What were some of the non-routine
moments during my three years With the Funduyanus? Well, there were
my friends: Dickie and Igor. Dickie was my confidante. I shared with
her my thoughts, my hopes, my fears. She was the only one who knew
my grand plan, namely that when the time arrived in May of 1945 for
my mother to be freed from prison, my intention was not to wait for
my mother to come back to Porotnikov or even to Bakchar, but to somehow
make my way to Tomsk, a large city (about half a million inhabitants)
with a railway station. A railway station would give me the best chance
of further escape. Escape, I would, oh yes, I was certainly not giving
up that hope.
Such an objective required careful
planning: I would need a pass that gave me permission to travel some
250 km to the south, but I was ready to proceed without a pass if
I would not able to obtain one. I would be fourteen by then, still
considered quite young in the eyes of those whom I would meet on my
way: hopefully they would accept my story. For there had to be a carefully
crafted story, a story that would evoke some pity, some respect and,
above all, it had to be believable. I would have to prepare and store
enough non-perishable food to last me the trip, about two weeks. I
would also need some money. That was the hardest part of all. I certainly
could not earn any money, because nobody would have the money to pay
me, at best, I would be paid with some food, or old clothes. These
thoughts were going through my mind all the time and Dickie was the
only person with whom I shared them.
The "story" I told
her would be as follows: my father was fighting the Nazis, he was
a very brave Soviet soldier (that would earn me some respect), I was
separated from my mother when the war broke out because she sent me
ahead with my aunt. My mother had to stay behind to take care of her
parents. I didn't know what had happened to her. I was corresponding
with my father throughout the war and knew he was coming to meet me
in Tomsk, that was why I was on my way to Tomsk. In due course
I would put my plan into action.
Igor was my main source of recreation.
Even when I worked in the kolkhoz, he would convince the foreman
to let me go for a day, at least once a month (they all knew
whose son he was). These days were very special, because we spent
them fishing, gathering berries and nuts, picnicking and sometimes
even hunting. In the winter, Igor managed to get me an old pair of
skis, which were fastened to the boots with a thick cord through a
slot in the skis. They were heavy and awkward, but when the weather
was not too cold it was wonderful fun to do something other than work.
Bakhchar was an important enough
center of population to merit the installation of a public address
system on the main street. The loudspeakers were pouring out an endless
array of propaganda, but some of the time they broadcast Russian folk
music, classical music and music from operettas by Kalman, Lehar,
and Strauss. I would then walk on the wooden sidewalk, or in the winter
on the snow path, to and fro, enjoying the music while it lasted.
Such moments made my life more bearable. I would daydream about a
different world, the world of Zastavna and Chernovitz, where such
music was often heard in the house.
Being without parents at a young
age had its advantages as well. The exiles, especially the Jewish
exiles who lived in Bakhchar, felt obliged to invite me to their home,
to offer me some food (that happened very seldom, through no fault
of their own). The Goldman family was as miserable as the rest of
them. Mr. Goldman was a sick man. His pallid yellow complexion framed
his tormented facial expression. He had trouble digesting the meager
food available to him. His first born, his beloved Natan, the apple
of his eye, was imprisoned, a pretty common occurrence, but devastating
for Mr. Goldman. Just the same, what was it that enabled this tortured
man to prolong his miserable existence? There was his wife and a daughter,
to be sure, but what really kept him alive was his faith, his absolute
commitment to fulfill the commandments.
In the course of my three years
of living without my mother, and even the one year prior to her arrest
and two years following her liberation from prison, I was exposed
to very little Jewish tradition. As time elapsed, I became less and
less aware of the Jewish customs. I never knew when any of the holidays
occurred and I did not even think about it. The Funduyanus were thoroughly
assimilated Rumanian Jews, fairly typical of the middle and upper
class Jews of Bucharest. There was not even a hint of Jewishness in
their house. There was, however, a constant reminder of my being a
Jew, unfortunately of a negative nature: anti-Semitism, always ugly
and painful, sometimes subtle, mostly open and direct. Even though
officially the regime did not encourage it, during the years of World
War II the authorities needed all the help they could get to fight
the war. There was even a specially formed Jewish organization,
with an anti-fascist platform, officially sanctioned by the regime,
which eventually was just as hastily dismantled with many of its members
suffering imprisonment and death.
So, my countryman, Mr. Goldman,
invited me to come for a visit. He named the date, sometimes in December,
and the hour, in the late afternoon, which sounded very formal, almost
conspiratorial. I was curious, of course, to find out what this was
all about, so I dutifully presented myself at his dwelling at the
appointed time. There were quite a few people packed into one room.
In the center of the room there was a table upon which eight potatoes
were lined up in a row and a ninth one was placed somewhat apart.
Each potato had a small hole cut out in the center filled with oil
and a small wick protruding from it. Mr. Goldman asked everyone to
pay attention. He lit the candle-potato which was not part of the
row and spoke in Yiddish about Chanuka, about the weak defeating the
mighty, about courage and faith, then he recited the blessings and
lit the other candles. Mrs. Goldman sewed the guests potato "latkes".
This feast was possible only through a communal effort. Every person
present in the room took a chance of being denounced. (The neighbours
were told that we were celebrating the latest victory of the Red Army
over the Nazis). This event stirred up a lot of memories. I could
visualize the many Chanuka celebrations which I had as a child. The
feelings were mixed and fluctuated between sadness for not being able
to celebrate together with my family and joy for getting a taste of
something which was very dear to me. Mr. Goldman's invitation was
a gift of great value and very much appreciated.
Then there was Mr. Morice Taub.
In Chemovitz, the Taub family consisted of three brothers, partners
in a prosperous transport company. They owned a fleet of trucks, which
was not very common in Bucovina. In those days, a chauffeur had to
be a good mechanic as well. In case of a breakdown on the road, he
had to make hasty repairs, often improvising with the limited amount
of parts and tools available to him. My father did some business with
the Taub Transport Co. and Morice knew my father and liked him very
much. It was because of this old friendship that Morice developed
a liking for me and often helped me in my need with food and clothing.
He was relatively well off in Bakchar because of his constant traveling
by truck, transporting valuable goods for the government. The authorities
appreciated his mechanical skills and since all the drivers-mechanics
were at the front fighting the Nazis, his services were irreplaceable
and he was accorded some sort of immunity against sudden arrest and
imprisonment. He was tall, well proportioned and quite handsome, which
made him a ladies' man, always in demand and probably because of it,
still a bachelor. I do not know why he was the only one of the three
brothers to be exiled, but there he has, a friend and a benefactor.
After every trip he always had some present for me, mostly some luxury
food, like salami or cheese, or some canned food which I often
shared with Dickie.
Finally, there was Nori Krause.
His name was really Norbert, the same as mine, however my parents
shortened the name by using the ending "Berti", while his
parents used the beginning of the name: "Nori". To the best
of my knowledge, Nori was the only exiled boy my age who lived in
Bakchar. We became friends in the gymnasium in Chernovitz, during
the week of waiting to be loaded into the trains. Then we lost track
of each other until about a year later when I met him in Bakchar.
It was a strained relationship for two reasons. First, it was not
clear how his family managed to move to Bakchar. Permission to move
was granted either because the expertise of a member of the family
was needed, or because he was performing a valuable service for the
authorities, that is, he was an informer. I never did find out the
truth, but the mere suspicion of his father's services was enough
to restrain my behaviour towards Nori. I did not think that Nori was
involved in his father's dealings (if he was an informer). Second,
because of my busy schedule, we did not meet very often, but
whenever we did get together we talked mostly about our common past,
about Chernovitz, about his family's elegant furniture store on the
Herrn Gasse, the main shopping street in town. When we first met,
he was so full of life, constantly inventing new games, telling stories
and jokes, but now he talked sadly about the past and hopelessly about
the future.
From time to time, the Funduyanus
would order me to fetch some cheese from the food processing factory
where they worked. I knew, of course, that the cheese was stolen and
that if I was caught red-handed, I would be in serious trouble. I
would enter the factory on the pretext of bringing them their lunches
which they could not bring along themselves for some plausible reason.
I would then wait for them to eat their food and secretly stash away
some cheese into the empty dishes. It was not an elaborate disguise
because many employees were involved in stealing for themselves and
they depended on Funduyanu the bookkeeper to smooth out the accounts.
On one occasion, while the Funduyanus were eating, a foreman invited
me into the factory. He offered me a ladlefull of liquid processed
cheese, scooped up directly from a large cauldron. I do not think
I ever tasted anything so delicious before or after. It probably had
to do with a prolonged state of poor nourishrnent, but the fresh liquid
rich cheese was indeed tasty. Since this special treat, I grew more
willing, and even welcomed the opportunity, to go to the food processing
plant. However, the special treats were rare, most of the time I endangered
my safety without a reward. On another occasion, I was almost caught
with the hot "merchandise" in my possession. A party member,
in charge of propaganda, was putting up some posters with the usual
screaming slogans that everyone thoroughly disregarded. Fortunately,
I realized the danger that he represented and managed to get out unnoticed
by crouching between the working benches and waiting for the right
opportunity to exit, hiding behind a bulky worker who opened the door
to go out. After this near disaster, I gave up my craving for the
liquid processed cheese and told the Funduyanus that my career as
a delivery boy has come to an end.
In season, on days off from work,
the locals would organize a large party of people to march into the
forest, where there were large patches of raspberry bushes,
for berry picking. It was about a three hour walk out of the village
to the place where the raspberries were so abundant that within a
couple of hours one could easily fill up a pail. There was safety
in numbers, because of wild animals, especially bears, so it was important
to operate in groups. On my very first trip, I became so engrossed
in my berry picking and eating, that I somehow wandered away from
the group and suddenly found myself totally alone in the forest. Initially
I was not very concerned. I felt certain that the people must be nearby,
although I had no idea of the actual time lapse from the moment of
my separation. I walked slowly, listening very carefully to every
sound in the forest. I continued to pick the berries and eat them,
although now I ate them more out of nervous tension than pleasure.
I began to notice certain landmarks. I slowly increased the speed
of my movements and suddenly realized that I was walking in circles
and that I was completely lost. I panicked and began to run. I only
stopped to catch my breath and then continued to run. My mind was
completely confused and I could not think clearly and could not stop
running. I prayed and pleaded with Gad to help me out of my troubles.
Then I ran out of the forest onto the main road. It was just a lucky
coincidence. It would have been just as easy to be lost forever, since
no one in the group missed me. I sat down and cried with relief, then
started walking back to Bakhchar. I brought back just about one quarter
of a pail of raspberries. Although Mr. Funduyanu ridiculed me, insulted
me and did his utmost to make me miserable for the next few days,
I really did not care. The mere thought of my panic stricken run,
ending in my lucky exit onto the main road, was comforting enough
to disregard all the scolding in the world.
There was something special about
my relationship with Igor's mother. I managed to gain favour in her
eyes and she developed a liking and even an admiration for me. All
because of my European behaviour. I always spoke politely and used
clean language quite unusual for a local person, for whom it was normal
and acceptable to insert into regular speech a rich variety of profanity.
I held the chair for her when she was about to sit down, I held her
coat when she was getting dressed, I opened the door for her, I used
a fork and a knife correctly, I excused myself when necessary and
begged her pardon for an error. I complimented her on her looks and
on her culinary skills. I thanked her for her hospitality. All of
these things were unheard of in Siberian society and it made a big
impression on her. She said that I came out directly from pre Revolutionary
St. Petersburg society. Although I consciously put on an elaborate
act, because I knew I would need her good will and her help in procuring
a pass for me in the very near future, it was quite natural for me
to behave that way (at least while I was still in Bucovina), since
I was raised with proper etiquette. In Chernovitz it would be very
natural, in Bakhchar it was odd and an attention-getter and quite
pleasing to Igor's mother. Igor had a ball. After one of my rare visits
to his home he would imitate my mannerism in a most hilarious way
and laugh so hard that tears would roll down his cheeks. Just the
same, the effect of this European behaviour towards the lady of the
house was so strikingly beneficial that I repeated the act several
times in the next few years, with some very worthwhile results.