Chapter 14
When we arrived at
the Tomsk railway station it was still dark outside and the railway
waiting room was very crowded. As traveling could not be planned in
advance, passengers had to spend many hours and not infrequently, many
days, waiting to catch a train. The floors of the waiting hall served
as a place to sleep and to have one's meals. There were always some
enterprising souls selling food and clothes. There were gamblers and,
of course, thieves. The valises had to be tied to our hands constantly,
and placed under our head at night when we slept. Every station had
a tap from which one could draw boiling hot water, an essential item
in a cold climate. Since most travelers carried with them dry bread
(which does not spoil for very long periods) it was beneficial to be
able to dip the bread into a cup of hot water, making it instantly easily
edible. We were told that there would be a train going that day to Novosibirsk,
but we were not told when that would happen or what kind of train it
would be: a regular passenger train or a "Vesjoley" (the joyous
one). The "Vesjoley" was a freight train, with empty wagons,
going your way, not necessarily all the way. It carried such a happy
connotation because the passengers who were finally able to hitch a
ride were always glad to be on their way, even in a drafty uncomfortable
train with an uncertain destination. In the meantime, we managed, not
without difficulty, to find a place on the floor. We sat on our valises
holding cups of hot water in our hands and dipping the dry bread which
we had brought along, into it.
Fortunately for us,
in the early afternoon, a real passenger train going to Novosibirsk
pulled into the station. We grabbed our luggage and the mad rush onto
the platform by throngs of people was so overwhelming that I was afraid
to be separated from my mother. I told her to hold on tightly to me,
not to let go, no matter what. There were a couple of militia men standing
by the entrance door to every carriage, which made the final stage of
embarking somewhat more orderly. As I mounted the steps of the car with
my mother holding onto me, one of the militia men grabbed my hand and
pulled me off the steps. He ordered us to follow him. We were led into
the militia station. I looked back at my mother, her face was white
as a sheet, and I was certain she was going to faint any moment. When
we entered the station room, I told the policeman that my mother has
a heart condition and needed some rest and a drink of water. He complied
(which was encouraging) checked my documents (I placed my Komsomol card
on top of the travel permit). He returned the documents (another encouraging
sign) and began questioning me. Then he ordered me to open up the valises.
It didn't take him long to conclude that the contents were very innocent
and he ordered us back to the train. l understood that he was looking
for contraband, merchandise that was easily obtainable in one republic,
but unavailable in another, or stolen goods, especially state property,
quite common in the Soviet Union, "where factories can produce
everything, even oranges".
By now my mother had
gained her composure and we left the station unhurriedly in order not
to subject her to renewed stress. I had my doubts about being able to
board the train, considering the multitudes crushing forward just fifteen
minutes ago, so I prepared a couple of cigarette packages in my pocket
and as we were mounting the steps, I slipped the cigarettes into the
conductor's hand. He stepped aside and we were in. The valises became
the supporters of our tired bodies. I told my mother not to worry any
more, something good actually happened to us. Our documents were checked
by the N.K.V.D. and they were accepted, their legality now confirmed,
a big load off my mind.
We arrived in Novosibirsk
late in the evening and, as "experienced travelers", found
a place on the floor of the huge waiting hall, right besides the bathroom.
There was a non-stop traffic in and out of the bathroom and the smell
of urine and fecal matter was overpowering. We did not sleep much that
night, we were certainly not experienced travelers yet. We had to spend
two full weeks in this railway station, before we managed to board a
train to Actubinsk, which took several days of traveling and much maneuvering,
with many stopovers, in order to reach Kazakhstan.
During our stay in
Novosibirsk we changed our floor space several times, to find a quieter,
safer place to sleep. My mother had to dig into our cash purse hanging
around her neck and stuffed inside the bra, several times in order to
purchase food. Even though it was done in the toilet booth, away from
prying eyes, a thief must have been observing her moves very carefully,
because sometimes in the middle of our second week in Novosibirsk my
mother woke up in the morning, and as was her habit every day, put her
hand into her bra and froze, the money was gone. It took me a while
to calm her down. We still have the other half, I said, and I would
be very careful to handle it only in the dark, by touch. Besides, we
were going to stay with uncle Emanuel, which would be a big help.
I was somewhat concerned
with the delays in our trip, which lasted eighteen days. My father's
letter stated that he would be in Actubinsk in April or in May, or both
months. We just passed the middle of April and with the uncertainties
of civilians traveling in this country, the transfer of prisoners was
even more erratic. I was therefore pessimistic about our chances of
meeting my father. It was now only a matter of hours before we would
find out. We were now walking from the railway station to the address
of uncle Emanuel.
Actubinsk was a very
depressing sight, a city in name only. It had some brick buildings in
the center, but the majority of dwellings consisted of mud brick huts,
buried half-way in the ground. It did not look much cheerier on the
inside, when we finally arrived at our relatives, but the welcome was
warm and there was a lot to talk about. My first question was about
my father. Uncle Emanuel saw him and talked to him twice, but the entire
group of prisoners left two days ago. I was devastated, terribly depressed.
I ran outside and cried. My cousin Clara came looking for me. She was
about half a year older than me (I was almost 16) a good looking girl
with a kind, motherly disposition. Her comforting words had a calming
effect and they inspired instant confidence in me. We became very good
friends, practically from my first day of arrival. I must say that to
be friends, meant to trust somebody with secrets that if divulged, even
inadvertently, could cost one's freedom or life. It was a brief friendship,
because we were separated exactly one year later, but it was just as
important to me as my friendship with Dickie, even though I now had
my mother with me, while then I was completely alone.
I later learned from
my father, that he was transferred to Actubirisk sooner than his informer
advised him, and that they stayed there only from mid-March to mid-April.
The camp in Actubinsk was a major center for prisoners of war, mainly
Germans, but also other nationalities. Although the repatriates were
still treated as prisoners, their lives were incomparably better than
those of the war prisoners. They were treated not much better than the
Nazis treated their inmates in concentration camps. Even though there
was no planned action to exterminate the Germans, many of them were
dying daily.
The camp Commandant,
a Major, had some three Volkswagen cars stationed there, war booty,
but not one of them was in working condition. Moses saw his chance right
away. He promised the Major to repair one car within a week and then
to work on the other two. However, he needed the help of another mechanic,
my father. The Major granted his request, in happy anticipation of soon
having his own car. The Major also granted Moses (after the first car
was repaired) the privilege of driving
him around town. That
privilege enabled Moses to smuggle out some money, to buy extra food,
and to talk to Emanuel a couple of times about my father. (Emanuel himself,
eventually told us that he did not speak to my father directly, but
only to Moses, however, he did not want to upset us more than necessary
on the first day of our arrival, so he told us then that he spoke to
my father).
My uncle and cousin
had to wait at least until the end of the school year before going back
to Chernovitz. (Originally they thought they would leave in May, but
changed their minds.) So for the next two months I was accepted into
grade six of the state school, whose curriculum was very similar to
the one I just left some three weeks ago. Scholastically I had no trouble
adjusting to my new environment; socially, I was completely isolated.
Had it not been for Clara, who was the only person of my age with whom
I could easily relate, I would have been a very lonely boy. There was
hardly any cultural life. There was no permanent theatre in this big
village of a town (I could not afford it anyway). There was a library
of sorts, which helped me somewhat. Thank God, we only had to stay there
for a couple of months.
When the time came
to leave, we did not have to mask our departure, we did not have to
sleep in the station, but we did have to spend a few days waiting for
the train to arrive (going back to the hut to sleep every night). We
finally managed to hitch a ride on a Vesjoly. The weather was
nice and warm there was plenty of straw on the floor of the car and
it was not too crowded. (Actubinsk was not Novosibirsk, with one and
a half million inhabitants). Our destination was Moscow, the only way
that one could get the connection to Chemovitz. Since we had very limited
funds, we could not do much touring in Moscow. Clara and I did take
the Metro, while our parents spent their time in the waiting hall. We
were very impressed with the beautiful Metro stations, and with the
efficiently running trains. We did not venture too far from the Metro
stations on the streets of Moscow, because of fear (on my part)
of running into the N.K.V.D. who might start questioning us. Although
our documents were in order (so I thought because of the incident in
the Tomsk railway station,) I had developed a constant feeling of being
an illegal citizen, always looking around to see if I was being followed.
If a policeman or a soldier, or any other official looking individual
was walking on the sidewalk, I would be walking on the other side.
This constant sense
of scrutinizing my actions, my words, my movements, my associations
with other people became so strongly ingrained in me, that it never
completely left me, even when I finally gained my freedom. I followed
the Talmudic admonition of "respect him, but suspect him"
for the rest of my life. I also found it extremely difficult to develop
a close trusting friendship with other people, making me pretty much
of a loner in later years of my life.
We spent three days
in Moscow until we managed to board a train to Kiev. The entire trip
from Actubinsk to Chernovitz lasted about two weeks and on the whole
was quite uneventful, which in my condition was a blessing indeed. Our
arrival in Chernovitz six years, almost to the day, after our forced
departure, aroused within me some mixed feelings. I was happy to see
familiar sites, but they appeared to be drab and uninviting. Above all,
I felt uneasy, insecure, looking over my shoulder, worried about informers.
I felt as though I was living a clandestine, conspiratorial life, which
was not far from reality.
My relatives were
all gone. Both Teitler families, Dora and Mitzi were now in Romania.
The Geller family, my mother's sister, was in Sao Paolo, Brazil. Paula,
uncle Emanuel's daughter was in Sidney, Australia. Aunt Freeda, uncle
David's wife, my mother's brother, and her son Lonyu, were on their
way to Palestine (soon to be Israel) but were detained in Cyprus for
almost a year. My mother's sister Yetti, her husband, two sons and a
daughter, lived in Radautzi in Bukovina, but on the Romanian side. Even
though it was not more that a few hours' drive, because of the border,
it might as well have been on Mars.
Clara had an aunt
in Chernovitz, who survived the war and returned to her old apartment,
so Clara moved in with her father into her aunt's apartment, which was
very good for them, because of the severe shortages of accommodations.
Fortunately for us we found the right connection, an old acquaintance,
very trustworthy, which was a crucial prerequisite in our situation,
a Mr. and Mrs. Galanter. They became our legal advisers and our moral
supporters. They helped us find a place to live, a job for my mother
and for myself and, most importantly of all, they had invaluable connections
with people who could help us in our struggle to attain our next step
to freedom.
The apartment which
was offered to us was already occupied by the Peltzel family, a father
and son, both working in a textile factory. It consisted of an attic
divided into two rooms, one of which was occupied by the son. An extra
bed was placed there for my benefit and so I shared the room with David
Peltzel. My mother did not really need the apartment at all, since her
job required her constant presence on the premises. My mother was hired
as the housekeeper by Lisa and Gregory Orloff. Gregory was the director
of the local Yiddish Theatre and his wife, Lisa, was an actress, specializing
in children's roles. The Orloffs led a privileged life and could afford
a live-in housekeeper, not quite kosher according to Soviet rules, but
overlooked by the authorities. Not only did my mother have room and
board, but she provided me as well with at least one meal a day. (Lisa
was aware of my mother's arrangements and did not object).
I managed to get a
job in the hospital as a medication distributor. My job was to go to
patient's homes and insist that they take their medication in my presence.
The medication was quinine, an anti-malaria treatment, which was very
bitter and many people did not want to take it, but the authorities
were anxious to eradicate malaria which for reasons unknown to me, happened
to be a serious problem at that time in our area. I did not want to
give up my schooling while I worked and so I registered as a grade seven
student in a night school. I attended school six times per week, between
six and ten o'clock in the evening. Our curriculum was quite intensive.
We studied physics, algebra, chemistry, literature, history, and geography.
Most students took their studies very seriously, and so did I. I performed
my duties starting very early in the morning, so that by early afternoon
I went to the Orloff house for my main meal, from there I went to my
apartment to do my homework for about two, three hours, and then I walked
to school. Although Chernovitz had a fairly good system of public transportation,
of trolleys and trams, I used it very rarely, only during working hours,
if the distances were too great.
My favourite time
of day was after school, when I was allowed to attend the performances
of the Yiddish Theatre. I always loved theatre performances, even in
Tomsk my mother and I managed to see quite a few plays (tickets were
very affordable, since it was government controlled). Now, in Chernovitz
there were two differences: firstly, because of my connection with the
Orloffs, I had free access any time I wanted to attend. Secondly, and
that was more important to me, the Yiddish language, the Jewish cultural
atmosphere, despite it being contaminated with a good dose of propaganda,
truly warmed my heart, strengthening my Jewish awareness. On Sundays,
and sometimes during matinees, I was able to see the entire play, on
week days I could watch only the last act since I always arrived late.
Eventually, through Lisa's connections with some staff members of the
Ukrainian Theatre, I managed to see some plays in the Ukrainian language
as well. I rarely had any time left for other social activities.
Clara was really my
only friend and I did not her see more than a couple of times per week,
for short periods. Clara was musically talented and she continued her
studies in the local music school. I often listened to her play the
piano (my favourite at the time was the Schubert "Serenade").
Uncle Emanuel managed to get a job as a kiosk operator (salesman) near
a cinema theatre. The kiosk offered ice cream, candy, soft drinks, cigarettes
and the like. From time to time, Clara an I would receive free treats
from her father. Even though his working hours were very long he was
satisfied with his job.
We continued to correspond
with my father, who now lived in Bucharest. His letters were full of
encouraging hints about a speedy reunion. It was all very mysterious
and unclear, and were it not for Mr. Galanter I would probably not be
able to decipher them. According to Mr. Galanter there was an active
smuggling network for people who wanted to escape from the Soviet Union
to Romania. The smugglers were all Hutzuls, shepherds and farmers,
who lived in the Carpathian mountains on both sides of the border (the
entire area belonged to Romania just a few years ago). They knew the
mountain passes like the palms of their hands, and they had safe houses
on either side of the border. Their operation, as I was to find out
very soon, was well organized, coordinated with their permanent collaborators
who resided on both sides of the border. They were also well armed and
would hot hesitate to use their weapons, if need be. It was a very lucrative
business: they collected fifteen hundred dollars per person. (For most
people in Romania an enormous sum of money, very difficult to acquire,
unless assisted by a foreign source: for a Soviet citizen it was completely
out of the question). They smuggled groups of up to fifteen people.
If the operation went smoothly, a smuggling run lasted about three days.
The money was collected in Romania, 50 per cent before the operation
and the other half, following the successful conclusion of the trip.
It was therefore essential to have someone on the Romanian side with
the right connections and at least three thousand US dollars in order
to take the next step towards freedom.
My father, of course,
was just the right person. With his brilliant entrepreneurial skills,
he managed in the course of less than one year to start a new business
in partnership with some other people who were not much better off.
The business consisted of converting regular watches (mostly "Doxas"
but also "Omegas", "Longines", "Schafllausen"
and others) into gold watches. One of the partners who was a goldsmith
made the gold casings from various pieces of jewelry which were bought
from people who needed the money. The watches were smuggled into Romania
mostly through diplomatic channels, from Switzerland, and sold to my
father and his partners for US dollars only. The people who bought the
watches with the gold casings were leaving Romania, mostly for Israel,
and since they were forbidden to take any money with them, they each
wore a watch, which was permitted. The casings were made to order (in
eighteen or twenty four carat gold) and the weight of gold per casing
depended on the amount of money that the traveler was willing to pay.
Although Romania was
still a Kingdom (up to May of 1948) and these events were taking place
in the second half of 1947, it was by no means a free country. It had
a communist regime headed by Anna Pauker (a Jewess) under the absolute
control of the Soviet Union. The country was not yet completely converted
to a Soviet lifestyle; that would happen in the second half of l 948.
It still tolerated a small amount of private enterprise, the theatre
and the press could still speak with a weak, dissenting voice (for which
many participants would soon end up in prison). The Zionist organizations
were still legally operational (that too would end in the latter half
of l 948). The Romanian government had an open door policy for the Jews
who wanted to emigrate to Israel (Palestine in 1947). This policy remained
in force for many years to come and was the crucial factor in our struggle
to achieve complete freedom.
My father's occupation
was certainly not acceptable to the present regime. It was in fact very
dangerous to be involved in these transactions, but it was the only
route open to my father to earn enough money to buy our freedom. It
was very much in accordance with the principles which he adapted in
the Gulag: In order to survive and to have a good fighting chance to
be free, one must be ready to take chances, to live dangerously.