One day I was teaching a physics class in Petrosani; I remember exactly what it was about: the way in which sound is inserted into the magnetic tape of a film. The principal entered the classroom and said: ‘Comrade Inspector, you’re needed in Deva right away!’ I didn’t realize whom he was calling ‘inspector’. ‘You have been appointed inspector! You have to go to Deva immediately’. It was 9 o’clock and the train was leaving in an hour. I didn’t have time to change my clothes; all I could do was send a pupil to my house to bring me an overcoat. It was only six months later that I managed to come back to Petrosani and pick up some of my stuff. I had become a county inspector for education. This happened in October 1948. I spent one year and a half in Deva.
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Roseanu Oscar
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When the State of Israel was founded, I was invited to give a conference on this major historic event. The hall in Petrosani was overcrowded. It was the year 1948… I was considered to have a bit of oratorical talent – I had delivered various science popularization conferences.
After graduation, I taught mathematics at first. One year later, I was finally able to switch to teaching physics in Petrosani.
In 1947, I changed my name. There were two reasons. The comrades at the County Committee of the Communist Party suggested me to change it; they told me it would be better if I did, that they had plans with me and that the moment was still right… This was the first reason. The second one is related to an incident involving my physics professor, academician T. H. Ionescu, whom we all considered a major reactionary [Ed. note: The term ‘reactionary’ designated an opponent of the communist regime at its beginnings.]. One day he had to give a lecture about the pendulum. Before he began, he asked us ‘Isn’t there anyone with davai ceas here?’ [Ed. note: ‘Davai ceas’ is Russian for ‘Give me your watch.’ It is said that the Soviet soldiers quartered in Romania at the end of World War II seemed to be fascinated by watches and ‘requisitioned’ any watch they could find from the Romanian civilians (along with many other belongings). This phenomenon was very widespread and the ‘davai ceas’ expression came to symbolize Soviet abuse in everyone’s mind.] We were 700 students in that class; we had been to concentration camps or labor detachments and had been deprived of our right to study, so we were all fierce revolutionaries at that time. We were required to give a written statement about that professor’s conduct. You can imagine we all rushed to expose his anti-Soviet attitude! The professor had access to our statements and knew our names. None of us passed his exam. I remember I took the physics exam 7 times and I failed 7 times. But, as soon as I changed my name, I took the exam again and I passed, because he didn’t recognize me under my new name.
I went to college in Bucharest and started a new life. I graduated from the Faculty of Physics and Chemistry of the University of Bucharest.
My parents were given the possibility to move to a place near the airport – it’s actually an airfield for gliders. It was a relatively new neighborhood and my mother was afraid it was too far from the marketplace. So they chose to move in a 1-story apartment house located closer to downtown, near the stadium.
At a certain point, the entire central part of Petrosani was demolished [12]. All those places I told you about so far don’t exist anymore; they were completely wiped out. At the time, this raised a debate, because there were coal mines underneath the town and people wondered if the ground would hold. The town is still there, but it’s a whole different town from the one I used to know! The central area and the company mining town were demolished. The houses were replaced by 10-story high apartment houses. People who used to have a vegetable garden found themselves with nothing at all.
Still, a number of Jews remained. We formed a small community whose chairman was Marci Schretter; my father, Martin Rosenfeld, was the secretary-accountant and Mrs. Meiszter was the cashier. My father held this position from 1946 until the last day of his life, in 1979.
An interesting thing is that, in 1944, when I came back to Petrosani, the Jews were fewer than before. Some had left. The Jewish community tried to regain its daily routine. And it felt as if the Jewish youth had got more united – we all joined the Ihud [the Zionist Social-Democratic Party]. We organized a club and we even had a band… Our drummer, Tiberiu, later became the national vice-president of the Investment Bank. I played the accordion, another fellow played the violin, and this was our little band. On every Sunday night of the month of January, there was a ball: the Firemen’s Ball, the Small Craftsmen’s Ball, the Physicians’ Ball, and the Jewish Tradesmen’s Ball. The most popular was the Jewish Tradesmen’s Ball; the entire town’s elite was there and everyone struggled to get tickets for that ball, not just the Jews. This tradition went on until 1948, when the ‘ethnic problem’ was ‘duly addressed’ and things fell apart. The nationalizations [10] and the mass emigration [11] of the Jews in our town began. For instance, the fabric store of the Schweber brothers was given to a worker; it took him only one week to destroy everything. Business in Petrosani had a lot to lose.
We received another house, with 3 rooms. We got our dining room furniture back and my father spent many evenings working to modernize it. We had some great furniture: a desk with sculpted bear feet, a table for 12 persons, armchairs. Back then, they didn’t use vinyl; everything was upholstered in leather. Here’s something that says a lot about the Jewish mentality: as soon as we got the place, my father had it plumbed. We were the only ones in the company town who had tap water and a bathroom; the rest of our neighbors carried water from the well in the street.
My father was immediately employed by the General Department of Mines in Petrosani. He worked there until he retired. After he did, he became the secretary of the Jewish Community in Petrosani.
At the beginning of September 1944, my entire family managed to return home, in Petrosani. Of course, the place looked devastated, as no one had taken care of it while we had been away.
When it was over, I returned to Deva, where I had to spend the night before I could take the train for Petrosani. In the station, a Russian soldier threatened me with a gun and took my watch, my wallet, and my suitcase, in which I carried a suit and a French compendium of math problems. I was actually glad he didn’t shoot me! The following morning I was in the train for Petrosani, explaining the conductor I didn’t have a ticket because it was in the wallet that the Russian soldier had stolen from me. A week later, my parents received a telegram of condolence from a family in Deva, who had found out about my… death. The cause of the misunderstanding was the fact that my suitcase had been found under a bridge, where the Russian had thrown it; since the compendium had my name on it, people assumed that whoever had stolen my suitcase had also killed me.
When things settled down in the region a little and the Germans had withdrawn to Arad [Ed. note: city located in the western extremity of Transylvania], a friend of mine and I decided to take our high school graduation exam in Arad. We ended up in a private Jewish high school. Although I wrote about 30 pages about the Latinity of the Romanian language, I failed. I had to go to Bucharest, where I took the exam at the Cultura High School [9]. I passed.
We set off for our homes. There were four of us in our group. At a certain point, the Russians stopped us and had us working to widen the railroad track; this was needed because the gauge in the Soviet Union is wider than in Romania. We worked for two days and two nights by the light of some burning archives and guarded by Soviet soldiers. We slowly began our journey back home. Of course, we had to walk. The road was dusty. There were ordinary trucks and tank trucks running in all directions, but none would pick us up. We saw a truck parked near the road. Some Russian soldiers had got off and were eating; next to them were ammunition crates and two or three large baskets of tomatoes. We asked the Jews who were with the soldiers if there was any way we could persuade them to give us a lift to Ramnicu Sarat. We were told to promise we would give them some wine in exchange for the ride. It worked! They told us to hop in. When we reached our destination and we wanted to get off, an armed Russian came to us and demanded the wine we had promised. He handed us some cans and we began to walk through the town begging everyone for some wine. Eventually, a merciful man who understood the position we were in filled our cans. We took them back to the Russians and they let us go.
We went to the railroad station. There was a long freight train overcrowded with people who were calmly waiting for the departure. We got on, hoping the train would take us to Ploiesti [Ed. note: 60 kilometers north of Bucharest]. The train finally left. We asked the others how long the train had been waiting in that station and they told us it had been there for a week. We congratulated ourselves for our luck: the train left immediately after we had boarded. In Ploiesti, we got on a train for Deva [Ed. note: the second largest town in Hunedoara County, Transylvania]. Because of the bombings, none of the train’s windows was intact. In Sibiu [Ed. note: important city in southern Transylvania, capital of Sibiu County], we got caught by a German bombing and we took shelter under the cars. Fortunately, no one got hurt. In Simeria [10 kilometers away from Deva], we said goodbye to two of the friends we were traveling with; they headed for Subcetate to get to Hateg. We later found out that they both died in a German bombing which caught them in Subcetate. After three years of hardships and pain, when everything finally seemed to be over and they were just a few steps away from home!
We went to the railroad station. There was a long freight train overcrowded with people who were calmly waiting for the departure. We got on, hoping the train would take us to Ploiesti [Ed. note: 60 kilometers north of Bucharest]. The train finally left. We asked the others how long the train had been waiting in that station and they told us it had been there for a week. We congratulated ourselves for our luck: the train left immediately after we had boarded. In Ploiesti, we got on a train for Deva [Ed. note: the second largest town in Hunedoara County, Transylvania]. Because of the bombings, none of the train’s windows was intact. In Sibiu [Ed. note: important city in southern Transylvania, capital of Sibiu County], we got caught by a German bombing and we took shelter under the cars. Fortunately, no one got hurt. In Simeria [10 kilometers away from Deva], we said goodbye to two of the friends we were traveling with; they headed for Subcetate to get to Hateg. We later found out that they both died in a German bombing which caught them in Subcetate. After three years of hardships and pain, when everything finally seemed to be over and they were just a few steps away from home!
I was impressed by several things. For instance, one of the first Russians we saw was a colonel on horseback. He asked us who we were. We told him we were Jews and we had been set free. I remember his first words were: ‘Remember you are Jews before being Communists!’ We were impressed to hear a Soviet colonel say that. We saw a Russian riding in a cart pulled by two horses. One of the wheels was missing and the axle was rubbing the ground. We asked him where he was going and he replied proudly: ‘Berlin!’
One day we saw a gig with a Russian soldier and a boy about 12 years old dressed in a Russian uniform and armed with a machine gun. They stopped in front of a pillbox. Some Germans who had hid there surrendered. They got out with their hands above their heads only to get machine gunned by the kid. We asked the soldier what could possibly explain that ferocity in a 12-year-old. The man told us that the Germans had killed the kid’s parents and he had begged the Russians to take him with them so he could avenge his family.
One day we saw a gig with a Russian soldier and a boy about 12 years old dressed in a Russian uniform and armed with a machine gun. They stopped in front of a pillbox. Some Germans who had hid there surrendered. They got out with their hands above their heads only to get machine gunned by the kid. We asked the soldier what could possibly explain that ferocity in a 12-year-old. The man told us that the Germans had killed the kid’s parents and he had begged the Russians to take him with them so he could avenge his family.
One day, on 23rd August 1944 [7], the school principal got out and yelled: ‘Truce! The war is over. King Michael [8] has signed the truce!’ That very moment, the colonel, who was nearby, got on a gig and off he went! I rushed to the work site and told the people who were digging: ‘Folks, put down your shovels and pickaxes. The war is over!’ An armed soldier behind me shouted: ‘How dare you? I’ll shoot you!’ – ‘Follow me to the school to see for yourself!’ He came with me, then we both went back and he confirmed the news to the others. Yet none of the inmates dared lay down his shovel; none of them could believe the war was really over.
What were we supposed to do under the new circumstances? The Germans hadn’t withdrawn yet, while the Russians hadn’t arrived yet; so we were caught between two frontlines. When the Germans pulled out towards Transylvania, we were finally able to leave.
What were we supposed to do under the new circumstances? The Germans hadn’t withdrawn yet, while the Russians hadn’t arrived yet; so we were caught between two frontlines. When the Germans pulled out towards Transylvania, we were finally able to leave.
One day they put us on a train and took us to Moldavia under military escort; we worked there until the end of the war. The train went through Deva and those of us who had managed to let their parents know were able to see them through the windows of the freight cars. When we finally got to Moldavia, we were assigned to the villages of Vatinesti, Ciuslea, and Doaga. The miserable souls who lived there only ate onions and mamaliga. They had us digging ditches that connected the pillboxes aligned along the Siret River. I can’t remember how I ended up a carpenter. The carpentry workshop was located in a schoolyard.
In the spring of 1942, we were all taken near Arad to work on a canal called Matca-Paulis. Initially, they accommodated us in Minis; we were later moved to Siria, then to Paulis – villages located along that canal. We were about 20 people in one room, in the hunting cabin of an agronomical engineer. They were digging a canal that would connect the Cris River to the Mures River and they were going to use it for irrigations. Every morning we had to walk several kilometers from our quarters to the canal. The canal got as deep as 2-3 meters. We shoveled earth and, when it rained, we shoveled mud. Sometimes we worked in the company of toads. We weren’t allowed to return until the soldiers guarding us got soaking wet.
At a certain point, in order to ease our work, we hid the shovels and the pickaxes in a hole dug in the ground, so that we wouldn’t have to carry them to the work site and back every day. One day the colonel made an inspection and noticed we weren’t carrying shovels. They had us all lying on the ground and each of us was struck with a belt 25 times; there were 50-60 of us. Of course, our buttocks were naked and we were lying in the mud; occasionally, the soldier’s belt touched the ground before coming into contact with our skin. Whenever one of the soldiers dared a milder stroke, the colonel threatened him: ‘I’ll have you lying on the ground and I’ll have one of these jidani [Romanian offensive word for Jew] beat you too!’ So the punishment was carried out according to the instructions.
Nevertheless, in this period, we were able to organize a small band. There were also people from Arad and Timisoara among us (not just from Hunedoara). One of them was Nunu Bercovici, an accordionist at the Moulin Rouge in Arad. He was an extraordinary accordionist. Apart from the accordion that he had brought along, we also had a violin and the flute of a good friend of mine. All we had to do was hire a ‘conductor’. Sometimes the locals asked our colonel to allow us to play at the balls that were held on Saturday evening. This secured us a better meal from time to time. Of course, we were guarded by a soldier. My friend with the flute couldn’t actually play the flute, but he held it by his mouth and pretended to play. Once the soldier got closer and noticed the man wasn’t playing at all; he told him: ‘Mr. Vamos, you need more practice!’ We were once invited to play at the wedding of a student in theology from Arad who lived in Siria. The colonel approved, so we got on a cart, escorted by two soldiers, and went to Siria. There were about 20 students at that wedding. When they realized we weren’t hillbillies ourselves, they told us to put our instruments aside and join them at the table. You can imagine what a pleasant evening that was.
Some inmates tried to escape and go to Arad. Occasionally they succeeded. The men dressed in clothes borrowed from us, trying to look as natural as possible. They were helped by the sasoaice [Ed. note: Romanian term designating a female descendant of the German population that colonized some parts of Transylvania in the 12th and 13th centuries.] who carried milk to Arad in cans; the women hid them under their large skirts, so that the train conductor wouldn’t spot them.
At a certain point, in order to ease our work, we hid the shovels and the pickaxes in a hole dug in the ground, so that we wouldn’t have to carry them to the work site and back every day. One day the colonel made an inspection and noticed we weren’t carrying shovels. They had us all lying on the ground and each of us was struck with a belt 25 times; there were 50-60 of us. Of course, our buttocks were naked and we were lying in the mud; occasionally, the soldier’s belt touched the ground before coming into contact with our skin. Whenever one of the soldiers dared a milder stroke, the colonel threatened him: ‘I’ll have you lying on the ground and I’ll have one of these jidani [Romanian offensive word for Jew] beat you too!’ So the punishment was carried out according to the instructions.
Nevertheless, in this period, we were able to organize a small band. There were also people from Arad and Timisoara among us (not just from Hunedoara). One of them was Nunu Bercovici, an accordionist at the Moulin Rouge in Arad. He was an extraordinary accordionist. Apart from the accordion that he had brought along, we also had a violin and the flute of a good friend of mine. All we had to do was hire a ‘conductor’. Sometimes the locals asked our colonel to allow us to play at the balls that were held on Saturday evening. This secured us a better meal from time to time. Of course, we were guarded by a soldier. My friend with the flute couldn’t actually play the flute, but he held it by his mouth and pretended to play. Once the soldier got closer and noticed the man wasn’t playing at all; he told him: ‘Mr. Vamos, you need more practice!’ We were once invited to play at the wedding of a student in theology from Arad who lived in Siria. The colonel approved, so we got on a cart, escorted by two soldiers, and went to Siria. There were about 20 students at that wedding. When they realized we weren’t hillbillies ourselves, they told us to put our instruments aside and join them at the table. You can imagine what a pleasant evening that was.
Some inmates tried to escape and go to Arad. Occasionally they succeeded. The men dressed in clothes borrowed from us, trying to look as natural as possible. They were helped by the sasoaice [Ed. note: Romanian term designating a female descendant of the German population that colonized some parts of Transylvania in the 12th and 13th centuries.] who carried milk to Arad in cans; the women hid them under their large skirts, so that the train conductor wouldn’t spot them.
Meanwhile, my father had turned 50; he was released, but wasn’t allowed to return to Petrosani, so he stayed in Deva. It was with great efforts that he managed to bring my mother to Deva too; she and other Jewish women from Petrosani had been taken to an abandoned castle in Paclisa, near Hateg, where she stayed for a long time. Many years later, I regretted not having asked my mother to tell me in detail what it had felt like to live in that castle for such a long time.
My father was working in the coal mines – he was the head of the supply department of the Lonea mines. The entire region was under military control. He was ordered to maintain his employment, but he wasn’t allowed to leave Petrosani. Despite that, he accompanied me because he wanted to see where I would be taken. He was planning to return using the pass that proved he was employed at the mines. But once we got to Deva, he wasn’t allowed to go back to Petrosani anymore, so he had to start walking with me and the others. All the Jews in the Jiu Valley – from Lupeni, Vulcan, Aninoasa, Petrosani, Petrila, and Lonea – formed a column which moved on foot for about 20 kilometers. Most of the Jews were taken to the commune of Craciunesti; my father and I, plus 18 others, got separated from the rest and ended up in the commune of Fizesti, where we were accommodated in a chicken farm. The stench was terrible. They laid mattresses next to the walls and we lived there until November. We had to go to the construction site every day. They were building the Deva-Brad railroad track; rocks and stones had to be removed, carriages had to be pushed, the location for the future track had to be cleared. During all that time the men in Deva were assigned to the Baia de Arama quarry, located on a hill near Deva. We had to carry large stones for about 6 kilometers. Each of us had a load of two stones tied together and placed on the shoulders. We had to take them to Deva, where they were used for paving some street. Then we went back to the quarry and started all over again. Not one single stone was carried using trucks or tractors. They only used us.
My father managed to phone his general manager in Petrosani and told him what had happened to him; but the man couldn’t do anything to bring him back. One day, my father gathered the guts to get on a truck and go to Deva. He went to the Army Headquarters and reported for a sort of review – ‘biography’, he called it. But the colonel had him incarcerated, accusing him of being a deserter. After spending 7 days in prison, he came back to the construction site. I remember I was on a hill with other Jews, guarded by soldiers; I noticed someone coming up the hill. He approached me and gave me a hug. At first, I couldn’t tell who that man was! When I took a second look, I realized it was my father. While in prison, he had lost a lot of weight and had got a kidney condition. I used to bring him hot water at night to put it on his back and soothe his kidney pain. Because everyone looked up to him, they appointed him apagiu [Ed. note: slang term derived from the Romanian ‘apa’ meaning ‘water’] – he carried water in a bucket and let the others drink using a cup.
In November, we were moved to another village. The construction site was abandoned. Eventually, we got back to Deva.
My father managed to phone his general manager in Petrosani and told him what had happened to him; but the man couldn’t do anything to bring him back. One day, my father gathered the guts to get on a truck and go to Deva. He went to the Army Headquarters and reported for a sort of review – ‘biography’, he called it. But the colonel had him incarcerated, accusing him of being a deserter. After spending 7 days in prison, he came back to the construction site. I remember I was on a hill with other Jews, guarded by soldiers; I noticed someone coming up the hill. He approached me and gave me a hug. At first, I couldn’t tell who that man was! When I took a second look, I realized it was my father. While in prison, he had lost a lot of weight and had got a kidney condition. I used to bring him hot water at night to put it on his back and soothe his kidney pain. Because everyone looked up to him, they appointed him apagiu [Ed. note: slang term derived from the Romanian ‘apa’ meaning ‘water’] – he carried water in a bucket and let the others drink using a cup.
In November, we were moved to another village. The construction site was abandoned. Eventually, we got back to Deva.
Meanwhile, the Jewish women of Petrosani were evacuated to a castle in Paclisa, near Hateg, then to Deva, where they remained until the war was over.
On 6 August 1941 the drum started beating in various places of the town – this is how they used to communicate the mayor’s orders back then. The drummer announced that all Jews were to report to the Army Headquarters in Deva the following morning, in order to be assigned to labor detachments. In 1941, all the Jewish men aged 16-50 in Petrosani were taken to forced labor: first to the Deva-Brad railroad track, then to the Matca-Paulis Canal, and finally to Moldavia, where they dug ditches to install cables between pillboxes.
After I was kicked out from that high school [in 1940, because of the anti-Jewish laws in Romania] [6], I went to the Israelite high school for a year, in 8th grade. I was in the same class with rabbi [Ernest] Neumann. [Ed. note: prime rabbi dr. in Timisoara, the last Romanian-born rabbi in Romania. He passed away in 2004.
The high school had a band of 350 pupils. It was conducted by one of the teachers, Mr. Belu, a music enthusiast. One day he came in all the classrooms and announced: ‘We’re setting up a band; who wants to join in?’ I already had my own gang there. And I devised a plan to get us rid of the band assignment without making them realize we meant that. ‘Sir, we would like to be signed up for the saxophone’, I said, knowing for sure they lacked this particular instrument. Little did I know that the man had got enough money from the Ministry of Education to order a set of 350 instruments from Vienna! So one day he came to our classroom and said: ‘All those who signed up for the band follow me!’ He didn’t care about interrupting classes or anything – and bear in mind that our Romanian teacher was also the prefect of Sibiu County. But he couldn’t care less about the prefect! We went with him, still hoping there wouldn’t be any instruments for us to play. We were surprised to find out there were four saxophones! Fancy that! The practicing sessions were held in the basement, but you can imagine how seriously we took them. However, we did learn to play the saxophone under the guidance of some lads from the army band. We marched through the town with our band and we couldn’t have felt any prouder! I played the saxophone for several years after that.
In 1939, the Goga-Cuza cabinet [5] closed down all the high schools in working-class towns. This brought about the end of the high school in Petrosani and of the secondary school in Lupeni. Children were thus indirectly forced to register in vocational schools and arts and crafts schools; their curriculum included internships in companies, which secured, in fact, free labor for the government. I was in the 6th grade and I was in danger of not being able to continue my studies. So my father started sending letters to Targu Jiu, Timisoara, Deva or Sibiu, trying to find a school that would accept me. The answer came from Sibiu. My father was so excited, that he came home by taxi, not by train; for one time, he didn’t care that was beyond our means.
After a while, during a religion class, the principal found me in the corridor – being a Jew, I didn’t attend that class. ‘What are you doing here?’ – ‘Don’t you know? I’m a Jew.’ – ‘Where are you from?’ – ‘Petrosani’ – ‘Who signed you up for this school?’ – ‘Well, my application was approved by the deputy principal!’ The principal had been on vacation and had no idea about this. It was his deputy’s responsibility to deal with such issues, but he hadn’t realized what my situation was either. The principal was mad at his deputy, who had dared take me in… But one month and a half had already passed and there was little he could do about it. So he let me stay. This is how I remained in Sibiu.
After a while, during a religion class, the principal found me in the corridor – being a Jew, I didn’t attend that class. ‘What are you doing here?’ – ‘Don’t you know? I’m a Jew.’ – ‘Where are you from?’ – ‘Petrosani’ – ‘Who signed you up for this school?’ – ‘Well, my application was approved by the deputy principal!’ The principal had been on vacation and had no idea about this. It was his deputy’s responsibility to deal with such issues, but he hadn’t realized what my situation was either. The principal was mad at his deputy, who had dared take me in… But one month and a half had already passed and there was little he could do about it. So he let me stay. This is how I remained in Sibiu.
The town had a workers’ casino with a very good cinema; it had a very large hallway where people came out to have a drink during the breaks of the films. They also held balls in there. People danced the mazurka back then and my father – one of the town’s Jews – led the dance. I remember him say: ‘Messieurs, changez les dames!’ [French for ‘Gentlemen, change your partners!’] This happened around 1937. Everyone knew everyone. No one cared if someone was a Jew.
There must have been over 100 Jewish families in Petrosani. They formed a large community – after all, the main street had only Jewish stores and, come to think of it, only Jewish houses.
Things were quiet in Petrosani; there were no anti-Semitic outbursts – these only appeared after the Communists came to power [after World War II]. On Sunday, the town’s streets were flooded with the people who came out from the stadium – everybody was a ‘Jiul’ fan, as you can imagine. As soon as the match ended, you could see waves of fans coming downtown. There were no cars and the main avenue filled with people. They would walk to the other end of the town – and that was pretty much their promenade circuit.
In the Maleia company town lived a group of Jews who observed the Galician traditions. They wore caftans, fur hats, and beards. They had a synagogue. At the first floor of the building that sheltered the synagogue, there were two halls for the Talmud-Torah study. Most of the Jews living there had occupations related to the Jewish traditions: one of them was a Talmud-Torah teacher, another one was a hakham etc. There was also a tailor who lived there; his name was Ovici and his daughter still lives in Petrosani today.