A story that should not be forgotten

[Merced LifeWriting Class]

This story is dedicated to my grandchildren.
They were lucky to be born in a free country, a Democracy.
I want them always to remember.

Last year a friend who teaches English at a junior high school asked me to speak in front of one hundred of her students, in the auditorium. They had just finished reading The Diary of Anne Frank and she wanted me to talk about what would have happened to the Frank family if they were able to leave Holland before the German occupation. At first I was going to say no. I have never spoken in front of an audience, as I have an accent and am very shy. But after debating for a few days I agreed; I felt it was my duty to let the new generation know what happened during World War II.

I was born in 1928, in Budapest, the capital of Hungary. The city is divided into two parts by the Danube, one of the longest rivers in Europe. One side of the city is called Buda, and the other is Pest. Pest is more the commercial part, while Buda is surrounded by hills and has beautiful homes. I remember as a child we used to go on hikes to a special place in Buda where they had goats and fresh milk (I wasn't very fond of goat milk).

My parents and family were Jewish and very well off My paternal grandfather, Jacob, had a wholesale linen business and my Uncle and Father worked for him. My grandfather was an ambitious man. He came to Budapest from a small village as a young man, and worked hard. He was successful and was able, with a partner, to open his own business. Later he went back to Verbla where he was born, and married my grandmother. They had three children: my Uncle Emile, my father, and my Aunt Giselle. My maternal grandparents Hugo and Francisca came from a town called Komarom, the same place where Franz Lehar the composer was born. Hugo was a traveling salesman for a long time and later opened his own business.

They had two children: my Mother Elisabeth and my Aunt Marta. My grandfather Hugo and my father participated in World War 1(1914-1918).

When I was a little girl it was a great and prosperous time in Hungary. There were no wars, people were happy, and so were we. When I was three years old we moved to Buda, close to a big park. I had a nanny from Austria who spoke only German to me, and I liked her very much. At a very young age I was able to speak Hungarian and German. I have beautiful memories of those years. We would go on vacation in the summer to the Lake Balaton, to Austria, and to Yugoslavia. In the winter I would ice skate and ski, and as I grew older I took piano, gymnastics, and tennis lessons.

My family were all reformed Jews, meaning that religious rules were more relaxed, and we could eat pork. We only went to the temple for very important holidays, two or three times a year. Services were in Hungarian, not in Hebrew. I started school when I was six years old and there were many Jewish children in my class. Once a week we would go to a little synagogue where a very sweet lady would teach us the Ten Commandments, the Old Testament, and how to read and write in Hebrew.

In 1937 rumors started flying about the Germans and their terrible hate for the Jews. They occupied Austria, and later Poland and Czechoslovakia. I was heartbroken when my Nanny left us. Her family told her to go back to Austria, because they did not want her to work for Jews. I lost both of my grandfathers in 1935, in their early sixties. In a way I think it was better that they did not have to live through the terrible years in the 1940s and see the fruits of their labor destroyed. The German propaganda was doing its job. It was a terrible feeling as a child to realize that if you were Jewish you were not liked by people, that you were different and not good.

It was a slow process and it worked almost like brainwashing. It came to a point where I was ashamed of my religion. For many years I felt I had to hide my origins, because I wanted everyone to like me.

When I was ten years old, German ships started sailing down the Danube. At the end of that school year my parents were notified that I was not allowed to go back to school in the fall. They accepted only 2% of Jews per class. My Father was very upset. He said "If! can't send my daughter to a school of my choice I don't want to live in this country anymore." The idea of leaving Hungary became like an obsession to him. Everybody in the family and all of our friends thought he was out of his mind. How could he leave? They said that the Germans would never harm us. But my Father did not agree. My father and Uncle decided to leave first, and my Mother and Aunt and I would follow them later. We had a difficult time getting passports. We had to convert to Catholicism, at a very high price, but in the end we had everything ready to leave Hungary. My Dad and Uncle went first to Paris where a Hungarian barber advised them to go to Morocco in North Mrica, saying that there were great possibilities there, and that it was a country in need of industries. So they flew to Casablanca, and with the help of a partner they started a textile factory.

In March of 1940 we left Budapest, after the Germans invaded Holland and Belgium, along with France. We were the last people to leave Hungary legally with a passport. It was a very long trip, as we went by train. As a child I thought it was exciting. At that time I did not realize how serious the situation was. My Mother and Aunt were sad to leave our home and family, but for me it was like an adventure, and I thought that after a few months we would be able to return to Budapest. In the train we slept on bunk beds and there was a restaurant where we had our meals. We crossed Hungary, Yugoslavia and Northern Italy. Our trip ended in Marseilles, a large French port on the Mediterranean Sea. The train ride lasted 3 days, and we were exhausted.

When we got to the hotel all the windows were taped with black paper and we had to keep them closed, because everybody was afraid of air raids. It was a strange feeling to be in a completely dark city. A couple of days of rest and sigh-seeing and we boarded a ship that took us to Oran, Algeria. Another long train ride and we arrived finally to Casablanca, where my Father and Uncle were waiting for us. We were so happy to see them.

Morocco at that time was a French protectorate. The city was divided in two: the European section, with beautiful modern buildings, wide tree-lined avenues and luxurious homes; and then there was the Arab section called Medina, with narrow unpaved streets. In September of 1939 the Germans attacked France and occupied a large part of the country by June of 1940. There was no possibility for us to return to Hungary.

So here I was in Casablanca. I didn't speak a word of French, and I was scared in a new world. My parents first put me in a private language school for the summer. In the fall when school started I had to go to public school in third grade with children much younger than myself, as my French knowledge wasn't good enough to be with children my own age. I hated it and made a very big effort to learn the language so that I could catch up to my grade.

When we first moved to Casablanca we lived in a small apartment close to the factory, and near the home of my Uncle and Aunt. It was an industrial neighborhood and not very nice. We had just the necessary furniture and no extras. My Mother, who never cooked in her life, was now preparing our meals. She would go to the market, clean, wash, and iron. In Budapest we always had a cook. Our lives changed drastically. Maybe I was a little selfish, but in some ways it was great to have my Mother all to myself I felt we were more a family than in Hungary, where I was always left alone with the nanny. There was a roller skating rink close by, and a few blocks away, the beach and a movie house. I had lots of fun despite all the changes.

The climate of Casablanca is a lot like Southern California and the vegetation is the same - beautiful flowers, palm trees and the best fruits and vegetables I ever ate. Before the war the produce was exported to England and France.

One day we had a big sand storm called sirocco, and we were unable to leave our home. Instead of rain, a very fine sand came from the desert of Sahara. It was unpleasant, as our noses, eyes, and throat filled up with sand. Another time the sky was blackened by a huge cloud of grasshoppers. As they came closer I could see they were bright yellow. We watched as some people would catch and eat them.

My Father and Uncle's factory was a big success. My father invented a hand weaving machine. Local women would weave and sew ladies jackets from the material. By the end of 1941 we moved to a nice house. My parents rented it furnished from an American family who had to return to the U.S.A. We even had a car in the garage, but were unable to use it, because there was no gasoline. My father decided to buy a carriage and a horse, and a little ten year old local boy named Ali was in charge of taking him to work and back home; he would also feed and wash the horse.

Unfortunately bad news soon came from Hungary. The Germans took my Uncle and another relative to a labor camp. They marched them all the way to Russia where they had to work in an underground salt mine. This whole group of men just disappeared and nobody ever heard of them again. We tried to find our relatives through the Red Cross but without any luck. My Aunt Marta, my Mother's sister was left alone with a small child. By then Jews had to wear a yellow star wherever they went on the street and had to live in specific neighborhoods called ghettos. These places were overcrowded. Jews were not allowed to take public transportation or go to public places. My father's first cousin, who lived in Nice, was deported to Dachau Concentration Camp in Germany. He left behind his little girl who later was adopted by a Christian lady. We never heard of him again. This was just the beginning.

Later we found out that even in Casablanca we were not safe. A German commission came and all Jews had to report to the police. Those were difficult hopeless years, as it looked like the Germans were winning and we were all very sad. Food was getting scarce. We had coupons for sugar, oil, flour meat and even shoes and we had to wait in long lines to get anything.

Just when we thought all was lost, and that the Germans would reach us in Morocco, something amazing happened. It was November 8, 1942, I will never forget that day. The Americans debarked in Casablanca. It was a Saturday morning, and as I went to the garden I found a flyer with a picture of General Eisenhower, and a note saying in French and Arabic that the United States forces came as friends to liberate us. The US. Air Force only bombed during the day and only specific places like the harbor and the airport. Very few people were hurt. By November 11, 1942, the US. army occupied Casablanca.

I remember the milk drinking contests we had in the schoolyard, directed by some G.I. s, where the winner got chewing gum or a candy bar. They served us powdered milk out of huge kettles. It was not very tasty and full of lumps, but it was nutritious. Our school was used as a hospital for US. soldiers, and they transferred the students to a different school. In those days we had separate schools for boys and girls. By then my French was very good and I was able to go to school with girls of my own age. I am still in contact with four of my good old friends.

In 1943 we lost my Aunt who came with us to Casablanca. She was only 42 years old and had diabetes. Because of the lack of insulin during the war her kidneys gave up.It was very sad for all of us. Ten years ago I went back to Morocco with my husband but we were unable to find her grave.

In 1944, while we were in Casablanca, life in Hungary became unbearable. We lost my grandmother Laura to pneumonia. She was lucky to get a bed in a private hospital but had to pay a great sum of money, otherwise Jews were not allowed access to hospitals. My Father's older brother Emile was herded to a gathering place for people ready to go to labor camp. He too had diabetes, and they would not allow him to bring his medication. He passed away. A few days after he died, his wife with the help of a friend picked up his body with a wheel barrel and walked across town a long distance to the Jewish cemetery for his burial. They found him thrown on a pile of cadavers. They recognized him from the shirt he was wearing. Other atrocities continued. My grandfather's sister Louisa, who lived in a small town, had to parade on the main street in her mink coat with a sign hanging from her neck saying" I am a Jew." She too was deported and died. Louisa's daughter and 14year old granddaughter were taken to a camp in Poland. They were very lucky they could stay together all the time, working in the kitchen. They survived and after the war immigrated to Australia. They both have numbers tattooed on their arms. These terrible experiences cannot be forgotten. Grandmother Francisca was hiding, going from one place to another, carrying all her worldly goods in a knapsack. She ended up in a Swedish home, which was very lucky for her. The Swedish government was very kind to the Jewish population in Budapest. They were a neutral country and opened up Swedish houses where the Jews could hide for a few days and feel safe.

In 1945 the Russians started to bomb Budapest, and it was a fierce battle. The Germans blew up all the bridges that crossed the Danube. My Aunt Marta left her daughter in Pest with a Christian family, with false papers, as it was easier for her to hide alone. That winter was unusually cold and the Danube froze. The river is about a mile and a half wide and very dangerous to cross on foot. When the battle was over,Marta decided to walk on the ice to pick up her daughter and take her back to Buda to their home. It was a very dangerous feat but luckily they were able to make it safely.

Later Hungary became a communist country under Russian occupation. There was no way for us to go back to Budapest. Morocco was going towards independence, and we realized that at that point there would be no more jobs for Europeans. I got married in 1947 to a young man of Spanish descent, a Catholic. I was afraid to tell him that I was Jewish, I thought he would not love me if he knew. It came the time, close to our wedding, when I just had to tell him. When I finally told him, he started laughing and said he knew about it all along. Religion was never an issue in our marriage. We raised our sons Catholic, explaining to them that when they grew up they could chose what ever religion they felt most comfortable with.

But back in Casablanca, after our wedding, our big dream was to come to the United States some day. After the war it was very difficult to get a visa. First priority went to displaced persons, the concentration camp survivors. My parents went to live in France, where they had a shortage of jobs and apartments. We applied to various South American countries for visas and we decided that the first that was approved would be the country where we would go. It happened to be Argentina. A few months later we were on our way in a beaten-up old ship that served in the first World War. We had no money and no knowledge of the Spanish language. We were young and foolish but we survived and learned to speak Spanish, and that helped us a lot later on. We lived in Buenos Aires for five years, and our oldest son Michael was born there. Finally in 1952 we got our visa to come to the United States. What a joy! Finally, our dream was coming true. We arrived in New York in 1952.

In New York we met my Father's Uncle Simon, my grandma Laura's youngest brother.

He had an only son, Josef In 1938 he sent him to the United States to study and to make sure that he was safe from the Germans. In 1941 when the war broke out in Europe, he enlisted and was one of the first ones to die on June 6th in Normandy. During the war Uncle Simon was hiding in Hungary in the mountains with a group of freedom fighters. After the war the US. Government invited him and his wife to come and live in the US.A., as their son was a war hero.

Life has been good to us in the United States. Our second son, Paul, was born in Astoria, New York, in 1953. My husband and I both worked very hard but we were happy. Many years went by since I started to tell my story but when I look back I am very proud of my family. My two sons have Ph.D's, all six grandchildren graduated from college, and we even have a Stanford lawyer in the family. Fate being what it is, our eldest granddaughter met and married her husband in Morocco. Our biggest joy now is our great-grandson, Ilias who is 18 month old. This is our home now; this is our country where we raised our children and where our six grandchildren were born. I know prejudice still exists, and it doesn't bother me anymore. But deep in my heart I have suffered because of it.

Many times I wonder what would have happened to Ann Frank and her family if they had left Holland in time, as my family left Hungary before it was too late. The Frank family was well-off, and had the money to go to a safe place. I also realize how different my life would have been if we had stayed in Hungary. Would I have survived? I admire my Father's foresight for having the courage to leave even when everybody in the family was against him. Was it fate or God's hand who guided him? I think it was both. Still, I often think about the six million innocent Jews who perished, including members of my own family. I can't help but to wonder, and I will never understand the cruelty of human beings towards each other. Most of all I cannot believe that some people think that the Holocaust never existed. This is why I am writing about my life. I lived it and I am a witness that it happened, as are my cousins with the numbers tattooed on their arms, and my lost family members. It is my history, the history of my family, and the memories are the legacy we are all left with. We should never forget it.