My grandparents the Steiners had a shop with supplies for shoemakers. Working in the store were Grandpa, occasionally Grandma, Uncle Josef, and several employees.
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Displaying 24781 - 24810 of 50826 results
Maud Michal Beer
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On Sundays we'd go take trips out into the countryside with Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle Josef and Gusta, and we'd meet friends. Luckily I've got several photographs – from Pteni, Pohodli, Stinava, Strazisko, Belecky Mlyn, Hradisko... We'd pick strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and mushrooms. At the Plumlov Reservoir, I learned to swim. During the winter we had to stay in town, and on Sundays I'd go to Grandma's for lunch. I always liked her food better than at home. After all, she was an excellent housewife and cook! I also felt better there. Grandma was more lenient than my parents, and I had it good at her place.
Grandpa died in Terezin in his sleep, on the floor amongst many people. Luckily Grandma was beside him. In October 1944, they sent my beloved grandma to Auschwitz – directly into the gas. How we missed her! She'd been in Terezin with us for over two years.
My parents were married on 25th March 1928 in our hometown, Prostejov. My mother at the age of 20, while my father was already almost 30. In their wedding photo, which by chance survived, my mother is wearing a white lace veil. As a dowry she got table and bed linen – embroidered damask and batiste, often with a monogram. Also dishes, silver-plated cutlery and modern stainless-steel cutlery.
After the war, my mother, sister and I returned –by miracle we'd survived the Holocaust. We still had a part of what remained of the things we'd taken with us three years earlier to Terezin. In March 1949 we left for Israel. Mother divided our belongings up into three portions; we knew that we weren't going to be living together.
As I've already mentioned, in 1941 the situation for us Jews changed greatly. Many prohibitions and decrees were issued. We children were mainly affected by the fact that we weren't allowed to go to school, nor to the park, cinema, theaters, the playground or swimming pool. We were forbidden to leave town. We wore the yellow star. I was proud to wear it. We had to be home by 8pm, weren't allowed to associate with Aryans, and were allowed to shop during certain hours, and only in a Jewish store. Fascist newspapers with anti-Jewish articles and caricatures of big-nosed Jews were being published. Starting September 1940, we weren't allowed to attend public schools 14.
The Germans confiscated our large new temple, the courtyard beside it, and the so-called Beyt Haam, the community hall. We had no choice but to congregate in the very small and old temple across the street. When my grandpa Max Steiner was still a child, he'd attended the very old and small Jewish school. Now we went there, but only for a short time. The Germans didn't want so many of us in one place – I guess they were afraid of us – and forbade classes in the old building.
Father and Grandfather lost their livelihood – so called ‘Treuhänder’ [trustees] took over their businesses. We had to give the Germans our radio, jewels, warm clothing and furs for Germans in Russia, carpets, and silver.
In the summer of 1941 we moved. Downstairs on the ground floor of the house at Sadky. No. 9 lived old Mrs. Wolf, the original owner of the house, and in two rooms also the Tandlers – Hermann, his mother and his aunt Regina Lagodzinska. The upstairs, up a flight of carpet-covered wooden stairs, was given to us: father, mother, Karmi and I. At first our helper and cook Marie lived with us; later she wasn't allowed to work for Jews anymore. There was a shared bathroom upstairs beside us, and a shared hallway, kitchen, laundry, courtyard and a nice garden were downstairs.
Of course and naturally, I spent a lot of time in Hermann's company. Once we were in the garden together, and in a completely innocent and childlike manner, I was combing and stroking his beautiful wavy hair. Suddenly I realized that I was actually doing something erotic.
When Hermann would be returning from work in the afternoon, I'd wait for him to ring and run to open the door for him. Once he kissed my hand at the door, I was upset, but I also liked it. We'd give each other little gifts; once in winter he brought me a rose. What could I do with it; after all I couldn't show it to my parents. I dried it and have it to this day. When Hermann would be going to work early in the morning and moving about in the hall downstairs, I'd come out of my room to the stairs and we'd both go ‘sssss,’ so that no one would hear that we're saying ‘Good day’ to each other.
I, truthful and direct, learned to prevaricate in all sorts of ways, so that I could be with Hermann. One October afternoon my parents and Karmi weren't home. Right when Hermann came out of the bathroom, I came out of the room beside the bathroom and there Hermann took me in his arms and kissed me on the lips. My heart was beating, and I was beside myself. I ran to look in the mirror, if it could be seen on my face, if my parents would notice what had happened to me.
When Hermann would be returning from work in the afternoon, I'd wait for him to ring and run to open the door for him. Once he kissed my hand at the door, I was upset, but I also liked it. We'd give each other little gifts; once in winter he brought me a rose. What could I do with it; after all I couldn't show it to my parents. I dried it and have it to this day. When Hermann would be going to work early in the morning and moving about in the hall downstairs, I'd come out of my room to the stairs and we'd both go ‘sssss,’ so that no one would hear that we're saying ‘Good day’ to each other.
I, truthful and direct, learned to prevaricate in all sorts of ways, so that I could be with Hermann. One October afternoon my parents and Karmi weren't home. Right when Hermann came out of the bathroom, I came out of the room beside the bathroom and there Hermann took me in his arms and kissed me on the lips. My heart was beating, and I was beside myself. I ran to look in the mirror, if it could be seen on my face, if my parents would notice what had happened to me.
In the spring of 1942, when the Prostejov Jews, young and adult men and unmarried young women, were sent to Zarovice to a work camp, father and Hermann were among them. I missed them, mainly Hermann. On Saturday afternoon they came home for Sunday, suntanned and dirty, with loads of dirty laundry.
In June and July 1942, four transports left the town – we were sent to Terezin. On July 2nd we and Mr. Wolf also left our home at Sadky 9. Each one of us was allowed to take 50 kg along. My little eight-year-old sister with a little backpack, to which was tied her doll Olinka and a chamber-pot – that's how the majority of little Jewish children went to the transport. All of us with a number around our necks. It was summer – school was out for summer holidays, and we had got three or four layers of clothing on, and high boots. What do you think fits into 50 kg when you know that hunger awaits? You take along food, and duvets for the winter. After a long railway ride in a dark and terribly crowded cattle wagon, we arrived in Bohusovice, where I took my backpack and joined a long line of people walking to Terezin.
Our ‘shloiska’ was in a former bakery. In Terezin there was a ‘Ghettosperre’ like always, when a transport arrived or departed. Half the transport – several hundred people – were put up in a large room – a former storage room. A packed earthen floor and the strong sour smell of moldy flour. Latrines – a ditch and above it a rough board and the stink of quicklime, that is to accompany us our whole time in the ghetto. We're beginning to be hungry. We aren't allowed to leave the bakery. After I threw the heavy bags to the ground, I couldn’t help it and burst into crying, no one noticed, luckily. They brought a barrel of soup – my family hadn't arrived yet – I, the shy one, took the ladle and began serving the soup. One old man probably couldn't find his mess tin, and came for the soup with a night pot. It was new, but still, it was a night pot, and we'd left our homes only three days earlier!
Our ‘shloiska’ was in a former bakery. In Terezin there was a ‘Ghettosperre’ like always, when a transport arrived or departed. Half the transport – several hundred people – were put up in a large room – a former storage room. A packed earthen floor and the strong sour smell of moldy flour. Latrines – a ditch and above it a rough board and the stink of quicklime, that is to accompany us our whole time in the ghetto. We're beginning to be hungry. We aren't allowed to leave the bakery. After I threw the heavy bags to the ground, I couldn’t help it and burst into crying, no one noticed, luckily. They brought a barrel of soup – my family hadn't arrived yet – I, the shy one, took the ladle and began serving the soup. One old man probably couldn't find his mess tin, and came for the soup with a night pot. It was new, but still, it was a night pot, and we'd left our homes only three days earlier!
Transports were being sent from Theresienstadt to Poland all the time. In October 1942 transports mainly of old people were sent. Hermann, an only son, was born when his mother was already 40; now she was 65, and they put her on transport Bx. Hermann reported voluntarily to go with his mother, that went without saying and nothing could be done about it.
On our last evening Hermann pleaded with me to not cry. My mother offered that she'd come with me to the ‘shloiska’ to say goodbye to them; we brought them a can of food for the trip. Hermann and I promised that we'd wait for each other, and he gave me an address, where I should look for him after the war. I remember it to this day: Berlin, Wilmersdorf, Ahrweilerstrasse 3. After returning to our room, on a sudden impulse I suddenly flew down to the street, and pushed my way through the crowd of people standing by the rope that divided us from those leaving. At that moment Hermann was walking by, in a coat, a rucksack on his back, in his hand a cane on which hung a suitcase. That's how I saw him for the last time; he surely didn't see me...
On our last evening Hermann pleaded with me to not cry. My mother offered that she'd come with me to the ‘shloiska’ to say goodbye to them; we brought them a can of food for the trip. Hermann and I promised that we'd wait for each other, and he gave me an address, where I should look for him after the war. I remember it to this day: Berlin, Wilmersdorf, Ahrweilerstrasse 3. After returning to our room, on a sudden impulse I suddenly flew down to the street, and pushed my way through the crowd of people standing by the rope that divided us from those leaving. At that moment Hermann was walking by, in a coat, a rucksack on his back, in his hand a cane on which hung a suitcase. That's how I saw him for the last time; he surely didn't see me...
I'd like to express my recognition and admiration for the cultural and spiritual life in the ghetto. Fine, faithful people organized lectures, plays and operas, without costumes, without sets, with a minimum of instruments, up in attics. In the beginning father dug graves, later he was entrusted with the task of organizing cultural events. We had a children's theater, soccer was played in the courtyards of the barracks, and people, mostly children, played sports up on the fortifications. I'll never forget the High Holidays in the ghetto. And we children learned under the worst of circumstances. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, and in the snow, I walked with my girlfriends before work to the boys' home, so that we could listen to lectures by Rudy Lieben about the Bible. Despite all difficulties and worries, hardly a day went by without reading; for the most part we read good literature. Often I visited the library, where on my own I studied what interested me.
Several weeks after our arrival in Terezin, I received a summons for work in the ‘Jugendgarden,’ in the gardens where adolescents from 12 to 17 worked, which I have to this day, it is signed by Fredy Hirsch 15. At first I worked in the garden behind the ghetto between the ramparts, which was taken care of by Meda with the help of Mausa, who lives in England. We worked in the fresh air, and sometimes succeeded in eating something, or even to bring a few vegetables to our mothers in the ghetto. The entire family was then delighted by it, when we'd meet in Mother's room in the evening.
The head of agriculture was Mr. Kurszavy, a German and a decent man, who treated us humanely. He noticed that we were suffering from impetigo, ulcers caused by vitamin deficiency, and so allowed us to pick nettles and orache and bring them to the ghetto, where vitamins were a rarity. Our mothers would make something like spinach out of them, except that we didn't have flour for roux. Sometimes we managed to scratch a bit of flour off the underside of bread. Rich and lucky were the girls that worked in the fields during the singling of beets. They'd bring sacks of seedlings back to the ghetto. Later I worked in the garden led by Pavel Löw from Olomouc.
The head of agriculture was Mr. Kurszavy, a German and a decent man, who treated us humanely. He noticed that we were suffering from impetigo, ulcers caused by vitamin deficiency, and so allowed us to pick nettles and orache and bring them to the ghetto, where vitamins were a rarity. Our mothers would make something like spinach out of them, except that we didn't have flour for roux. Sometimes we managed to scratch a bit of flour off the underside of bread. Rich and lucky were the girls that worked in the fields during the singling of beets. They'd bring sacks of seedlings back to the ghetto. Later I worked in the garden led by Pavel Löw from Olomouc.
If my memory doesn't deceive me – that was the last time I saw my father. I had a good feeling, that I’d done at least something for my father in the last days of his life. For three weeks I paid off my debt to my three friends. Liza, who lived above me, got tuberculosis and was confined to bed in the sick ward for children with tuberculosis. One evening I decided to visit her, instead of going to see my mother as usual. That evening, after partly recovering, father visited mother for the last time. At night he committed suicide; it was only later that I found out he'd jumped out of the window in the Sudeten barracks. The next day in the evening I as usual went to visit my mother in block Q 802, where Aunt Ruza, Ruth's mother, told me the terrible news. I wanted to run away – but then I returned to my mother's room. Shortly before his death, father wrote down for mother a list of hidden things and what to do with them.
My grandma's birthday was on 20th April. My beloved, good, incomparable grandma, whom I loved the most of the entire family, didn't live to be as old as I am now. She was sent to Auschwitz on one of the October transports in 1944. Several times the four of us – Grandma, my mother, sister and I – managed to stay in Terezin, despite being scheduled for transport eastward. This time, however, there was no option; Grandma went alone. We wanted to go with her; I no longer remember what and how it was. Once they reclaimed us, because my mother was working in the mica workshop and I in agriculture.
To this day I see my grandma the way I saw her for the last time. I'm not sure why she went to the transport dressed all in black. After being in Terezin for over two years, Grandma was skinny, a little hunched over, wrinkled. That's how I saw her standing in the large gates of the Hamburg barracks, through which she went directly onto the train – into a cattle wagon, of course. That was my last glimpse of Grandma; to this day it hurts very much, and I've missed her all my life.
To this day I see my grandma the way I saw her for the last time. I'm not sure why she went to the transport dressed all in black. After being in Terezin for over two years, Grandma was skinny, a little hunched over, wrinkled. That's how I saw her standing in the large gates of the Hamburg barracks, through which she went directly onto the train – into a cattle wagon, of course. That was my last glimpse of Grandma; to this day it hurts very much, and I've missed her all my life.
Suddenly we hear a woman's voice: ‘A royte Fuhn!’ [‘A red flag’ in Yiddish]. In the streets, which within a moment were full of people, cheering erupted after the terrible silence. The ghetto breathed a sigh of relief, that it had gotten through the previous horrors and with joy greeted the liberators, the troops and tanks of the Red Army. Everyone who could, ran to them. The Russians were throwing us bread. One of the striped ones, who'd recently arrived, was run over by a tank when he wanted to pick up a piece of bread from the ground.
We didn't have the luck to be liberated by the bountiful Americans. The Russians brought only square black bread and potatoes. The main thing was, that we were finally free, and neither were we hungry anymore. We were afraid of the soldiers, didn't go into the streets alone, and just in case always had our mess tin in our hand for defense. Our happiness was marred by the thought and awareness that so many people who'd been waiting for this moment hadn't lived to see it. We girls met up one more time in our room before going our separate ways, and said to each other that it was up to us young people whether there would be any more horrible wars, taking so many victims, and taking from all people their happiness and contentment.
We didn't have the luck to be liberated by the bountiful Americans. The Russians brought only square black bread and potatoes. The main thing was, that we were finally free, and neither were we hungry anymore. We were afraid of the soldiers, didn't go into the streets alone, and just in case always had our mess tin in our hand for defense. Our happiness was marred by the thought and awareness that so many people who'd been waiting for this moment hadn't lived to see it. We girls met up one more time in our room before going our separate ways, and said to each other that it was up to us young people whether there would be any more horrible wars, taking so many victims, and taking from all people their happiness and contentment.
Mother brought our things to Prostejov, and moved into a rented apartment with other repatriates. She managed to find a room for us in a four-room apartment on Krizovskeho Street; Mrs. Koblerova, Mr. Herzog and a married couple from Hungary or Slovakia lived with us. There were seven of us living in one apartment – the remnants of four families.
In September 1945 I began attending the 5th year of a girls' high school [Grade 10] on Komenskeho Street. Before the principal, Mr. Letocha, admitted me to high school, he said: ‘Stecklmacherova, you finished Grade 5, go into first year!’ [first year of high school, so Grade 6]. Somehow I managed to change his mind, that in Terezin and afterwards I'd learned, and for him to allow me to try Grade 10. Soon I found that the girls had already been taking French and Latin for several years, and Russian from the beginning of May, and that I probably wouldn't be able to catch up to them. I asked to be transferred to Grade 9.
After I'd returned from Hechalutz 19 winter camp, it was decided after much deliberation, that I'd leave school and go for hakhsharah 20. The hakhsharah was in Bratislava – there weren't enough young Jewish people in Bohemia and Moravia for them to put a hakhsharah together. Several other former Terezin prisoners made the same decision. Max Lieben from Prague was already there, and I met young people, some of which I keep in touch with to this day – but there was no longer any real friendship, I was still sad and broken.
I was then transferred from Bratislava to Zilina. Then they sent me to Prague for about a year and then to Brno to organize Jewish children for departure [aliyah] and life in Palestine. When I was in Prague, the United Nations was voting on whether there would or wouldn't be a Jewish state in Palestine. We followed it; it was suspenseful and amazing. After the Communist coup in 1948 21 a notice was issued that whoever wanted to move to Israel had to leave the Czechoslovak Republic by a certain date in 1949 22, and who didn't leave by that date, would stay.
I was then transferred from Bratislava to Zilina. Then they sent me to Prague for about a year and then to Brno to organize Jewish children for departure [aliyah] and life in Palestine. When I was in Prague, the United Nations was voting on whether there would or wouldn't be a Jewish state in Palestine. We followed it; it was suspenseful and amazing. After the Communist coup in 1948 21 a notice was issued that whoever wanted to move to Israel had to leave the Czechoslovak Republic by a certain date in 1949 22, and who didn't leave by that date, would stay.
In May of 1948, the Jewish state Israel was proclaimed in Palestine. Then I was sent to work with Jewish children in Brno, did it for almost a year.
Efra, our mother's cousin from Vienna, who arrived in Palestine in 1930, was waiting for us. Thanks to him, his parents and sister survived. Thanks to him we now have many relatives in Israel, five generations already. My mother and Efra left the bus at a road that leads to the Givat Chaim kibbutz, and we kept going to Haifa, Karmela and her group to Kfar Hamakabi, the small children to Dagania, and I as the only one to Ginegar. Like all new arrivals, I also got a few days off, and looked around Ginegar. I reported, that I wanted to work in the vegetable garden. I stayed in Ginegar for not quite two years. In the spring of 1950, young men began appearing in Ginegar, who'd come from Czechoslovakia and were at the Dorot kibbutz in the Negev. They wanted to meet Czech girls.
Our wedding was in January 1951; we were married in Haifa by Rabbi Mr. Glaser, who used to be a rabbi in Brno and had done Shimon's bar mitzvah. The wedding was very modest, in the rabbi's apartment; there were a couple of relatives and friends, I didn't even buy a new dress. Today no one would believe it, but I wore a dress that had once belonged to my deceased grandmother, and someone from amongst our Prostejov acquaintances returned it to Mother.
After I left Ginegar, I found work taking care of children in a village where children who'd recently come to Israel lived – in Ramat Hadassah. Shimon still lived in the little room in Haifa, and would visit me over Saturday. Then we began looking for someplace to live together; my mother gave us money, as after all she'd sold the house in Prostejov. We rented one room in a two-room apartment in Gav-Yam; our neighbors were a young married couple from Yugoslavia, Mirek and Bori. Shimon commuted to Haifa for work, and was preparing himself for his high school leaving exam. Our little room was close to the sea. I liked it very much.
When she was 18, Ednah graduated and joined the army. She served in Tel Aviv, close to Moshe Dayan 27, David Elazar [Elazar, David (1925 – 1976): Israeli Chief of Staff from 1972 – 1974] and other well-known soldiers. Then Hanan graduated and went into the army; shortly thereafter Ednah got married.
Shimon had an American salary, in 1970 I began getting some money from Germany, health compensation, so we were no longer as helplessly poor as we'd been till then.
Yael took advantage of our absence, swallowed all the pills that she'd gotten from the psychiatrist, and turned on the gas. When we returned from my mother's in Kyriat Gat, Yael was in the hospital. She lay there for a month, unconscious, and on 15th July 1986 she died at the age of 24. Nothing worse can happen to a parent. I reproached myself for the mistakes I'd made – whom to blame, if not myself – the mother who cared for the child? Shimon and I decided to not take any sedatives, nor accept help from psychologists that weren't able to help our dear, beloved Yael.
In 1989 I went on an organized tour of the USA and Canada. Shimon had had enough of Americans from work, and so at the same time he went to Europe, to Czechoslovakia for the first time in fifty years, still during the time of Communism. He got in with difficulty. A Negro got a visa immediately, while Shimon, who'd been born in the Czechoslovak Republic, had to wait three weeks for a visa because he was from Israel. He brought interesting experiences back from his trip to England, Holland, Switzerland, Denmark, Finland and finally three days in Brno.
,
1989
See text in interview
In 1990, already after the revolution 30, I went to Czechoslovakia with Ednah. I immediately began working on us getting back the building in Prostejov at Sadky. No. 4, which I succeeded in doing in 1991. Back then there was a school there. In 1994 I went to the Czech Republic to sell the building in Prostejov. I stayed there for two and a half months. For the first time in 45 years, I was here in the fall and winter. Christmas was coming, and it was snowing. The snow-covered town reminded me of my childhood.