Her husband’s name is Miha Haftca. He was born in Israel, but his parents had come to Israel from Poland around 1932, and they had 3 children there, if I remember correctly. Her name is now Iaffa Haftca.
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Displaying 47461 - 47490 of 50826 results
Ietti Leibovici
After returning from the deportation my father developed a brain tumor. He had been beaten, hit, and, approximately 2 years after he got married again, around 1949, he started having terrible headaches. He went to Bucharest, underwent surgery – he had a brain neoplasm. He recovered well after the operation.
He left to Israel. But these operations are effective only for a year, a year and a half, after which the tumor grows back. And he passed away in Israel. They emigrated to Haifa in 1951. And life over there was hard in the beginning. They had nothing when they arrived there.
My father received a job, he worked until he saw that he started having a relapse of the disease. And he died in Israel a year later, one year and a half after emigrating there, in 1952-1953. He died in Petah Tiqwa, for that’s where he was hospitalized, and he is buried there.
He left to Israel. But these operations are effective only for a year, a year and a half, after which the tumor grows back. And he passed away in Israel. They emigrated to Haifa in 1951. And life over there was hard in the beginning. They had nothing when they arrived there.
My father received a job, he worked until he saw that he started having a relapse of the disease. And he died in Israel a year later, one year and a half after emigrating there, in 1952-1953. He died in Petah Tiqwa, for that’s where he was hospitalized, and he is buried there.
But people started leaving, emigrating [1] to Israel. And I wasn’t a minor anymore, I was 18, and I had my own passport. My father, his wife and his little daughter had one single passport.
So they were listed on my father’s passport. At a certain point they received the approval for departing. And so did my grandmother. My grandfather was no longer alive. I received a negative, a reply stating that my request for departing was denied. ‘What shell we do, then?’ ‘I will apply again.’ I applied again. In the meantime, they had a passport, they had to leave. My father left together with my sister and her mother; my grandmother left as well.
I went to live with one of my father’s brothers, Buium Davidsohn, who hadn’t applied for emigration permission. He was living in Botosani with his wife and had a daughter who was 3 years older than me. And we got along very well. And I didn’t apply for an emigration permission afterwards, I got married in the meantime. I lived at my uncle’s until I got married.
So they were listed on my father’s passport. At a certain point they received the approval for departing. And so did my grandmother. My grandfather was no longer alive. I received a negative, a reply stating that my request for departing was denied. ‘What shell we do, then?’ ‘I will apply again.’ I applied again. In the meantime, they had a passport, they had to leave. My father left together with my sister and her mother; my grandmother left as well.
I went to live with one of my father’s brothers, Buium Davidsohn, who hadn’t applied for emigration permission. He was living in Botosani with his wife and had a daughter who was 3 years older than me. And we got along very well. And I didn’t apply for an emigration permission afterwards, I got married in the meantime. I lived at my uncle’s until I got married.
It was also from my grandparents that I learned Yiddish, after returning from the deportation. I kept talking now Romanian, now German, but my grandparents were talking in Yiddish, and I started learning it in time, and I even started speaking it myself. Even now I speak Yiddish rather well.
After my father came, I actually went to Vatra Dornei with him. The store had been emptied, and it served a completely different purpose, it functioned as a Loto-Prono Sport terminal [National Lottery terminal]. But after a year or two, when we returned to Dorna, the entire row of stores was demolished – there were some 3-4 stores –, and a cinema is built on that place, on that area.
6-8 more months later I received a postcard from my father saying that he was in Iasi, that he has returned. When the Russian army came here, he arrived at a later time with other people who had been taken to perform forced labor. And he arrived in Botosani. And that’s when we saw each other again. It was already 1945.
,
1945
See text in interview
During the war, the grandparents from my father’s side remained in Botosani. And those living in Botosani weren’t deported, they remained there. I couldn’t tell what happened here during 1940-1944. I arrived there in March 1944, and the conditions had already improved. My grandfather worked during that period, still as a butcher.
That’s how I arrived in Botosani. I arrived at the Botosani train station. Many, many, many people. Some came out of curiosity, knowing that children were coming, others came to see if any of the children from their families had returned. I inquired about the Davidsohns. I saw a lady and a gentleman: ‘The Davidsohns.’
‘No, we don’t know them.’ The city was big, approximately 25,000 Jews lived there. None of those that I asked could help me. Evening was drawing near, and I could see that I was making no headway. Then a young man came and told me: ‘Where are you from?’ I told him. ‘Did you just come with…’
‘Yes.’ He asked me how old I was. He said: ‘Look, would you like to go with me? There is a family who have a daughter your age, and they would be happy to take you to live with them.’ It was a family with a very good financial situation. Seeing that I had no family, no anything, I said: ‘Alright. I will go.’ And I went.
This young man was a neighbor of that family, and he was the son of a rabbi who also lived there. And he took me to that family, the Fichmans. I spoke Romanian very poorly, for we spoke German at home. Ever since I was born I had been speaking German. Even at kindergarten, and then at school. And you had to tell the story to everyone. People didn’t know the exact details. They knew about Transnistria, they knew about the Gulag [8], but they didn’t know everything.
And time was passing by. One day, the father of this Mrs. Fichman comes. And he starts to talk with me. He says: ‘Where are you from?’ ‘From Vatra Dornei. But I have family living in Botosani.’ And when I tell him about my family, about their name, he says: ‘Isn’t David your father?’ My father’s name was David. David Davidsohn.
I say: ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘but I know your family. I know your grandparents, I know your uncles and aunts. I know them.’ And he went and broke the news to my grandparents. My grandparents came, my father’s sisters and brothers came. Well, we were rejoicing. ‘What do you know about father?’ ‘I don’t know anything.
To think what has become of us…’ Mrs. and Mr. Fichman insisted very much: ‘We will see to it that she is reunited with her father when he returns. And let her live with us until then.’ On the other hand, my relatives argued: ‘We share the same blood, and we want her to live with us.’ And of course I went to live with my grandparents, and I stayed with them.
‘No, we don’t know them.’ The city was big, approximately 25,000 Jews lived there. None of those that I asked could help me. Evening was drawing near, and I could see that I was making no headway. Then a young man came and told me: ‘Where are you from?’ I told him. ‘Did you just come with…’
‘Yes.’ He asked me how old I was. He said: ‘Look, would you like to go with me? There is a family who have a daughter your age, and they would be happy to take you to live with them.’ It was a family with a very good financial situation. Seeing that I had no family, no anything, I said: ‘Alright. I will go.’ And I went.
This young man was a neighbor of that family, and he was the son of a rabbi who also lived there. And he took me to that family, the Fichmans. I spoke Romanian very poorly, for we spoke German at home. Ever since I was born I had been speaking German. Even at kindergarten, and then at school. And you had to tell the story to everyone. People didn’t know the exact details. They knew about Transnistria, they knew about the Gulag [8], but they didn’t know everything.
And time was passing by. One day, the father of this Mrs. Fichman comes. And he starts to talk with me. He says: ‘Where are you from?’ ‘From Vatra Dornei. But I have family living in Botosani.’ And when I tell him about my family, about their name, he says: ‘Isn’t David your father?’ My father’s name was David. David Davidsohn.
I say: ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘but I know your family. I know your grandparents, I know your uncles and aunts. I know them.’ And he went and broke the news to my grandparents. My grandparents came, my father’s sisters and brothers came. Well, we were rejoicing. ‘What do you know about father?’ ‘I don’t know anything.
To think what has become of us…’ Mrs. and Mr. Fichman insisted very much: ‘We will see to it that she is reunited with her father when he returns. And let her live with us until then.’ On the other hand, my relatives argued: ‘We share the same blood, and we want her to live with us.’ And of course I went to live with my grandparents, and I stayed with them.
I spoke Romanian very poorly, for we spoke German at home. Ever since I was born I had been speaking German. Even at kindergarten, and then at school.
And lists were drawn up, for a delegation from Romania representing the Federation of Jewish Communities was coming there to take the children aged 1-15. A list was drawn up with the children who were eligible, I enlisted as well. And the question was:
‘Where should I ask to be sent?’ Someone asked to go to Bacau, someone else to Roman, others to Falticeni, Bucharest, Timisoara. ‘Should I go to Vatra Dornei?’ Nobody had returned home at that time. We, the children, were the first to return home. ‘What will I do there, at only 13 years of age, all by myself?’
So I asked to be sent to Botosani, and I enlisted to be sent to Botosani. I didn’t know their address [of my grandparents and uncles from Botosani], only their names. The delegation came indeed, they brought clothes for the children, they dressed us and boarded the children on a special transport train. This was happening in March 1944. So I stayed in the orphanage until March 1944.
There were very many children there.
I forget how many children there were in total, but I believe there were approximately 50.
‘Where should I ask to be sent?’ Someone asked to go to Bacau, someone else to Roman, others to Falticeni, Bucharest, Timisoara. ‘Should I go to Vatra Dornei?’ Nobody had returned home at that time. We, the children, were the first to return home. ‘What will I do there, at only 13 years of age, all by myself?’
So I asked to be sent to Botosani, and I enlisted to be sent to Botosani. I didn’t know their address [of my grandparents and uncles from Botosani], only their names. The delegation came indeed, they brought clothes for the children, they dressed us and boarded the children on a special transport train. This was happening in March 1944. So I stayed in the orphanage until March 1944.
There were very many children there.
I forget how many children there were in total, but I believe there were approximately 50.
It was interesting that I had no document to prove that I had been deported to Transnistria. I had no proof from anywhere. And I needed it at a certain point in order to [request and] obtain support from the Claims Conference. And I addressed myself to the Institute for the Study of Jewish History in Bucharest.
They have all the information. They sent me the list issued by the city hall of Moghilev with all the children that came on that train – the full list came from Moghilev together with the children. I am at number 15 on that list.
They have all the information. They sent me the list issued by the city hall of Moghilev with all the children that came on that train – the full list came from Moghilev together with the children. I am at number 15 on that list.
I was hospitalized when we arrived in Moghilev, the doctor there was from Vatra Dornei, he admitted me into the hospital for treatment, for that infection. My cousin was admitted into an orphanage, also located in Moghilev. And father stayed in Moghilev, so that he could visit me and my cousin. Meanwhile, they caught my father in Moghilev and took him to a labor camp. And, starting from that day, I had no news of my father anymore.
It was the end of 1943 by then. I stayed in the hospital for approximately 2 months, and in January 1944 I left the hospital and was transferred to the orphanage. When I arrived at the orphanage I found out that my cousin Ietti Laufer had died in the meantime. And I was all by myself there.
I was 10 and a half when they deported us from Vatra Dornei. By January 1944 I was already 13. The Federation in Bucharest sent the orphanage and the hospital some food and clothing, and we seemed to fare a little better. There were some teachers who came to the orphanage to teach lessons every now and then, give us some activities, some handiwork.
It was more humane.
It was the end of 1943 by then. I stayed in the hospital for approximately 2 months, and in January 1944 I left the hospital and was transferred to the orphanage. When I arrived at the orphanage I found out that my cousin Ietti Laufer had died in the meantime. And I was all by myself there.
I was 10 and a half when they deported us from Vatra Dornei. By January 1944 I was already 13. The Federation in Bucharest sent the orphanage and the hospital some food and clothing, and we seemed to fare a little better. There were some teachers who came to the orphanage to teach lessons every now and then, give us some activities, some handiwork.
It was more humane.
We walked across the grove, and kept moving forward. There still existed kolkhoz [7] farms. We entered a kolkhoz during the night, we used the animals to keep us warm – for there were animals there. And they fed animals with sunflower bread. And we said: ‘Let’s eat some of it ourselves!’
We ate, and it seemed to taste so good… No cake ever tasted as good as that one. And we came out of there at a certain point, and a cart with 2 people passed by. We had already started learning Ukrainian, Russian, a little bit. They were very nice people, and they took us in the cart. My hand was already frostbitten because of the cold, and it was infected. ‘To Moghilev. Moghilev, let’s go there.
We ate, and it seemed to taste so good… No cake ever tasted as good as that one. And we came out of there at a certain point, and a cart with 2 people passed by. We had already started learning Ukrainian, Russian, a little bit. They were very nice people, and they took us in the cart. My hand was already frostbitten because of the cold, and it was infected. ‘To Moghilev. Moghilev, let’s go there.
And we set out again one night. And we arrived in a grove, and a couple of soldiers came in that grove, they caught my mother, they beat her until she couldn’t get up.
They stripped her of her coat, pulled the teeth out of her mouth – she had gold teeth. Father was shouting at my cousin and me: ‘Run! Run! Run!’ Father was shouting at us to run and hide in the woods. Well, we didn’t run to the end of the woods, there was a clearing at the skirt of the woods, we ran there, remained crouched, and then father came holding my mother in his arms – they had beaten her to death. It was in 1943.
They stripped her of her coat, pulled the teeth out of her mouth – she had gold teeth. Father was shouting at my cousin and me: ‘Run! Run! Run!’ Father was shouting at us to run and hide in the woods. Well, we didn’t run to the end of the woods, there was a clearing at the skirt of the woods, we ran there, remained crouched, and then father came holding my mother in his arms – they had beaten her to death. It was in 1943.
We ran away, but, unfortunately, to our misfortune, they caught us this time as well, and they took us to the concentration camp in Piciora [Pechora] [6].
There was a large house in Pechora, I believe it was a castle once, for there were many-many rooms and they were too nice – that’s where we lived. The camp in Pechora was ‘The Death Camp’ – that’s what they called it. Guarded, fenced. There was a common burial ground there.
And if someone died – tossed into the common burial ground. We had nothing left to eat at a certain point. Destroyed, weakened, my mother’s sisters – one was 23, one was 21, they were very young – felt that the end had come. They embraced each other, and that’s how they died, embracing each other. People drank urine for lack of water. They ate whatever they could get their hands on.
We were 9 when we left home. And little by little the family lessened. ‘What shall we do, wait to die here?’ ‘We’ll run away.
There was a large house in Pechora, I believe it was a castle once, for there were many-many rooms and they were too nice – that’s where we lived. The camp in Pechora was ‘The Death Camp’ – that’s what they called it. Guarded, fenced. There was a common burial ground there.
And if someone died – tossed into the common burial ground. We had nothing left to eat at a certain point. Destroyed, weakened, my mother’s sisters – one was 23, one was 21, they were very young – felt that the end had come. They embraced each other, and that’s how they died, embracing each other. People drank urine for lack of water. They ate whatever they could get their hands on.
We were 9 when we left home. And little by little the family lessened. ‘What shall we do, wait to die here?’ ‘We’ll run away.
in Shargorod [Shargorod, today in the Vinnytsya region, Ukraine] [5]. A lot of people, the same situation, still the same bed made from wood and planks, with straw on top of it.
There was less and less luggage. It was 1942 by then, it was the winter of 1942. That’s where my aunt died, my mother’s sister-in-law. And I was left only with my parents and my mother’s 2 sisters, Ana and Sabina Laufer, and cousin Ietti Laufer. Perhaps we could save ourselves.
We decided to run away. There were some guards and we gave them something, and they let us run away.
There was less and less luggage. It was 1942 by then, it was the winter of 1942. That’s where my aunt died, my mother’s sister-in-law. And I was left only with my parents and my mother’s 2 sisters, Ana and Sabina Laufer, and cousin Ietti Laufer. Perhaps we could save ourselves.
We decided to run away. There were some guards and we gave them something, and they let us run away.
We ran away from there one night: my father and my mother, my aunts, and another cousin of ours. They said: ‘We’re going to take a chance, we’ll run away, maybe we’ll get somewhere from where we could reach Moghilev.’ Moghilev was the target.
The city was bigger, it had a hospital, and there were Jews working at that hospital. But we didn’t manage to get too far, they caught us and they took us to another concentration camp, in Shargorod [Shargorod, today in the Vinnytsya region, Ukraine] [5].
The city was bigger, it had a hospital, and there were Jews working at that hospital. But we didn’t manage to get too far, they caught us and they took us to another concentration camp, in Shargorod [Shargorod, today in the Vinnytsya region, Ukraine] [5].
And it was the same ordeal all over again, we had to get there on foot, it was tens of kilometers. And we arrived at a village called Kopaygorod [today the region of Vinnytsya, Ukraine]. It was a stable for cattle – there were no cattle, there was nothing there – of huge dimensions, very large, what do I know, as large as a block of flats with 2-3 entrances.
A bed was built there out of planks, along the entire length of that room. Straw was placed on top of it, and that was called a ‘prici.’ We slept on this ‘prici’ – women, children, men. We covered ourselves with blankets, eiderdowns, great coats. For it was terrible. It was the end of 1941, the beginning of 1942 by now. And from there we went to the fields.
For many peasants had left, and there were unearthed potatoes and sugar beet on the field. We, the children, went and gathered them, and we gave them to our parents. And they boiled them in a large bucket filled with water, over a fire kindled with a few wood branches torn from trees, corn stalks. And they were frozen, but they tasted so good… Hunger will make you eat anything.
But you weren’t allowed to stray to far, and if you did, you were taking a chance. There were people who did. They even came back, they weren’t caught. My father scouted the area, too. At a certain point, there was an epidemic of exanthematic typhus because of the filth.
And father used to go to the village with objects – earrings, for instance, a ring, wedding rings –, and he gave them to peasants in exchange for spirit, alcohol, brandy, which he used for massages. This is what saved me. Well now, did this save me? Or perhaps my time hadn’t come yet. This may be true as well. And people died in great numbers. My uncle, Iosef Laufer, died there, one of my cousins, Pepi Laufer, died there. Hunger and disease – the typhus, which cut people down with no distinction.
A bed was built there out of planks, along the entire length of that room. Straw was placed on top of it, and that was called a ‘prici.’ We slept on this ‘prici’ – women, children, men. We covered ourselves with blankets, eiderdowns, great coats. For it was terrible. It was the end of 1941, the beginning of 1942 by now. And from there we went to the fields.
For many peasants had left, and there were unearthed potatoes and sugar beet on the field. We, the children, went and gathered them, and we gave them to our parents. And they boiled them in a large bucket filled with water, over a fire kindled with a few wood branches torn from trees, corn stalks. And they were frozen, but they tasted so good… Hunger will make you eat anything.
But you weren’t allowed to stray to far, and if you did, you were taking a chance. There were people who did. They even came back, they weren’t caught. My father scouted the area, too. At a certain point, there was an epidemic of exanthematic typhus because of the filth.
And father used to go to the village with objects – earrings, for instance, a ring, wedding rings –, and he gave them to peasants in exchange for spirit, alcohol, brandy, which he used for massages. This is what saved me. Well now, did this save me? Or perhaps my time hadn’t come yet. This may be true as well. And people died in great numbers. My uncle, Iosef Laufer, died there, one of my cousins, Pepi Laufer, died there. Hunger and disease – the typhus, which cut people down with no distinction.
When we reached the river Dniester, they transported us by ferry to Moghilev, on the other side of the Dniester. Across the border, in Ukraine.
We arrived in Moghilev [4]. This whole adventure lasted 2-3 weeks. But this was the beginning, it continued there afterwards. In Moghilev, those who were lucky remained in Moghilev, and their situation was bad, but not desperate. But those who didn’t remain there were taken to concentration camps.
We arrived in Moghilev [4]. This whole adventure lasted 2-3 weeks. But this was the beginning, it continued there afterwards. In Moghilev, those who were lucky remained in Moghilev, and their situation was bad, but not desperate. But those who didn’t remain there were taken to concentration camps.
When we reached the river Dniester, they transported us by ferry to Moghilev, on the other side of the Dniester. Across the border, in Ukraine.
We arrived in Moghilev [4]. This whole adventure lasted 2-3 weeks. But this was the beginning, it continued there afterwards. In Moghilev, those who were lucky remained in Moghilev, and their situation was bad, but not desperate. But those who didn’t remain there were taken to concentration camps.
We arrived in Moghilev [4]. This whole adventure lasted 2-3 weeks. But this was the beginning, it continued there afterwards. In Moghilev, those who were lucky remained in Moghilev, and their situation was bad, but not desperate. But those who didn’t remain there were taken to concentration camps.
We arrived in Bessarabia. And all of us got off the train, with luggage and everything, and headed towards where they took us. There were some devastated houses in a town, Iedenit [today Yedintsy, in the Republic of Moldova], they had no doors, no windows, and all who managed to fit in those houses lived there. And it was October by then, close to November.
It is terribly cold in those parts, hard winters, with snow, with frost. But there were inscriptions in Romanian in these devastated houses: ‘Here, in this house, lived this and that person with his children, grandchildren, …’. It was still Jews who lived there before us, and they were deported to Siberia – there was no trace left of them. We stayed there for a day or two.
It was raining when we set out from there, and it was muddy, the streets weren’t paved – countryside roads –, we were swimming in mud. We rented some carts from the local peasants to carry the luggage. And everybody paid using whatever they had: if they still had some money left or some jewelry, something. And they bartered.
They gave you something in exchange, if you needed a loaf of bread in exchange for… [an object] And we pressed forward. Old people of 80, older than 80, fell to the ground and never rose again. And you weren’t allowed to help them to their feet. There were soldiers, and they herded us like cattle.
We arrived in another village where we stayed over night. Well, it lasted a while until we reached the river Dniester.
It is terribly cold in those parts, hard winters, with snow, with frost. But there were inscriptions in Romanian in these devastated houses: ‘Here, in this house, lived this and that person with his children, grandchildren, …’. It was still Jews who lived there before us, and they were deported to Siberia – there was no trace left of them. We stayed there for a day or two.
It was raining when we set out from there, and it was muddy, the streets weren’t paved – countryside roads –, we were swimming in mud. We rented some carts from the local peasants to carry the luggage. And everybody paid using whatever they had: if they still had some money left or some jewelry, something. And they bartered.
They gave you something in exchange, if you needed a loaf of bread in exchange for… [an object] And we pressed forward. Old people of 80, older than 80, fell to the ground and never rose again. And you weren’t allowed to help them to their feet. There were soldiers, and they herded us like cattle.
We arrived in another village where we stayed over night. Well, it lasted a while until we reached the river Dniester.
And this was during the period of the autumn holidays, the first few days of the holidays were over, then the Sukkot holiday arrived – which is at the end of the holidays. The holidays last around 4 weeks, and this was at the end. And we prepared food, as we usually did.
My father went to the synagogue in the morning; my mother attended as well, together with all the grown-ups, and usually they were supposed to return home at one o’clock. And around half past ten, eleven in the morning, our parents returned from the synagogue together with our aunts and uncle.
‘They are deporting us, and we have to be at the train station at three o’clock.’ During that very same day. So the racial law was passed in September 1940, and this was happening around October 1941. Of course, everyone packed in their suitcases whatever they could, they used blankets in which they wrapped underwear, bedclothes, clothing, the food that had been prepared for the holiday, in pots, bags, whatever they had.
As for our valuables, we took some of them with us – they came in very handy later on –, and we left the rest with some neighbors in a small chest. And it wasn’t three o’clock yet, it was half past one, two o’clock, and they came with the carts.
There were pre-military units back then – youth that had probably been recruited –, and they came with the bayonets: ‘Get out of the house, get out, get out!’ There was a German or two among them. And we loaded that cart with everything we could, and we set off towards the train station.
The train in the Vatra Dornei train station had 8-10-12 cars – I won’t tell you how many, for I don’t know. And they started loading us in the train cars. They were stock cars, we boarded the train, we were 150-200 in one car, it was very crowded. There were old men, children, and some sat on their luggage, others were standing up.
When they finished boarding everyone on the platform, they closed the cars, drew the bolts, and the train started moving. [Ed. note: On 9th October 1941 the operations for the deportation of Jews to Transnistria started in all localities in South Bukovina (Suceava, Campulung Moldovenesc, Radauti, Vatra Dornei).]
A single Jewish pharmacist remained in Vatra Dornei, as there were no Christian pharmacists there and the decree that was issued stated that the pharmacist should remain there until they bring a Christian one, and then he will be deported, too. And that’s what actually happened. He joined us as well, I don’t know, a few weeks later.
The train started moving and stopped in Campulung [Campulung Moldovenesc]. There are approximately 50 km between Vatra Dornei and Campulung. [Campulung Moldovenesc is located 49 km north-east of Vatra Dornei]. But Campulung was also a city with many Jewish inhabitants.
And they took the Jews from Campulung, Gura Humorului, Radauti. I don’t know whether they managed to send all of them at once on the same train, but anyway, other trains came, and they sent the remaining Jews. And the trip was a long one. People relieved themselves there, as the cars were bolted and the train was moving at a snail’s pace.
After having eaten whatever food they brought along, people still had the pots where the food had been stored, and everybody used them to… There was tragedy everywhere. And the memory I have of this episode is terrible, for people started praying.
Especially since it was a holiday, too. And you have to wash before praying, you have to be clean. And they recited the prayers on the train despite everything, and especially despite people relieving themselves there. So the train kept moving along. We passed through Cernauti [Chernivtsi].
There was a ghetto in Chernivtsi not far from the railroad, you could see it from the train – for people finally managed to open a little the door of the stock car – just enough to see outside, and let in a bit of air. And you could see poor people standing there and looking, there was a fence around the ghetto so they couldn’t get out of there, but they were waving at us – for they knew by then that we were being evacuated and taken to Transnistria.
My father went to the synagogue in the morning; my mother attended as well, together with all the grown-ups, and usually they were supposed to return home at one o’clock. And around half past ten, eleven in the morning, our parents returned from the synagogue together with our aunts and uncle.
‘They are deporting us, and we have to be at the train station at three o’clock.’ During that very same day. So the racial law was passed in September 1940, and this was happening around October 1941. Of course, everyone packed in their suitcases whatever they could, they used blankets in which they wrapped underwear, bedclothes, clothing, the food that had been prepared for the holiday, in pots, bags, whatever they had.
As for our valuables, we took some of them with us – they came in very handy later on –, and we left the rest with some neighbors in a small chest. And it wasn’t three o’clock yet, it was half past one, two o’clock, and they came with the carts.
There were pre-military units back then – youth that had probably been recruited –, and they came with the bayonets: ‘Get out of the house, get out, get out!’ There was a German or two among them. And we loaded that cart with everything we could, and we set off towards the train station.
The train in the Vatra Dornei train station had 8-10-12 cars – I won’t tell you how many, for I don’t know. And they started loading us in the train cars. They were stock cars, we boarded the train, we were 150-200 in one car, it was very crowded. There were old men, children, and some sat on their luggage, others were standing up.
When they finished boarding everyone on the platform, they closed the cars, drew the bolts, and the train started moving. [Ed. note: On 9th October 1941 the operations for the deportation of Jews to Transnistria started in all localities in South Bukovina (Suceava, Campulung Moldovenesc, Radauti, Vatra Dornei).]
A single Jewish pharmacist remained in Vatra Dornei, as there were no Christian pharmacists there and the decree that was issued stated that the pharmacist should remain there until they bring a Christian one, and then he will be deported, too. And that’s what actually happened. He joined us as well, I don’t know, a few weeks later.
The train started moving and stopped in Campulung [Campulung Moldovenesc]. There are approximately 50 km between Vatra Dornei and Campulung. [Campulung Moldovenesc is located 49 km north-east of Vatra Dornei]. But Campulung was also a city with many Jewish inhabitants.
And they took the Jews from Campulung, Gura Humorului, Radauti. I don’t know whether they managed to send all of them at once on the same train, but anyway, other trains came, and they sent the remaining Jews. And the trip was a long one. People relieved themselves there, as the cars were bolted and the train was moving at a snail’s pace.
After having eaten whatever food they brought along, people still had the pots where the food had been stored, and everybody used them to… There was tragedy everywhere. And the memory I have of this episode is terrible, for people started praying.
Especially since it was a holiday, too. And you have to wash before praying, you have to be clean. And they recited the prayers on the train despite everything, and especially despite people relieving themselves there. So the train kept moving along. We passed through Cernauti [Chernivtsi].
There was a ghetto in Chernivtsi not far from the railroad, you could see it from the train – for people finally managed to open a little the door of the stock car – just enough to see outside, and let in a bit of air. And you could see poor people standing there and looking, there was a fence around the ghetto so they couldn’t get out of there, but they were waving at us – for they knew by then that we were being evacuated and taken to Transnistria.
But prior to this, all the Jews from small villages and towns had been evacuated to Vatra Dornei. Just as it happened in Botosani as well, in the case of Sulita, Stefanesti, Saveni – the inhabitants of which came to Botosani.
The inhabitants of Carlibaba, Dorna Candrenilor, Rosu… there were several villages, small towns, all came to Vatra Dornei. I believe this was at the end of 1940. For there were many teachers from these towns and villages who came and taught at the Jewish school. So there were many Jews in Vatra Dornei.
The inhabitants of Carlibaba, Dorna Candrenilor, Rosu… there were several villages, small towns, all came to Vatra Dornei. I believe this was at the end of 1940. For there were many teachers from these towns and villages who came and taught at the Jewish school. So there were many Jews in Vatra Dornei.
I didn’t attend the cheder, but we also learned Hebrew at the Jewish school.
I attended the 1st and 2nd grade at the Romanian school, where we all studied together, without any differences. And then the racial law was issued [3] and they pulled us out of schools. I was in the 3rd grade. A Jewish school was founded, with Jewish teachers – for Christian teachers were not allowed to teach there –, and we resumed going to school.I attended this Jewish school during 3rd and 4th grade.
The ordeal started around 1937-1938. However, as a rule, people never discussed political matters in front of us, children, either at school or at home. They tried to somehow protect us from these things, to let us live our childhood. But at a certain point we sensed something was amiss. Jewish men were taken hostage in Vatra Dornei.
The temple in Vatra Dornei was very beautiful – I think it is rather derelict nowadays. And there are tall, iron fences inside the temple courtyard, and the Romanian army kept the men hostage there, in the yard, in collaboration probably with the Germans.
I think Cuza [Alexandru C. Cuza] had been killed, and this law was passed that all Jewish male individuals be taken hostage. [Ed. note: A.C. Cuza dies in 1947, Mrs. Leibovici is probably referring to Corneliu Zelea Codreanu who is assassinated during the night of 29th-30th Novemver 1938 together with other 13 legionaires, on orders from Carol II, by gendarmes transporting him to the prison of Jilava. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corneliu_Zelea_Codreanu ]
It was believed that it was the result of a Jewish plot. They were held captive for a few days, after which they were released. The shops were reopened – there were many Jewish shops in Vatra Dornei –, life went on. But in what manner? They know better, the parents – and took it to their graves –, what they experienced in that period. And we, the children, living beside them, felt that something was amiss.
The temple in Vatra Dornei was very beautiful – I think it is rather derelict nowadays. And there are tall, iron fences inside the temple courtyard, and the Romanian army kept the men hostage there, in the yard, in collaboration probably with the Germans.
I think Cuza [Alexandru C. Cuza] had been killed, and this law was passed that all Jewish male individuals be taken hostage. [Ed. note: A.C. Cuza dies in 1947, Mrs. Leibovici is probably referring to Corneliu Zelea Codreanu who is assassinated during the night of 29th-30th Novemver 1938 together with other 13 legionaires, on orders from Carol II, by gendarmes transporting him to the prison of Jilava. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corneliu_Zelea_Codreanu ]
It was believed that it was the result of a Jewish plot. They were held captive for a few days, after which they were released. The shops were reopened – there were many Jewish shops in Vatra Dornei –, life went on. But in what manner? They know better, the parents – and took it to their graves –, what they experienced in that period. And we, the children, living beside them, felt that something was amiss.
And life ran its normal, quiet course, I didn’t feel any sort of – shall I call it, anti-Semitism. Well, what do I know, I was little, perhaps I wasn’t even aware of it. But I had many Christian friends. There were many Germans in Vatra Dornei, and we played with the children of those Germans, we’d go to their house, they’d come to ours. There was an atmosphere of understanding, of friendship.
We received Chanukkah gelt on Chanukkah. We bought chocolate, candy. The traditional Chanukkah toy was a spinning top, you turn it a few times and it turns. I had one as well. What won’t children play with…
At the end of Sukkot, on the last day, the holiday of Simchat Torah is celebrated. Children rejoiced when this holiday arrived. People went to the synagogue, the one who performed the ceremony, the rabbi, or whoever happened to be, would take out the Torah and give it to each man to walk with it. And they had to walk 7 times [around the bimah].
And if there were enough Torahs, he would give one to every man. If not, a series of men would go, followed by another series. It’s a merry holiday, people sing and dance holding the Torah. But I see that nowadays people walk only 3 times around the altar [Ed. note: Mrs. Ietti Leibovici is referring to the bimah.], and then others take their place.
[Ed. note: The central element of the holiday is represented by the joy of reading the Torah and is expressed by means of a procession consisting in walking around the ‘bimah,’ meaning the podium where the Torah is read or the synagogue’s podium; each person carries the Torah scrolls turn by turn.
This procession, called ‘hakafot’ is repeated 7 times and it synthesizes the joy of reading and carrying the Torah.] And there is also a smaller Torah for the boys over 13, and they can carry it, too. In addition, children had small flags with magen David, and there was an apple impaled at the end of the small flag. And what a joy that small flag with an apple was for children… And afterwards they served sweet must at the synagogue – it is the time when must is produced –, and walnuts, ginger bread, dry cake.
And if there were enough Torahs, he would give one to every man. If not, a series of men would go, followed by another series. It’s a merry holiday, people sing and dance holding the Torah. But I see that nowadays people walk only 3 times around the altar [Ed. note: Mrs. Ietti Leibovici is referring to the bimah.], and then others take their place.
[Ed. note: The central element of the holiday is represented by the joy of reading the Torah and is expressed by means of a procession consisting in walking around the ‘bimah,’ meaning the podium where the Torah is read or the synagogue’s podium; each person carries the Torah scrolls turn by turn.
This procession, called ‘hakafot’ is repeated 7 times and it synthesizes the joy of reading and carrying the Torah.] And there is also a smaller Torah for the boys over 13, and they can carry it, too. In addition, children had small flags with magen David, and there was an apple impaled at the end of the small flag. And what a joy that small flag with an apple was for children… And afterwards they served sweet must at the synagogue – it is the time when must is produced –, and walnuts, ginger bread, dry cake.
But when I was in America, I saw them in Brooklyn, where many Jews live, very religious ones; those who have houses with courtyards have a pavilion like that in the courtyard, where the religious service is performed, but also where they eat lunch and dinner.