Until the end of the war, I also attended the Cultura Theoretical High School, which was Jewish too. I received a scholarship, because I was a good student and my parents didn’t have the means to pay for the tuition.
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Displaying 17341 - 17370 of 50826 results
Ticu Goldstein
After finishing the elementary school, I wanted to go to the [Romanian] Regele Ferdinand Secondary School. I passed the exam, got admitted, and… that was it. It was the summer of 1940 and the law banning the Jewish children from the Romanian schools was passed [according to the Jewish Status] [3]. So I had to go to a Jewish school again, the Malbim Complementary School, which was virtually useless, as it didn’t count as a secondary school.
I went to elementary school at the Jewish School on Colonel Orero St. There were only Jews there, so I was protected to a certain extent. Charity was a rather common practice back then – I would eat at school and I would sometimes get clothes and footwear from there. But there were times when I was unable to get to school for no reason other than the fact that I didn’t have any boots or shoes to out on. I was sorry because we didn’t have Romanian classmates, and because it wasn’t a mixed school – this way, I could’ve met some girls too. I used to get good grades and I was awarded prizes at the end of the year several times. I loved the Romanian language and I acquired a passion for reading: I would read a book every two days. Back in those days, physical punishment was still present in schools; it was still believed that ‘all beating comes from heaven’ [Romanian proverb]. A crowbar always leaned against the teacher’s desk, but it only served as a means of intimidation, for no one ever used it. What they did use was an extremely stiff linden ruler. After a beating session (the ‘felon’ would get 40 hits on each palm), the palm would swell three times. One would be punished for truancy, for not doing one’s homework and for not having learnt one’s lesson. The calligraphy teacher, who was a bit insane and had fits of hysteria, used other methods: she would have the pupil lying on the floor and would trample him; or she would pull the pupil’s whiskers until plucking them off.
I was sent to a private kindergarten when I was about 4. The mistress was Miss Jenny, a kind, tender woman. Unfortunately, the fee was too big for my family’s budget, so I stopped going there after a while. From my kindergarten days, I keep the memory of my first automobile ride – which was, of course, a luxury in those days. We had to go to the Savoy Theater, where my kindergarten had a festivity; the ones who had to perform on stage were taken there by car. I only had one line to utter: ‘My pity for you makes my heart break’. But the stage fright made me say it wrong: ‘My heart for you makes my pity break’. Everyone laughed, although that was supposed to be a tragic moment. Thus, my actor’s career began and ended with the same line.
I spent my early childhood in a reasonable place, on Logofat Tautu St. But soon my parents had to move, and so we ended up on Negru Voda St., in two shabby rooms. [Ed. note: Negru Voda St. was located within the Vacaresti-Dudesti area, which was then a peripheral, destitute zone of Bucharest, with the highest concentration of Jews. The city never had a ghetto in the strict sense of the word. Jews could settle anywhere they could afford to buy a dwelling.
Anyway, after the clock smith apprentice routine, my parents sent him to be an apprentice at Bernard Kaufman’s stores, where my brother worked as a shop-assistant for a few years, until around 1940.
First, my parents sent him to be the apprentice of a clock smith named Carniol, in order to learn this trade that was widespread among the Romanian Jews with little means. That was in 1936 or 1937. Unfortunately, Marcel sort of lacked the patience required by this profession: he would fix the clock with one hand and scratch the wall with the other, out of boredom.
He also brought a gramophone on which we played synagogal music and operas. My brother was crazy about opera and would often go to concerts at the Romanian Opera. He would get in whenever he wanted to, as he bribed the ticket collector. He had a cheerful nature and he loved to go to parties.
I don’t know whether he went to the kindergarten or not, but I know he attended a Romanian school, in a time when that was still possible.
Every year on Yom Kippur, my mother would say: ‘Oh, what an easy fast we had this year’. It was obvious she had a lot of practice in the field of fasting. My brother and I would sometimes eat surreptitiously, but my mother pretended not to spot us.
On holidays, after preparing the house for the celebration of Pesach, Purim or Chanukkah, my mother would go to the Choral Temple, not to the Malbim Synagogue, where my father used to go. She loved to go there because she wanted to see other people and to be seen by other people. The Choral Temple was a place where friendships and relationships would be started more easily… We, the children, would play in the synagogue’s courtyard or would send kisses to our acquaintances who were up in the balcony.
After that, my father became a free-lance worker. He would usually go to his customers’ places. Our situation went from bad to worse and my mother was forced to start working as a tailor (a trade she had learnt from her father in her childhood).
At a certain point, my father lost the workshop, because he didn’t manage to pay his taxes. So one beautiful spring day, some people from the police and the city hall came. They were beating this huge drum, reading aloud the decision that empowered them to take my father’s workshop away from him. It was a scene worthy of the Middle Ages.
My father would have liked all the family to help him in his work, as the two apprentices weren’t always there. I used to help him pretty often. Although I was only 10, I was familiar with timber and I enjoyed the smell of new furniture. My job was to polish the furniture. It was no easy job, for, if my arm got tired, I had to quickly remove the brush imbued with chemical substances from the piece of furniture, lest it should imprint itself and burn the material.
The house and the workshop were in fact one and the same thing, and my mother would get upset because the house was full of sawdust.
I don’t know who taught him carpentry, but he was very skilled. He owned a workshop in Bucharest, where he had two apprentices. He was very industrious and persevering and valued a thing that was well crafted. He made the pieces of furniture all the way from the beginning to the end. He often worked for important people, like the writer Liviu Rebreanu [Liviu Rebreanu (1885-1944): Romanian prose writer and playwright, author of significant social novels such as Ion, Rascoala – The Uprising –, and Padurea spanzuratilor – The Forest of the Hanged.] or the prominent politician Armand Calinescu [Armand Calinescu (1893-1939): president of the Ministers’ Council, an anti-Nazi and anti-Legionary figure, advocate of the alliance with France and England; he had the courage to tell King Carol II, in 1939, that ‘the Germans are a danger and an alliance with them equals a protectorate’. He was assassinated by the Legionaries on 21st September 1939, in Bucharest.].
My father, Lazar Goldstein, was born in Husi in 1900. His only education consisted of four elementary grades, as he had to start earning his living at an early age.
They all survived and left for Israel immediately after the war.
My father had a brother, Lupu Goldstein, whose original name was Wolf. He was born in Husi, and settled in Dorohoi. During the war, he was deported together with his wife and three children to Transnistria [1].
Simona was another sister of my father’s. She left for America at the end of the 1930s, and she wanted to take us with her. But the break of the war was near and nobody wanted the Jews anymore.
I do remember a sister of his, Adela, who was born in Husi and who emigrated to Canada together with her husband and children, before World War II began.
He was a tailor.
I know for sure that his native tongue was Yiddish; but he also spoke Romanian.
I know he was very religious, devout even; he wouldn’t let himself photographed, because he thought this would mean breaking the commandment not to have idols. The only picture of him had been taken without him being aware of it. Unfortunately, that picture was lost.
It was a matchmaker who helped her meet my father. In 1922, he was serving in the army, and they got married before he had gone out. First they got engaged, on 3rd June 1922. A few months later, they became husband and wife. They had a Jewish wedding, before the rabbi, under the kippah, but they also went to the civil authorities. The party took place in a house on Romulus St. My mother kept in touch with the matchmaker who had introduced my father to her. I remember they would sometimes meet and talk about family, hardships and children. Although their union was arranged, my parents got along with each other very well all the time. They respected each other and had an enduring marriage.
Her father was a tailor in Piatra Neamt. It was him who taught her this craft, which she exercised with great ability, especially in the times when our family’s financial situation was precarious.
Romania
After the war they made aliyah to Israel, settled in a kibbutz and took up high performance agriculture.
In 1940 or 1941, they wanted to leave for Russia, but they were told at the border that things were very serious there and that it was risky for them to go on. So they came back.
In the interwar period, when our material situation gradually deteriorated, Uncle Iules would send us supplies: little barrels with cheese, olives and sausages. Even though he had a better material situation, he had the time to think about his sister's problems and helped her the best way he could.
My mother had a brother, named Tobias Iules. Uncle Iules lived in Bacau, where he owned a pub. The place was called ‘The Fair Horse’.