Commander les mémoires

Retenue par un fil/Une question de chance

Boulevard des Marronniers

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

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

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

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

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

Tenuous Threads

Chestnut Boulevard

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

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

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

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

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

Six années volées

Le début de mes souffrances

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Introduction to Misery

Six Lost Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Hour of Fate and Danger

A Fragile Liberation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buried Words

Dear Diary

Sunday, March 14

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

Wednesday, April 7

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

Les Mots enfouis : Le Journal de Molly Applebaum

Cher journal

Dimanche 14 mars

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

Mercredi 7 avril

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

The Hidden Package

Separation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Le Colis caché

La Séparation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy Runs Deeper

The Home that Was Lost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[…]

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

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

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

[…]

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

Plus forts que le malheur

Le foyer disparu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

[...]

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

Escape

Unsung Heroes

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

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

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

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

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

A Promise of Sweet Tea

Escape by the Back Door

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

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

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

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

If Home Is Not Here

Occupation and Escape

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

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

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

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

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

Citoyen de nulle part

L’Occupation et l’évasion

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

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

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

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

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

Daring to Hope

Safe and Thankful

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

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

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

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

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

Passport to Reprieve

The Passport

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nightmare

Across the Rivers of Memory

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hide and Seek: In Pursuit of Justice

The Secret

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

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

A Symphony of Remembrance

The Cauldron

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

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

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

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

A Cry in Unison

Kol Nidre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting Out Alive

The German Occupation

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

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

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

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

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

Objectif : survivre

L'Occupation allemande

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

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

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

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

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

A Childhood Unspoken

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

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

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