CHAPTER 1
Childhood in Czechoslovakia
When I was born in Moldava nad Bodvou, Czechoslovakia, in 1929, my parents could not have foreseen the danger and destruction that would befall our family only a decade later.
Our town had a population of approximately five thousand people, most of whom were Roman Catholic and Reformist Christian. There were also about ninety Jewish families, totalling not quite five hundred people. The town had a secure atmosphere and I had many friends, both Jewish and non-Jewish. At one end of the main town square there was the Roman Catholic church, and at the other end there was the Reformist church. Constructed during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the baroque-style public elementary school and the post office were also near the main square. There was a high school located nearby.
I lived with my immediate familyâmy father, mother, grandparents, uncle, and auntâin a large dwelling; each segment of the family had its own quarters. The businesses of the town were operated mainly by Jewish owners, including the confectionery store, a large general store, two bakeries, two pubs, several stores for yard goods and materials, a glazier, and an herbalist. My father owned a pub called the Cellar, where people came to drink and socialize, and where he made and sold a variety of bottled liqueurs in mint, apricot, and chocolate flavours. There was a Jewish butcher and a family-operated bicycle shop that also had a Shell Oil concession to sell gasoline. The townâs medical establishment included two Jewish doctors, a Dr. Fried and a Dr. Laszlo, and two Jewish dentists, one of whom, Dr. Gertner, was our family dentist. Two other pubs and a butcher shop were owned and operated by non-Jewish residents. The townâs administration was overseen by the equivalent of a mayor, who was also the head of the district of AbaĂșj-SzĂĄntĂł. There was also a police station in the town.
My mother, my aunt, and my grandmother, like the rest of the townâs Jewish women, were intelligent, well-read, capable, and contributing people. They all did volunteer work, such as crafting embellishments for the synagogue and helping the poor. We also opened up the orchards on our property to the needy, who could come and pick fruit in season. When knitted dresses came into style, the women took up knitting as well, making garments for themselves and their daughters.
The wedding picture of my Uncle Jeno (Eugene) and wife Irene, taken in 1930.
My extended family included my grandfather, Raphael; my grandmother, Malvina; my aunt Bella; my uncle Eugene, who was my fatherâs brother; and his wife, Irene. While they all shaped my early life, my grandfather taught me many life skills that I still use to this day, and I particularly respected him and valued his attention. My father had another sister who lived in a town called AlmĂĄs with her husband and children. Their family name was Lazarovits. My motherâs helper, Anna, was another important person in my early years. Anna came to live with us when I was born, and she was a strong woman in both body and spirit. Although she wasnât Jewish, she knew our customs and could recite some of our blessings for food. In my mind, she was also a part of the family.
I admired my grandfatherâs strength and knowledge. Heâd been a cavalry officer in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and had fought on the Russian front in the First World War. The Jews of AustriaâHungary (who were emancipated in 1867) revered Emperor Franz Joseph, and the elders in my town who were veterans and comrades of that period wore beards and side curls just like his. My grandfather and my uncle Eugene operated the lumberyard on our property. On market day, up to ten farmers parked their horses and buggies in our yard while they sold their goods at the marketplace. I loved horses, so it was a big event for me. Before the farmers left, they would purchase lumber from our yard, and my grandfather recorded the purchases in his big ledger. (After they brought in their harvests, they would pay for their purchases with either grain or livestock.) When they were gone, it was my job, together with my grandfather, to clean up the manure left behind with a broom that had a very long handle. The manure itself was used to fertilize our vegetable garden, and its natural odour didnât bother me. In addition to the steady work of the lumberyard, my grandfather and I also pruned and grafted the fruit trees in our orchard. I always preferred these duties to school, no matter how hard the work.
When my grandfather went to buy sections of forest to be converted into lumber, I was sometimes invited to go along with him. Once, we entered a copse of tall pine trees, and I could hear the wind in the canopy and smell the scent of the pine while my grandfather was checking for the size and girth of the trees to be cut down. In my mind, I wondered if he knew how to get out of the dense forest. But my grandfather showed me how to find the particular signs that would help us navigate our way. On the way out, he taught me about wild mushrooms that were edible and others that were poisonous.
We lived in a rural area where horses and cattle were numerous, and there were occasions when these animals ate grasses that were not good for them to digest, making them bloated and in need of immediate relief. When there was no veterinarian to perform this service, my grandfather was called to release the gas from their bellies. The farmers were grateful that he was available, and his expertise in this area impressed me. I learned many skills by observing himâparticularly the importance of a job well done.
My father, on the other hand, had embraced the automobile age in the 1920s and early 1930s, when many social and cultural changes were taking place. At one time, he owned and operated a bus that had a route from our town to KoĆĄice,* the capital city of our province, approximately fifty kilometres away. The driver of the bus was also the fare collector, and after a while my father realized that the man was keeping some of the takings and the route was losing money. So within a year, he sold the bus. He also owned a convertible car that he drove for many years, but eventually it became irreparable and was left in the corner of our yard, where it sunk to its axles. My friends and I would sit in the rusted vehicle and pretend to drive it.
My younger brother Eugene (left), Alfred, and me in 1938.
Around 1925, my father established the Cellar, a popular pub where people liked to socialize. I sometimes was given the job of putting exotic labels on the bottles of liqueurs and red wax on the corks, and then adding my fatherâs own seal to the wax. Each bottle was then put into a woven sleeve and dusted with white chalk powder to give it the appearance of age. I sometimes delivered these bottles to customers in the town. I enjoyed my time at the Cellar, and my father allowed me to be his responsible helper. On the cold, dark evenings after Hebrew school in winter, I often went to my fatherâs establishment and waited there until closing time at approximately 8 p.m. He would give me a bit of alcohol to gargle to kill any winter bacteria. I was happy to wait for him rather than going home alone in the dark.
I recall times when my friends and I, after school let out at 4 p.m., bought kaiser buns from Deutchâs bakery and then went to the Cellar, where we were allowed to open the spigot on a cask of liqueur and soak our buns under it. All my friends wanted to come to the Cellar to get fortification before Hebrew school. My father, although a strict parent, had a great sense of humour, and it was a happy time for my friends and me.
While my father was the provider, my mother sustained the secure atmosphere and the rhythm of the home environment. She supported our physical and psychological daily needs. I was born in 1929, when she was twenty-five years old and my father was twenty-seven. My brother Eugene was born in 1932, my brother Alfred in 1936. My little sister, Judit, was born in 1943, making a difference of fourteen years between us. All of us were born in the family home and delivered by midwives. My brother Eugene was the smart one, and I felt unfavourable compared to him whenever he finished his homework with little trouble and I did not.It seemed that he was able to handle the curriculum of both the public school and the Hebrew school easily. There was a natural sibling rivalry between us. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Alfred, on the other hand, was coddled by me and every other member of my family, and was considered the baby until Judit came along seven years later.
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My earliest memory is riding on the crossbar of my fatherâs bicycle as he took me to Hebrew school to introduce me to my teacher. For the first time, I was leaving the security of my family, clutching only a paper bag with a buttered kaiser bun and a tomato for lunch. The school was located next to the synagogue in the centre of town, approximately one kilometre from our home. To a five-year-old boy, it seemed a long distance away. My father handed me over to the teacher, who spoke to me in Yiddish, which I couldnât understand. At home, we spoke Hungarian, my mother tongue.
I was very frightened by this strange new environment. It was a beautiful sunny day and there were many kids my age and older playing games in the schoolyard. Some of them were whittling and making whistles from willow branches. Some had their shoes off and were trying to catch small fish under the rocks of the River Bodvou, which flowed next to the school. Gradually, I made friends and was allowed to walk to school on my own. In the one-room classroom, there were three tables with benches; the children were grouped around them by both age and ability. This was a cheder (school) for boys to study the Scriptures (the Hebrew Bible).
A single teacher supervised the entire group, and he was strict and forceful. He used a stick to keep order, meting out punishment against those who did not learn the text properly. I was made to sit on the bench at his right side, and I received punishment regularly for my unresponsiveness. Iâm sure that he was trying to demonstrate his expertise as a teacher to my father, who was a respected person in the community. But the more he punished me, the less I wanted to learn.
The pressure of this hostile environment, combined with my classes in the public school system (which I started a year later), was more than I could handle. Not only did I have to learn Yiddish at age five, but I also had to learn Slovak at age six in order to participate in the public school curriculum. Public school ended at 4 p.m., and then we went to Hebrew school until 7 p.m. I also attended Hebrew school on Sundays, and when the Hungarians took over the country in 1938â39, I went to the public school for half a day on Saturdays too. Little time was left for childhood games. My rebellious nature was reflected in my unsatisfactory performance in both schools, which resulted in punishment at home from my father, who expected better results. Luckily, my mother was more understanding, and she came to my rescue on many occasions.
One day, our neighbour Ilyâs brother arrived for a visit in his fire-red Ć koda sports car. I noticed this beautiful car parked in front of their home and was drawn to it like a magnet. In my mind, I saw myself climbing behind the steering wheel and taking off in it. Eventually, everyone came out of the house: Ily carrying a picnic basket; her son, Nori; and her brother, an artist who was tall and smartly dressed. They were going to visit the stalactite caves in Dobsina, approximately one and a half hours away. I was dying to be invited to join them, but when Ily said, âWhy donât you come along, Tibor?ââI was known as Tibor when I was youngâI was faced with a major decision, because it was our Sabbath and driving in a car was strictly forbidden. If my father found out, the punishment would be dire. Torn between fear and desire, I opted to hop in the car and suffer any consequences later; I was determined not to miss this opportunity.
When we drove through town, I slipped down very low in the car so no one would see me. The stalactites were absolutely amazing, and I had never seen anything like them before. On the way home, my stomach was churning from the fear of what awaited me. It was dusk by the time we arrived. I slipped out of the car, trying not to be noticed, and pretended to be coming home from a long hike. The house was ominously quiet as I approached, and I felt everyone must know of my indiscretion. My father, who must have seen the car return, confronted me as soon as I entered the house and took me out back to the orchard, where he gave me a good whipping. He told me I had committed a great sin by disrespecting the Sabbath. My mother was sympathetic, but she said nothing. I gritted my teeth and took the punishment, but I wasnât deterred from acting on my impulses, then or in the future.
On one occasion, my friend Gaby Lichtman and I ran from the Hebrew school to his house to get some books to read before evening prayers. Every day at Hebrew school, we would break at sundown to pray at the synagogue, then return to school until 7 p.m. This particular day was in the depths of winter, so it was getting dark by five oâclock, which left us only ten minutes before we had to be at the synagogue. I loved books with cowboys and bandits, and I quickly stuffed several under my shirt and winter coat. By the time we got to the synagogue, though, the services were already in progress. I got into line with the rest of the students and said my prayers, but the teacher had seen us arrive late, and he gave me a nasty look. I knew that I was in trouble.
When we sat down, the teacher came over to slap me in the face. I tried to avoid his hand by twisting away because I didnât want to be punished in front of the entire congregation, and when I did, all the books came spilling out of my shirt and onto the synagogue floor. I was hugely embarrassed, and hoped the floor would open up and I could disappear. This incident brought shame to my father, who was also attending prayers, because the entire community had witnessed my poor behaviour. I knew the consequences would be twofold: my father would punish me, and even worse, all the books would be confiscated and I would no longer be permitted to read stories of adventure.
Most of my learning developed outside of the schools, guided largely by my aunt Bella, who read frequently. I learned to read Hungarian sitting on Aunt Bellaâs lap, and by age five, I could already read books. A beautiful woman, Aunt Bella was an invalid due to polio, which limited her mobility. Despite her disability, she kept a cheerful disposition and took great interest in all our lives. The household routine revolved around her special needs, which were attended to primarily by my grandparents. Grandfather helped her to get up from bed, and Grandmother washed and dressed her, combed her long, silky hair, and braided it and put it up in a bun. Bella was very well read despite a lack of formal education, and she willingly shared her knowledge with us. I enjoyed many moments listening to her repertoire of stories, and my brothers and I vied for her attention.
In addition to Bellaâs daily routine, the rhythm of our house was also regulated by the seasons. In the summer, when the vegetables were ready for picking, all the women got together for days of food processing. They made preserves, coleslaw, and pickles that would last through to the spring. In the fall, we harvested vegetables such as carrots, radishes, and potatoes, and buried them in sand in our basement cold cellar.
Sauerkraut was a staple food in the home. It was made in the fall in a ritual that I can clearly remember today. We grated enough bushels of cabbage to a fill a large wooden drum, pounded the grated mass with a wooden mallet until it was watery, and then layered the cabbage with bay leaves, corn, choke apples, and peppercorns. When the drum was full, we covered it with a wooden top and placed a heavy stone to weigh it down and initiate the fermentation process.
Making fruit preserves was another annual family ritual. Most of the orchard trees were plums, and we harvested them to make dozens of jars of black plum jam. When the plums were ripe, they were picked and seeded, and the following day, my grandfather and I would set up an outdoor wood fireplace to boil the fruit in a large copper vessel. It took a whole day for the plum jam to cook, so we usually did it during a full moon, which allowed us enough light to work late into the night. When the jam was ready, it was thick and heavy, and my job was to stir the delicious mixture and transfer it into sterile jars. The jars were capped with wax paper and tied with string, labelled by year, and then divided equally among our three families. As a wonderful reward for my hard work, I was allowed to lick any remaining jam out ...
