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Holocaust Survivors' Stories
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Intercession with the support of the Aryanizer[1]
The wholesale textile commercial firm Pinchas Vinter & Sons, which would later, following the discriminatory laws against the Jews, pass into the hands of the Aryanizers “Girman & Co., Sečovce”– which was in 1939 one of the largest of its kind in Slovakia. It would not be an exaggeration to say that it was the largest in terms of commercial balance and profits. Girman, the manager of the local bank, “Danubian Bank,” accepted the offer and took over the business as an Aryanizer, according to the “codex,” which stated that the Jewish property should be transferred to the ownership of a Christian “Aryan.”
Girman was an honest man and did not intend to take over the firm that sold fabrics of all types to individuals and wholesalers, nor the warehouses that were a treasure trove for the merchant, a balanced and healthy store that secured a good and more than abundant livelihood for our family and the Aryanizers. Girman observed the commandment “thou shall not covet,” and out of his goodwill gave us free rein and, in practice, did not intervene in the doings of the commercial firm. He signed every financial and administrative document conscious of the fact that we, the Wintner family, were the natural owners of the company, if not in law then certainly in practice. This was Girman, who acted as one of the righteous among the nations.
The partner to the Aryanization was Jozi Starinska, the wife of Peter Starinski, one of the heads of the National Police Administration in Bratislava, head of the 16th department (in the State Security Center) in charge of prisons, among others the notorious “Ilava” prison. Peter Starinski was clever and with the power and authority of the police knew well where to place his wife as an Aryanizer, as a partner at a business that supplies large quantities of goods to factories.
The heart and soul of the commercial firm was of course my late father who was the operator, motivator, and determiner. He labored and toiled and did not even once take a risk. Tirelessly and without hesitation he did not only spend a lot of money from the store coffers for public needs, he also
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sent thousands of meters of various fabrics to the confection industries[2] that were in the Jewish labor camps in Novaky, Sered, and Vyhne, without calculation, in order to increase output and provide them work and indirectly prevent their deportation to Poland. With the help of the late Rabbi Frieder, the national rabbi and spiritual guide of the labor camp, my father was able to finance the construction of a mikvah in the Novaky camp according to the demand of the religious families.
My parents, brothers, and I, who acted as agents and representatives of the trading company, demonstrated a full understanding of the needs of the public in times of distress. If in times of pain and suffering of the children of Israel our family was privileged, with the grace of G-d, to manage such a large company and earn such a large profit in times of war, it was our moral obligation according to the Torah to make available to the general public substantial resources in order to help ease the suffering of those in need. It is written “do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand” (Deuteronomy 15:7-8).[3]
In 1941 Gisi Fleischmann said to me “Arno, you are still too young to deal with secret and dangerous matters.” That's when I revealed to her that I was already a father with a son and I had that responsibility placed on me…from that moment I was “one of the gang” along with my late brother-in-law Betzalel Schwartz, and each week I traveled to Bratislava. We discussed a lot together and separately with the main businessmen: Gisi Fleischmann, Rabbi Frieder, Rabbi Weissmandl, Oskar Neumann, W. Winterstein, Kovacs, and Abels, Later I became the “number one” liaison with Peter Starinski, a member of the U.S.B.[4]
The Starinski family lived in an official apartment at the Police Administration building in Bratislava. Jozi Starinski introduced me to the secret police officers and the senior officials as “Junior Girman”[5] and granted me free access to the building. Every visit I presented Peter Starinski with large sums of gold coins. Later on, I did not even need to ask about what was being done or what would be done. He gave me news and information of his own accord, although he surely knew that from there I would pass the report along to the “Working Group” at 6 Adlova St.
Starinski responded to our request to silence and close the Koso-Gisi Fleischmann affair[6] which had terrified and alarmed the Jewish businessmen at the end of 1943. Starinksi helped us in many matters. There was no shortage of problems. I could write a book about these situations. It is worth noting a special and dangerous case regarding the rescue of 25 Jews, residents of Michalovce, a city located not far from Sečovce. These people turned to Pinchas Wintner and, with his good connections to the right person at the right time, rescued them from certain death. There are those who acquire their world to come in a single moment (Avodah Zarah 17a:16).[7] I add and say: after the Holy One, Peter Starinski was the one who helped us the most.
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In 1945 after the war, Bratislava was convinced that the top officials in the government and heads of state: Tiso, Tuka, Mach, Vašek, and Starinski would be given a death sentence. Starinksi requested that the national court invite me as the defense's head eyewitness. On the advice of Rabbi Frieder, Dr. Winterstein, and Dr. Kovacs I traveled to Switzerland so that I would not have to speak in his defense. Starinksi was clever and perceptive. He helped the leaders of the Communist underground that were incarcerated at Ilava prison led by Hosack and his associates. Starinski did not hand them over to the Gestapo, the German secret police, so his sentence was commuted to life in prison.
In the winter of 1944-45 during our stay in Banská Bystrica I lost all of my personal documents. Let me remind you that in the summer of 1944 Anton Vašek,[8] who was sentenced to death and executed, gave me a certification that read: “I certify that the Jew, Ernest Vinter, is allowed to issue permits for the transport of Jews from the east of Slovakia to the west. Purpose of the transport: residential transfer.
According to the instructions of the authorities, the Jews of eastern Slovakia were forced from their cities and moved west. At the outbreak of the Slovak Uprising[9] in late August 1944 in the region of Banská Bystrica, thousands of Jewish refugees were concentrated, mainly in the mountains. After the suppression of the uprising, their situation deteriorated. Hiding in bunkers and cabins the conditions were extremely difficult in the snow, rain, and cold of the mountain winter. Our family provided much help in every way. This work was noted in Oskar Neumann, Rabbi Weissmandl and Rabbi Frieder's books.
In 1946 Rabbi Frieder gave my late wife, Beba, originally Schwartz, a picture painted on silk, depicting “Jews praying on the German front during the First World War in 1914.” When we immigrated to Israel we gifted the historical picture to the Tel-Aviv Museum.
After the war, the Office of the Land of Israel in Prague designated the first certificate to my parents. The letter to my father from the head of the office wrote:
“Although you are not an official member of the Zionist movement, your actions and contribution to the Jewish faith and the building of the state oblige us to grant you a certificate of legal immigration.”
In 1946 I was elected at the convention of the Zionist Organization of Czechoslovakia that convened in Karlsbad[10] to serve as chair of the committee of the Office of the Land of Israel (Palestine Ministry). I note with satisfaction that until 1948 I contributed a lot of both money and time to public work, which was needed to find solutions to the problems of the Jewish community after the Holocaust. The senior leadership of the Jewish faith in the years of the Holocaust that worked underground in a network of
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“work groups” and kept daily logs, mentioned my activities in their books that were published in books after the war (Dr. Oskar Neumann: “In the Shadow of Death,” Rabbi Michael Dov Weissmandel: “From the Depths of Despair,” and Emanuel Frieder in a book about his brother the Rabbi: “To Save Their Souls”).
Translator's Footnotes:
Herr Bauer
Dear readers, you may not have met Mr. Bauer; and if not, you should really regret it. I was his acquaintance and I am happy that I got to know him. In the “Tzetzovitz[1] Yeshiva” I made his acquaintance or rather, I met him in the yeshiva courtyard during the coffee break. Mr. Bauer taught there at the Jewish school, which had a shared courtyard with the Yeshiva and on one unforgettable break when Mr. Baurer was on duty in the courtyard we met one another.
Mr. Isaac Bauer had a long and well-trimmed beard, which attracted my attention to him and was a factor in my interest and a focus of our friendship. The other teachers did not have beards, only Mr. Bauer– that is to say Herr Bauer– as everyone called him. The whole world– from adults to yeshiva students– addressed him by his nickname “Herr Bauer.”
Between the teaching staff of the grade school and the students of the yeshiva there was a very precarious relationship; even though, as I mentioned, they shared a yard. The students of the yeshiva distanced themself from the teachers because they feared that outside knowledge, G-d forbid, might hurt them and damage their souls. But we can say with confidence, that the teachers also did not seek out the company of those aforementioned, not at all.
The teachers were well-educated people, they read the newspapers every day, and spoke Hungarian, not only with students, but also among themselves. For brunch, they ate buns or croissants. They all grew out their hair in beautiful hairstyles. On their feet they wore buttoned brown shoes and on Shabbat afternoon would go out on a walk on the main street with their wives; their hands wrapped elegantly under their wives' arms.
We, the students of the yeshiva, only knew Hungarian in order to write an address on a postcard, on which we informed our mothers and fathers in eloquent Yiddish, that we were, with the grace of G-d, in good health. We hoped to hear the same from them, and for them to send money as soon as possible for an umbrella and a pair of galoshes, because here in the holy community of Tzetzovitz a yeshiva student needs an umbrella and galoshes.
We did not eat brunch with buns and croissants. We settled for a thin slice of bread and for lunch a spoon of sugar. On Thursday we also gave up the spoon of sugar because we ate bean soup for lunch with a lot of sauce, a few beans, and even less fat, and therefore most of it was dumped into the river which flowed by the beit midrash for the pleasure of the fish, who by the sixth month could distinguish between
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Thursday and the rest of the week because on this day they swam next to the window of the beit midrash and waited for the tasty dessert. According to the students who gossiped, the next day they could catch a fish with their bare hands without a net because the bean soup from the previous day gave them a stomach ache. But this was impossible to take seriously, these devilish words were fabricated by the “Vranover,” a student from the town of Vranov,[2] so that the students would hate the soup and leave it for him to then fill his belly until he was satisfied.
If I wanted to continue the story about the art of cooking of the honorable chef, I could remind you of the sweet “Farfel” flakes,[3] that were used to prepare for Shabbat evening. We, the students, stole them, like one grabs the leftovers from the rabbi's table. But, I would now like to tell you about Mr. Bauer.
Herr Bauer also had an outstanding appearance. The other teachers shaved every day and arrived every day to school with clean-shaven faces. But Mr. Bauer, as I mentioned previously, was adorned with a long and beautiful beard. The other teachers wore gray or other colored hats on their heads which were narrow in the shape of a funnel or a boat on top and were bent downwards in the front, like the hat that the baron wore, who lived opposite the Yeshiva. He looked like a nobleman who you would pay deference to. But Herr Bauer, the avdkan,[4] adorned his head with a stiff hat and wore a short coat and black pants with gray stripes.
I also remember Herr Bauer's shoes exactly. He wore black shoes, which in our language we then spoke, “Zug Schihe,”[5] which were sewn in the upper part with flexible rubber fabric; the toe of the shoe was wide, because his feet were sensitive due to calluses on his toes.
I made an effort but did not find out the reason why the rest of the teachers were called in Hungarian “tanító úr”[6] while Mr. Bauer was called “Herr” Bauer. The German word “Herr” was used as such and stuck as his name until there were Hungarian speakers calling him “Herr Bauer úr.”
It's too bad that this generation doesn't already know what a stiff hat is! How can I explain it? It was like the shtreimel[7] of the “enlightened” Ashkenazi Jews! I can't picture Mr. Bauer without a stiff hat , just as I can't picture Rabbi Mendel Gershon without a shtreimel or Rabbi Zalman Adelis without a beaver hat. It seems to me that in that class that he taught, Herr Bauer accepted the boy upon his arrival to the age of Bar Mitzvah together with tefillin, also a stiff hat, without which he couldn't be counted towards a minyan.[8] Similar to how here in Israel the bar mitzvah boy expects to get from family guests an Even-Shoshan Dictionary,[9] a bike, or an electronic gadget. This was how Mr. Bauer shaped his dreams of his first stiff hat as a boy.
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The stiff hat was not a matter of fashion, dress, or in style for a season or two. It was a symbol of something more than that. The stiff hat and the short coat symbolized knowledge, intelligence, and culture. The hat by itself was a headpiece of men of science and spiritual Jews. Jews that wore that stiff hat had a strong faith in pure piety. They got their education at the Pressburg[10] or Frankfurt Yeshivas. This hat testified to the knowledge of Torah, the Talmud, and its interpretations by an Ashkenazi Jewish scholar who prayed and recited Kaddish without “V'yitzameach Purkaneah V'yikrav M'sichah.”[11]
You want to know, dear readers, what Mr. Bauer, the “Israelite”[12] of Tzetzovitz, taught at the grade school? You won't believe what I tell you. Grammar is what he taught, Torah and Hebrew grammar. In those days, no one learned Hebrew grammar. Why? First of all, because there was nobody to teach it. Because those who were studying Torah did not know Hebrew grammar either. And secondly, because there was not a Jewish school in the whole region, only in Tzetzovitz was there a Jewish school and a Hebrew teacher that taught grammar and this was Mr. Bauer, sorry, Herr Bauer.
You must think that Herr Bauer was a Zionist, or an active member of the community, or on the school board. Absolutely nobody[13] knew in those days “what is the nature of this teacher, who is he, and what is he like?” I would be satisfied if Herr Bauer himself knew. But this grammar belonged to the stiff hat, the short coat, and the Jewish culture. The Messiah will also speak the Holy Language according to grammar.
In the beit midrash of the Hasids,[14] they did not know grammar, and also did not wear stiff hats and short coats. But in the great synagogue, there they knew, especially those who sat next to the eastern wall of the synagogue.[15] If they didn't know, they wouldn't dare sit there.
Later I lived at Mr. Bauer's place because when he reached the age of retirement, Mrs. Bauer added to her meager pension a small income from renting part of her apartment, that said, she rented the sofa to a yeshiva student and there in their house I learned to be a Zionist, thanks to the lessons of the Tanakh, grammar, and the Holy Language that he taught to the private students at his home for his livelihood.
Before I got acquainted with the Bauer household I thought that culture only meant the poets Petőfi,[16] Schiller,[17] and Goethe;[18] and the writers Jókai[19] and Thomas Mann[20] and Hungarian and German grammar. Hebrew, I honestly thought, only had Shulchan Aruch,[21] Yoreh De'ah,[22] Amar Abaye,[23] and Amar Rabah.[24] Two of these are from the Tanakh and one Targum,[25] but in my time in Mr. Bauer's private lessons I came to understand that I was wrong. In the Hebrew language there are also long and short vowels, punctuation,
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sentences of all kinds, poetry, and prose; Kalman Schulman[26] and Abraham Mapu.[27] Apart from the “v'ani b'voi mi'padan” and “si'mon v'levi achim.”[28] What seemed to me during my many childhood years complicated, vague, and unclear at once became clear and my eyes were opened from the unknown.
“Mittelman, what is the verb? Conjugate the verb in kal,[29] now nif'al,[30] now in pu'al![31] Stern, decline the noun, enumerate the rules for the definite article, and the conjunction 'and'!” Initially, I glanced at the Mittelman and Stern boys like a fool from the corner of the sofa, but slowly I learned what pu'al, nouns, conjugation, declension, Ibn Ezra, and a stiff hat were…
The following day before prayer I went to the mikvah so that Rabbi Zalman and Rabbi Mendel Gershon would not feel the large change I went through, and after that I recited a chapter of psalms because I feared that studying the kal verb tense could easily lead to frivolity and empty-headedness.
Once I had a serious argument with “Frau” (Mrs.) Bauer over grammar. She felt that instead of studying the engagements in which a wife is betrothed, which was the chapter of Talmud that we learned in yeshiva, I listened more to Herr Bauer's lectures on “kal and nif'al tenses,” and because of this she wanted to raise the apartment rent from five koruna a month to seven. But Herr Bauer was against it, he claimed that he did not deserve payment according to the laws of the Talmud, because the lecture was not directed at me. I absorbed the lecture only from the atmosphere, which is common property. Is it not true that if someone absorbs something from the air, it belongs to them?
I was asked to write in the memorial book of the community of Tzetzovitz. I chose the subject of Herr Bauer. I am pleased to erect to this respected man and for all that generation a memorial tombstone for the stiff hat and short coat which that generation wore.
But why am I resigned to raise from the memories of the yeshiva just one unique figure, one of a kind? Are they not all holy, all pure, those that wore the stiff hat and those that covered themselves in a shtreimel, Ashkenazis and Hasids, cart owners and house owners, the simple man and the intellectual, the wise and skilled student in “Ein Ya'akov,”[32] men and women, those with scarves around their head and those who wore a “shpitzel,”[33] those with a hat and those with a wig. Those that read Sholem Aleichem,[34] Ferenc Molnár,[35] or conversely– the “Tz'enah Ur'ena.”[36]
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May the others forgive me, the hundreds, thousands, that are impossible here to describe individually, and forgive me too Herr Bauer that I did not tell everything about you. How he prayed, how he went to the mikvah on Friday to keep Shabbat, how he sang the psalms, how he studied Torah, how he thought about the Creator of the world.
Translator's Footnotes:
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We Carry the Pain in Our Hearts Throughout Our Lives
In 1938 when the persecution against the Jews began I was a ten-year-old boy, and at that age I still did not understand the magnitude and depth of the disaster of the events which brought about the Holocaust.
My memories up to 1938 were those of an only child who was quite spoiled and rambunctious, who enjoyed a happy childhood being together with friends of his age. In the winter months, ice skating on the frozen waters of the Trnávka River; in the summer, hiking in the close environs; and in the fall, harvesting from nearby vineyards, preparing fruit preserves, jams, etc.
The first attack against the Jews was that we could no longer attend secondary school. The antisemitic decrees were issued little by little, step by step. We returned to the Jewish school wearing a yellow Star of David with a blue stripe decorating its edges (reminiscent of the yellow badge), a prohibition against Jews living on the main street, requirements to hand over valuables to authorities, and restrictions on movement in the evening and at night. These were the laws of the first phase.
Under the guise of raising silkworms, we continued to gather at the “Beitar” club. Most of the youth who were several years older than me tried to leave Sečovce for places that were seen as safer. The deportation of young men and women from age eighteen and finally the deportation of entire families starting in May, which was the second phase of the annihilation of the Jewish community of Sečovce.
My extended family unit lost almost all connection. Most of them were found among the deportees, and some in various hiding places. My parents and I, after a short stay in the nearby town of Michalovce, arrived in Bratislava, but in May 1943 we received a postcard from my uncle Dr. Geller who practiced in Čelovce,[1] who was one of the doctors in the great transport of 1942. The postcard from Majdanek revealed
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hints of the truth about what was happening in the camps. It was clear to us that my aunt– the sister of my father– and her youngest son were no longer alive. More and more news was received that confirmed our fears about the fate of the deportees. During this period, my father worked as a banking specialist at the Slovak Ministry of Finance with more than a few Jews under the protection of a Slovakian Christian, who tried to help as much as he could. In the meantime, my father purchased forged papers which affirmed that he was a descendant of a mixed marriage and so of half “Aryan” race, and that he worked at the Finance Ministry in a different department. I returned to school without identifying my Jewishness and I studied there until October 1944 when studies halted and the whole school, teachers and students alike, were employed in the digging of defensive lines around the city of Bratislava.
One day in October 1944 we were arrested by the secret police. My father presented his papers and, after a number of questions, they decided to release us. I continued work digging until December 20, 1944. On my return home that same day, I found my father at home all restless. My mother was arrested and we had no clue what to do. We had nowhere to go to escape and leave the apartment! In the event of an investigation, if we fled that would heighten suspicion of my mother's status, who claimed she was not Jewish. We were waiting in the evening when they came and arrested my father and me. And we, together with my mother, were taken to the Sereď concentration camp. From there, on January 20, 1945, my mother was sent to a foreign and desolate land[2] with a transport of women, and my father and I were deported to Germany. We never saw my mother again. My father and I arrived during the harsh winter to Sachsenhausen, after which we were transferred to smaller camps in the Berlin area being bombed by British and American planes. We worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day clearing rubble in the center of Berlin, among other streets, on the famous Wilhelmstrasse.
One day we were transferred to a small camp which contained 50 prisoners involved in the work of building living quarters for the families of the S.S. Light aircraft of the Russian Air Force were bombing the whole area. Our physical condition deteriorated due to the poor nutrition and unbearable conditions. They beat us mercilessly. One day I did not work as fast as the S.S.
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officer from the “Totenkopf” battalion[3] wanted. Therefore a young man, around seventeen or eighteen, stood me next to a stone wall and ordered my father to stand next to me. He pointed his weapon towards me and fired a number of warning shots around me to scare me.
Towards the end of April 1945 we were transferred back to Sachsenhausen and at the beginning of May 1945 we left on a hunger march. Anyone who was unable to stand and stopped on the side of the march was shot immediately by the accompanying S.S. Thus we marched in groups of five so my father and his friend could support me. I begged them to leave me to my fate, I couldn't take it anymore. After five days a single potato was distributed to each person under the command of the Sturmbannführer with a weapon in his hand. After a night's stay in a village next to the Wittstock Forest[4] we noticed that the S.S. guards had disappeared and in their place guarding us were old men between the ages of sixty and seventy. One of them waved a banner reading “Wir Alte affen-sind die neue Waffen,”[5] reminiscent of the Führer's announcement that they were developing a miracle weapon to save the Reich. These guards also disappeared one by one. The Canadian Red Cross finally arrived and handed out boxes to every five people. The people tore into the food and diarrhea attacked them and their last strength gave out. My father sat down, opened the box, and gave us food in small portions, thereby saving us.
In the same state, two of my good friends appeared before us; the late Mickey Samet (who was shot by the English trying to swim from a refugee ship to the shores of the Land of Israel) and Alex Weinberger, who brought my father and me cups of hot soup. All of us were broken and beaten, yet still alive.
During the many years after the Holocaust I tried to suppress the memories of these horrors. But as my teenage years passed, my awareness of the disaster and catastrophe for which there is no consolation also grew. We carry the pain in our hearts throughout our lives.
Translator's Footnotes:
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The Struggle of a Girl in the Holocaust Years
Before Passover in April 1942-5702 terrible news reached our ears about the extradition of Jewish girls in the city of Humenné.[1] Those in the know quietly spread by word of mouth that young girls over the age of sixteen would be deported to Polish labor camps.
My late mother, a woman of virtue,[2] who was widowed at the age of thirty-five as a mother of seven children, decided immediately to keep me away from home. I was the youngest child in the family. Love of my mother and my siblings was of the highest importance in my family, as it is commanded to honor thy father and mother, so I suddenly found myself standing at a crossroads. Where shall I go and where shall I flee from the enemies of Israel,[3] lying in wait for us around every corner? Hastily and without much preparation we decided that I must get up in the middle of the night before the sun rose and separate from my mother and family members, who I loved dearly, wander into the unknown and look for a place to hide to save my soul. The separation was very difficult. In order to make it easier on all of us, we made a mutual promise that we would see each other again soon, any day now.
With this hope I had strength in my soul and at midnight I left my loved ones and traveled by train to a safer place. I arrived to a family that agreed to hide me for a few days. The fear of the Guardists[4] was immense. I was shoved into a loft with a low ceiling where I could only lie down. After several rearrangements I found a hiding place with a Christian family for a fee. When the money ran out at the end of the month they transferred me to a pigsty which was in the courtyard of the house, where they hid me on the condition that I would not betray the homeowners if I was caught. The most horrific thing about this humiliating “hostel” was the fact that near it passed the train and the sounds of the screams and cries that were heard from the cars, which shook me to the core. Fear, anxiety, and loneliness were my portion; grief and affliction my lot.
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The family deportations started. I lost contact with my mother and did not hear anything about her. In exchange for my remaining belongings I was allowed to return inside the house. In the meantime, I learned that my brother Bela (Vojtech) had joined the partisans fighting underground and my brother Josef was caught and deported to a concentration camp. Sad news which did nothing to cheer me up.
Later, I had the opportunity to join a group of men that planned to cross the border to Hungary by way of Karpatorus.[5] In the night we entered the thick forest. The trails were difficult to pass because we were searching for winding back roads in order to avoid meeting unwanted figures. The nights were rainy, the ground muddy, and the walk treacherous. From time to time we separated and then came back together again. We walked day and night until we reached the border. Here we separated according to the group members' decision.
When I reached the first Hungarian city of Ungvar (Uzhhorod) I was tired, broken, and in a bad state. Lonely and sad, I walked the streets of the capital, wearing only a wet garment on my body and shoes heavy with mud which I could hardly pick up off the ground, and therefore I had to start a new life in the middle of war and dread. I felt like I had lost my humanity. I realized that if I didn't pull myself together I would not survive. I saved my remaining strength and started to search for a roof over my head and sustenance.
On the Jewish street a heavy atmosphere prevailed. Rumor spread by word of mouth that the Hungarian government planned to deport the Jews. Surely, the many refugees from Slovakia would be the first. I decided to get out of the border region and travel to Budapest. I found shelter at an old couple's place for a night and they advised me to contact the Office of the Zionist Movement–apparently good advice. I was without any ID card or other official documentation, and of course without money in my pocket. Maybe from here salvation would come! But to my great disappointment, the clerk to whom I was directed turned me away very aggressively, saying that they did not handle refugees from Slovakia and that it was a danger for them because it was against the law.
And again there was no advice, no resources, and nowhere to go. I started to wander again from place to place in search of work and a roof over my head. Soon I came to the conclusion that I could not manage without an ID card. And indeed, with no small effort, I succeeded in obtaining a fake birth certificate in exchange for a watch that I had in my possession. That's how my road to the Bureau of Jewish Labor was paved and I got a job as a nanny. Every place I remained until my identity was uncovered. They were afraid of employing a refugee from Slovakia in their house. Without a choice, I frequently changed my place of employment and I worked there until suspicion arose.
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At the end of 1943 I found a family that knew my identity and hired me until the Germans entered Budapest in March 1944. At that time I was almost caught in the trap of a German spy who posed as a language teacher who used to come and go from the house where I worked. When the Germans entered Budapest the “cat was out of the bag,” and his true identity was revealed: a German detective and spy in service of the Gestapo to be careful of. This sly agent kindly promised to transfer young refugees to Yugoslavia, but instead the Germans transferred them to Auschwitz.
I immediately switched apartments. I changed my appearance and hung a cross around my neck. Who could say I was not a Hungarian Christian? This was not a rhetorical question, but a determined decision which reinforced my awareness that this was the right way to save my soul and survive in this new reality. I was now a Hungarian Christian. But I felt an inner tension all the time. A storm of fear frequently came over me, lest I fall victim to an informant; and my change in identity also confused me. It was frequently hard for me to recognize myself with a new name: Anna, Rozsi, or Piroska. Sometimes I became another girl, deaf and mute, in order to hide my embarrassment.
When Budapest was bombed non-stop, a general evacuation of the residents or descent into shelters began. At this time I lived in Buda,[6] and in December 1944 I descended together with the hostel owners into a shelter shared with the residents of the house and they introduced me to a devout Christian girl named Piroska. I prayed and crossed myself outwardly, but in my heart I uttered a silent prayer: Hear O Israel, hear our voice, spare us and have mercy on us, grant us quick redemption in our days.
On the streets of Buda they fought stubbornly from house to house, Pest had already fallen into the hands of the Russians. The days were February 1945. It was impossible to leave the bunker, even to peek out and see the white snow. When we finally came out from the darkness to the light it was very hard to adjust to the sunlight after a two month stay in the dark shelter.
With the Red Army's liberation of Budapest I left the underground for another world, a world that had to be renewed. The terrible war caused much destruction. The houses that were destroyed would be rebuilt, but who would rebuild the households? The Jewish families that were destroyed, that were annihilated?
I spent three difficult years evading, dodging, and fleeing–and this is not an exaggeration–in almost constant fear of death. Fear in the night and terror during the day; disturbing thoughts about the fate of my relatives and loved ones caused me distress and did not leave me even now after this bleak liberation from the straits of captivity.[7] Now I was afraid of
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the truth, of the bad news that reached my ears: millions of our people were exterminated in the Holocaust. Among them my two brothers Michael (Miklós) and Yisrael (Zoli), who perished in Lublin, their souls resting in Eden.
I returned home anxiously. The meeting with my dear mother, the widow who had now also lost her children, was difficult and carried mixed emotions. The joy was mixed with sorrow and tears for the loss of her sons. Tears flowed from our eyes, as it says in the piyyut: “And each eye flowed with tears, and all joy was turned to mourning.”[8]
Indeed I escaped from trouble. I was lucky, and with the grace of G-d I was not caught and deported to a foreign and desolate land,[9] to the death camps. But my family, with the death of my brothers and relatives, paid a heavy price during the cruel war, which the Nazi forces[10] ignited in Europe, slaughtering six million Jews. I cry for them. May G-d avenge their blood.
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| Zoli Friedman | Miklós Friedman |
Translator's Footnotes:
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