The train was full of refugees in addition to the weapon systems, and their supporting troops, who filled the railway cars. Some of the cars were flatbeds on which tanks, trucks and artillery had been loaded; others contained food, ammunition, etc.

While the legal passengers travelled in cars belonging to the management and the guards, most of the refugees sat on the roof of the cars and even on the engine. We were fortunate to travel as legal passengers.

From the village of Larga we continued to Lipcani but this time we hung ourselves on the locomotive, the engine. We arrived safely to the railway station in Lipcani with mixed feelings. Happy to be back home and safe, but afraid of what we are going to find out and how we, the former "capitalists" will be dealt with.

We walked from the station crossing the “stetl”, almost empty and partly demolished. We found no Jewish family in a town that once populated ten thousand people. We reached the place where our home once stood. We discovered that the house had been burned to ground. Only the residue of the ashes and burned wood can be seen. The garden where I spent many happy days, were neglected and rotten.
     

The flour mill and my uncle Moshe's house still stood in their place. Despite everything that had happened to us, we still remained naive. We “forgot” that we were still in the Union of Soviet Socialistic Republics where no one forgot anyone and especially those who "took advantage or and “exploited” of their workers." We asked for permission to rest in the office of the flour mill. They let us stay until the next day when we had to leave the village in order not to again go through all that had been done to us; that is to say, because of owning the mill.

We went to visit Maria, our former house maid, who had married one of our employees, a carpenter by trade. She received us very well and told us about what had happened since the time we left the town. After entertaining with them for several hours, we agreed with their advice not to remain in Lipcani, due to our history. In spite to what happened to us the memory of the Soviet regime is long and unforgiving. The capitalists must vanish or be deported to Siberia.

We had no choice and continued to wander in the direction of the village of Boian where we remembered that there, they had massacred all of the local 95 Jews in cold blood. After wandering in Lipcani for several more hours, incognito, we managed to find an Army truck giving us a lift to Nova Sulitza. This village was on the border between Bessarabia and Bukovina (before the First World War this was the border between Czarist Russia and the Austro Hungarian Empire).

My mother and sister stayed behind in Nova Sulitza and I walked alone, on foot, to the village of Boian. I don't know if the distance was 20 or 30 kilometres but for me the road was very long and the journey took a long time.

I very much wanted to meet my father whom I had not seen for a number of months. Passing a number of villages, peasants worked in the fields, some drove their horse and carriage. No one asked me anything and I did not try to start a conversation with anyone. Although very tired from the journey in very difficult conditions and the tension of being back in these special circumstances, I did not ask for a lift. The scenes from Mahala, when we asked for a lift to Chernowitz, three years ago came back to me and, although now the situation was different I didn't want to be carried by an unknown former or potential "pogromists". I have developed special survival senses during the three agonising years. I knew when to stay low, when to beg and when to stand for my rights and even fight if necessary. This was the time to walk in silence and think of the past, to remember everything, inscribe it as deep as possible in the memory, because we have a message to carry to the next generations, never to forget and not to be carried away by false appearances. I remembered my father telling the local Jewish community that something terrible is about to happen, and their reaction which eventually cost their lives. Only our family, the doctor Lindenbaum and David Factor survived.

In the afternoon I reached the outlying area of the village Boian. With each passing minute I felt more and more like a man. Many images about life in the village three years earlier passed through my mind, especially the night of the pogrom. I went directly to the flour mill where I hoped to find my father but to my great disappointment, that day he was on business in Chernowitz.

The miller who saved our lives on the eve of the pogrom in 1941, recognised me at once He hugged and kissed me with warmth, tears in his eyes.

I was impressed and surprised. I felt some relief of the tension for the unknown. Before meeting the miller, I had no idea how will the local population, who about three years before have conducted a hyenious pogrom, killing 95 of their Jewish neighbours, will react to our return.

The miller understood my concerns and gave me confidence that things have changed and those responsible for the pogrom will be severely punished. He took me to the apartment which father had rented from a local Polish family, and I waited there for his return.

I fell asleep and father returned very late; he awakened me. Not even once in the last four years have I seen him so happy and so energetic. He hugged me and cried, both of happiness and sorrow.

He told me the main points of what had happened to him since the time he was separated from us. He first visited his own village Viishoara, meeting many of his friends from his childhood. He was thin and undernourished and they were big and healthy. One of them, a six footer, told him " I'm so happy to see you that I have the urge to hit you with my fist" My father thanked him for the gesture and left the village. In Lipcani, our home town he didn't even stop. He went directly to Boian, remembering that we are back under the Communist regime.

He fed me until I almost burst. I ate wheat porridge, made with real milk and a lot of sugar; I ate honey but the cream was the tastiest of all. My father worked in the flour mill as the accounts manager as well as managing the accounts of the dairy station which was located across the street. I had not eaten fresh cream since 1940. The cream father received was made from the top cream, or as they say in French, "La creme de la creme."

I slept in my father's rented apartment and the next morning My father and I left by horse and wagon to bring the rest of the family, my mother and sister.

The encounter with my mother and sister was very touching. They all hugged each other and cried although it was a time of joy. But how can one enjoy remembering the sufferings and the many losses in our family as in the entire Jewish community of Europe. After the initial encounter, eating something from the goodies my father took with him , we stated our journey back to Boian. During the travel no one talked. It was time for thinking and remembering. It was time for stock taking. We arrived to the flat organised it temporarily. We found in the village our bedroom furniture and some other parts of our furniture with the person who was in charge of the mill and who had continued in the job, even during the German occupation. He said "He kept it for us" but we knew he was one of the bandits who actively participated in the pogrom. He was eventually prosecuted and deported to Siberia.

We wanted to pursue for justice in the village, because we eye witnessed the massacre of all the Jews of the village, but one of the top officers, a Jew who sent several days with us as our guest, advised father not to bring up the matter again because it wasn't the right time to do so. He was right, but we couldn't accept living with the murderers, forgetting their terrible deeds. We tried to initiate with the authorities some investigations and we found out how right the officer was. We felt hat we were in danger of being the focus of hatred, which could end either by being accidentally killed or disabled, or deported on false accusations.

We changed our attitude, postponing our revenge, for the time being.

Not only that, we knew that our stay in Boian is temporary, and we must seek an outlet, or to migrate to Chernowitz and leave the country at the earliest possible opportunity.

My parents prepared me to go back to school. The children with whom I shared the classes in 1941 have continued their regular life, while I was wandering from place to place, from ghetto to ghetto, fighting together with my family for survival, facing death either by hunger or disease constantly for more than three years.

They had grown bigger I remained the same height as I was in 1941, being undernourished. In spite of the fact that I missed three years from school I was accepted to the seventh grade.

At the time, I was shorter than them but didn't worry about it. With the enriched diet I began a new period of growth. I loved being back at school. My teacher, an old spinster, pitied me and took personal care of me. She tried hard to complement my missing years at school giving me private additional lessons, without pay and without my parents asking it, but appreciating it very much.

The ghetto years have made me a small grown up. Now I returned to be a child with a grown ups experience. I swallowed everything my teacher gave me to read, when my reading improved. The years in he ghetto have taught about life and death but very little about nature, history, the charms of music and the thrill of poems. Now I was tuned to enjoy them and absorb them.

My inferiority complex, being a Jew, being a nobody, expendable, dissipated gradually. With time and the help of my devoted teacher, I became the centre of every activity, cultural or educational at school.

On week ends I used to walk to Chernowitz, almost every two to three weeks, to carry food to my sister, who studied at the university. From one visit to the next, they found it more difficult to recognise me. I sprouted and my feet also grew.

I don't know how I got through the winters in the ghetto, remembering that I had now shoes. During the last year with an improvement in our financial situation, they bought me a pair of ready-made, "Valinki," (compressed wool and cotton boots).

In the ghetto courtyard, where we lived, was a shoemaker. He made me a pair of sandals. They were very comfortable and even attractive. The laces were soft and white. During one of the summer days, and as I sometimes did, when there was nothing to eat and nothing to do, I would lie on the lawn in a field not far from the house. It was a warm, sunny summer day. There was a gentle breeze and I felt so good. I put my sandals under my head and with great pleasure, fell asleep. When I awoke my sandals were gone and I could not find them. This caused me much agony; it was a distressingly large loss. I felt so embarrassed that it happened to me. Again, I was without shoes and returned to my rags. I wandered through the ghetto looking for the thief. A few weeks after my sandals disappeared, I found them on the feet of a fellow, bigger and stronger than myself. I jumped on him and demanded that he return my property, my sandals. The fellow neither spoke to me nor did he protest. He simply shook me off with his strength. I could not calm myself until I brought the problem to the ghetto court of justice. There, I was unable to prove my ownership of the sandals because they were similar to many other sandals. There were no distinguishing marks on the sandals and thus I was unsuccessful in retrieving my sandals.

The fact that I took the matter to court gave me a certain satisfaction and with the time I forgot the incident until I began to write these memoirs.

Boots were my dream! The same shoemaker who made me the sandals in Moghilev returned to Chernowitz and he took my measurements for boots. We paid for them with jars of sour cream that I would bring him as soon as I visited,. But when he finished making the boots, they were too small on me. It was more than I could bear!

I was inconsolable! To comfort me, they bought me a pair of boots on the black market from a soldier. I wore those black boots constantly for almost two years, until we arrived in Bucharest.

I didn't have any clothes and so they bought me trousers to match the boots from a Russian soldier. There were no clothing stores, either. We bought a German officer's suit and sewed a suit for me from it.

I became a normal boy, with my main activity being a student. In every high school it was usual to place soldiers who trained students to be scouts and learn to function within the civil guard. The counsellor was called the military commander, or in Russian, "Voyenruk" Our Voyenruk was a Jew, who had been wounded in one of the campaigns and assigned for teaching at our school. I was the only Jewish kid in the entire school and because I had not studied, was more experienced in the ways of life than anyone else. The Voyenruk recognised my capabilities and made me his assistant performing for him all of the demonstrations of the new exercises. I really loved it and he liked me a lot. For a long time I thought about making the military my destiny, albeit in the Israeli army.

The school organised a folk-dancing and singing group and I was chosen to join it.

The artistic manager, choreographer and singing teacher was my class teacher and guidance counsellor. Here, also, she made special efforts for me. I danced with the village children who were born with these dances in them and took advantage of the opportunity to quickly become part of them in order to be able to participate in what was called the "Ukrainian Olympiad" for folk dancing and singing. The winning group was promised to take part in the semi-finals in Kiev, the Ukrainian capital, and from there the winners would appear in Moscow with the top Republic's folk groups .

To my surprise I discovered dancing skills and using them I was able to fit in, as though I was born in the village. The boys lent me the appropriate regional clothes. There were trousers made in the linen house; the pants were very narrow, had a belt which was worn very low on the hips and tied so tight with a rope that it left its imprint on my hips. The shirt was made from the same material and its length was to ten centimetres above the knees. A colourful, woven belt, named Brau, decorated with long fringes was tied around the hips, and was worn with an unfinished, sheepskin vest of natural colour. The vest fur bore interesting, colourful needlework. On their heads they wore a tall fur hat shaped almost like a cone (Caciula).

When we finished our preparations and rehearsals, we travelled to Chernowitz. We stayed at the fanciest hotel, "The Black Eagle," and because of either fuel shortage or other heating materials, the rooms were so cold that we huddled together in one room, all 24 of us. We were very excited. The guidance counsellor was an extremely thin, not very young woman who looked like a scarecrow and was unable to talk due to the loss of her voice.

We performed last and even though we received much applause, we did not win any of the first places. This joint experience of my friends in the group drew us closer together and we continued to be a united club. The difference between the Ukrainians, Moldavians, Polacks and myself, as a Jew, all but disappeared. We studied together, danced, and sang within the framework of the school or the club. For me it was good, even very good. I was able to recapture some of the years which I had lost and only then did I realise just how much I had done without during those years of wandering and being in the ghetto.

A representative of the communist party arrived in the village and began to organise party cells, especially a core of the Komsomol (Communist Youth Movement). Of course, the best candidates for this was the dance group. Without much effort, a Soviet-born, a 20 year old, long-time member of the Komsomol, who worked at the railroad station in Boian, joined the group. She was very attractive in my eyes, and using the terms of the time, she was healthy and full-bodied. She knew how to sing in a strong and relaxed way and taught us a repertory of beautiful songs of the Russian people. She prepared us to pass the accepting examinations. All was simple and only with effort one could fail. The questions were template like and so were the answers.

Boian was part of the Sadagura District. (I assume that the Rabbi from Sadagura stems from this village) We travelled to the village and took our oral exam before a committee of ten people. I knew I had to hide my past of being from Lipcani as well as my father's former ownership of the flour mill. I was accepted for a candidacy period of one year, together with the rest of the group.

During the evening, they organised a festive and surprise entertainment for the candidates from all of the villages who had gathered for the same purpose.

Because we were a well-integrated group, the train station person, the young Russian girl, managed to organise a surprise performance. This time, we received much applause and went to sleep happy. They distributed us amongst the homes of the locals and it was my fate to sleep with the girl from the train station. I must confess that I didn't sleep all night and for many years that followed, I didn't forgive myself for not taking advantage of the unique opportunity to try that which everyone said was wonderful! It seemed to me that I also disappointed her because the next morning she commented on my well behaving, but it was said with cynicism.

My father worked very hard, as though the mill was his own. There were no spare parts and the mill hadn't worked for many months. Because he intimately knew the industry, he could organise repairs and even make replacement parts which worked, despite the original being a Swiss product made by the Buhler Company. By exchanging the flour which had gathered in the pipes of the flour-producing area of the station, he purchased parts and paid for repairs.

Since there was no fuel, he sent the new manager, a Polish-born Jew, Mr. Silber, to Galicia to purchase fuel. The initiative and action which had almost ceased during father's time in the ghetto, had returned to him. The mill was renewed and working and earnings were once again satisfactory. Money ceased to be a problem. We could allow ourselves many things.

Father was still eligible for conscription, being forty-seven years old, but for being eligible not to be drafted to the army, he had to be declared as "vital."

The "cost" of his critical worth was to provide excellent flour and from time to time, two or three pigs weighing fifty to sixty kilos, each. One day father was stopped while he was transporting his monthly portion of bribe flour to the managers of all of the northern flour mills of Bukovina and he was taken by the secret police (N.K.V.D.) for questioning. He managed to escape and took this as a sign that the danger was very close, too close.

As it happened during World War I, Romania changed sides close to war end. On 23 August 1944, king Mihai came to an agreement with the Soviets to leave the Nazi coalition, "The Axe" which included Germany Italy Japan Hungary and Romania. This wise and courageous act of the king, saved the greater part of Romania from destruction, and repatriated a Romanian Division formed from former Romanian war prisoners. The division was named after three heroes from their history "Horia, Closhca & Crishan".

From newspapers, we knew about the approach of the Russian army to the Hungarian front. Romania was free and willing to accept repatriates. This time also, father acted quickly against the approaching danger. He did not join those who always said "that it won't happen!" There were many occurrences of people being deported to Siberia or were simply arrested and waited years for their trial. There was the possibility to cross over to Rumania, of course, for a price. No price was high enough to save our lives.


Romania - The First Step In Aliya

We took my sister away from her studies at the university, hired a horse and wagon, packed only the very necessary, each taking one peace of luggage.

In the middle of the night we climbed onto the wagon and renewed, this time by our own choice, our wanderings.

We crossed the border to Romania at the little town of Hertza, after bribing the border officer in charge and arrived at Dorohoi.

It was a very dangerous move which we made, because if caught, it was regarded as a major offence with heavy penalty. Bribing in itself was illegal and in many occasions before us and after our border crossing the guards themselves after cashing the bribe, arrested the refugees. We were very tense until we crossed to the Romanian side of the border.

I was not happy leaving Boian where I finally found friends, liked the school and in particular the paramilitary training where I had an active role. I also was part of a volunteer "civil defence" team being proud with the medal like badge on my chest. I was well aware of the reasons we had to leave in a hurry, but I also regretted to leave behind a more or less normal child life.

Father was well acquainted with the area and the people of Dorohoi as he had done business with them before the war. The Jews who were with us in Moghilev managed to return to their homes a year before us and we looked forward meeting our friends, hoping they will assist us in our new endeavour to settle, temporarily in Romania.


Dorohoi-first stop in Romania

Indeed we were not disappointed. We were well received; I even found some of my friends from the time when we were in the ghetto. We were given a small room (actually, a balcony) with a family of father's friends.

Immediately, my sister travelled directly to Yassi, the Capital and largest city of Moldova, to continue her studies. Father went to Bucharest to look for work. Unlike his mistaken philosophy in 1941, to take us as farther as possible, to the Bug river, now it was a wise move. Our goal was not to remain in Romania, but to try every possible way and go to Palestine. My father didn't trust anymore the Romanians, in particular when the Soviet Army is "The Liberating Army" literally occupying and controlling everything.

David, my brother, who volunteered in 1944, when the Soviet Army entered Moghilev, was still in the army, serving somewhere in Romania. We knew only his army mail box. We refrained from having correspondence with him, not to jeopardise him. Not only in war time was censorship very active, in war time it was enhanced and very strict.

Mother and I remained alone on the balcony which had been turned into the family "apartment". I don't know what the cause was, but within a couple of days after our arrival in Dorohoi, my entire body was covered with horrible scabies (SCABIOLA) and carbuncles. Two phenomenon, which separately are bad enough, but together were insufferable.

The doctor, Dr. Danilov, well-known and reliable from the times of Moghilev, lived and worked in Dorohoi. He treated me, but mostly my mother took care to wash me several times a day, smear me with a smelly, sulfur cream and took pains to care for me as only a mother knows how to treat the openings caused by the carbuncles.

After several weeks I was free from these two "gifts" which I brought from the Soviet Union. I suffered terribly and made my mother's life miserable with complaints taking me from the USSR.

After the years of wandering and deportation I finally found my place. I had been happy, had friends and position, studied, etc.

My complaints were rather pathetic and caused mother many problems which she did not deserve. She merited much more consideration and understanding, but although having an experience of an elder person I was after all a child or a teen-ager of fifteen.

After a week living on the terrace, my mother didn't want to abuse the friendship of the family who invited us to stay with them, looked for and found a two room apartment, in a distant part of Dorohoi, in a totally gentile region. This is what we could afford. The main reason was I, with my terrible stench which filled the air and you couldn't avoid smelling and breathing. It was very considerate on her behalf and our hosts, did not protest our leaving.

We had no contact with father. We ceased receiving mail from him because he did not know our new address and we could not write to him because of the same reason.

My friends from the ghetto who lived in Dorohoi since their early repatriation from Transnistria, began to invite me. They seemed to be settled, managing with the Romanian language which I had just begun to learn from the beginning. They dressed as children and I in my boots, wide pants and military shirt looked almost like a Russian soldier. My friends were economically well rehabilitated, and socially fully adapted. They were very active members of "Ha-No'ar Ha-Zioni."( The Zionist Youth). I was removed from my roots, had difficulties with the language, suffered from my wounds, had all the reasons to feel inferior, but thanks to the understanding and support of my friends I adjusted without to much pain.

I am forever grateful to those friends who adopted me and assisted in every way possible to ease my integration in their vivid society. They invited me to their ken , the youth organisation "nest" to attend a meeting and was surprised that I remembered Hebrew songs which I had learned in my "Tarbut" grade school classes. I even remembered a few sentences in Hebrew, which really impressed my friends and increased my self confidence. Slowly, I was "in" in the Zionist Youth Movement as well. I danced and even looked for the opportunities to sing, solo, Russian songs which I really loved.

Slowly, but steady I got used to the place and the friends and reduced my complaints about having been plucked from my "Motherland" and birthplace. For most of my time I was active in the group choir. We would go to weddings in order to contribute to the Keren Kayemet. We were on various committees in connection with Eretz-Israel. During one of our appearances, I played a traditionally-dressed Arab in the part of the mufti of Jerusalem. My Zionist education was very weak at the time as it began only in 1945 when I arrived in Romania.


Bucharest

My father sent us a message to come to Bucharest. He did not mention how, he knew that with our experience, we will find a way. As I mentioned earlier, our goal was not to stay in Romania; rather, our aim was to arrive in Palestine and Bucharest placed us closer as well as providing more opportunity for help to reach to Eretz-Israel. We took the train, still a transport train, and after two days arrived in Bucharest. We brought the few possessions to a rooftop apartment (mansard) on Labyrinth Street.

The apartment was in fact a tiny room and all of the roof space. In Bucharest, we again succumbed to our old friends the fleas, against which we fought a desperate battle like during all of the war years in the ghetto.

Father made his mark in commerce in the black market. He bought and sold foreign currency (money changer) and gold. He had no office or stand. It was a moving, and clandestine operation and being illegal was dangerous. From time to time he also acted as a broker and we had the feeling that we would not die from starvation.

For me this move, part of our continuous wandering since the occupation of the Soviet Army in 1940. Again my friends were left behind. Again a new environment, this time a very big city, the capital of Romania. This was my first encounter with city life which has great advantages over small towns, but also its shortcomings. Bucharest, once regarded as "Little Paris" was a large city, having wide boulevards, great parks, an imposing opera house, the majestic Royal palace, the University and Polytechnics as well as other state buildings home for the organs of democracy such as the Parliament ,the Senate, the High Courts etc.

Transportation by tramway, trolleybus or omnibus was efficient and inexpensive. More then fifty movie theatre houses showing films from America, France, England, Italy and Hungary, operated from 10 o'clock in the morning until midnight.


Back to school at "Cultura"

My sister persisted that I should continue studying. She is responsible for me having all of the education I do have.

Not in the ghetto and especially not in Rumania did she neglect me. From her friends living in Bucharest she requested that they help me in my studies. My educational history is exceptionally varied. Four years of grammar school studying Hebrew and Romanian as a foreign language. With the entrance of the Russians into Bessarabia, and were compelled to move to Boian, in the Ukraine, when I was in the fourth grade, I studied Ukrainian and Russian as a second language. Three years without any formal education was followed by seventh grade again in Ukrainian when according to my age I should have been in grade nine; but the level of my capabilities in comparison to the requirements of the Romanian gymnasium (school) barely satisfied the needs of the tenth grade because by that time I had to thoroughly know the Romanian language, geography, mathematics, French, history and Latin which I had not even studied at any time during the previous years.

I received lessons in French, Romanian and Latin from my sister's friend, Biba Vartikovski, who helped me reach a level of competence which allowed me to be accepted into the fourth class in the gymnasium that is to say, the eighth year of studying.

I was taller than most of the students, most of whom had studied throughout the war, without any disturbance. I took my studies very serious and despite assisting my father in his black market business, usually as a naive currier of stolen goods or unlawful money, I made myself study. I was a regular student and succeeded. I was proud to wear the gymnasium hat which was compulsory. Also, I sat for the entrance exams for high school at the end of the study year and was awarded a special mention for my Latin. That was a real sensation.

As it happened, I had memorised that portion which we had to translate. It was the chapter on the three hundred Leonidas soldiers crossing the Straits of Thermopile.

This time I earned the right to go to the next class and began studying as a regular student in the same school in the same "Tarbut" system, but not in the Hebrew language. In Romanian, the school was called "CULTURA" on Holy Jonah street (SFANTUL JON NOU). Another student of my age, who also lost study time, joined the class; together, we decided to apply to another high school as external students in the tenth grade (of a total of twelve), parallel to studying in the ninth grade of the "Cultura" school.

The Rumanians acted with great patience and consideration towards people like myself, who were considered as "having returned to their birthplace" (Repatriate). They made things easier and especially displayed flexibility (more than once I've thought about the difficulties put on new immigrants in Israel). As a pair, we studied at another school, preparing our lessons together. As far as I know, my friend also took the examinations. I took a different path which resulted in an episode at school.

One day, we were visited by a shaliach (representative) from Eretz Israel, or perhaps it was one of the Zionist leaders who was in Bucharest and made an unplanned visit to the school. He explained the importance of Aliyah to Israel, especially so after what had happened in Europe. He described to us what went on in the concentration camps of Aushwitz, Buchenwald, Birkenau, Treblinka and others. I knew but little about them even though I had come in contact with people wearing the striped pyjamas and had shaven heads who were brought to Chernowitz for healing and strengthening.

My parents and everyone else in the family spoke with them and heard about the atrocities. I didn't know, or perhaps had not yet understood what really happened until the arrival of the shaliach. He recommended that everyone who wanted to make Aliyah should join one of the Zionist youth groups; especially, one of the pioneer Zionist groups. Although I was deeply involved with my studies, which I had really come to like and enjoy, the idea of making Aliyah to the land of Israel and join its defence forces, the Haganah, once more took a prevalent place in my conscious thoughts.

I told my parents what I had in mind and they were astonished. They wanted me to continue with my studies and tried to convince me to postpone my idea of Aliyah until after my studies. Time and again they explained the importance of learning in general and particularly all that I had missed during the war years because of our expulsion and wandering. However, in the end they gave in to my uncompromising desire.

They sewed a back-pack for me (which I have kept to this day), and I joined the Zionist youth group, "Ha-Ratzon" (the Desire) in Brashov. The actual leaving was very difficult. My sister was no longer at home, married to the fellow she met in the ghetto; my brother had deserted the Red Army in order to make illegal Aliyah to Eretz Israel and me, the little one, was also leaving. It was very sad and once again, without really having to, I burdened my mother who always suffered in silence and cried her tears inside.

Before I attempt to briefly describe my living the "Kibbutz life," I will describe the time in Bucharest. We did not stay very long in the apartment on Labyrinth St. The conditions there during the summer were very difficult.

As was customary in Europe, the roof was either coated tin or copper. During the summer, it absorbed so much heat that it was impossible to be in the room. The area of Labyrinth St. was largely inhabited by Jews. It was not a ghetto but there was a high concentration of Jews living in the area. There were synagogues, a club room for my youth group, as well as for the other Zionist youth groups. Even the Red Light district, "Crucea de Piatra," was within easy walking distance.

My connections with the Russian soldiers were still active. They milled about in the streets and I spoke to them in their own language. It was easy to get to know them and with their help I was able to manage with the local inhabitants. I worked as a guide and translator and while doing so, I bought leftover goods from them. Thus, I bought tires which were in very short supply and sold them for a very nice profit.

I purchased a real suit, which fit my still-growing body quite well. The suit was so fashionable, that my brother-in-law wore it when he married my sister. Even though I knew Russian quite well, I bought a sheep thinking it was a pig from a Russian soldier. Only when he gave me the sheep, I discovered the mistake. No one would buy it from me so I decided to slaughter it myself on the roof. I sold the meat and the fur separately. We were satisfied with the inner organ meat, just like my grandfather, the ritual slaughterer, who received his payment fees in the form of the organ meats. During that time, I not only became a merchant and a translator, I also became a tour guide to the famous Street of the Red Lights.

Being very unhappy from the "mansard" room at Labyrinth St. and its environment, my father found a room on The Doamnei Street.

The apartment was located in a very expensive, elegant, central area of the city. This street extended on one side from The Academy St. and from the other side, Calea Victoriei. The king's palace, the Philharmonic, the national theatre, the largest stores such as the famous Gallery Lafayette and SORA were located on this beautiful boulevard. A row of the large banks, including the national bank, stood opposite our house. Five minutes away, by foot, was another elegant street, which was also a promenade, Lipscani . The room was on the third floor of a four floor building which contained an elevator. Part of the building was used for offices and shops and part was used for living quarters. The room belonged to a once very, beautiful, Jewish woman whose origins were Russian. She was from a very rich family but she could not control her money. Loosing or may be giving away all her possessions she had to earn for a living. She was mistress to very wealthy men as well as to senior civil servants in the national government.

With the passing of years and her face no longer young, she went from being a mistress to becoming a high-priced whore. When I first knew her, she had already become a street whore, but still, to the better class of clients. She never worked at home. She rented us part of her room, apparently because her clients became fewer and fewer until she was in danger of starving. The room held four beds, a table, a closet which was used to separate the living area from the kitchen and wash area. There was no water in the room. The toilet was used by everyone on the third floor. Despite all of these conditions, we were very happy to move to this location from the roof on Labyrinth St.

Until I had arrived in Bucharest, I had seen perhaps six to eight movie films.

By the time of my return to Boian, I had seen maybe six films, one of which really impressed me. That was a Russian film called "The Circus." In Bucharest, I quenched my thirst for films. The big city housed more than fifty movie theatres, a large part of which ran films from the morning without intermissions. One could enter the theatre in the morning and watch every run of it throughout the entire day. A few of the movie houses had intermissions and before each screening of the film, there was live entertainment by various entertainers. For me, the movie theatre very quickly became even more important than food. I viewed films at a tremendous rate and learned about life, the world and even some English from them. In Bucharest, I also saw plays at the Yiddish theatre, "Barasheum."

Attending Romanian theatre, I saw very good plays and even one which I did not understand, written by Eugene O'Neill, (Morning Becomes Electra?). Not far from where we lived there was a theatre where operettas were primarily performed. I saw them all and a few even twice because the ticket clerk was my friend and we chatted even when there were no performances. I saw the "Gypsy Baron," The Countess Maritza (at least three times each) with the Hungarian-Jewish actors Oscar Doenish and Rosie Barshoni.

Usually, I chose French films starring Jean Gabin, Louis Jouvet, Pierre Brasseur, Jean Marais, Vivianne Romance, Michelle Morgan, Danielle Darrieux and others. I liked Italian films starring Allida Valli and Amadeo Nazzari, or Hungarian films with Yavor Pal and Kathaleen Karady and others.

Of course, since most films were made by the huge American film industry, I became such an expert about actors that I could immediately identify who would play in what film from books which I had read.

Book reading was with no less thirst than seeing the films. I devoured books, especially historical romances.

The opera, for me, was a totally new experience. One of my friends with whom I prepared my lessons, Jean Kendler, loved the opera. He once took me along when he went to buy tickets. The line was very long and we stood for hours until we reached the ticket office. I, too, bought tickets for all of the performances of the following week. I sold some of the tickets and using the rest, the cost of which were now covered, I entered a new world. I was tremendously impressed! I persuaded my mother to go and with the time she saw a number of performances from which she derived great pleasure. Amongst the operas which I saw in Bucharest, were The Barber of Seville, Carmen, La Traviata, La Boheme Lakme. I also saw Mannon Lescaut, Lucia da Lamermor and the Erevan Ballet in a number of wonderful performances.

I wandered throughout the city; in the beautiful parks : Carol and Cismigiu. I visited the exhibition area and Kisselef Blvd. Transportation in Bucharest was easy, convenient and cheap. The electric streetcars reached almost every area of the city and were very efficient. During the summer, I even swam in the huge city swimming pool. Some of my classmates and myself organised a Volley ball team. One of the students had access to an empty lot and all of us brought tools and we made an excellent playing field. We did not manage to play more than just a few games because the organisation was very complicated and for each of us, the playing field was just too far.

In Bucharest I had the opportunity to see two well-known song and dance companies, the Igor Moiseiev and the Red Army groups. These two performances have impressed me to the extreme.

The Red Army Chorus their songs and wonderful voices of those evenings are locked in my memory until this very day.

Jean Kendler, a colleague at school had a great influence on me and my cultural preparation. His father worked for the largest newspaper Scanteia (The Spark), the paper of the ruling political party. The newspaper's workers took a several day trip on a special train. Jean and myself were invited by his father to join the excursion. He apparently was a member of the newspaper directorship. The trip was in the direction of the Yugoslavian border at the narrowest point of the Danube where it ran between Rumania and Yugoslavia. During the trip we made many stops for sight-seeing among them also visited a small island called Ah-Da-Kaleh located in the middle of the Danube river. The island was a tax-free zone and I bought its special item, a bottle of rum. When I bought that bottle of rum, I had no idea it would be the only alcoholic beverage at my sister's wedding.

When Dora and You decided to marry, our neighbours agreed to open the door between our room and theirs and the very modest wedding would take place. My future brother-in-law wore my suit and the rum was used to bless them.

My brother David, as has already been mentioned, was in a army logistic unit, dealing with supplies and equipment. The supplies, in reality, were taken as "War reparation" payment on the account promised by the Rumanians to the Soviets. David lived in a hotel seized by the Russians to house its officers and soldiers serving in the area. He too invited me on one of his trips to the Bulgarian border. I enjoyed spending some time with David and the chance to tour a different part of the country. I loved the trip and David's friendship. I was proud being his brother.

Father gave me the job of travelling by train to the port city of Constanza in order to take a parcel and money to a (Jewish) Russian officer with whom he did business in the black market. These were to be given to family members still alive and living in the Soviet Union. We knew that my grandfather and grandmother were alive somewhere in Siberia.

When I arrived in Constanza, I saw the sea for the first time in my life; I saw the Black Sea. I did not really understand why the sea did not spill onto us because from the angle of my first view of the sea, it appeared as though it had no choice but to flow over us. Only after some minutes of viewing the sea from different angles was I able to relax and believe that everything was OK.

I made another trip in the northern direction. I travelled to visit the Coifman family; (The Mrs. Coifman had taught me to make soap). They stayed in Yassi and lived in a house of their brother, who had the sense and the luck to make Aliyah to Eretz-Israel before the outbreak of the war. They took over managing the textile factory which their brothers had left. Their eldest son, Monia who years later was a seaman in Pal-Yam, was in the Beitar Revisionist youth group , making Hachshara in Bucharest. Only his brother Moritz and his younger sister Sonia lived at home. Moritz, who was older than myself, took care of me. He guided my debut to sex life. I was given dream-filled instructions and somehow managed to get through my first complete trial-by-fire.

In Yassi I met my "girl friend" from the kindergarten and grade school, Pupa Weintraub. She really was attractive and we were considered to be a most compatible couple, even in Lipcani. I remember that even though the distance between our two homes was minimal, we spoke on the phone because they and us were among the first to have telephones in our town.

We had our pictures taken and spent a few days together. I had to return to Bucharest. My brother began to feel very uncomfortable in the Russian army and there was the danger of him being transferred to another location and possibly to the Soviet Union. There was no other possibility except to desert and so he did. He took off his uniform, grew a moustache, obtained a new identity and waited for the opportunity to go to Eretz-Israel. Shaike (Trachtenberg) Dan, one of the paratroopers who parachuted into Rumania before the end of the Second World War (he was born in our town), was then working as a shaliach for the organisation for aliyah from Romania and the other Balkan countries. We found a way to reach him and he arranged my brother's escape to Yugoslavia and from there on the boat, "Haganah," to Eretz- Israel where he was captured by the British and put into the detention camp at Atlit.

My uncle Zunia was in the Workers' Army near Moscow. There, he suffered terribly. Because of the fear of censors, he could not describe his true condition in the letters he wrote to us; therefore, he wrote us that he was jealous of our neighbour Martian's son in his village birthplace. The "son" he referred to was really Martian's dog and that brief sentence fully described his real situation.

As a result of the revolution that took place in Rumania, the change of contact with the Nazis, the covenant with the Soviets, it was agreed between the governments to repatriate the prisoners of war left in the Soviet Union. Part of the prisoners had already returned as action units who organised into two divisions while still in the Soviet Union; the "TUDOR VLADIMIRESCU" and the HORIA CLOSHCA SI CRISHAN divisions named after the historical revolutionaries of Rumania.

Uncle Zunia managed to get himself included in the list of prisoners of war and together with them he reached the railway station in Bucharest. We waited for him at the station and were very happy when we finally found him. Of course, he came to live with us. Now, in the room, in addition to father, mother, Matilda (the landlady) and myself, was Zunia. Matilda, despite her profession, was a wonderful person with a kind heart. She made no problems with the additional over-crowding, she made our area larger and hers smaller despite the extra discomfort it caused her.

Zunia's condition was even worse than described in his letters wherein he described jealousy over how the neighbour's dog lived. He always was thin but now he was merely skin and bones. He wore a cotton-wool suit whose colour had not been identifiable for a long time. He was covered with lice. We burned his clothes and scrubbed his skin until the blood flowed. All of this was done in a small corner behind the closet which separated the living quarters from the kitchen and wash area. Zunia was single and a man of principle. He had a bitter soul and the closest I can imagine him, when I think about him, is the Jewish literary figure, "Buntze Shweig." Zunia was the weakling of a twin, but the other baby died before the end of the eighth day. He worked very hard in my grandfather's house at the flour mill. No one ever spoiled him because he had a younger brother, Shimon, and a sister born late in life to his parents were the ones who received all of the pampering and attention.

They were sent to study, one to France and the other to Bucharest. Zunia had to stay in the village and work to send money to his brother and sister. Cruel fate followed him all of his life until he died a lonely death in the Paris Metro and was buried in a mass grave in a mixed graveyard.

Zunia, while in Bucharest, neither sought nor did he find work. When he sufficiently recovered, owing to my mother's loving care, he also went in the same direction as my brother, but he reached Italy. He waited in a Jewish Agency camp for the chance to go to Eretz-Israel, but he didn't like the behaviour of one of the Sochnut (Jewish Agency) workers and decided not to go to Eretz-Israel. He "stole over the border" to France where he lived from 1946 until 1985, to die lonely, and by himself, in Paris. He never asked for and consequently never received French citizenship and remained "a man without a country." He did not possess a passport, only a certificate of passage. He was born and died an object of pity. The laugh of the fates was that in France he sympathised with communism and died in the Metro station, "Stalingrad."

Aunt Batya followed in our footsteps and arrived in Bucharest which she knew well from the time before the war. She learned in the commercial academy, studying accounting. She lived in her own room and supported herself. Aunt Dina arrived later, together with someone she apparently knew in Moghilev. This same man named Kligman married her and they had a son named Avi (currently serving in an army communications unit).

Aunt Olia, the widow of Moshe, remained with her children in the Soviet Union. My cousin Avraham who was the same age as me, with my father's recommendation, began to learn the profession of tool and die making with an expert named Glassberg who had repaired the spare parts for our flour mill.

The Kibbutz "Ha Ratzon"

I travelled by bus to the "Hachshara" (training) within the framework of the group, "Ha-Ratzon." The bus passed through the most beautiful regions of Romania which today are the main and most important tourist areas. I arrived at my destination in the city of BRASHOV which was once called KRONSTADT, which means the Crown City, in German. The city was positioned between two mountains. Small brick houses topped with red roofs. Clean, fresh and beautiful.

The group was located in the centre of the city and supported itself by doing "hard physical work." I thought we would work in agriculture but was disappointed because it was a commercial industrial group. We were some thirty males and females. Some of the girls were already sexually active although not always were they engaged or married. The rest were available. The girls were busy with the cooking, laundry and the usually household chores and the boys worked at various jobs in the city. I was sent to work with the boys and given a week-long job of pulling nails out of wooden boards and then having to straighten them to be used again, both the nails and the boards.

After that I was sent to work as a porter in the warehouse of a business. I loaded trucks with wheat, flour and other products. The owner of the store quickly discovered my sense of business and also allowed me to sell even though the local language was Hungarian. I quickly learned the names of the goods and how to count in Hungarian and that was enough. I didn't care that the work wasn't interesting because I knew that this was the way to Eretz-Israel. Communal living was not to my taste because I did not see that we had a commune. There was a group and there were couples, and there were the "dfukim" - those who were taken advantage of. I was brand new in the group; the others were there about half a year and a few even two years. I quickly found which group would be of the greatest benefit in helping me get through the time.

After years of not knowing hunger, I was "returned" to earlier years. The food was guarded and not very tasty. The storeroom was full with items we received from the "Joint." Those "who were close to the saucer" and the older members did not suffer from hunger. There were special meals at irregular times. One of the members, Bucur (which is a purely Rumanian name), who like myself, was critical of the administration of the group, suggested that we take matters into our own hands. At first, we went to eat in the city using the money we had brought from home. When our supply of money was depleted, we simply took food from the storeroom. After many days I discovered that the others had done the same thing. Naively, I thought I was doing something unusual. In the Moghilev ghetto, my sense of conscience had become dulled to these things but I had since returned to my normal self in Bucharest and considered such anti-social behaviour to be forbidden.

One day, we received an order from national defence headquarters of the "Zionist Youth" to appoint someone as a candidate to learn "self defence," in the Carpathians. At the end of the course, the person would become responsible for teaching self-defence to each group. The group's general meeting chose me for the position and I accepted with great joy. I don't know why they chose me, but to this very day, thank them for giving me the opportunity for such an experience. It was my first contact with "Eretz Israel."

I was sent by train to the city of Lugoj in Transilvania and from there we were taken to the clearing of a forest. Each group was put into tents and after receiving a brief explanation we began extremely difficult training which lasted almost an entire month. We learned battle-field exercises of one-on-one, with and without a stick, using a knife, judo and other useful sports, but most of all, we were jogging. Everything was done on the run. Reveille was very early, exercises, morning run and a lot of discipline with little food.

The commanders were "shlichim" from Eretz- Israel. For us, they were like gods. We worshipped them without limit. Most of the other instructors were fellows like myself who had already completed this training a number of times; there I met Burshi Zapler and we remained friends for many years.

Instruction was given in Romanian and Hebrew, but military orders were given in Hebrew. To my disappointment, they did not tell me about Eretz-Israel. Some of what they told us was inadequate or even ignored. Even so, they instilled self-confidence and belief in our physical capabilities almost to the point of it being dangerous. For instance, I felt as though I could deal with any problem and face anything; I thought I was "Rambo".

When I returned to the group in Brashov I was accepted until the moment I tried to organise training exercises according to the instructions I had received during the course. I wanted the group to benefit from the course as I had. Alas, they did not look at things the same way. I thought I would be very busy only giving instruction and training but they again imposed on me work which I did not like; only one-half hour per day was set aside for those who had the interest and strength for self defence training. My success came from an entirely different direction!

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