Résultats

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.

Un serment à la vie

Mme Hercemberg est descendue avec Hélène rencontrer son mari. Après m’avoir demandé mes impressions de la matinée, elles m’ont tendu d’un air gêné mon courrier, retransmis de Montluçon. Elles se sont approchées de moi quand j’ai pris connaissance de la première carte interzone. Écrite par Suzanne au moment de son départ avec ma mère et mes sœurs, elle m’apprenait dans un tragique message leur arrestation au matin du 16 juillet. Le ciel m’est tombé sur la tête !

Paris le 16 7 1942

Cher Salomon

Ne t’inquiète pas nous partons tous ensemble à l’instant. [N]e te fais pas de mauvais sang pour nous, nous nous débrouillerons toujours, occupe-toi de papa. Garde ton courage comme nous gardons le notre [sic]. Nous nous reverrons tous un jour dans la joie. Je t’embrasse affectueusement ainsi que Maman, Denise, Céline, Marie-Louise.

Suzanne

Abasourdi, je me suis senti étouffer, je n’ai pu proférer un son. Je suis retourné à l’atelier, où subitement les larmes ont afflué. La tête sur l’établi, j’ai donné libre cours à mon chagrin. Incapable de penser, je suis resté prostré dans un abattement respecté de tous. Krajka, Fischman et d’autres collègues, mis au courant par Hercemberg, ont tenté avec compassion de me réconforter, sous le regard curieux des jeunes filles de mon établi. À 14 h, je suis parti seul, errant comme un fou à travers la ville, versant des larmes amères au souvenir d’un passé si proche et déjà si lointain. Combien de temps ai-je marché ainsi, et dans quelles rues ? Je n’en ai aucun souvenir. J’ai fini par me rendre à Sathonay-Camp pour apprendre aux Pindek le malheur qui avait frappé ma famille.

[…]

Denise m’a envoyé deux cartes le 17 juillet 1942. La première me faisait part de sa libération en raison de sa nationalité française ; elle était la seule de mes sœurs, toutes françaises, à avoir plus de 16 ans au moment de la rafle. Elle m’informait également que, dans notre immeuble, il ne restait que les Aronovitch et elle. N’osant rester dans notre appartement, elle s’est rendue chez nos cousines, Nathalie et Hélène, qui l’ont recueillie comme une sœur. Leurs parents, oncle Sina et tante Dora, l’ont aussi entourée de toute leur affection. Restée seule, Denise puisait dans son désespoir une énergie insoupçonnée pour arriver à procurer de l’aide à Maman et à nos sœurs, parquées au Vélodrome d’Hiver, où elle s’est rendue immédiatement. Le Vél d’Hiv, comme on l’appelait, était le stade parisien où se déroulaient les célèbres courses cyclistes avant la guerre ; il avait été reconverti en centre de détention improvisé. Rien n’était prévu pour accueillir des milliers d’internés relégués dans les gradins : ni lits, ni couvertures, ni repas chauds, ni moyens sanitaires suffisants, dont l’absence se faisait cruellement sentir.

Paris le 17.7.1942

Cher Salomon et chers amis,

Cher Salomon, je te demande beaucoup de courage et plus que je n’en ais [sic] moi-même. J’écris et je pleure. Hier à midi, on m’a pris maman et les enfants, moi j’ai été relachée [sic] parce que je suis française. Je reste seule avec nos voisins Aronovich [sic] dans la maison. Les autres aussi sont partis. Pourtant ne t’inquiètes [sic] pas pour moi. Nathalie, Hélène, oncle et tante sont là. Pour le moment, je reste chez eux. Mais écris-moi à notre adresse et à mon nom. […] Ce matin, j’ai reçu une lettre de Papa de Pithiviers. Carte suit.

Baisers, Denise

J’ai bien reçu ta carte. Chers amis plus tard j’irais [sic] voir dans votre famille.

Dans sa seconde carte datée du 17 juillet, Denise m’écrivait :

Ce matin, je suis allée aux nouvelles et j’ai pu faire passer un peu de nourriture pour Maman et les enfants. Sois tranquille […] je suis là. Je ferais [sic] tout mon possible pour rester en contact avec notre chère Maman. Je sais par Albert Berman[1] avec qui j’ai réussi à parler que Maman était très courageuse, qu’elle veillait avec soin sur les enfants. […]

Investie d’une mission qui devenait son unique raison de vivre, Denise s’est engagée à soutenir Papa au camp et à s’assurer de mon bien-être en exil. En ces temps incertains, où l’on courait le risque de disparaître inopinément et sans pouvoir avertir quiconque, nous avons pris la décision de nous écrire tous les jours. Ainsi saurions-nous à quoi nous en tenir si l’un de nous cessait de donner de ses nouvelles.

[1]  Albert Berman, un jeune copain de rue de Salomon, sera déporté le 23 septembre 1942 par le convoi no 36 à Auschwitz, où il sera assassiné. Source : Mémorial de la déportation des Juifs de France [en ligne].

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.

L’Enfant du silence

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

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

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.

Traqué

Le départ du Ghetto

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

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

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

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

Fleeing from the Hunter

In the Ghetto and Beyond

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

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

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

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

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

Miraculous Escape

Always Remember Who You Are

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

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

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

[…]

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

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

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

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

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

A Light in the Clouds

When Childhood Ended

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

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

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

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

In Dreams Together

Excerpt from the diary of Leslie Fazekas

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

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

My dear Judit,

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

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

…

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

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

Spring's End

Departure

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Fin du printemps

Le Départ

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

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

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

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

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

Too Many Goodbyes

Fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Childhood Adrift

The Train

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

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

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

Une enfance à la dérive

Le Train

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

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

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

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

Flights of Spirit

Syringes on a Tray

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

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

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

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

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

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

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