Stolen
Childhood
The Germans stole my childhood. That's
something I can't get back. I was born on April 25, 1929. I had a brother. My
father was a jeweler. And my mother was a stay-at-home [mom]. My mother was a
fantastic piano player. And she spoke four languages: Hungarian, German,
English, and French. Four languages.
When I was five years old more or less, I went
to a Jewish kindergarten. And when I was six, I started first grade in that
same school. My brother was in high school already.
He was something--and I'm not just saying this
because he's my brother--but he was something special. He was so smart. First
of all, he could repair anything. One time my father brought home three
watches. He repaired them! He never saw how to do it, but he repaired them.
We vacationed in Poland. Summer vacations to
the mountains or to Hungary. But everything finished in March '38, when Vienna
was occupied by the Germans. And the Austrians were not much better than the
Germans. In a way, they received them with open arms.
Right away, they took Jews to clean the
streets. And my mother was one of them. She had to be on her knees and scrub,
scrub the Austrian sign that was painted on the streets. And the worst part was
that a little boy was standing there by her and he said, "Now, you dirty
Jew, now you have paid." And when my mother came home, she had a nervous
breakdown. Screaming and screaming. That's when it really started.
A Darkening
Austria
In the beginning, I was in a Jewish school, so
I didn't really see anything. But they put signs on Jewish stores saying that
non-Jews shouldn't buy from there. Certain stores were closed down already.
Just taken away.
At 7 in the morning on the tenth of November,
we heard a lot of noise in the floor below. So my father got dressed right away
and then [soldiers] came up to our apartment and the super came with them. And
obviously he liked us because he told them, "There are no Jews living here"
but they didn't believe him, so they knocked on the door. My brother came to
the door because he had been listening, so he opened the door. And they came in
and went into the dining room. My father was dressed and they started beating
him up.
My mother was on her knees in
the bedroom praying and we were each on one side of her crying. She was crying
also. When they left, they told my father, "Go down to the truck." He
went down, but instead of going out to the street, he went to the left side
down to the coal cellar. In those times we had stoves that we had to heat with
coal.
He stayed there in that cellar for one month.
He was afraid to go up because there were no more men in our house. They were
all sent to Dachau. It was a concentration camp, but not like the others. It
was [from] before the war, really. And my mother, she would go down and come
back with a pail of coal. But at 10 o'clock in the evening, you don't go down
for coal.
I suppose she brought food for my father
because otherwise he would have starved there. It was cold down there, so I'm
sure she brought him clothing. But I didn't see it. In the evenings, we went to
bed very early, my brother and I. I had to be in bed at 8 o'clock the latest.
After we were asleep, that's when she went down. I went to see my father there
also. I didn't bring down anything, but I went down to see him. We talked, you
know. I was very close to my father. I would tell him about my school and
friends. I didn't stay for hours and hours, but I visited him.
There was a little temple in our building.
Naturally, when the Hitler Youth came into the temple, they had every evening
singing and we had to listen to it. But they never saw my mother going up and
down. They were too busy with themselves. There was no suspicion.
In those times, they didn't say anything to
children. Just play with your dolls and do your homework. And that was that. I
didn't know anything. I was just nine years old. I don't know what I felt, to
tell you the truth. I know I was afraid. Everyone was afraid.
The
First Escape
My father was--he went out on Christmas night,
the 24th of December. Because he figured everyone would be drunk and at home.
And my uncle and my aunt went with him. My mother's brother, Max, and his wife,
Gertie. The three of them went to Germany and from Germany to the Belgian
border because my father had a cousin in Antwerp. And the guy sent a car for
him. My uncle and aunt smuggled themselves from the border to Antwerp, too. I
know my father started working there. I don't know what he did, but it was some
business related to diamonds.
And we went with a kinder transport. Kinder
means children. Kinder transport through Germany to Cologne to Antwerp. There
were about ten children. I went with my brother. The whole transport was maybe
15 children. I know we were in a train from Vienna to Germany. And in Germany
there were another few children who boarded as part of the same transport. I
have no idea who organized the transport. I didn't know anything because there
were no televisions and I never listened to the radio. I just did my homework
and played with my grandmother. Everything was new to me. I'm sure my mother
arranged it and since my father was in Belgium, he signed the warranty
guaranteeing someone would be able to take us in. All of us had to be
guaranteed.
I was crying the whole time we were in the
train compartment. But we heard singing from a group of young people going to
Israel. My brother took me to that other compartment and there was one girl
telling me not to cry. And in the meantime, I enjoyed the singing, but then I
went back to my compartment to be with my brother. He is more important than
singing. And when we arrived in Antwerp, we spent a day in an orphanage until
the people who wanted to take me in came to pick me up. And then I was with
them from February until the end of August. Seven months. Seven months with a
Belgian family.
My mother was still in Vienna. She stayed to
liquidate everything and prove we didn't owe anything to the government.
Everything was lies. Lies and lies.
So finally in August, [my mother] was finished
with [the liquidation] and she and her mother, my grandmother, smuggled themselves
from Vienna to Germany. From Germany to Holland, they had to walk through the
woods. [pauses] And then they had a car that took them from the border into
Belgium. There were six or seven people in the car. And one of the soldiers
from the border shouted "Stop!" but the driver was a smuggler. He
didn't want to stop. So he continued driving and the soldier shot at the car,
but instead of hitting one of the wheels, the bullet went into the car and my
mother got it. So she died in her mother's arms.
When I saw my grandmother, [she] told me that
my mother was dead. So naturally I started crying. And they had to call the
police. They took out the bullet. I have the bullet at home. And then she was
buried in Antwerp. And that was in August '39.
I could live with my father in the same house
because he had one room, so there was space for me too. I was sleeping with my
father and my brother had a bed that folded out. And my grandmother came
everyday to cook and do laundry. But in the evening, she went back to her
son--my uncle and my aunt--and she stayed with them every morning. My uncle
lived just a few doors down and my grandmother had a tiny, tiny room there. My
grandmother was a very heartfelt person and helped because there was no woman
in that apartment. I would've made a monument for her if I could.
War
On the tenth of May, the war broke out. All men
from 16 up with German and Austrian nationality had to go to a certain place.
My brother and I went with my father, but we thought, they have to register and
that's it. To see if they are spies or whatever. And then in the evening, he'll
be back. But he did not come back. Belgium didn't have room to have camps for
that many people, so they sent everyone to the south of France. Then we found
out that my uncle and my father are in the barracks of that camp. They were
sent by train and I'm sure they didn't know what would happen to them.
My aunt found out they were in the south of
France somehow. They were there nearly a year. Most of them left afterwards. My
uncle came back from south of France to Antwerp. But my father remained there
and rented a room. He sent us papers, but the Germans didn't let my brother and
I out of Germany. My father had taken with him some gold pieces--maybe he knew
something was not kosher--so he could rent a room with that money. I don't know
what work he did in the south of France, but he did speak French, so that
must've helped.
Jews and non-Jews wanted to escape the Germans.
We tried to escape to the seashore, thinking that maybe we can get a boat to
England. Naturally, we were walking. It was more or less 40 kilometers--I don't
know how much that is in miles.
There were a few hundred people on the road. On
the way we stopped to rest in barns with horses and cows. They weren't sleeping
right next to us, but close by. We were there three weeks because we were
walking all that way. The villagers also gave us food. Not just to us, but to
whoever asked for it.
We wanted to get to France, to be with the men. So we went to the French border and there were English soldiers and one of them was a Jew. And that soldier told us, "The Germans are in Paris already." So we knew that we could not get to the south of France. So we walked around and went to the seashore like all the other Belgians. And when we arrived there, the last ship to England had left. So we knew, that's it. We have to return.
During our walk [back], there were German
trucks and they started to be nice. They probably knew that no one liked
them--not the Jews, but not the non-Jews either. They said, "Come on the
truck and we'll take you wherever you have to go." There were religious
Jews also and they took the religious Jews also. So we came back to Antwerp.
Herded
to Zelem
At that time it was '41. In November, while my
uncle was working in Brussels, we got papers that we had to be at the train
station at so-and-so time and we can take a suitcase with us. So, okay, we
went. My uncle Max volunteered because he didn't want his mother to go with two
children. Max and Gertie went with us [instead]. We had to be at the train
station at noon. And we were allowed to take 20 kilos in a suitcase. And the
train was pretty full. We had no idea where the train was going. We got to the
German-Belgian border. And the train stopped there, but we didn't know what was
going to happen. We were stranded there a whole day. Nobody knew where we were
going or what was happening. At around 10 o'clock at night, the train started
going back into Belgium. In each village, they deposited so-and-so many Jews,
which the village could absorb, so to speak. There were quite a few stops
before us. But we didn't see how many people got off at each stop because it
was so dark out. [My brother and I] went to a village with the name of Zelem.
And that was at 11 o'clock at night. We had a member of that village waiting at
the train station and crowd of people showed up because they had never seen a
Jew before and thought we had horns.
I think that when we went by train to the
border, they wanted to send us to Poland, but the concentration camps were not
ready yet. It was too early. It was 1940. So then from January until April, we
were in Zelem.
We had a big bag of jewelry from my mother,
from the shop of my father. Gold pieces. And I had some savings, which I got
for my birthday and holidays. And my brother had savings, the same kind. So we
took the savings, put them together, and like that we paid the rent.
Max and my brother went to see how we could
leave. They went to Brussels. My brother had a friend from school there, in
Brussels, who found us a room with a big kitchen and a bathroom. So my brother
picked us up from Zelem and we went to live there. This was April, after four
and a half months. We had to go to Brussels, not Antwerp anymore, because the
Germans wanted all of us in one place.
In a way, we lived in peace. In Antwerp I had
gone to a Jewish school and then I went to the convent [in Zelem], but in
Brussels I went to a regular school. A government school, so to speak. There I
started learning Flemish. My teacher was fantastic. Afterwards, it became dangerous to go to
school. But I still visited my teacher because she was very friendly and we bonded.
She told me a few times that she could hide me in a convent. And I said,
"Thank you very much, but no. I cannot leave my grandmother." And she
answered, "Whatever will happen to her will happen to you. You can't save
her." And I said, "I don't mind. Whatever will happen to me will
happen and that's that."
If she
would be killed, then we would be killed together. I was not afraid. I don't
know why. We didn't know what happened after Jews got deported, but we knew
they didn't come home. Even when the bomb sirens went off, I didn't go to the
shelter. I was on the third floor and figured whatever will happen, will
happen. I wasn't tired, I just had suffered too much already. I didn't really
care about the future even though I was very young. I became indifferent. My
grandmother didn't feel the same way, but she wouldn't go down to the bomb
shelter if I didn't go. Working with my uncle in his coat shop helped with the
waiting.
Jewish
Targeting
In June, we had to pick up the yellow star from
the Jewish Community Center. And we had to put it on our clothing. At the
beginning, we went out with the star and I was very proud. I was proud to be a
Jew! I was proud to have a star. But it was too dangerous, we started hiding
the star with our arm, or a book, or something. Finally we took it off our
clothing because it was useless. We didn't want to show it. That was in July.
Towards the end of August, my brother received
a paper from the Jewish Committee, they brought it--I suppose they had to--that
said he needed to go to the train station in 24 hours and if he's not there,
his family will be taken. And he said, "I'm young, I can work." They
sent him and everyone else who got those same papers, to Maylin. That's between
Antwerp and Brussels. And at the end of August, they sent them on a train
towards Poland. Well, they didn't know where they were going, but when they
came to the German border, my brother threw out three letters from the train.
In German. But on the other side, he wrote in Flemish, "Please, whoever finds
these letters, please send it to my little sister. She will pay the
postage."
And we got the letter with a stamp on it. They
just sent it to us. And in the letter, he wrote, "In Maylin, they are
treating us well. And on the train, they went with a private train." Not
in a box car. A regular train. That's what he wrote. And that's how they
transported them. Anyway, that was the second letter. And he wrote that whoever
gets the same letter he got should take a lot of food because they will take
away half of it and then leave some for them. And they took away his fountain
pen, his harmonica, and whatever money he brought. But they treated him rather
normally. The third letter was a short one because he didn't have much paper.
And it said, "We are in--I don't remember now the name of the town--and we
are going to Poland." We didn't know anything, but we knew one thing: if
you get to Poland, you don't come home alive. That's it. How we knew that, I
don't know. It was a rumor. But it was not a rumor, it was the truth. And that
was it. We didn't hear from him anymore.
In the
meantime, Max came back to Belgium, he smuggled himself through Paris and then
to Brussels. My father remained in the south of France. He rented a room and
sent us papers. My father didn't want to come back to the Germans, even though
that's where his children were.
My
brother and I would write to my father in France, but mostly my brother wrote.
I would add a few lines. I had to write the whole letter by myself to tell my
father what had happened to my brother. He had to know.
All of
my father's running and hiding didn't even matter in the end because someone
denounced him, so he went to a German concentration camp, Blechhammer. I had
never heard the name before.
[In Brussels] I started working. The daughter
of my boss had also been deported, but she came back and was in the store with
me. A friend of hers came to visit. And I said that my brother had also been
deported and asked her, "Do you know something about him?" And she
asked, "When was he deported?" And I said the date. And she said,
"Don't have any hope. That was the first transport from Belgium and they
went straight to the gas." And she was in the second transport, that's how
she knew it. So I knew he was not going to come back.
Close
Calls
Life was
scary. When you saw a car with a license plate of the Gestapo, your heart fell
into your pants. But once when I was out shopping for food, I saw a car across
the street from where we lived. I was so afraid to go into our house. There was
a Jew who collaborated with the Germans. His name was Jacques. And he
recognized Jews by the way they were walking, don't ask me how. So I didn't
want to even walk near the car in case they caught me.
The Germans took whatever was in that package
of jewelry that my mother had. It was hidden above the shop where Max was
working. Since I couldn't go to school, he would take me along to the shop. I
was thirteen years old, what else would I do? So I learned how to sew on a
sewing machine. Gertie told a girlfriend where the jewelry was. She knew that
girlfriend from when they were children together in Vienna and they were
together in Brussels also. When they [the Germans] came to the front of the
store, they said, "You have Jewish fortune hidden and if you're not going
to tell us where it is, you will not see your children anymore." And to
tell you the truth, I don't think I would have acted differently from her. If
you're told you'll never see your children again. Jewelry stolen, but children
are children. I understand that. At that time, I didn't, but now I do.
When Germans took away the jewelry, they sent a
letter for my grandmother to go to the Gestapo to confirm that it was hers. So
the boss where I worked, he went with my grandmother and he said goodbye to her
because once you went there to the Gestapo, you didn't come out anymore. So you
can imagine how I felt saying goodbye to my grandmother. And they asked her,
"Why didn't you declare it before?" And she said, "It's not
mine, it's my grandson's." And he had been deported already, so it didn't
matter what she said. So she came back out. It was like--how can I tell you--a
miracle. They sent us a letter from the Gestapo, that the fortune from us went
to the benefit of the German country. I still have that letter.
My next door neighbor had a son who worked for
the underground. The Gestapo came to our door and I answered it. They asked
where François was and I said, he's not here now and I don't know where he
went. His mother is at church, so you can always ask her if you want. And like
I said, my Flemish was very good. Like a native. So the Gestapo just left. And
I went back upstairs and my grandmother was trembling. But they came back for
him--he was caught and was put in jail. He sent a postcard asking his mother
for clothes, food. And one day in '43, my girlfriend, Lisa, went down and she opened the door.
"Where's François?" they said. "Not here," she said.
"Prove it." So they went up to the apartment next to our apartment.
Lisa, my friend, took out every drawer from the kitchen and threw it on the
floor until she found that postcard. And when they read the postcard, they saw
that it's true. So they left. But until then, can you imagine? My grandmother and
I heard every word. We always had a suitcase packed, just in case. So that
night we took out the suitcase, ready to be caught, and we waited. And that
fear--I can't explain it. I thought, that's the end. Because if the Germans
wanted to search for somebody, they go room by room, roof to cellar. But in the
end, they left. And I always say, I was saved by a postcard.
We were liberated when I was 14, in '43.
Remembering
The years go by and you can't forget. You can't
think about it constantly. But it's there still. You never, ever forget.
Sometimes this detail you remember, sometimes another. But very seldom do you
remember everything at once because it's too much to remember. Some nights I
dream about my brother. I dream much more often about him than my parents.
Don't ask me why, that's just how it is. I don't remember the dreams, just whom
I dream about. I just see people. I never remember the dreams.