The day before 23rd August [10], not knowing what would happen, we reported for work. Those who had to go to Grivitei Ave. had to gather under the command of a lieutenant. We came where we were supposed to, but the lieutenant didn't show up. We left home. The next day, there was the radio announcement. After 23rd August, the Soviet troops entered Bucharest. I was very glad we had got rid of that misery.
- Traditions 11756
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Major events (political and historical)
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Holocaust
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Displaying 7171 - 7200 of 50826 results
Aristide Streja
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For us, the Soviet troops were our liberators. We were enthusiastic about Communism. This is why I applied to become a member of the Party. However, I didn't join in 1944, but in 1947 or 1948.
I did forced labor in three or four locations: the Cotroceni shooting range, the Central Statistics Institute, the North Railway Station (clearing the snow off the tracks), and Grivitei Ave. At Cotroceni they were building a shooting range for the army. They dug ditches and piled up all the dirt so as to form a hill. We had to dig the ditches, carry the dirt in a wheelbarrow, unload it on the hill and tread on it. They were going to shoot from ditches about 200 meters long and bullets were supposed to stop against that hill. We did nothing but digging and pushing the wheelbarrow all day long, from morning till evening. I remember it rained sometimes and we were all covered in mud. We did that for months and months. I actually think I spent one year by those ditches. All day long, I was half-buried in ditches and mud. Going back home in the evening was bliss. It was a pleasure to walk the city streets, away from the mud, and to see houses instead of ditches.
There was a decent lieutenant in those forced labor detachments. He stood on higher ground and supervised the lines of people who went up the hill. His job was to watch over all the ditches and make sure people were working properly. He was a sort of general supervisor of the entire site. A warrant officer was in charge of each ditch. They called the men on their list every morning. We had to be there at 7 a.m. We worked 12 hours, till 7 p.m. In the evening, the list was read once again, and we were free to go home. The lieutenant stood up there and looked at everything - how the wheelbarrows ran, how the digging went. He paid attention to all those ditches and made sure we were not wasting working time. We had a quota to complete. One time, the colonel who was in charge of the entire detachment gathered us, had us sit down, told us that those who would fail to complete their quota would be shot, and urged us to make sure we did our duty. So it was the wheelbarrow and the shovel for us.
My friend, Boris Grimberg, was there too. We were to become fellow- students. He was with the Communist youth - I wasn't yet. He listened to the Russian or English radio, although we weren't allowed to listen to the radio, and he gave me the news. I knew from him what the situation on the front was. We were very interested in the development of the war because we knew that, if Germany won, we would have been in great trouble. The Russian victory on the Eastern front, at Stalingrad, made us happy.
Then I did forced labor at the Central Statistics Institute, for the drawing and typing department. I wasn't paid, so my father supported me - I don't know how he got the money. In the winter of 1943-1944, I was assigned to the North Station to clear the snow off the railway tracks. I spent the winter working there, muffling myself up. I had to work in the open air all day, in bitter cold, snow and dampness. Afterwards, in 1944, when Bucharest was bombed - especially the tracks of the North Station and Grivitei Ave. -, we were sent to remove the debris. Some houses were hit and we were assigned to dig out the possessions of those whose houses had crumbled. Everyone wanted to save some piece of furniture or some eiderdown or something. It was a disaster. We would dig out things and load the bricks and debris into trucks in order to free the streets. Before the bombings, the air raid alarms would be sounded. We would flee Grivitei Ave. and go towards the center of the city, to seek shelter in some basement. When the alarm was off, we went back. This is what we did until the Soviet troops entered the city.
There was a decent lieutenant in those forced labor detachments. He stood on higher ground and supervised the lines of people who went up the hill. His job was to watch over all the ditches and make sure people were working properly. He was a sort of general supervisor of the entire site. A warrant officer was in charge of each ditch. They called the men on their list every morning. We had to be there at 7 a.m. We worked 12 hours, till 7 p.m. In the evening, the list was read once again, and we were free to go home. The lieutenant stood up there and looked at everything - how the wheelbarrows ran, how the digging went. He paid attention to all those ditches and made sure we were not wasting working time. We had a quota to complete. One time, the colonel who was in charge of the entire detachment gathered us, had us sit down, told us that those who would fail to complete their quota would be shot, and urged us to make sure we did our duty. So it was the wheelbarrow and the shovel for us.
My friend, Boris Grimberg, was there too. We were to become fellow- students. He was with the Communist youth - I wasn't yet. He listened to the Russian or English radio, although we weren't allowed to listen to the radio, and he gave me the news. I knew from him what the situation on the front was. We were very interested in the development of the war because we knew that, if Germany won, we would have been in great trouble. The Russian victory on the Eastern front, at Stalingrad, made us happy.
Then I did forced labor at the Central Statistics Institute, for the drawing and typing department. I wasn't paid, so my father supported me - I don't know how he got the money. In the winter of 1943-1944, I was assigned to the North Station to clear the snow off the railway tracks. I spent the winter working there, muffling myself up. I had to work in the open air all day, in bitter cold, snow and dampness. Afterwards, in 1944, when Bucharest was bombed - especially the tracks of the North Station and Grivitei Ave. -, we were sent to remove the debris. Some houses were hit and we were assigned to dig out the possessions of those whose houses had crumbled. Everyone wanted to save some piece of furniture or some eiderdown or something. It was a disaster. We would dig out things and load the bricks and debris into trucks in order to free the streets. Before the bombings, the air raid alarms would be sounded. We would flee Grivitei Ave. and go towards the center of the city, to seek shelter in some basement. When the alarm was off, we went back. This is what we did until the Soviet troops entered the city.
During the [legionary] rebellion [9], in 1941, a friend of mine was arrested. We lived in a place that had a courtyard surrounded by apartments. We were on very good terms with our neighbors. When the rebellion came, they didn't go to report us for being Jews. I don't know how many of them are still alive. We soon had new neighbors. We were evicted [by the military] from the house on Legislator St. and we rented an attic on Labirint St. We lived in an attic for a while. We had two rooms and a kitchen below. Jews were being persecuted. Jewish physicians were banned from hospitals and all the institutions. They were only allowed to attend to Jewish patients and so on and so forth.
My parents had a lot to suffer during the Holocaust [because of the anti- Jewish laws in Romania] [8]. My father owned a store, a small business on Selari St. When the 'Romanianization' came, he was kicked out and an administrator was appointed. He wasn't allowed to do trade anymore and was left with no means of earning his existence. I can say that I owe a lot to him. He proved to be very resourceful, despite his not being skilled for any other occupation. He had been a tradesman all his life, and they took that away from him. I couldn't say how we survived during that period. Everybody was unemployed.
One of the few things I was allowed to do was ride the bicycle. I learnt to swim and I went to swimming pools when I grew older. I usually went to the Bucharest Hippodrome with my sister-in-law. Quality people came to the horse races. Those were people with a very good material situation, since they owned race horses. But there were also people who came to bet and who belonged to the lower and middle classes. There was an entrance fee. Betting was pretty complicated, because one had to carefully consider the chances of winning of a certain horse. One had to buy the program and study what was happening there in order to place a good bet. It wasn't like a lottery ticket that you just buy. The game was only for people who knew what it was about.
Romania
We enjoyed going to the cinema. We did it on Sunday. There were two films. I went through an adventure when in high school. Back then, students weren't allowed to go to the theater, to the cinema, or to any performance that wasn't approved by the high school. We had to wear our uniforms, and they had numbers on them, so we could get reported at any time. The cinema was safe, because it was dark and no one could see us. But we once went to the Tanase Theater. I had a friend who knew someone there, an actor. That guy got us in through the actors' entrance. We weren't allowed to go there because they staged variety shows which featured women who weren't far from being naked. From the actors' entrance, we had to get to the stage, pull the curtain a little, and climb down some stairs into the orchestra. When we entered the stage, we saw a naked woman (I mean, she only had her panties on). We couldn't believe our eyes at first, and then we got scared: if someone spotted us, we would be expelled from school. We sat in the first row. I looked behind me and I noticed that anyone in the orchestra and the circle could see us. So I stood up and went in the last row, under the circle, to avoid being seen. And I watched the rest of the performance in fear.
I also had Romanian friends. One of them was Vasilescu. We parted when I had to leave the high school and he stayed for two more years. We never met again. Then there was this other friend, Aurel Zlota, one year younger than I was. He went to the Matei Basarab High School too. We became friends in the 1st year of high school - or maybe even earlier, in elementary school. We stayed friends until a couple of years ago, when he passed away. For 60-70 years, he was my best friend. He was besides me when I was courting my future wife. And I was the one who introduced him to his future wife, in my turn. I wasn't really a matchmaker, but I did advise him to get married. We were like brothers. When I was in high school, my family moved on Udricani St. Aurel lived opposite from us. I also made friends with two brothers on Udricani St., where we lived. In 1939-1940, they lived in a typical building for that time: the business was at the ground floor (a pub) and the dwelling space upstairs. I sometimes played backgammon with them. But my friendship with Aurel Zlota was the real thing. We went to dance with the girls together.
Romania
Here are some of the friends I can remember. Schwartzman was the son of the man who conducted the choir of the temple in Bucharest. He was a renowned musician in our city and his boy was my schoolmate. Bercu Grimberg, nicknamed Boris, was also my fellow-student at the University. We became friends in high school and even went to forced labor together.
Hana Gasic
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Both of my parents came from traditional Sarajevo families, and like many of those families they were from modest financial backgrounds. When my mother's siblings married non-Jews, it was not as devastating as it might have been had they had more money. When you are poor, you take what you can get, and many non-Jews did not look for dowries.
My parents met in the Jewish community, either in La Benevolencija or Matatija, two social clubs. They socialized and courted for five or six years before they married. When they did marry, in 1939, they had both civil and Jewish ceremonies.
My parents met in the Jewish community, either in La Benevolencija or Matatija, two social clubs. They socialized and courted for five or six years before they married. When they did marry, in 1939, they had both civil and Jewish ceremonies.
Two of my mother's sisters were killed during the war. My mother never found a definitive record of where and when, but she was convinced that they had been killed at Djakovo or Nova Gradiska, two concentration camps (editor's note: run the Croatian Ustashe). Her other two sisters survived because they had married non-Jews before the war. He sister Ela married a Catholic man named Zvonko Gjebic. She converted and changed her name to Jela. Despite her name change, my mother and the rest of us always called her sister Aunt Ela. They lived in Uzice, Serbia, where Zvonko worked in the Foma ammunition factory. They had two children, Anton and Zorica, who live in Kragujevac, Serbia. My mother's other sister, Rivka, married a Jew before the war, and had a daughter, Rahela. But her husband died, and she got married again before the war, this time to a Muslim man named Karahasanovic. They had two children, Zlata and Ahmed. Mr. Karahasanovic died while cleaning his rifle during the war, and Ahmed, born in 1943, never saw his father.
My mother, Flora Montiljo (nee Kohen), was born in Sarajevo on December 31, 1913. Her parents were Klara and Rafael Kohen. She had four sisters and a brother. My Nona Klara died when my mother was just thirteen, and after that, my mother's brother took over as the central figure in the family. My grandfather had a butcher shop in Sarajevo, and when he died my mother's brother took it over. I am not sure if it was strictly kosher, but it is unlikely that they sold pork and other non-kosher meat. Whether the meat was slaughtered by a shochet (ritual slaughter) and kashered (made kosher) as is proscribed, I cannot say. At that time, Sarajevo was heavily influenced by its Muslim population, and therefore it was difficult to find pork in the town.
My father Menahem (Miki) Montiljo "Hasid" died on April 25, 1981 in the hospital in Sarajevo. His funeral was conducted by Rabbi Cadik Danon, who came from Belgrade to perform it. After the funeral my mother had us buy a grave next to my father's, as she knew that she would not be able to live long without her beloved Miki. My mother covered the mirrors in our apartment after my father's death and a month afterwards, she arranged a limud (learning session) for my father in the Jewish community. My mother, Flora Montiljo, died in October, 1981, and was buried next to my father.
Some things have a way of coming full circle. My father's family, the Montiljos, were known as Montiljo Hahasid, a term of respect bestowed on those Sephardic families who were especially religious. My parents clung to remnants of this during their lives, and now my children have rekindled this tradition. My daughter, Tamara, has chosen to live in Israel, and my son, Dejan, is an observant Jew living in Belgrade. Today, Dejan bears his grandfather's name, Menahem, and continues in the tradition of the Montiljo "Hasids.
Some things have a way of coming full circle. My father's family, the Montiljos, were known as Montiljo Hahasid, a term of respect bestowed on those Sephardic families who were especially religious. My parents clung to remnants of this during their lives, and now my children have rekindled this tradition. My daughter, Tamara, has chosen to live in Israel, and my son, Dejan, is an observant Jew living in Belgrade. Today, Dejan bears his grandfather's name, Menahem, and continues in the tradition of the Montiljo "Hasids.
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After WW2
See text in interview
My parents took us to the seaside each year and they sent us to the Jewish summer camps as well. When we were older they sent us on excursions. It was on one such excursion that I met my future husband, Miroslav Gasic. The excursion, run by the Ferijalni Savez travel organization, was to a youth campground near Dubrovnik. The next year Miroslav and I met again at a campground near Makarska. After that we lost touch until my brother started university in Belgrade. Since he and Miroslav both studied at the same faculty, I put them in touch and instructed my brother to do what he could to help push things along in our relationship. Rafo proved a good intermediary, and we were married in Sarajevo and honeymooned in Dubrovnik, this time in a hotel, not a campground.
After the war, children of my generation did not have bar or bat mitzvahs. The youth groups organized some sort of activities or presentations for Yom Haatzmaut (Israeli Independence Day), but I cannot recall the exact nature of those celebrations. Without fail, every year my parents attended the memorial services in Djakovo and Nova Gradiska. Although Jews came from all over the former Yugoslavia, the Sarajevo Jewish community was the true organizer of these memorial services. The women in the Sarajevo community prepared hundreds of lokumikus and enhaminados and brought slivovica (plum brandy) for everyone afterwards.
Bosnia & Herzegovina
Purim was also eagerly celebrated in our family. For this holiday we would have a big family meal with extended family members, though after my uncles left for Israel the family was considerably smaller. My mother would prepare special pastelikus (little meat pies) which, unlike normal pasteles (meat pies), were prepared in small individual portions, as well as borekitus (pie made from filo dough with various fillings) and roskitus (cake with walnuts). Each year my father would make special little cloth bags for my brother and me, which we would wear around our necks and the adults would fill with money. Sometimes, we would even be able to collect money from relatives a few days after Purim.
We all went to El Kal-the word we used for synagogue-on the High Holidays and on Pesach. As a child I remember not wanting to miss the shofar (ram's horn) blowing. These services always seemed to interest me, probably because they were a novelty that occurred only a few times a year. When we went, we children sat upstairs in the balcony with the women. Before Yom Kippur, my mother would take me with her to the old Jewish cemetery with buckets and rags to clean off my grandparents' graves. My mother also made sure to settle her disputes before Yom Kippur. Relatives and friends who my mother had argued with during the year were once again welcome in our home and in our conversations. During these holidays, we would usually eat lamb with chestnuts, depending on the chestnuts' availability and when they fell. My mother and father always fasted on Yom Kippur, but they never made my brother and me fast. When my father would come home from El Kal after Yom Kippur, the first thing we would eat were lokumikus and white coffee, a coffee consisting of more milk than coffee.
In general, the holidays always meant a better quality food and a special atmosphere. On Pesach my father would attend the Seder in the community. Twenty or so men who were involved in religious life participated, but few others would attend. We children and other spectators did not participate in this activity.
The Jewish community in Sarajevo erected a big succah every year. It was built in a nook in the community that appeared as though it had been specially designed for this purpose. The community always made sure that it was decorated with fruit and that it was covered with branches according to the tradition. I do not remember that anybody had one at home.
Shavuot was the holiday that we celebrated the least. My parents celebrated those holidays that were most closely tied to children, and maybe because of that we did not celebrate it. Or maybe because it is in May, at the end of the holiday season. Hanukah, Purim, and Tu B'shvat, or, as we called it, Hamishoshi (in Ladino it was also called Frutas), all met this child- oriented criterion and were joyously celebrated in our home. On Hanukah my mother would set up the hanukiah with oil and wicks. We children would light the candles and we would be given the honors based on whether we had been good students and children. My father would sing afterwards, but I do not know exactly what he sang. Each year we would get a new spinning top, both from the community and from my parents.
Hanukah gained popularity as a holiday, both in the Jewish community and in the wider Sarajevo community, in 1958 after the Sarajevo Theatre performed a production of "The Diary of Anne Frank." I believe that there was a scene concerning Hanukah in that production which sparked interest.
In general, the holidays always meant a better quality food and a special atmosphere. On Pesach my father would attend the Seder in the community. Twenty or so men who were involved in religious life participated, but few others would attend. We children and other spectators did not participate in this activity.
The Jewish community in Sarajevo erected a big succah every year. It was built in a nook in the community that appeared as though it had been specially designed for this purpose. The community always made sure that it was decorated with fruit and that it was covered with branches according to the tradition. I do not remember that anybody had one at home.
Shavuot was the holiday that we celebrated the least. My parents celebrated those holidays that were most closely tied to children, and maybe because of that we did not celebrate it. Or maybe because it is in May, at the end of the holiday season. Hanukah, Purim, and Tu B'shvat, or, as we called it, Hamishoshi (in Ladino it was also called Frutas), all met this child- oriented criterion and were joyously celebrated in our home. On Hanukah my mother would set up the hanukiah with oil and wicks. We children would light the candles and we would be given the honors based on whether we had been good students and children. My father would sing afterwards, but I do not know exactly what he sang. Each year we would get a new spinning top, both from the community and from my parents.
Hanukah gained popularity as a holiday, both in the Jewish community and in the wider Sarajevo community, in 1958 after the Sarajevo Theatre performed a production of "The Diary of Anne Frank." I believe that there was a scene concerning Hanukah in that production which sparked interest.
My parents had a mezzuzah on the entrance to our apartment but inside there were no decorative Jewish ornaments. My brother was born during the war, and immediately afterwards, my father arranged with Rabbi Menahem Romano, the last rabbi in Sarajevo, for him to have a brit milah. My brother experienced complications from this brit milah, among them a stutter from the stress. The stutter was quite severe during puberty, but with therapy and time it subsided a bit. I only remember Rabbi Menahem Romano as an elderly man whom we children respected; I have no vivid memories of him.
My mother observed the Shabbat in those things that she did not do. Saturday was a normal work day in most ways, but my mother made sure not to travel, nor to undertake any unnecessary work in the house such as laundry, cleaning, and so on. My parents liked to go on walks on Saturdays, and even for coffee at the Hotel Europa in the center of Sarajevo. And when we had new clothing, we always had to save it to wear for the first time on a Saturday.
My mother observed the Shabbat in those things that she did not do. Saturday was a normal work day in most ways, but my mother made sure not to travel, nor to undertake any unnecessary work in the house such as laundry, cleaning, and so on. My parents liked to go on walks on Saturdays, and even for coffee at the Hotel Europa in the center of Sarajevo. And when we had new clothing, we always had to save it to wear for the first time on a Saturday.
Bosnia & Herzegovina
After the war both of my parents were very much involved in our local community and Jewish community life. My father even received several accommodations and awards for his efforts. His involvement was on the level of social action and community building; he did not venture into politics. During the war he and his boss both worked for the opposition movement, and had contact with an illegal print shop that was located on our street. After the war he lobbied for that house to be deemed a monument. The plaque that was eventually erected included a light bulb. My father was its self- appointed caretaker: whenever the light bulb burned out, he would see to it that the city replaced it.
In the Jewish community my father was on the religious committee and one of the few people who were regularly involved in religious events after the war. He attended the weekly Friday night service, whenever the weather permitted. Since we lived on a steep small street on the outskirts of town, if the weather was bad it was impossible for him to make it to the synagogue. My father was one of the 20 or so men who attended the Pesach seder every year. Although he was always present, he never led these services or religious events.
My mother was also an active member of both the Jewish community and our local community. After the war she did neighborhood improvement work, and continued helping those women who could not read or write and encouraging them to learn. In the Jewish community she would help prepare the food for the Seder and other community events, especially the lokumikus (light cookies made from eggs and flour) and enhaminados (extensively cooked hard boiled eggs).
In the Jewish community my father was on the religious committee and one of the few people who were regularly involved in religious events after the war. He attended the weekly Friday night service, whenever the weather permitted. Since we lived on a steep small street on the outskirts of town, if the weather was bad it was impossible for him to make it to the synagogue. My father was one of the 20 or so men who attended the Pesach seder every year. Although he was always present, he never led these services or religious events.
My mother was also an active member of both the Jewish community and our local community. After the war she did neighborhood improvement work, and continued helping those women who could not read or write and encouraging them to learn. In the Jewish community she would help prepare the food for the Seder and other community events, especially the lokumikus (light cookies made from eggs and flour) and enhaminados (extensively cooked hard boiled eggs).
We were the only Jewish family on our street. In school there were usually only one or two Jews in each grade. Buka Kamhi, another Jewish girl, was in my class throughout secondary school and we became best friends and remain best friends today even though she lives in England. Her father, Haim Kamhi, was a very educated and intelligent man, a Jew par excellance. He was one of the few people I knew after the war who maintained full commitment to Judaism, sincerely observing all the holidays and Shabbat. There were many who hid that they were observing Jewish traditions, and many who observed nothing, but Mr. Kamhi practiced openly and whole- heartedly. He was also the president of the Sarajevo Jewish community for many years.
In addition to Serbo-Croatian, my parents both spoke Ladino, as did my brother and I. As the years went on, the amount of Ladino lessened, but it was still prevalent in our conversations. My mother was always combining Serbo-Croatian words with Ladino. For instance, she used to say noc de Purim-noc being "evening" in Serbo-Croatian, de being "of" in Ladino, and Purim, of course, being the Jewish holiday.
Bosnia & Herzegovina
We lived on a steep narrow street, which must have looked daunting to the policemen that were sent to round up the Jews in the area. Many times they would holler up the block asking if there were any Jews there, and the neighbors would reply that they had all been taken away. I am sure my mother's personality and role in the community also played a role in protecting us. My mother was one of the few literate women in the neighborhood. Like most Jewish women at the time in Sarajevo, my mother had a basic education and therefore could read and write. Most of the Muslim women in the area had not had an education and could not read and write. When these women needed such skills, they always came to my mother for help. Generally, she got along well with all of our neighbors and they with her. This is another factor that kept us from being captured during the war.
,
During WW2
See text in interview
My parents met in the Jewish community, either in La Benevolencija or Matatija, two social clubs. They socialized and courted for five or six years before they married. When they did marry, in 1939, they had both civil and Jewish ceremonies. My father worked as a tailor in a private clothing shop owned by Gavro Perkusic. After their marriage they bought a small home on Gornja Mandjija Street on the periphery of the city in an entirely Muslim neighborhood. It was a two-story house. Our family lived upstairs in an apartment with an entranceway, a kitchen, and one room where we all slept.
Before the war, her brother had married a Slovenian woman named Kristina, and had two daughters, Makica and Evica. They were all saved by Kristina's mother, a non-Jewish Slovenian woman, and lived in Sarajevo after the war.
My grandfather had a butcher shop in Sarajevo, and when he died my mother's brother took it over. I am not sure if it was strictly kosher, but it is unlikely that they sold pork and other non-kosher meat. Whether the meat was slaughtered by a shochet (ritual slaughter) and kashered (made kosher) as is proscribed, I cannot say. At that time, Sarajevo was heavily influenced by its Muslim population, and therefore it was difficult to find pork in the town.
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Before WW2
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My father was the only one of the brothers to remain behind in Yugoslavia. He had heard stories about life in Israel and he did not believe that he would be able to make a living there. A tailor, he thought he would have to work in a textile factory and be unable to work on creating pieces from beginning to end. So he decided to remain in Sarajevo. He visited my Nona and his brothers in 1957. I do not recollect his journey, or his return, nor do I recall him questioning his decision to remain behind as a result of it. Both of his brothers struggled in Israel, and because of that, my father probably did not regret his decision.
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1957
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Louiza Vecsler
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The community helps me with medication.
But I no longer go to the synagogue because I have problems with my legs. When I could, I did go, not every Saturday, but on the high holidays, like Purim and Chanukkah. Now I observe them at home with my daughter, who still goes to the synagogue on the high holidays. We lit the candles every Friday evening and say the blessings, but we don't follow the kashrut anymore, it's too difficult, and we don't do anything special on Sabbath. But we still cook hamantashen and send out shelakhmones.
Things have changed in the community as well; I feel there are more activities.
After that we had better heat, the electricity wasn't stopped from time to time [as it used to be during the communist era due to reasons of economy], I was no longer afraid to go out into the street, I didn't have to stand in queues for food. Beforehand, people got angry and sometimes started to talk against the regime, and you never knew who was listening. You could be arrested with them, taken as a witness, or accused for not intervening.