CHAPTER ONE
There was one event that had
an everlasting effect upon me, and since it occurred when I was only
nine years old, it had a very powerful and pervasive influence on every
phase of my life's journey.
School was out. My
best friend, Dickie, who attended the same schools as I did, invited
me to his house to spend the afternoon together. This was indeed a treat,
not because of the invitation itself; but because we had free time to
play. We attended Hebrew school from 9 to 12 every morning, except on
Saturdays and Jewish holidays. Every afternoon between 1 and 6 we attended
public school, except for Sundays and Christian holidays. With homework
and some chores, yes, we were quite busy and the summer vacation was
a most welcome season.
In our games, we liked
to imitate our fathers' businesses. They were exporters of grains and
seeds. My father had other businesses as well: construction materials
like stones, sand, lime. He also had a partnership in a small bank.
We lived in the center of a small town called Zastavna, which had a
substantial Jewish population. This last fact was very important because
it enabled us to develop a strong Jewish communal life with its autonomous
institutions: Jewish schools, from the ultra orthodox to the liberal
(I attended the latter). Synagogues, burial societies, charitable organizations
and, of course, the Zionist movements of various political persuasions
(my father was a loyal supporter of the liberals).
Our house bordered
on a large empty field, which served as a market place. Twice a week,
on Tuesdays and Thursdays, it was bustling with a multitude of activities.
Farmers from the surrounding villages would come with their horse-drawn
wagons, loaded with produce to sell to the town population. The merchants,
mostly Jews, would set up their stalls and the farmers who managed to
sell their goods would become eager customers. The market place was
also a center of entertainment, frequented by traveling circuses, by
gypsy tribes, who were among other things skilled musicians, dancers,
fortune tellers and metal workers. My mother issued strict warnings
twice a week, which could be summed up in two words: don't go! The circus
came only twice every summer and it was impossible to resist. Somehow,
accompanied by an adult, we children managed to attend most performances.
The gypsies were there every week and, from time to time, we managed
to leave Hebrew school an hour earlier by inventing some very "plausible"
excuses which were invariably accepted by our understanding, good-natured
Hebrew teacher.
Next to our large
house there was a beautiful rose garden. In one corner of the garden
grew a huge ancient pear tree. The tree was surrounded by fixed benches,
which served the adults as a place to relax and enjoy the sight and
smell of the blooming roses. For the children it was a delightful playground.
I was really the only child, my parents never decided to have any additional
children, which aggravated me to no end. However, I did have friends
who often joined me in my games, especially during the summer months.
Parallel to our house,
on a large lot, my father erected several structures. There was a summer
kitchen and a laundry, to eliminate the clouds of steam and the cooking
odours from the main dwelling. Next to it there was a stable, where
one or two beautiful horses were kept. In the mid-1930s, life in Zastavna
was quite simple, motorcars were still a rarity and transportation by
horse and wagon was the rule, hence the need for horses to travel to
the quarries to inspect the work done there, to visit the farmers in
the villages in order to buy grains, seeds and beans, to go to Chernovitz,
the capital of northern Bucovina, a province which presently belonged
to Rumania. This means of transportation was also used to visit my grandparents.
My mother's parents lived in a little town called Viznitsa, the place
of my birth (my mother insisted that she give birth in her parents'
home). My father's parents lived in the village of Kisilev.
Life in our Zastavna
home was simple, there was no running water in the house, but the air
was clean and sweet and so was the water which was drawn from a well
in the yard. Electricity was finally installed in 1936, but only in
the more affluent households, such as ours. The largest and most important
building erected on a parallel lot to the main residence, the pride
of my father's achievement, was the warehouse. A two floor, solid brick
structure, the upper floor was divided into many compartments, containing
a large variety of grains, like wheat, barley, oats, and rye. Many seeds
like sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds and many different kinds of beans
and nuts. Each compartment had an outlet, or chute, descending to the
first floor for shipping purposes. The first floor was where all incoming
and outgoing goods were temporarily stored. There were two huge scales,
one on which a completely loaded wagon, including the horses hitched
to it, could be weighed and then weighed again after it was unloaded.
In the center of this
floor there was a large office, the upper part of the office's walls
were made entirely of glass, so that the manager and the accountant
were able to see at a glance all the goings on in the warehouse. This
warehouse often served as a playground for me. It was fun to jump into
a bin of wheat and let myself sink into the mass of grain. It was fun
to eat the sunflower and pumpkin seeds, poppy seeds and soya beans,
walnuts and other nuts. And when I became older, I was allowed into
the office to "help" calculate the weights and the money to
be paid to the farmers.
So now, let us return
to this lovely afternoon at Dickie's backyard, where we were all set
to play "warehouse", an imitation of our fathers' businesses.
We collected many cardboard boxes of different sizes. They became the
storage bins for the various grains; with some imagination and work
they turned into wagons with horses and railway cars where eventually
all the goods ended up on their way to be exported to far away lands.
We were quite absorbed in our "work", making deals with the
farmers who had to be addressed in their language, Ukrainian. Our mother
tongue was German. Since up to 1918 Bucovina was part of the Austro
Hungarian Empire, the strong Viennese cultural influence persisted,
especially among the affluent segment of the Jewish population. In any
case our ears had to be attuned to many languages. Hebrew and Rumanian
in school, Yiddish, which my father used in his business dealings with
other Jews, as well as in his conversations with relatives and friends,
Ukrainian, with the farmers, the workers and the servants in the house.
German was the language I used when communicating with my parents and
friends. So that in our games, that afternoon, we used some of the other
languages: Ukrainian - to the farmers, Rumanian - to the railway station
master, Yiddish - to some other Jewish merchants and German - to the
buyers, who were mostly from Germany, and of course, to each other.
In the evening, Dickie's
mother invited us into the house for supper. When we finished our desserts,
she said to me casually: "I assume, Berti, (that was an abbreviation
of my full name - Norbert), that your mother knows where you are and
that you'll be coming home late?"
"Oh yes, she
knows where I am, but I am not sure when I am supposed to be home."
"Well then,"
said Mrs. Zwecker, "we better not cause her any unnecessary worry."
With this decisive
admonition, I said my good-byes and was on my way.
Although Dickie lived
at the other end of town, it was not more than a twenty minute walk,
along the same main street where I lived. After walking for about five
minutes, I began to feel quite uneasy, almost bordering on fear. The
darkness did not bother me, there was no one following me, it was a
pleasant calm evening. What was causing my anxiety? Then it struck me:
the street was completely deserted. True, our town was not particularly
famous for it's night life, but there were always some people going
about their business. It was as though the entire population was expecting
some kind of disaster and locked themselves indoors. Yes, I remember,
last year we had to lock ourselves inside the house a few times, in
the afternoon and in the evenings. The "Iron Guard" organized
several demonstrations which usually resulted in direct attacks on Jewish
homes and businesses. There was some loss of life and property and some
injuries. My friend Zigi told me what happened to their small bakery
which was located on the other side of the market place, right across
from our warehouse. They broke the windows and destroyed everything
inside. Zigi's family was lucky to escape with their lives. (It was
1940 and anti-Semitism was on the rise).
These thoughts went
through my mind with lightning speed, magnified my fear, and turned
my walk into a run. I arrived home in less than a quarter hour and breathed
a sigh of relief I ran up the stairs leading onto the verandah, which
practically surrounded the house on all sides except the front. From
there I entered the kitchen. Our housekeeper, Maria, was not there.
I went into my room, then into the living room, no one came to check
on me. The fear, which had subsided upon entering the house returned
with a paralyzing force. I stood there in the semi-darkness, leaning
against the tiled stove, immobilized for a while. Slowly my senses began
to function normally, although my anxiety was still there. Then, I heard
voices coming for the direction of my parents' bedroom. When I opened
the bedroom door, all the people in the room turned their faces towards
me and they all expressed a deep concern. There was Doctor Sommer, our
family physician, who lived across the street from us. The Sornmers
were childless, and they loved children. They always treated me like
a prince and I often enjoyed listening to Mrs. Sommer play the piano.
There was Doctor Bader, our lawyer, a bachelor who lived in a wing of
our house. It had a separate entrance and consisted of a bedroom, living
room and kitchen.
Mr. Diver, the owner
of a large hardware store and a friend of my father, was there, as was
Dr. Shif, a dentist, who lived next door and whose daughter Lucy was
often my playmate.
Uncle Jacob was there
too, my father's favorite brother. My father helped him build up a similar
business to his in Zastavna.
My aunt Frieda, a
widow, the wife of my mother's brother David, who passed away a few
years ago due to a severe case of pneumonia. My parents, of course,
were there too. The people were sitting on my parents' double bed, on
the sofa at the foot of the bed and on some chairs. The center of their
attention was a powerful radio receiver, which was broadcasting some
news that commanded their undivided attention and resulted in a worrisome
expression on their faces. There were some other people there, some
friends from the Zionist movement whose names I did not know, but whom
I saw previously on other occasions. All of them tried to put on a more
cheerful expression, for my benefit, but it was a lost effort. My mother
came over, took my hand and led me to my bedroom. She busied herself
with the bedtime routine and tried to behave in the usual manner, but
I could feel that she was nervous and more abrupt in her answers to
my numerous questions. "Our neighbors," she said, "know
that we have a good radio and they wanted to hear some important news,
about things that are happening in the world." She finally kissed
me good night and returned hurriedly to the master bedroom. I remained
lying in bed, but I was very restless.
Not long after, I
was on my way back to my parents' bedroom. As soon as I opened the door,
my father came over, took my hand and led me to my room. "Berti,"
he said, "you are nine years old, so you are old enough to know
exactly what is happening. There is an agreement between Russia and
Rumania. (One of the consequences of the infamous Stalin-Hitler pact.)
So in a few days we will be a different country. You will have to learn
Russian in school instead of Rumanian. Who knows, it may be safer of
us Jews, we will not have to worry about the Iron Guard anymore."
He told me some words in Russian, which were similar to Ukrainian words.
His calm voice, slowly restored my sense of security. He told me some
stories about his encounters with the Russians during the First World
War. When I finally fell asleep, he returned to his guests.