My Father, Mother, Brother and Me

This is a very difficult chapter in my life to write about. I have no recollection of my very early years. In many instances it resembles a movie, where one falls asleep while watching, wakes up and falls asleep again. There are lapses of memory about my early youth so I have to depend greatly on what I learned about it in later years.

My life, for all practical purposes, began when I was four or five years old and my family was living in Chust. I remember my mother, but I do not know where my father was at that time. We lived not far from my grandfather's house, which I remember well, having spent several hours there each day while my mother visited her parents. My brother Sanyi was then in Volove with my other grandparents. I remember going to a Cheder for a few hours each day in the mornings and will probably never forget my first Melamed (teacher), Mr. Feierlicht. He was known as an "A.B.C." teacher, that is, one specializing in teaching the Jewish alphabet and reading. I believe there is hardly anybody in Chust born from the beginning of the 20th century to 1939 who did not start his education at Mr. Feierlicht's. He was still teaching in 1944, even in the Ghetto of Chust, until his deportation to Auschwitz.

My mother was a fun-loving person, very orderly and well organized. Her profound respect for her parents, especially her father, was - and is - seldom seen. She demanded the same respect from her children and I believe she received it to the nth degree. She was very strict with us boys, but fair and understanding. Sometimes she tried to protect us more than we would have liked. For instance, one time Father was willing to buy us two-wheel bikes but Mother, in spite of our begging and crying, refused. All my father's arguments were of no avail. "It would be harmful for them, and could seriously damage their health," she said. "What if they fall and break a leg or arm? What if they get overheated from riding and drink cold water, which could cause pneumonia?" Those were her arguments and excuses and she restricted us from participating in many sports activities on the same grounds.

At irregular intervals, my father came to visit us in Chust. I do not know where he was or what he was doing, although I presume he was working for, or with, Grandfather. Even at that time it was already evident to me that my father was a very good-hearted man, the trademark of all the Friedmans, as I later had many opportunities to observe. He was much more easygoing and much faster to reach into his pocket for money than my mother. While, with a Baron for a grandfather, it was very important to my mother to keep up the appearances and behavior of the upper class, my father could not have cared less when it came to such frivolities. That was at a time when her father was still alive and a well-to-do merchant, or at least that's what it seemed. I now believe that this was in appearance only. Otherwise, how was it possible that, immediately after his untimely death, everything fell apart and plunged the whole family into poverty? Save for the 20,000 Kcs. (kopecs) life insurance policy, they wouldn't have even had a roof over their heads. Especially in the beginning, they needed the support of my mother and father until they got organized and used to a lower standard of living.

I cannot even picture my brother Sanyi, although I am sure we must have been together many times. It was only much later that we were together regularly.

I started elementary school in Chust, finishing my first and half of my second year class there. My mother insisted that she be together with Father and, after many arguments as to where to settle, it was decided that Wyszkov would be best. My mother did not wish to stay in Volove, since it was too close to all the Friedmans there, including our many cousins. Father did not wish to live in Torun, which was too close to the many Pikkels. So Wyszkov was the choice, near father's business, which at that time was "manipulating" the forest for Baron Grunwald. The term "manipulator" means contractor.

Our stay in Wyszkov was a short one, but for me a memorable one. For one thing, I had to change schools. From then on I attended second grade in a class conducted in the Russian language, the only second grade class available in Wyszkov. The Russian language is very similar to Ukrainian. I learned and adjusted very well and, in a short time, I was speaking and writing as well as the other second graders. My father, mother and I lived in Grandfather's house, together with my great-grandfather Shmiel and his family. My brother Sanyi was still in Volove, finishing his school year there.

Father needed a carriage to take him places, so he purchased one with two horses. For me, it was very exciting since I was allowed, under supervision of the man who looked after father's transportation needs, to ride a horse whenever one was available. I became a reasonably good rider at an early age and loved every minute of it. When the horses were not needed, they were taken to a pasture and left there to graze. They returned by themselves in the early afternoon when they had had enough of the pasture. In the evening, they received a generous portion of oats and, of course, water. They were brushed and curried, with shining coats, their heads up, playful with their ears. That is the way Father insisted they be kept. I learned a lot about horses and their proper care in that short time.

My brother Sanyi came once or twice for short visits and returned to Volove. We got along well - not to say that we did not have a few fist fights. We always made up fairly quickly and then there was peace for a while. We often went up the hill to the pasture to watch our horses graze without disturbing them. The road to the pasture led up a hill, on top of which was a large clearing. This was the pasture. That was the only route to reach the place without any danger. However, there was a shortcut that required crossing the river at a shallow point and climbing an almost straight wall of rock to the hilltop where the horses grazed.

Sanyi was very daring and he decided to take the shorter route. Of course I was not to be outdone, so I climbed right behind him. It was a nightmare for both of us. For one thing, the loosened stones from Sanyi's climbing rolled down towards me below and almost knocked me down. Then, there were very few stones sticking out to afford a good grip or safe foothold. Halfway up, we were both ready to turn back but this proved even more difficult than continuing up. We could not see very well where to get a foothold or a grip to hold onto the stone. There was only one choice left to us: to continue our climb of about 100-120 meters. We made it, despite slipping dangerously several times but managing to hold on. A fall would have meant certain death. Our hands were bleeding and our feet and legs were badly scratched from the sharp rocks. When we got home and had to explain our injuries, our father rewarded us for our gallant efforts with an unceremonial spanking. I still dream sometimes about this adventure. I wake up frightened, but then I am greatly relieved to realize it was only a dream.

Born in 1920, Sanyi was two years older than I. At the age of nine or ten, he was already an excellent swimmer, while I had only started to learn. I never caught up with him - in swimming or in any other department. He was better in every sport; he was better at school and he had a personality that made him more likable. I firmly believe that, had he lived longer, he would have been Olympic material in the swimming competitions. He won many races in the few short years he lived. Once he swam across the fast-flowing River Tisa, across and back in almost a straight line while fighting the river currents. He accomplished this to win a first prize of 25 Kcs. against first class swimmers.

Wyszkov was way too small for my father so he decided to move to Wygoda, a little township of about 8,000 souls about 25-30 kilometers to the east. It was the regional office of Baron Grunwald's enterprises, located at the end of the line of his private railway. In reality it was more convenient for Father as he now could use the railroad to get to the forest. The company had several small motor-driven railroad carriages, of which one was at my father's disposal.

Now Sanyi came home to live with us permanently and both he and I started a new life. This time, we both started school in Polish. Again we had to tackle a new language. Since this was a Slavic language and greatly resembled the Czech and Russian languages, it turned out that we did not have any great problems and, surprisingly, both learned fast. There was, however, one difference. In class there were but a few Jewish pupils. The rest were Polish. They had inherited hatred for Jews and anything Jewish, and we felt it more than once. Even at that tender age we realized that Poland was not Czechoslovakia, where democracy was taught and practised. Not to say that Czechoslovakia was free of anti-Semitism, but the anti-Semites in Czechoslovakia were relatively powerless without support from the general public

When Sanyi finished his elementary school education, there was no higher school in Wygoda for him to attend. From then on he commuted by bus every day to Dolina, where he attended the Gymnasium, an eight year high school equivalent to a middle and high school in Canada or the U.S.A. He was an excellent student with a sharp mind, whereas I was much slower to learn. He found the time to help me whenever I needed help, which was often enough. He was a fine brother.

At the outbreak of the Depression in 1929, the economy started to deteriorate slowly at first, but gained momentum with time. The lumber industry did not grind to a complete halt immediately, as there was still work to complete. Lumber could not be left to rot in the forest and reseeding had to be finished. So it took until 1932 to completely halt all the wheels. I am sure my father felt the pressure, but our lifestyle did not change. True, Father was now more composed and more satisfied with living in Wygoda. In spite of its small size, it was quite a lively little township.

Thanks to the two lumber mills, there was still employment for most of the workers. Outside this industry, however, things went from bad to worse, with people literally begging for food. For the first time in my life I became aware of class differences and realized how fortunate I was to live in a house with a fully stocked pantry.

Mother seemed much happier, too, having her husband home when he was not at work. She acquired a fairly large group of friends and everything seemed rosy - at least in my eyes. She kept writing home to Chust, receiving answers from her sisters. Her father never wrote, leaving this chore to his daughters. Her suspicion was not aroused when she received word that her father, my grandfather, had a bad cold. Mother loved her father and all her sisters and regularly visited them once a year, stopping in Torun and Volove on her way to Chust. The fall of 1931 was no different. She left full of excitement at the prospect of seeing her father, sisters and brothers again. She returned a heartbroken woman. It turned out that her father's cold was something a lot more serious. In fact, her father had died several months before, but this was kept from her since her family knew how devastating a blow this would be for her. Maybe it would have been easier for all of us, but certainly for my mother, if they had prepared her for the shock differently. Maybe subsequent letters should have told her that her father was getting worse, to slowly prepare her for the tragic news. This is all second-guessing and I do not believe anything would have changed in the long run.

After her return, she was no longer the same person. Her friends could not cheer her up, neither could my father. She brooded throughout the days as if she were in a daze. She just was not the same person. I must admit that she did not neglect us in any way. She cooked and washed, did her chores as before, but there was no life in her.

I believe she was oblivious to the world outside. She did not know, and Father probably never told her, that by 1932 the forest operations would be completed with no more wood cutting in the foreseeable future. There was no reason to stay in Wygoda. In the meantime, however, life moved on as usual. Only Father knew that we would have to move back either to Volove or to Chust. He never had a chance to tell Mother. Suddenly and without warning, she became ill. At first, no one suspected anything serious. The visiting local doctor prescribed rest and some medicine, but Mother became weaker. A few days later a well-known physician from Dolina was called in, but his visit was inconclusive. He, as far as I know, recommended waiting a few days before taking any further action. He prescribed some medicine and some procedures to be followed. If Mother's condition did not improve shortly, he recommended that she be taken to a hospital in Dolina or Stryj. The next day mother fell into a coma

My brother and I were called back by messenger from our classes and we stayed at Mother's bedside until late that night. She was attended by a physician whose name I do not remember. He told my father that if she survived twenty-four hours, there would be hope. My brother and I prayed Tilim (the Book of Psalms) for our mother's recovery. She lived for another seventy-two hours and died peacefully, never waking up, in the morning hours of Erev Elul on the Jewish calendar. She was buried in Dolina, there being no Jewish cemetery in Wygoda. I had to learn to say Kaddish at an early age. My brother Sanyi and I faithfully recited the Kaddish for the next ten months.

I knew my mother but a short time, four or five years that I remember. Of course I missed her very much, but I believe Sanyi was really the one who was devastated by her death. We never knew what was wrong with our mother. What did she die of? We heard more than one explanation. Some said she died of a broken heart after her father's death. Others told me she died from a botched abortion. Still others claimed a heart attack or stroke. Others thought it was the "bad sickness" - "cancer" was not yet known then. Whatever it was, my mother died in the prime of her life at the very young age of 32--leaving behind ten and twelve year old boys.

Feeling the loss, our father devoted more time to us and more time to the final liquidation of the affairs in Wygoda. For us, the move to Volove was imminent and we were hoping father would stay there with us. In the late fall of 1932, we packed up and moved away from Wygoda, never to return there again. My father returned there about one year later for the unveiling of the headstone, accompanied by Zeide. We were left in Volove, allegedly since a passport could not be secured in time. My brother and I told my father many times that we could not believe a passport or a permit to cross the border could not be secured so we could have gone along to the unveiling. Maybe the headstone is still there. I intend to find out.

Back in Volove, father stayed with us but a short time. It might have been only four or five weeks later when he left for Bohemia and settled in Liberec, where his younger brother David was already established. More importantly, his brother Marton was there. The two of them were often together and got along well with one another, having been partners in several deals. It was just natural, therefore, that when Uncle Marton left his position with Grandfather and struck out on his own, he should invite Father to join him as soon as he left Wygoda.

For Sanyi and me, it was back again to a Czech school. My father spoke to our classroom teacher before he left for Liberec and also hired a private tutor to instruct us in the Czech language. The grammar was completely unknown to us, even though Polish and Czech were both Slavic languages and were similar. This time it took us both much longer to adjust, but again my brother was country miles ahead of me. He just plainly had a much better head than I did.

The impact of the loss of our mother was greatly diminished by the love and care of all the Friedman clan, but foremost my Bubbe Sara, may she rest in peace. Zeide, a no nonsense man at all times, outdid himself with kindness and understanding. We had for the prior two years taken violin lessons and Zeide saw to it that this continued. When we needed new violins because we outgrew the ones we had, he ordered, through our teacher, the proper instruments for us. None of the boys were home at the time we came to Volove--even Laci was out somewhere in the world. There was, however, a temporary addition to the family in the person of my cousin, Klara's younger daughter Elvi. She was but 2 1û2 or 3 years old, and the cutest child I have ever seen, surprisingly well-behaved and smart for her age. I loved her dearly. To show her my love, I teased her, pinched her, hid her toys, scared her and played many deplorable tricks on her that only a wild, undisciplined boy like me could do. She bears no permanent scars and forgave me for all my pranks. I love her more than ever.

Both Sanyi and I managed to pass our classes, my brother easily and I with some difficulty. With a good voice, Sanyi was accepted into the school choir. I was rejected, which did not really bother me much. Our teacher, a Miss Kucerova, was very understanding and probably took pity on us, knowing that we were the only orphans in her class. Sanyi finished the year in the same class as I, as he could not be accepted into a higher grade until he had a reasonable command of the language. However, he was promoted two grades the next school year. Since there wasn't a Gymnasium in Volove, Sanyi decided he would rather attend the Hebrew Gymnasium in Munkacevo (Munkacs). He had to pass an exam, which he did, and was accepted. After the summer vacation, I was again left alone. Even Elvi was no longer there since her mother, Klara, was feeling better and took her home.

In Wygoda we learned how to ski. Volove afforded even better opportunities with the hill, Kucera, practically in our backyard. Of course there were no lifts. One had to climb the hill for about an hour to ski down in ten minutes. But it was lots of fun and a good sport.

Sanyi learned to play football (soccer) and he was really good at it. In Volove, not restrained anymore by our mother's watchful eye, we played at every opportunity. I learned a lot about the rules and techniques from Sanyi and eventually became a reasonably good player myself.

From time to time, we received letters from our father and Uncle Marton. They were getting ahead, but it was a struggle. Uncle Marton's letters especially left an impression on me. He was a terrific writer and his letters were fun to read. He always started a letter with an interesting phrase like: "I don't know where to start, so I will start at the beginning." Or, "Today was a fine day for both of us. We did not see a single customer."

Sanyi wrote sporadically from Munkacevo and came home for the Chanukah holidays. We went skiing and spoke a lot about school, our mother, and our father, and whatever came to mind. He seemed to be somewhat depressed but I did not think much of it. I know now that he was homesick and alone in the world, much more isolated than I was. He returned to school and sent us his midyear report card. It was very good. My mother's aunt, Ida Pikkel, lived at that time in Munkacevo. Bubbe had asked her when she first brought Sanyi to Munkacevo to look in on him as much as possible. I do not think she bothered too much. She was too preoccupied with her boyfriend Professor Weiser, the vice-principal of the Hebrew Gymnasium.

We received a letter from her in the spring of 1934, in April or May, saying that Sanyi was in the hospital with pneumonia but that he was doing fine. Bubbe phoned the hospital and was assured it was not very serious. It was just a matter of time before Sanyi would be released. For a while, all news stopped, so Bubbe decided to travel to Munkacevo. We expected her to be away a week or ten days. When I came back from school the next day and sat at the window, I saw Bubbe walking up the path to the house. The taxi driver was carrying her suitcase. I knew instantly there was something very wrong for her to return so fast. I ran out to meet her and yelled from a distance, "Bubbe, what is wrong? Why are you back so soon?" She looked at me and said, "Don't worry, everything is fine," but her voice cracked and she started to cry. My brother Sanyi had died a few days before, but it took the hospital several days to notify us. He was buried in Munkacevo. It turned out that there were serious complications and he had developed an infection. There were no medicines at that time to combat such a malady - one penicillin shot could have saved my brother's life. That same night, I overheard my Aunt Fanny say to her parents, "Now we have only one boy left. We'd better take good care of him." They did.