We always had a service staff of two Ceangai: a cook and a maid. [Editor’s note: Ceangai is a Hungarian-speaking population of Catholic affiliation who moved from the south-east of Transylvania to Moldova [10]. But people in Deva, including Mr. Lorincz, called those Szekler families, who moved to Deva from Bukovina [11] at the end of the 19th century incorrectly Ceangai.] They both lived with us and we got along very well with them. We, the children, also had a nanny from Vienna [today Austria] – her name was Teresa. She lived with us for four or five years, as long as we were little, then she went back to Austria.
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Displaying 47701 - 47730 of 50826 results
Andrei Lorincz
I grew up in a beautiful house. It belonged to my parents and it was large enough to comfortably accommodate my father, my mother and us, the three brothers. The house was located at 1 Lucian Blaga Street. It had five or six rooms and a beautiful courtyard. We had running water. We used wood and terracotta stoves for heating. We didn’t have animals, except for a dog.
Our community had all sorts of members, from four or five lawyers, about five physicians, intellectuals, teachers and engineers, to craftsmen: shoemakers, tailors, shopkeepers, tradesmen. I can still remember some of them: doctors Ludovic Deutsch, Henric Grunfeld, Ernest Szego; counsels: my father, Miksa Grossman, Paul Kain, Ludovic Berkovits; teachers: Ervin Valmos and Mihai Berkovits, who, I think, taught Math, and was the deputy principal of the Decebal High School for a short while; engineer Ioan Kalman, [the owner of] a glass shop on Unirii Square. Among the richest people in Deva were my uncles, the Seigers, two wealthy butchers, Stossel, a multimillionaire who was in the business of processing skins, Blum, a banker and liquor tradesman, Maler, a construction materials tradesman, and Nandor Gall, who was a banker and owned a mill.
Back then, there were two rabbis in Deva: Iuliu Fischer and Filip Klein. We were shepherded by the former: he was the chief rabbi of the larger community. Filip Klein served at the other synagogue until World War II started. As for the clerks, our community had a secretary and two hakhamim: Friedmann and Stossel. The other community had a hakham named Adler Chune, the father-in-law of Rabbi Huffman from Bucharest. Our hakhamim both came from rabbinic families.
The Jewish community in Deva was Orthodox. In fact, there were two communities: one was Orthodox, and the other one considered itself even more Orthodox. There were also two synagogues: the prayer house on 23 August Street, where the rabbi and one guard lived, and the greater synagogue, with the houses of the clerks, the secretary and two guards. My father was only a president of the latter community between 1928 and 1948. The former synagogue had its own president, but I don’t remember his name. The prayer house was demolished; I don’t know in what year, but it was definitely after 1945. In total, there were 850-900 community members in Deva. 150 of them were affiliated with the prayer house and the rest with us. The others were more Orthodox than us; our Jews weren’t that narrow-minded.
How do I remember Deva? It didn’t look like it looks today, that’s for sure. There were no apartment buildings, not one, but I remember there were large, beautiful houses. There was the Prefecture and the Palace of Justice. When I was a child, between 1930 and 1940, I believe Deva counted about 12,000 inhabitants, out of whom 800-900 were Jewish, i.e. around ten percent. The town had Germans, Hungarians, Romanians, Jews, Gypsies, Bulgarians, Slavs – it had all these ethnic groups, and they all lived together in peace and had no problems with one another. It was a successful mixture, with peace and friendship at every step. There was no inter-ethnic problem.
She did part of her studies in Targu Mures and part of it in Rome [Italy]. She’s now a maxillofacial surgeon in Rome.
She did part of her studies in Targu Mures and part of it in Rome [Italy].
Pavel graduated from the Medical School in 1952, and worked as a physician and university assistant in Targu Mures, at the Clinic for Contagious Diseases, until 1960, when he left for Israel, where he did quite well. He lived in Nazareth, Haifa and Natanya. He was declared physician emeritus of the State of Israel.
Pavel graduated from the Medical School in 1952, and worked as a physician and university assistant in Targu Mures, at the Clinic for Contagious Diseases, until 1960, when he left for Israel, where he did quite well.
Sura Milstein
The Community helps me, because I donated the apartment [I live in] and everything inside it to the Community. Time was when there was a canteen – the Community Canteen –, and it was actually easier. There was a man who brought me food from the canteen. But now, for the past 5 years or so, there has been no canteen anymore. Poverty and few people. There are two ladies at the Community, and one of them comes to see me twice a week and it is she who cooks for me. I’m no longer able to do anything… If it weren’t for her, I’d be six feet under for a long time now. I am very weak.
As a Transnistria deportee, I receive that German pension which came more and more irregularly lately. I kept receiving an address requesting me to certify I was still alive. And I received the money, but perhaps its delivery was delayed. In any case… I receive nothing from the Romanian authorities.
My husband died in the year when the Revolution [7] took place. He died in summer, in June 1989, and the Revolution broke out in December. He is buried here, in the Jewish cemetery in Botosani. The Community prepared his body for the funeral. There is a funeral chamber at the cemetery where they take care of all these things. There no longer was any rabbi to conduct the religious ceremony. There were older Jews empowered to perform the rites. But it is harder and harder now – they are fewer and fewer. I sat shivah for 8 days [E.M.: In Botosani, I have often come across the custom of sitting shivah for eight days instead of seven.], and I was in mourning for 1 year. I did this even though complete mourning is not compulsory in the Jewish tradition, only a black apron – that’s what people normally wear as mourning. But I wore a completely black mourning attire – it wasn’t even difficult, I was old by then and had black clothes.
I sat on the ground for eight days on a small pillow, with my back leaning against the bed. Well, I’d get up to move and walk when I needed to, but I never sat on a chair. I had friends and relatives who saw to it that I had food to eat. During the 8 days of sitting shivah, the mirrors are usually covered, but I had no mirrors in the house that I could cover. The period of intense mourning lasts for a month – it is called sheloshim –, after which you go for a stroll and recite a certain prayer. For during the four-weeks period the soul of the departed wanders around the house, and you recite a prayer on that occasion, by means of which the soul is released, so to speak. I recited this prayer – I received the book containing the prayer from the Community – while walking outside around the entire house. And I hired an older, more religious Jew through the Community, I paid him and he recited the Kaddish for an entire year after he died, every day during the evening when they perform the evening ritual at the synagogue.
I sat on the ground for eight days on a small pillow, with my back leaning against the bed. Well, I’d get up to move and walk when I needed to, but I never sat on a chair. I had friends and relatives who saw to it that I had food to eat. During the 8 days of sitting shivah, the mirrors are usually covered, but I had no mirrors in the house that I could cover. The period of intense mourning lasts for a month – it is called sheloshim –, after which you go for a stroll and recite a certain prayer. For during the four-weeks period the soul of the departed wanders around the house, and you recite a prayer on that occasion, by means of which the soul is released, so to speak. I recited this prayer – I received the book containing the prayer from the Community – while walking outside around the entire house. And I hired an older, more religious Jew through the Community, I paid him and he recited the Kaddish for an entire year after he died, every day during the evening when they perform the evening ritual at the synagogue.
And he was a good accountant, they promoted him, made him chief accountant of the Town Hall where he worked until he retired.
He didn’t even believe in Communism. He didn’t even want to be a member of the [Communist] Party. I don’t know what his father did for a living, he too worked for some boyars, and there was something wrong with his personal file. And he was afraid to join the Party, lest they should rummage through his file for information about his father. It could be possible that they urged him to do it, but he stood his ground and didn’t join the Party.
I don’t observe almost any Jewish tradition anymore. Humantasch [hamantashen] and honigleicheh on Purim – that is all. But I can’t prepare them any longer – the lady from the Community comes over and prepares them for me. I no longer light candles on the Sabbath, I have forgotten all customs. I stopped observing the traditions after I got married. My husband observed them even less than I did, he was an atheist.
But here, in Romania, we would travel every summer – until his legs failed him because of a medical condition. During Communism we received tickets from the Syndicate and we would travel. It was good for me – if I hadn’t been year after year to the seaside [the Black Sea], at [lake] Techirghiol, perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to move at all. You can imagine, sleeping there for two and a half winters on the ground and nothing but straws… I underwent medicinal mud treatment sessions at Techirghiol. I also went to Dorna [Vatra Dornei], and I don’t even remember where else I have been.
I have never been to Israel. I was afraid of flying. I had high blood pressure ever since I was young and I was afraid to fly on an airplane so I didn’t go there.
,
After WW2
See text in interview
I didn’t have any children. Neither me, nor my sister. I think we developed this infirmity in Transnistria. When we arrived there – my sister was younger, she hadn’t yet reached that age –, but I had started to have my menstrual period, and it stopped occurring for a couple of years – until we left there. It was because of the cold, the hunger, the filth… everything.
I was a teacher, and he – chief accountant at the Town Hall. He had graduated high school, had no higher education, and yet he was chief accountant at the Town Hall. He would have needed a diploma, but he received an exemption, he was exempt from needing higher education as he was very skilled and the institution needed him.
We met through a common acquaintance and got married around 1962 or 1963. We had no religious ceremony performed, we were both afraid to do it.
,
After WW2
See text in interview
I came to Botosani when I got married. I so-called sold the house in Dorohoi, but I sold it for a song, I gave it away almost for free to a slyboots doing business over there.
My sister was in her second year of high school when we left for Transnistria and she stopped going to school then; she didn’t resume her studies when we returned. We were in dire straits. I had to provide for the three of us: for myself, my mother, and my sister. And my uncle Leon – the husband of my mother’s sister – placed my sister in one of those Jewish hostels where they prepared you for going to Israel. And she stayed for a short time in that hostel in Bucharest and then she left to Israel in 1947 or 1948. Officially, her name was Erica, but they called her Edna in Israel. I don’t know why, but she had her name changed in Israel. I don’t know what job she had there – whatever she could find on arriving where they sent them from that hostel. We only received mail indirectly, through aunt Ana – because she had no job, she wasn’t afraid. There was a time when you weren’t allowed to have connections in Israel, so we didn’t. And we received news indirectly… After a period of time, it was allowed, and we wrote to each other.
,
After WW2
See text in interview
After I graduated the university I entered the educational system from where I retired as a teacher [of Romanian language and literature] in 1977. I enjoyed my work as a teacher. I wouldn’t have chosen it, had I not liked it. There were even some discussions: some of my relatives wanted that, since I had acquainted myself with the work at the Courthouse, I should study Law. But I didn’t want to. I chose what was to my liking.
Laws were passed that offered us protection [Editor’s note: Mrs. Sura is referring here to the Voitec Law [6]], I entered the Faculty of Letters in Bucharest, as I had relatives there – my mother’s sister –, I could live with them. I attended the faculty from 1945 till 1949. I didn’t actually live in Bucharest throughout the 4 years, I attended under the optional attendance system. I would stay there for 1-2 months at a time – I would take a leave of absence from work without pay.
And then, gradually, life returned to normal, meaning that I was employed. For in the meantime, this mayor protected me, I received a job at the Courthouse, I was a court clerk for a few months – for I had qualifications, I had been to school –, then I was secretary for the Prosecutor’s Office. These were special institutions organized by the population that hadn’t left Dorohoi. There were also Romanians who didn’t flee and remained there. Some people fled to who knows where… to Ardeal [Transylvania]…
Romania
Some of our relatives and former neighbors returned some of our things, for they spirited away certain things after we left. But when we returned in the state we were in, they gave us a piece of rug, well, they lent me an item of clothing… Also, we left some bed linen with some neighbors – they were Jewish, too, their name was Goldhammer –, who had left for Bucharest in the meantime; they were rich people, actually, and they sent it back to us.
And then I made an address to the Town Hall, and little by little… we got our house back. I had relations. I knew the mayor because his daughter was a former classmate of mine. Her name is Lovinescu – if she’s still alive, I don’t know if she’s still alive –, she’s Lovinescu’s niece who lives in Paris.
Eugen Lovinescu had a brother in Dorohoi who was mayor during that period when the authorities withdrew, leaving the city without leadership. I don’t know how he was elected, but we had a mayor, we had a Town Hall, a few institutions were running again. So the mayor himself helped me. He came over and made quite a fuss requesting that they leave the house – a Jewish barber lived there.
It took over a year until we finally settled in the house. It was difficult. They didn’t give us back the entire house right from the start. They only gave us the rooms in the back, while they still occupied the front part of the house. The small kitchen was no longer there, it had vanished. It was old and probably it wasn’t that sturdy, what do I know… So at first we lived in the two small rooms in the back. We entered the house through the adjoining street and went out of the house through the courtyard in the back. And various offices were put up in the front part of the house. For a while, it housed a barber’s shop, then a shoemaker’s shop, then a syndicate – I forget which syndicate was housed in the front room. But the mayor helped me and intervened and they evacuated the house and it was returned to me entirely.
And then I made an address to the Town Hall, and little by little… we got our house back. I had relations. I knew the mayor because his daughter was a former classmate of mine. Her name is Lovinescu – if she’s still alive, I don’t know if she’s still alive –, she’s Lovinescu’s niece who lives in Paris.
Eugen Lovinescu had a brother in Dorohoi who was mayor during that period when the authorities withdrew, leaving the city without leadership. I don’t know how he was elected, but we had a mayor, we had a Town Hall, a few institutions were running again. So the mayor himself helped me. He came over and made quite a fuss requesting that they leave the house – a Jewish barber lived there.
It took over a year until we finally settled in the house. It was difficult. They didn’t give us back the entire house right from the start. They only gave us the rooms in the back, while they still occupied the front part of the house. The small kitchen was no longer there, it had vanished. It was old and probably it wasn’t that sturdy, what do I know… So at first we lived in the two small rooms in the back. We entered the house through the adjoining street and went out of the house through the courtyard in the back. And various offices were put up in the front part of the house. For a while, it housed a barber’s shop, then a shoemaker’s shop, then a syndicate – I forget which syndicate was housed in the front room. But the mayor helped me and intervened and they evacuated the house and it was returned to me entirely.
Romania
And when I managed to earn a little money, we rented a small room – a sort of shed, I don’t know what it was – and the three of us lived there together. We received some planks from the Community and that friend of ours – Moise Meirovici, a skilful man – made a bed from them. And that’s what we had.
Romania
And it hasn’t been easy for me. Afterwards, little by little, I found some girls from the countryside whom I helped with their home assignments, and they would bring me flour, food, even some money. Afterwards, there were various deeds, papers – I don’t know what to call them –, and they hired me as well to record, jot down – I forget what kind of papers they were –, and they gave me some money for it. I also received help from the Community.
When we returned from Transnistria, we found our house occupied by other people – there were even Jews among them. They settled there randomly. We had some relatives, friends, and we went to live with them. I lived at our friends’ place in the beginning, Meirovici was their name – Moise Meirovici and his wife, I forget her name – they were older than my parents.