les frontières de l’Europe occidentale dans sa quête d’un lieu sûr. Au cours de sa fuite épique, il est contraint à des tâches éreintantes dans des fermes, emprisonné à répétition, puis recueilli par la résistance belge. Alors que la guerre tire à sa fin, le jeune homme s’engage dans l’armée américaine, jurant de venger tout ce qu’il a perdu.

Préface de Bob Moore

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At a Glance
Germany; the Netherlands; France; Belgium
Kristallnacht
Kindertransport
Escape
Passing/false identity
Resistance
Postwar Netherlands
Arrived in Canada in 1947
Audiobook available
Recommended Ages
11+
Language
French

196 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Morris Schnitzer

Morris Schnitzer was born in Bochum, Germany, in 1922. In 1947, he immigrated to Montreal, where he earned both a BSc and MSc at McGill University, going on to earn his PhD in 1955. In Ottawa, Morris worked at the Canadian government’s Department of Agriculture as a principal researcher in the chemistry of soil organic matter. He won the prestigious Wolf Prize in Agriculture in 1995 and wrote three books and more than four hundred scientific papers over the course of his distinguished career. Morris Schnitzer passed away in Ottawa in 2020.

Dangerous Measures, Joseph Schwarzberg

Fleeing Germany after the violence of the Kristallnacht pogrom in 1938, young Joseph and his family find safety in Belgium, but all too soon they have to escape again — this time to France — when the Germans occupy Belgium in 1940. When the Germans then conquer France and Joseph’s family returns to Brussels, Joseph is forced to set out on his own, and at sixteen years old, he assumes a false identity and begins to live a dangerous double life. Joseph repeatedly eludes the Nazis’ grasp, eventually finding his way to the French Resistance and bravely fighting with the underground until France is liberated. But Joseph’s years of fighting are not over, and when he arrives in pre-state Israel, he continues to do every thing he can to secure his freedom.

Introduction by Renée Poznanski

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At a Glance
Germany; France; Belgium
Kristallnacht
Passing/false identity
Resistance
Wartime documents
Postwar Israel
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

248 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Joseph Schwarzberg

Joseph Schwarzberg was born in Leipzig, Germany, in 1926. In 1945, Joseph and his family were part of the earliest legal Jewish immigrants to pre-state Israel. Joseph immigrated to Toronto in 1968, where he established his own business, Adina J. Fashions, in the garment industry. Joseph Schwarzberg passed away in 2022.

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Survival Kit, Zuzana Sermer

An only child, fifteen-year-old Zuzana Sermer does what she can to protect her father and ailing mother when the Nazis set up a fascist regime in her native Slovakia in 1939. Four years later, fleeing to the supposed safety of Budapest, Zuzana and her fiancé, Arthur, must instead navigate one treacherous situation after another when Germany occupies Hungary in March 1944. Survival Kit is both Sermer’s thoughtful reflections on the miracles of her survival and a testament to the power of courage, love and determination.

Introduction by Julia Creet

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At a Glance
Slovakia; Hungary
Hiding
Passing/false identity
Escape
Siege of Budapest
Postwar Czechoslovakia
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

192 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Zuzana Sermer

Zuzana Sermer was born in Humenné, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia), in 1924. After the war, she married Arthur Sermer, and they raised a family in Bratislava, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia). In 1968, during the Soviet occupation of the country, Zuzana and her family fled to Canada and settled in Toronto, where Zuzana became a bookkeeper and enjoyed painting landscapes and writing about living under communism. Zuzana Sermer passed away in 2021.

Trousse de survie, Zuzana Sermer

Âgée de 15 ans au moment où les nazis imposent un régime fasciste dans sa Slovaquie natale, Zuzana Sermer fait tout en son pouvoir pour protéger son père et sa mère malade. Quatre ans plus tard, ayant décidé de fuir vers une Hongrie prétendument sûre, Zuzana et son fiancé, Arthur, devront plutôt affronter maintes situations dangereuses lorsque l’Allemagne envahira le pays en 1944. Dans ses mémoires, Zuzana Sermer offre un témoignage éloquent de ce qui a assuré sa survie durant ces terrifiantes années.

Préface de Julia Creet

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At a Glance
Slovakia; Hungary
Hiding
Passing/false identity
Escape
Siege of Budapest
Postwar Czechoslovakia
Life under Communism
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
French

208 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Zuzana Sermer

Zuzana Sermer was born in Humenné, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia), in 1924. After the war, she married Arthur Sermer, and they raised a family in Bratislava, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia). In 1968, during the Soviet occupation of the country, Zuzana and her family fled to Canada and settled in Toronto, where Zuzana became a bookkeeper and enjoyed painting landscapes and writing about living under communism. Zuzana Sermer passed away in 2021.

The Violin/A Child's Testimony, Rachel Shtibel, Adam Shtibel

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Two children, Rachel Milbauer and Adam Shtibel, elude almost certain death in Nazi-occupied Poland: Rachel, a vivacious music lover, lies hidden and silent in an underground bunker for nearly two years. Adam quietly “passes” as a non-Jew, forced every day to dodge the people who are intent on killing him. Saved by a combination of inner strength, luck and the help of courageous friends and strangers, Rachel and Adam meet and fall in love after the war and begin to build a new life together. Half a century later, a chance remark inspires Rachel to explore her memories and discover who she really is…

Introduction by Naomi Azrieli

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At a Glance
Rachel Shtibel:
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding
Postwar Israel
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Adam Shtibel:
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding; passing/false identity
Testimony given in 1948
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
English

276 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Rachel Shtibel

Rachel (née Milbauer) Shtibel was born in 1935 in Eastern Galicia. She married Adam Shtibel in 1956, moving to Israel one year later. In Israel, Rachel obtained an MA in microbiology. In 1968, the family moved to Canada, settling in Toronto, where they still live.

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About the author

Photo of Adam Shtibel

Adam Shtibel was born in 1928 in Komarów, Poland. He met Rachel Shtibel after the war and they married in 1956, moving to Israel one year later. In Israel, Adam worked in the aircraft industry. In 1968, the family moved to Canada, settling in Toronto, where they still live.

Le Violon / Témoignage d’un enfant, Rachel Shtibel, Adam Shtibel

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Deux enfants dans l’ombre de la mort en Pologne occupée échappent à leurs bourreaux nazis : Rachel, la petite fille enjouée qui adore la musique, et Adam, le garçon silencieux qui se fait passer pour un non-Juif. Sauvés par leur force intérieure, leur courage, la chance et la bienveillance de quelques amis et inconnus, Rachel et Adam se rencontrent après la guerre, tombent amoureux et décident de construire une nouvelle vie ensemble. Cinquante ans plus tard, une remarque inopinée incite Rachel à se replonger dans ses souvenirs – et à découvrir qui elle est vraiment. Toujours à ses côtés, Adam est lui-même amené à rompre le long silence qu’il s’est imposé…

Préface de Naomi Azrieli

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At a Glance
Rachel Shtibel:
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding
Postwar Israel
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Adam Shtibel:
Poland
Ghetto
Hiding; passing/false identity
Testimony given in 1948
Arrived in Canada in 1968
Recommended Ages
16+
Language
French

296 pages, including index

2008 Independent Publisher Gold Medal

About the author

Photo of Rachel Shtibel

Rachel (née Milbauer) Shtibel was born in 1935 in Eastern Galicia. She married Adam Shtibel in 1956, moving to Israel one year later. In Israel, Rachel obtained an MA in microbiology. In 1968, the family moved to Canada, settling in Toronto, where they still live.

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About the author

Photo of Adam Shtibel

Adam Shtibel was born in 1928 in Komarów, Poland. He met Rachel Shtibel after the war and they married in 1956, moving to Israel one year later. In Israel, Adam worked in the aircraft industry. In 1968, the family moved to Canada, settling in Toronto, where they still live.

Chaos to Canvas, Maxwell Smart

Maxwell Smart’s memoir is now available in a new edition titled The Boy in the Woods, published by HarperCollins. Purchase the book here.

In the town of Buczacz, Poland, eleven-year-old Maxwell plays in the ruins of old castles and enjoys a quiet life with his family until the summer of 1941, when the Nazis invade and destroy his childhood forever. Maxwell narrowly escapes deportation and certain death, and soon finds himself all alone in the frozen woods, hiding from roving groups of Nazis and Ukrainian collaborators. Lonely and in despair, afraid and starving, Maxwell must rely on the kindness of a farmer and on his own resourcefulness and imagination to survive. In the harrowing yet inspiring journey of Chaos to Canvas, Maxwell eloquently describes his transformation from a boy dependent on his family to a teenager fighting to survive and, ultimately, to a man who finds himself through art in a life beyond war.

Introduction by Carol Zemel

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At a Glance
Poland
Hiding
Postwar Austria, displaced persons camp; Romania
War Orphans Project
Arrived in Canada in 1948
Adjusting to life in Canada
Art by author
Educational materials available: Maxwell Smart Activity
Recommended Ages
14+
Language
English

240 pages, including index

About the author

Photo of Maxwell Smart

Maxwell Smart was born in Prague, Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic), in 1930. After surviving the Holocaust on his own, seventeen-year-old Maxwell immigrated to Canada in 1948 through the War Orphans Project. Since his arrival in Canada, Maxwell has lived in Montreal, where he has become a successful painter, opening his own art gallery in 2006.

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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.