By Chance Alone (4 page)

C
zechoslovakia was established as a democracy under the terms of the Versailles Treaty. Its population was made up of four ethnic groups: the Czechs, the Slovaks, the Hungarians, and the Sudeten Germans. The official languages were Czech and Slovak, but each ethno-regional group spoke its own language (including German or Hungarian in some regions). We lived in the eastern part of the country and spoke Hungarian at home and Slovak at school. We revered Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, the president of Czechoslovakia from
1919
to
1935
. When he died in
1937
, an era died with him. In particular, the Jewish people lost a president under whose leadership they'd flourished for seventeen golden years.

Not long after Masaryk's death, civil disobedience erupted in the Sudeten part of the country, which shared a border with Nazi Germany. Hitler capitalized on this civil strife and used it to wrest the Sudetenland away from Czechoslovakia. In
1938
, he summoned the leaders of Britain, France, and Italy to the Munich Conference to make the German annexation of the Sudetenland
a reality. Our own president, Edvard Beneš, was excluded from the meeting, so the fate of the territory was decided without his input and in contravention of the Versailles Treaty, which said that Great Britain, France, and Italy would come to the aid of Czechoslovakia if its neighbours threatened it. But Hitler had threatened war unless they agreed to allow Germany to annex the region, and so they acquiesced. It was ironic that two democracies, Britain and France, signed away a fellow democratic country to appease a dictator. The country's fate was decided by the stroke of a pen. Not a single bullet was fired during the partition, yet it opened the floodgates to the Second World War.

Upon his arrival back in Britain, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain waved the agreement he had signed with Hitler and the other leaders and declared it to be a guarantee of “peace for our time.” He wrote in his diary that he had no intention of going to war for a faraway country whose name he could not even pronounce. The French did not realize that they had signed away their eastern defences, and there was champagne flowing in Paris to celebrate peace with Nazi Germany. Six months later, on March
15
,
1939
, German troops crossed the Czechoslovakian border and took control of Prague. Czechoslovakia ceased to exist, and the country was partitioned into three regions: Bohemia and Moravia became the protectorate of the German Reich, overseen by Hitler's deputy Reinhard Heydrich; the fascist autonomous state of Slovakia was created under the leadership of a Roman Catholic priest, Dr. Jozef Tiso; and the eastern part of the country, inhabited by Hungarian-speaking people, was given to Hungary under the fascist leadership of Regent Miklós Horthy. The Czechoslovakian Jewish population was left with a deep sense of dread.

One day in
1938
, about ten of my father's friends came to our home to listen to a major speech by Adolf Hitler on my father's crystal radio. All of us understood basic German, and I heard Hitler's poisonous words pouring out of the box. At one point he said, “
Wir werden die Juden ausradieren
” (We are going to eradicate all the Jews of Europe). My father and his friends appeared shocked by this statement, and I felt in my gut that something terrible was going to happen.

Indeed, life as we knew it was about to change in ways we could not have imagined. In March
1939
, when I was ten, the Slovak bureaucracy in our town was dismantled and the Hungarian fascists took over. We were taught to sing the Hungarian national anthem in readiness for the new regime. There was no school to attend because the Slovakian teachers had left, and the people of the town prepared to greet the new authority by erecting a large victory gate with a sign that read “Welcome, our Hungarian liberators.” The flag of Hungary and ribbons of red, white, and green were displayed throughout the streets and on homes. We Jews could not foresee what these changes meant for us, and as a child, I was unaware of the deeper dangers until some days after the Hungarian troops arrived, bringing with them an overt ideology of anti-Semitism.

For Jews like us, allegiance to this new regime meant that we had to succumb to a fascist ideology that was alien and unfriendly. Yet we had to find ways to ingratiate ourselves to this change. My grandfather, for example, took me up to the attic, where he stored his old officer's cavalry uniform from the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. We cleaned the clothes, brushed and polished the boots, and attached all his medals. He presented quite a figure to me in this uniform. All Jewish veterans who'd fought
in the First World War on the side of the Austro-Hungarian Empire gathered in their uniforms in front of the welcoming gate to show their old Hungarian stance. I was too young at the time to understand the significance of what was going on. I saw the Jewish adults in our town trying to adapt themselves to the new reality, but they hid their deepest fears as they suddenly found themselves thrust into a hostile fascist system, knowing their vulnerability as Jews.

After several hours of waiting in the centre of town, we received word of the arrival of the Hungarian troops. In the distance, we observed a column of soldiers, led by an officer on his horse, slowly marching toward us. I looked at the soldiers as they passed and was not impressed by their appearance. Their uniforms were dirty and full of patches—no comparison to the Czechoslovakian army, which was always so well outfitted. A cry went up from the crowd, and everyone sang the Hungarian anthem as the military column marched into the town square. There, the welcoming committee officially handed over our town from Czechoslovakia to the new Hungarian administration. The ceremony ended, and the soldiers were dismissed and allowed to wander throughout the town. They headed to the pubs, where townspeople gave them food and other provisions. My father's establishment, the Cellar, had a big sign that read “Free drinks to our liberators.” In a span of approximately two days, my father's inventory was exhausted and he could not afford to continue with this largesse.

Hungarian soldiers were posted as guards on several roads coming into the town as if we lived in a war zone. I experienced my first encounter with Jew-hatred under Hungarian rule when I crossed into town over the railway tracks and was stopped by a
guard who recognized my cap as Jewish. He yelled at me, “You dirty Jew, where are you going? You should take off your cap when you see me!” When I told my father of this encounter, he prepared little bottles of schnapps for me to give to guards as I entered their posts, which allowed me to reach my destinations unharassed from that point forward.

With the new administration, our town was suddenly flooded by shoppers from Hungary. They came on bicycles, by horse and buggy, or on foot to buy yard goods, hardware, shoes, and anything else that they had not seen in a long period of time. I felt overwhelmed by all these strangers buying up everything they could find. Soon after, the gendarmes (police) arrived, along with new teachers and bureaucrats, and our town became the seat of the province of Abaúj-Szántó. The new currency was the Hungarian
pengö
, which replaced the Czech
corona
.

School started and we met our new Hungarian teachers. They taught us in Hungarian, and Slovak was no longer officially spoken in our region. Jewish businesses and stores operated as best they could, but the shopkeepers could not replace goods that sold out because the sources were now across the border in the Nazi protectorate. Amid all these changes, we suddenly realized that my mother's family now lived in fascist Slovakia and we were in fascist Hungary. We could communicate by post, but we could not travel across the border, which meant my summer holidays with my grandmother, uncles, and cousins were now only a memory.

With all these changes, we Jews felt ostracized, and ugly Jew-hatred started to surface in many ways: name-calling, fights with other kids, and newspapers filled with propaganda about Jews coming to Hungary from the east (Ukraine). Eastern Jews were
depicted as having hooked noses and beards, wearing dirty black garb, and coming in hordes to endanger the lives of local populations. One story, entitled “
Tarnopolbol Indult El
” (He started out from Tarnopol), was meant to convince the Hungarian population that Jews were threats to be wary of. Repeated enough times, lies become a “truth” that people believe. Even I was confused and ashamed by the characterization because it was so oppressive, one-sided, and dehumanizing. I did not want to be singled out in such a negative way. I tried to insulate myself from the horrible, hurtful rhetoric, but it was a constant daily burden.

In hindsight, I see how negative pressures were continually assaulting us in our daily lives, and we had to get accustomed to living with this adversity. The Jewish community tried to maintain hope that this persecution would pass with time, and we came together to make life bearable in spite of the hardships. It was the parents who dealt with many of the new stresses, but at least our family was still intact. It was still only
1939
, and we had many unknown and unthinkable obstacles ahead of us. But we could live only one day at a time, and each of those days carried more than its share of hardship.

T
he Hungarian bureaucracy was in full control of the town's offices when I started grade
5
in September
1939
. All boys were required to wear a navy cap with the Hungarian emblem on it, and to salute any military officers and teachers we met on the street. The new Hungarian teachers were noticeably stricter, especially with Jewish students. I felt additional pressure, not only because I was Jewish but because I had an attention deficit disorder and became easily bored with subjects in which I struggled, such as mathematics and grammar. I liked geography, history, and art, and while I loved music, I could not get the hang of reading music notation.

During teacher changeovers, we often let off steam by throwing crayons, sponges, and other things around the classroom. Of course, this behaviour was always noted and reported by the next teacher. As punishment, we were handed over to the physical education teacher after classes and ordered to do hundreds of leapfrogs and push-ups in the schoolyard. Those of us who could not keep up were beaten with a stick.

My family in 1940: Alfred (left), my mother, me, my father, and Eugene.

In
1940
, the government posted more edicts in town specifically targeting the Jewish community. Jews were no longer allowed to use radios, and we were ordered to take our crystal sets to town hall and relinquish them. Without radios, we were cut off from the outside world and we could receive our news only from government-censored newspapers. An edict that particularly affected my family barred Jews from selling alcohol and tobacco. My father lost his main source of income when his business was confiscated without any compensation and all his merchandise was handed over to the authorities, along with the key to his establishment. Another oppressive edict decreed that all Jewish families be photographed by the police, and we were certain those photographs were then used as a surveillance tool. At school, we had weekly cadet drills with a military officer. Jewish students were always placed at the end of the column and made
to carry shovels and rakes, while non-Jewish students carried wooden guns at the front. Upon arrival at the shooting range, the Jewish students had to clean, rake, and shovel the area while the others performed drills with their wooden guns. Marching through the town, I was acutely aware of being a second-class citizen, and I dreaded this humiliating weekly session at school.

In
1941
, all Jewish males from ages eighteen to forty-five, married and single, were sent away to labour battalions. My father, my uncle, and all the others were taken to work in mines, forests, and military installations on the Eastern Front. They had to pack a backpack with winter clothes and boots, and they paid their own fare to their designated postings, leaving their families to fend for themselves. This, of course, was a physical and economic hardship for the entire Jewish community, including my mother, my grandparents, and all the children. Suddenly, my mother was the single parent of three children, and she did her best to meet all the demands on her and hide her worries from us. We children also had to pitch in and do work that was normally done by adults. The whole Jewish community had to support the needs of its members and provide the necessities of life, particularly for destitute families. Our Hebrew classes ended when our teacher was also taken away to the labour battalions.

The men in the labour battalions were not compensated for their work, and they were given only a one-week furlough once a year. When they arrived home for that visit, it was a huge event. And when they had to leave again, it was a very sad goodbye. To send them on their way, every household was busy for days, preparing food and provisions to help sustain the men while they were gone. With my father and uncle away, my grandfather was in charge of the daily grind and morale in my home. The gaping
absence of our men particularly struck me during Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) when there were only old people, women, and children at the synagogue.

Another crucial edict forbade Jewish people from employing non-Jews, which meant that Anna, our household helper, could not be with us anymore. When she refused to leave us, the gendarmes came to remove her forcibly from our home. Anti-Semitism reared its ugly head again when the Jewish population was blamed for the wounded soldiers who came back (some with missing limbs) from the Russian front in late
1941
and early
1942
. Jews were held responsible because Hungarians claimed that all the Russian communists were Jewish.

In the spring of
1942
, we received word by telegram that all the members of the Friedman family, my mother's relatives, had been deported from Slovakia to an unknown destination. We had no way to communicate with them or find out where they were. My mother was devastated, and I thought of all the time I had spent with them during my summer holidays, especially my two cousins, Edith and Lily, who were close to my age. It was unthinkable that people could simply be removed from their homes and were suddenly gone, disappeared. I could tell from my mother's demeanour that this news weighed heavily on her and filled her with worry. She had no idea what had happened to her own mother, her brothers, or her three sisters and their families.

One day, months after their deportation, we received a postcard that read, “We, the Friedman family, are all here together. We are working on farms and we are awaiting your arrival. (signed) The Friedman family.” Other families in our town received similar cards, which were printed with a big German eagle and a stamp that said “General Government Lublin
District,” the new name of the German-occupied area of Poland. While the postcards may have provoked suspicion in some members of the community, they gave me a deep sense of relief. I felt hopeful to learn that my relatives were alive months after they had disappeared.

***

In August
1942
, a few of my friends came to our orchard to pick fruit for their families. As we played and stuffed ourselves with fruit, we challenged each other to see who could climb the highest in a very tall walnut tree. This was a risky activity because you could easily miss a foothold or handhold on a branch and be severely injured.

Suddenly, I heard my dog Farkas barking ferociously. I could tell that some strangers had entered our yard and he was warning us of the intrusion. Then I heard my mother call for me to come back to the house. When I arrived, I saw two gendarmes reading from a document to my grandparents, my mother, and my aunt. I could not imagine the contents of the document, but from the looks on their faces, I understood it was a serious situation. It was an order that my mother, my aunt Irene, my two brothers, and I each pack a bundle and prepare to be removed from our home. My grandfather and grandmother were excluded from this directive, as was Aunt Bella. My grandfather pleaded with the gendarmes, saying that my mother and aunt were Hungarian citizens, and that our family had lived in the region for many generations. The gendarmes said that they were simply following orders. My grandmother helped to pack food while my mother gathered other necessities for our departure. When
the gendarmes were distracted, my grandfather slipped my mother and Aunt Irene a handful of money. The gendarmes then walked us out of our yard; my dog Farkas had to be restrained by my grandfather.

I was thirteen years old, Eugene was ten, and Alfred was six. We were now a group of five travelling into the unknown, and we felt frightened and powerless. My father and Uncle Eugene were still at the labour battalion in southern Hungary, hundreds of kilometres away, and they didn't have any idea that this was happening. The gendarmes took us to the railway station, where some fifteen other families were being held with their bundles; there were approximately eighty people in total. We were eventually loaded into an open cattle car with two gendarmes who sat with their feet dangling over the edge. We were jostled about in the car and tried to make ourselves somewhat comfortable. We had no idea where we were going or how long the journey would take.

The first stop was the city of Kassa, about sixty kilometres away. There, our cattle car was attached to another transport that already had several cars loaded with people. We travelled on, eventually arriving at a station called Szatmár-Némety in Transylvania. Some minutes after our arrival, several local Jewish men and women appeared to distribute fruit, bread, and water to us. This was a wonderful gesture on their part as we were in great need of food, and I wondered how they had learned of our plight. We remained in the car at this station all night. We had only two buckets to use as toilets, and when they were full, someone got off the train and emptied them. Being in close quarters with so many others was beginning to wear us down, and the sleep deprivation and other irritations began to show.

The next day we travelled in a northeastern direction along the Tisza River, toward the Karpathian Mountains. At this point, after three days in the open car, the nights were feeling quite chilly. The older people were full of groans and aches and pains, and we all missed our home comforts and freedom of movement. We reached the next stop, a place called Máramaros-Sziget, in the middle of the night. Our transport was shunted to a siding, where we stood the whole of the next day without movement. I began to wonder anxiously if it would be better to get where we were going or stay where we were.

That evening the train started up again, and we realized it was going back in the opposite direction. Eventually, we arrived again at Szatmár-Némety, and miraculously the Jewish citizens supplied us, again, with food and water. It was hard for us to understand the manoeuvring of our captors. We hoped that we might be returning home, and we were very disappointed when the train moved once more to Máramaros-Sziget. This time, the track beside us had a military hospital train loaded with injured Hungarian soldiers coming from the Russian front. I recall one heavily bandaged officer who hatefully yelled out to us in Hungarian, “You stinking Jews, you will be swimming in the Dniester River like fallen leaves.” His outburst was frightening and strange to me.

The train continued its journey along the Tisza River beside the Karpathian Mountains and eventually arrived at a town called Raho. By now, we had been travelling for nearly six days, and we were eager to get out of the boxcar. The train continued on to a small station called Kőrösmező. This was the end of the line for us, and we were finally able to gather our bundles and leave the boxcar.

There were eight hundred to a thousand of us milling about, and Hungarian military police officers soon took charge. They ordered us to start climbing a steep, rocky road. With great difficulty, we arrived at a mountain plateau that had several large sheds and a sawmill where lumber was being processed. This place was called Havasalya, and it was located near the Tatar Pass, which led to Ukraine. The police moved us to an area of long tables, and we were processed and asked for identification. Our bundles were checked for hidden valuables and currency. They checked all our belongings thoroughly, even looking at the shoulder pads in our jackets and inside loaves of bread. One family was beaten for hiding a gold watch on a chain and several rings; these items were discovered when a policeman dipped his bayonet into a jar of jam and pulled out the hidden valuables.

My mother had charged me with hiding our currency during the journey, and I had placed it inside the lining of my boots. When I saw the police so thoroughly checking every person, I told my mother that I was afraid I would be caught. She told me to act normally, but she looked worried. When it was our turn to be inspected, the officer requested our documents and then asked us where our men were. My mother and aunt told the officer that they were in the labour battalions, and he simply said, “Move on.” I breathed a big sigh of relief.

Once the entire group was processed, we were directed to three sheds, where we bedded down with approximately three hundred people per shed. The sawdust on the floor cushioned us somewhat as we slept, so it was more comfortable than the cattle car. But the shed was very hot during the day, and its gappy lumber walls made it cold and drafty at night. We staked out a spot for our family, and this became our home for the next two
weeks. There was no water available at the site and we had to fetch it in pails from quite a distance away, guarded all the while by gendarmes. The Tisza River came from the mountains, and it was clear and ice cold. We used this water for drinking only—there was never enough left to bathe in or wash our clothes. Our food rations consisted of a bowl of soup a day; those who had money could buy a loaf of round black rye, the size of a kaiser bun, from the local Ruthenians who came to the area where we filled our pails. Now the money that I had hidden was a blessing, and it was able to sustain us and others who were needy in the weeks that we were there. We paid dearly for this bread and the exchange had to take place clandestinely, when the guards were out of sight.