Paris, May 22, 1946

The alarm clock woke me up at five in the morning. Where am I? Oh yes, in Paris, the HÙtel Seine on the Rue de Seine. I am tired but I force myself to get up, for I must sit down and study. Alice and I have enrolled about two weeks ago in a French course at the Alliance FranÁaise. We attend classes every day. If we study hard, we should be able to converse in French in about three to four months' time.

I have such a thirst for knowledge! I am capable of studying day and night, neglecting everything else.

LÈzu arrived from Boulayes. He is on his way to the airport. Ern– Rozsika and Arnold are arriving.

"I'll see you all after school, let's meet at noon at the Restaurant Claude Bernard (a kosher place, partially subsidized, frequented mostly by refugees). I am snappy and unkind to LÈzu, which I later regret: that poor kid needs more love and attention than I am willing to give. Why should studying be more important to me? Knowledge, knowledge has become the only important thing (the most important thing) in my present life, and I wonder if I am camouflaging some other desires which I can't bear to allow to surface.

Life surely won't be easier if I gain more knowledge, nor will it be any happier. My sister Manya never read a book, she was a simple soul. I had to write her love letters for her, and yet, after she married Arnold, she became happy and radiated happiness through her good-natured gaiety, her tremendous love for Arnold and her children. She was thoughtful and selfless and contented. How hard she worked for her family! She accepted the notion that a woman's place is at home--and she knew more drudgery than relaxation! Yet she seemed happy.

School at six. Polish, Czech, Russian words everywhere. In my class there are two Hungarians, two Rumanians, one Norwegian, one Lithuanian, a Chinese and an American Negro. A real Babel!

Back to Claude Bernard for supper. For Alice and me it's free. The American Joint Committee pays for it. At least that's one load off my shoulders.

When I arrived at the HÙtel Seine (Rue de Seine), they gave me notice. On the first(of next month?), we must give up our small hotel room. Where can we go? We have no money at all and no one cares what happens to us. Alice is crying and getting depressed again. "Don't worry" (I say). "We have been in worse situations! We'll survive somehow. Look at it this way: many of our Czech compatriots would love to change places with us. We are in free Paris, while back in Czechoslovakia the Communist party has just won the election. Do you think it's better there?"

Paris, June 4, 1946

Erev Shavuot. "Look, Alice, a white tablecloth! I've bought the candles, I even bought a bouquet of real roses to commemorate/celebrate the holidays. Alice, why are you turning away, look at me, Alice!" We sleep together in one narrow bed, which was now open, and Alice turned slowly towards me. She was very pale and could hardly talk: "I am sick, very sick" What to do? No one to turn to for help--and my French is still very poor. She's already stayed in bed for five days, and her condition is getting worse.

Finally today I got up enough courage to take her to the Rothschild hospital. She is still very sick.

I had to check out of my hotel room today. G-d, the bill the owner handed me! I argued and screamed at her. How I hated her guts. A week ago I reserved another room not too far away, but I cannot carry the suitcases, I'll have to hire a taxi.

Scraping together my last few francs, I hail a cab. But even though I'd reserved a room, I was told there were no vacancies: "Your room is now occupied." How unlucky can you get?

The taxi driver saw my despair. "Entrez," he told me, and opened the door of his car. He inquired at several other small hotels, and finally we found one (with a vacancy).

I am writing this entry at the Rue Feuillantines, where I've rented a furnished room for 100 francs a day. I paid for three days in advance, and now I am penniless. I have no idea what I'll do in three days' time.

Tomorrow is the first day of Shavuot, and here I am in a strange hotel in a foreign city, all alone. I have never felt so alone in my entire life, not even in concentration camp. Parents, husband, child, relatives, sisters, brother--all swallowed up by the war machine and Hitler's evil camps, Alice in the hospital, and friends? Where are they when I need them? Yet, until I can give, bring care for others, I will not try. But where are my friends now? My brothers, Ernest and LÈzu are spending the holiday in Boulayes. I am terribly lonely.

I remember my parents' house, the light of the holiday candles, the family sitting around admiring the flowers and greenery which we gathered and used to decorate the house, the aroma of the delicious milchig meal still in my imagination ... all gone. I took out two cans of beans and used them as candlesticks. I gathered some flowers in a vase. How well I remember the taste of the delicious walnut danishes and cheese delkeles we used to have for Shavuot breakfast. Yes, but what will I eat tomorrow morning? The long French bread, which I had the foresight to buy before moving. Only dry bread? It's more than I had in the concentration camp. At least I know this time that I am not going to starve to death.

Paris, June 8, 1946

I've been visiting Alice every day. She complains of pain all over her body. She can't speak French and the doctors don't understand her. Maybe some staff member knows German. I've asked, but no one does. I feel lost and very miserable. For some reason they've decided to operate on Alice tomorrow, to take out her appendix. "Why?" I asked Aliska. "Does it hurt there too?" "Everywhere," she said, "please, Rose, pray for me." "I will," I promised. But I don't even own a prayer book. I will use my own words. This hotel room is so cold, I miss Alice terribly, there's nobody to talk to here.

I don't like to walk alone in the streets of Paris, and so I spend most of my time here, a jail-like existence in a drab hotel room. Not a soul around who cares! If I were to die here, my brothers would discover my body in two days, after the holiday, they would mourn me for a while, as they did my two sisters, and then I too would be forgotten. Why am I alive? What was G-d's purpose in letting me live, while others died? Why did my sister-in-law Rozsika have to perish in the Auschwitz gas chamber with my child in her arms? So that I could survive? She was beautiful, intelligent and only 26 years old.

One year has passed since we were liberated, a year during which we've eaten decent food instead of grass and bread made out of real wheat. This past year we weren't fenced in with electrical wire but were free to go wherever we wanted; clothing has once more become important. It's been a year of physical cleansing, taking showers and soaking in tubs of warm water whenever possible.

Our hair has grown back, and no brutal male hands will shave our pubic hair again, either. I can look around me and no longer see the SS guards. No one is following us, and if I feel like running 200 meters, I can do it and forget how we ran that distance, all wet and cold, from the latrine to our block/barracks. Now I can change my underwear three times a week, put on clean ones, without worrying that the fresh ones have more lice than the ones I just discarded.

I am free today! Free and independent in a country which proclaimed: "LibertÈ, ÈgalitÈ‚ fraternitÈ" more than a hundred years ago. I've been in Paris, France for three months now. What a dream! But why am I not happy? I am a stranger, a refugee; France is not my home! Too many foreigners came into France after the war, and I can feel the resentment wherever I go. No, they do not like us! But where can we run to?

I find myself reminiscing: April 15, 1945: "You are free!" We heard this over the microphones in the camp. Some of us rejoiced, some cried, but all of the survivors asked themselves: We are free to go--but where? Our homes were confiscated, our dear ones put to death. The lagers had one good thing about them: they brought about solidarity with the rest of our fellow survivors. And now we asked ourselves: Where to go, which way?

And the sad, weary, wretched mob of survivors was released: from darkness to light, from slavery to freedom, still daring to hope that maybe, maybe things had changed in the world while they had been interned, that just maybe they would find compassion out there, somewhere. And thus we went to Prague, Bratislava, Budapest, Ungvar, Liberec, Paris.

Everywhere I meet up with the same people. Everyone is in a hurry. They are all dashing about--but where to? "So long, see you in Tel Aviv," some say. But I know I will meet them again and again, in New York, or Rio de Janeiro. There are some idealists. Tomorrow another illegal transport leaves for Eretz. "We will fight if necessary!" they claim, and I know that even the pain of dying cannot be so terrible as this, if one dies for one's own homeland.

Lulu died in Russia, which was on the side of the Germans and Hungarians. How terrible it must have been for him!

And yet, the majority of the survivors want to emigrate to America. They expect an easier life there, a peaceful existence. Yes, but what will happen to Eretz Israel?

Yet today I myself am thinking of America, so why don't I too rush off illegally to our land? To create, to be witness to the birth of our new land, for I can't imagine it otherwise. What has changed? There is a collective feeling and in this sense I know I should follow the ideal. But as an individual I also have feelings, fears, premonitions. My relatives in the States have sent me papers, but killed my desire to become a doctor. I am waiting for an American visa and I am studying English diligently. Yet I know that if I should meet a man I liked and who wanted to go to Eretz, I would follow him, for life is becoming unbearable alone, especially since Alice has been in the hospital. Loneliness is hard to bear.

I would like to love again, and to be loved again. Do I dare allow myself to experience these feelings again, as other women do? Can I ever be happy again? And care for someone else after Lulu? I am afraid. Most mature, intelligent young men gravitate toward America. So be it. But how will anyone be able to mend a broken heart, a beaten spirit? To fill me with optimism and desire? What kind of house can you build on ashes and memories which suffocate you? How will I be able to change his mind about America, to persuade him to come with me to Eretz instead? For I feel that America is only one more stopping point in the journey for us Jews; our place to raise children can only be in a free State of Israel.

Paris, June 10, 1946

It happened two years ago, almost to the day. Three days after Shavuot. It was a hot, humid day on that May 30, 1944. Eighty human beings were squeezed into a wagon meant for six horses. Our family and myself were among them. The light came through two small wire windows, which were high above our heads. Needless to say, no one could open those windows during our trip to the unknown. The door was barricaded from the outside. The air inside became thick, full of gas and bacteria, cloudy, and unbearable to breathe. It was hot, and the air reeked of feces and vomit. For three days no one moved in there: there was simply no place to move. Every inch was occupied. Some people were lucky, for they could sit down. Some were standing, and they slept standing up for the last three days, which was the duration of this voyage of the damned. I couldn't straighten out my legs, for fear of kicking somebody. I couldn't stretch my arms, as someone was standing above me. I felt paralyzed. After a while I could no longer feel any physical pain, only numbness.

People could not hold back any longer, they had to empty their bowels or urinate standing up, in front of everybody and using an empty can (from preserves). I couldn't bring myself to stoop to that, and I held myself in for the last three days. Those were days when I couldn't eat anyways: the oppressive heat and foul smells took away my appetite, but I was unbearably thirsty and there was no water to drink. I kept thinking about how relative everything is in life! A few drops of water were now more precious than diamonds. An overwhelming desire to drink overcame me, as well as everyone else in the wagon. I still had some water left in a small bottle. I looked at it but didn't dare touch it. I was saving it for my six-month-old baby, who was sleeping innocently on my lap. "Lidlid" we called him, for he repeated those syllables often: "Lid-dly-dly." He was truly an angel. He didn't give me any trouble during our difficult trip, and I refused to deprive him of this little bit of water; I vowed to give it to him when he awoke.

We had to leave the baby carriage at the point of embarkation, which was the train station in Ungvar. The goyim could not wait for us to leave. They shamelessly grabbed/snatched our possessions, and I cried out when a uniformed pilot rushed toward Lidlid's expensive white, imported carriage. How clever I was at least to take the mattress with me. This way I was pushed into a corner, where I sat down, put the mattress on my knees and legs, and Lidlid on top of it, so I was not afraid he would fall down. There was no place to fall. There were wall-to-wall Jews everywhere. After three miserable days, were we still human beings? Nobody was as comfortable as Lidlid. He stretched his little hands and feet, exercising them. Then he got hold of his left foot with his right hand and put it in his mouth, over and over again. He was happy and laughed aloud contentedly. I can still hear his laughter like silver bells, ringing in my ears, hear him babbling and see him smiling up at me. I watched him. His tiny, sensual mouth was like a bud, his tiny pink tongue bobbed playfully back and forth showing here and there two small white pearls, his first two lower front teeth. How adorable he looked! It reminded me of the first violets springing up out of the lush earth in March. I changed his position, put him on his belly. He threw his head back, feet up, arching himself. It must have been strenuous for him, his face suddenly turned red. He was really beautiful at that moment. His sky-blue eyes were framed by black eyelashes and enhanced by black eyebrows, and I could just love him for eternity. I undressed him--why should he suffer in that heat? Oh my darling, where am I taking you? I don't want to think! Are you really mine? You little angel. Imagine! I stopped breast-feeding him weeks ago. All he got for three days was rice and grated apple which I had prepared before we left the ghetto. He was good and enjoyable, he entertained himself and slept a great deal.

But not the grown-ups! Their nerves were strained and their patience gone. One of them had only to start and arguments and cursing were all we heard around us. I kept still, for I knew the "dalles kriegt zich".

Suddenly the wagon stopped. This had happened a few times before. We didn't notice that this time it stopped and didn't start again. My otherwise intelligent and clever mother-in-law announced that she wanted to change her clothes. "How, Mother?" I asked. "There are 80 of us here in this wagon, and each of us has two parcels (officially permitted). Where can you undress?" She, too, started to argue. It seemed it felt good to let off some steam.

For three nights I didn't sleep, for fear something might happen to Lidlid. In addition to everything else I was very, very tired.

Suddenly we heard a shriek. Marci's Tibi (six feet tall) was looking out the window. "Mother, where are you? We will have to get out here. Please stay near me." (Tibi was fifteen years old.) "Please, Mother, don't let me get separated from you! Come here, please look out. Do you see what's happening?"

"They are taking the children away from their mothers. Do you see the Landesman girl, alone, without her baby? And there, there is Rubin's daughter just handing her child to somebody."

"No" I screamed, "No! I will never part from Lidlid. No, they cannot force me to! He is my life--they can kill me, but I will never part from him. Where have we arrived anyway? Is this place Hell? Oh, G-d, save us, save us for the sake of our innocent children!" I looked at my precious one. He was lying naked on the mattress. Suppose we really reached the end of our journey, I cannot, could not carry him out naked!

"Mother, would you please hold the baby until I find the proper clothes for him?" I turned my back to the door and searched frantically for some clothing and food in my rucksack.

"Rose, come here, fast!" shouted Tibi again. "You are tall. Look out! What do you see?" Since the baby was in my mother-in-law's arms, I followed Tibi's urging, stood up on tiptoe and pulled myself up to the tiny window. A strange, unbelievable sight met my eyes. Row upon row of long, evenly built, camp like, structures stretched before my eyes. Each row was separated from the others with wire gates. Inside them thousands upon thousands of bald two-legged creatures were moving. Many had blue and white striped uniforms. At that instant, with a loud bang, the door of our wagon was opened. Some strange men jumped up and shouted at us in German to get out, fast, fast, fast. "All the parcels must be left behind in the wagon. Don't worry, we will carry them after you. Los, los, los." I am still standing by the window, unbelieving, incredulous; this scene was not,could not be real! The strange boys/men in blue and white, so rough and unfeeling--could they be Jews, too? Had we arrived in Palestine?

But my hysterical laughter turned to a frightened cry when I noticed that the wagon was being emptied. I was the last to get down, to leave the wagon. The heavy parcels they had so "graciously" allowed us to carry were all thrown down. I could hardly step over them in order to get to the door of the wagon.

I can remember my dear father and all the rest of us carrying the heavy loads on our backs and shoulders--and now everything was to be left behind! How they must have laughed at our stupidity. From the brick factory (temporary ghetto) to the train station, miles and miles, trudging on foot, we had carried all our most important belongings. My back still hurt, my shoulders were bruised: two parcels and a baby, and now we had to leave them all behind. I saw my mother dragging her winter coat and staggering under the weight of all the precious belongings--and carrying a suitcase in her hands. How she perspired, yet she endured. I didn't bring my feather quilt. "How will we cover ourselves?" she asked. Never will I forget my poor, beloved father, only a few weeks after a serious operation, weak and trembling, but carrying the bundle and a suitcase. How they fooled us! Why did we believe and listen to them?

A young man jumped up. Ari, sweet Ari, my youngest brother. He was in a rush. His glasses fell down. Paying no attention to that, he grabbed a few apples. "You are allowed a shoulder bag," he told me. Then he disappeared. As quickly as I could, I filled my shoulder bag with clothing and food for the baby. "Thank, you, Ari." I was reaching for an extra blanket, when a uniformed young boy jumped up, tore the blanket from my hand, forcefully snatched my shoulder bag away and threw it among the rest of the parcels. "Los, du verfluchte," he shouted and pushed me out of the wagon with such hatred that I flew out of there.

A good-looking SS officer smiled, seeing my confusion. It was still daylight and I could see the death skull sign shining silvery on his cap. I turned to him, pleading, "Let me go back for my shoulder bag. My baby's food and clothing are in it. You wouldn't want a baby to suffer, would you?" He smiled. "Let me in again and I promise you I will work twice as much as needed, as long as I can save my child." (We had been told that work was what the Germans wanted from us, and I still believed it!)

He smiled at me and I saw that he was good-looking. My German was perfect and I was young. When he said: "Bitte es ist ihnen erlaubt" I had no idea that my permission to go back into the wagon came from the infamous Dr. Mengele himself!

I climbed up and frantically searched for my shoulder bag. But it was hidden somewhere among the many other bags. In the chaos and confusion, I couldn't find it. "What will my baby do without it? Baby, oh Baby, my G-d, I mustn't delay! If I stay here too long will I be able to find him again in the crowd of screaming people?" I jumped down from the wagon. A sudden, painful shove in my back brought me to the end of a very long line of women. I looked around. Where were my mother, my mother-in-law with my Baby? I saw Agi, Švike, Edith, my young nieces. "Where is everybody else?" I asked them. They didn't answer. The line of young women started to move forward and I ran instinctively in the other direction. I was never so frightened in all my life. "I must find them!" I said to myself, over and over again, and just to ease my unbearable pain, I tried to pull my hair out with all the force I could muster. A crazy animal-like voice came from my throat, crying, "Wo ist mein Kind, mein teures Kind, mein einziger Sohn, mein Leben?" My cry came from the depth of my soul--yet the SS officer who was accompanying the row of young women had only this to say to me: "Wollen sie mit den anderen gehen, oder ich schiesse sie " I felt sure I was losing my mind. How much can a person stand? I tore my blouse and stood almost bare-breasted, begging him to shoot me. "T–ten sie mich bitte, t–ten sie mich, ich will nicht leben weiter." But the SS officer did not move. He must have seen that he was dealing with a crazy woman. My insane eyes were pleading. He looked at me with pity and then, instead of German, he uttered the next sentence in Hungarian: "Nyungodjon neg aszonyom ·‚ ·s alljon be." (Relax, lady, get in line, you are going to have a shower now, after which each of you will be allotted a furnished room. Your baby and the rest of the family will follow you by car.) I looked at him, unbelieving. He pointed to a few cars, rushing by all filled with people. "You see," he said. (Later I found out that all those cars took their human cargo straight into the gas chambers and crematoria).

But at the time he spoke to me, I didn't know all this. His voice was human and I wanted to believe him.

The fresh cold water in the shower helped to clear my mind. All my young unmarried relatives were there, except for Rozsika, my sister-in-law. Where could she be? After all, we were together all the time in the wagon. I found out later that Rose had helped her mother to get down from the wagon. She had taken Lidlid out of her arms and had carried him herself. She died with him in her arms--instead of me being with my dashing Simon Burechly. What went through her mind when the gas enveloped her and she knew death was imminent?

As for me, I was condemned to life.

This all happened two years ago. But the pain hasn't yet left me! The wound never really healed. I will never be the same person again. Today is my Jahrzeit. How many close relatives did I lose in that one day? My dear father, mother, son, two sisters with their children, Arika. My mother-in-law, seven sisters-in-law, four brothers-in-law, fifteen nieces and nephews, three aunts, two uncles and so many cousins. I cannot count them any more.

Yet, it was May 30, 1944, and Lulu died (without my knowledge) on April 4th that same year. He stepped on a mine, lost one foot, then gangrene set in and he perished with so many others in Russia.

I was condemned to live. How can my body be sound when my spirit is broken, my mind unable to grasp such enormity? What am I doing here when so many beautiful, innocent lives were lost? How can I ever raise my head in hope, in faith, accept values I was taught as a young child and young woman? Will I ever be able to rejoice again? To love, to endure? How can I believe in better things to come, after seeing Hell in all its fury snatching away everyone who was dear to me? And will the stench of the smoke billowing from those crematoria ever be cleared from my nostrils? Will I ever be able to trust anybody again?

Paris, June 11, 1946

I got up early today, sat down to study English. Breakfast? No, thank you! I am in no mood to eat. I visited Alice. Poor kid, she's still sick. She wanted some fruit preserves. I'll have to see where I can get some, and take it to her. After lunch I'll go visit her again. Coming back from seeing Alice, I noticed the PanthÈon doors were open. I went in. I thrive on culture. In Paris it's everywhere, all around you. Whenever I can, I visit the Louvre, get lost in its vast beauty, and art.

Paris, June 29, 1946

When I first arrived in Prague (running away from Arnold) back in 1945, I met many people who had left Ungvar and took up residence in Liberec. The city was emptied of Germans, and all kinds of work opportunities were open for serious people. "It is a land of milk and honey," one acquaintance of mine said. In Prague, where I met many of my friends from the camp, I was looked at strangely. Until I noticed their fashionable clothes and realized I was still wearing my old skirt, made from a blanket, and a faded blue tricot blouse. In the camps we had one major concern: food. Now that we are free, we have another concern, preoccupation: clothing.

I was penniless and, in order to be independent, I needed a good job. I decided to settle in Liberec, where good bookkeepers were hard to find. I was bilingual: Czech and German were two languages I knew well, since they were necessary in the Sudetenland. But before leaving, I wanted to arrange the house in Ungvar, to see what was left of my belongings, which I had given to St. Istvan's to hide for me.

In Prague, the Ausl”nders supplied me with cigarettes on the best terms. I was to pay for them after my return from Budapest. There I sold them for three times as much on the black market, and left for Balaton Lake.

Coming back, I stopped once more in Ungvar. I persuaded my brother LÈzu to join me in Liberec. I said to Arnold: "I will not ask you to come with us, for you have a good business here, and you seem to be well settled here in Ungvar." He paled and said, "I will not stay here, for I consider you my family, and wherever you go, I intend to follow you. I will liquidate my business and join you as soon as I can."

I found an excellent job very easily in Liberec. LÈzu followed soon after, as did Arnold. I was extremely busy with friends and family, work and arranging the household necessities. I tried to avoid Arnold, but he found me alone one day and said to me: "For weeks now I've waited for a chance to be alone with you. I love you more than ever. Please, I beg you, be my wife."

"Please Arnold, I thought you understood. The answer is still no."

"Why?" he asked. "Am I not as intelligent as you would want me to be? I will read and study, do anything you want--only please accept me as your husband. I will make you happy, I promise!"

"Please don't, I can't." That night he couldn't sleep a wink. He called LÈzu and asked him to intercede. "If she doesn't marry me," he said, "I will commit suicide. Will she be able to live with guilt in her heart for refusing me?"

I didn't take his threats seriously. The next day he stayed in bed. He was sick, he didn't eat or drink, and became very depressed.

When I went into his room, he sat up, his eyes shining, his whole body trembling. He touched my hand and caressed it gently. "If only you knew how much I love you!" he said to me. "Nothing matters to me any more, but you. I don't understand myself. A man of 35 acting like a schoolboy. I loved my wife, but never so intensely, never so deeply. I cannot live without you. I am so much in love, it hurts. You must consent to our marriage."

"I am not ready for any serious involvement," I said. "I've been hurt, and the wound hasn't healed yet. Please, Arnold, go about your life as if I didn't exist. Don't force me to marry you out of pity or with threats of suicide. A marriage should be based on mutual consent."

I looked at his strong hands, which could bend iron, and they were shaking! "I will wait then," he replied, "I will wait until you'll be ready to say 'yes'. I have never desired a woman more than you. Please understand, you must be mine."

I didn't spare his feelings. I didn't want him to have any doubts about mine. I didn't love him. It would have been a disaster for me to bind my life to his.

For the next three days he stayed in his room, depressed, unshaven, hungry. I felt badly, but I couldn't help it. "He must leave," I told my brother. "How can we stay under the same roof?" On the fourth day he left without a word. He stopped to take out his handkerchief. Not knowing I was watching him through the window, he wept bitterly, hands over his face, shoulders shaking. Then, once more, he looked back.

That same week I received my affidavit for the flight to America. I was impatient. I wanted to become a children's specialist, and never to marry again.

Back in Paris. In the loneliness of the drab Parisian hotel, with Alice so sick in the hospital, with my disappointment in Boulayes, being penniless and struggling even for daily bed and board, I suddenly recalled Arnold. So strong, so capable as a mechanic, a good-looking, macho man, he would have carried me in his arms if I had asked him to--yet I rejected his offer over and over again. Why?

And why was I so upset when the letter from my cousins arrived. Instead of help they ridiculed my desire for medical studies. Wouldn't it be normal for me to crave the opposite sex, rather than to occupy my mind with studying languages? Then I remembered. When we left Auschwitz, we were given "brome" to stop us from menstruating. For the past three years I haven't had my period. Other women got their periods back soon after liberation--did I become a freak?

For the first time in many months, I was thinking of myself. All my free time in the hospital, visiting with Alice, worrying about her and feeling very inadequate (not being able to speak French), unable to communicate with the doctors, I felt frustrated and helpless.

The surgical incision was healing well, yet Alice was not getting better. She was in despair and talked about death. Under these circumstances, how could I think about myself? Yet I knew that I must consult a gynecologist, and finally I did. Every week I was given hormones, and hoped that once more I would become "a woman".

Spring has come to the streets of Paris. The chestnuts are in bloom. The trees are dressed up in their magnificent shiny green outfits. Lovers stroll leisurely about. Only I am alone. Again, I've been thinking about Arnold and all the suffering I inadvertently caused him. He must be all alone, somewhere far away. At least I have my brothers in Boulayes, only 50 kilometers from here.

One day last week I started to menstruate again. As if an electric current had been switched on, I also started to think about men! How I used to love to put my head on Lulu's shoulder, to feel the warmth of another human being's body, the masculine smell, the touch of a hand, a few understanding words from a beloved. Does Arnold still think of me? LÈzu told me that he gave up his desire to go to Eretz and wants to come to Paris to see us once more. Suppose he should pop the question again? Would I refuse him this time? He's a simple man, not very intelligent, but good-hearted, loving, an excellent provider, a steady person. Lulu was learned and very intelligent, and yet, did we have a good marriage? Of course not! Our marriage was far from perfect. My love for him covered up so many important elements that were missing. Who knows! Arnold is young. He might turn out to be physically just what I desire!

Anyway, is there such a thing as a perfect marriage? My parents certainly never reached that state of bliss. And what if Lulu were alive today? My despair would only grow. As a marriage, it was a failure. Would we continue in the same vein? Yet our courtship was magical. How precious every minute was! To be so much in love and have that feeling of euphoria is the most wonderful thing in the world! To go through life without experiencing such delights is not living at all! Yet, I had it! I am enriched by the memory of it. But maybe one can love only once in a lifetime with such depth, such abandon. Who can assure me that by waiting for "Mr. Right" I will truly ever meet him one day and "live happily ever after"? Grow up, Rose, you know this is only a dream, an illusion.

Instead, you should remember the day when you couldn't pay your hotel bill and had to turn to some scheming.

When I arrived at 7, rue des Feuillantins, I noticed that half of the hotel rooms were unoccupied. I paid the owner for three days in advance. She was pleasant, laughed at my "funny French" and claimed to understand me.

"If I bring you five occupants for your hotel," I asked her, "will you let me have my room for free until the end of the month?" She laughed and nodded. Fine, but now I had to find these people! What had made me say such a strange thing? Why, desperation to have my rent payments postponed. But luck was with me. A new transport of refugees arrived looking for lodgings: my brother told me. And now I had new acquaintances: all orthodox Jews, in my very own hotel.

Among them was Arnold. Prior to his arrival I had played with the idea of looking at our situation, examining all its angles, in case I should want to say "yes": how much easier life could turn out to be for me! Besides, bereft of all illusions, was there any difference whom I should marry? And I would give up my desire for an intelligent, worldly young man, for a husband, that is, and then perhaps, once I was Arnold's wife, perhaps I would meet such an ideal man. But if that were to happen, couldn't the flames of desire lead to a terrible mistake? I had nightmares about this and cried aloud on awakening.

When Arnold came into the hotel, and saw me for the first time in a year, he turned pale, but his eyes were still full of desire for me. I knew then that his feelings for me hadn't changed, and that he still loved me.

I recalled Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind, and wondered whether I, too, would find out too late, as Scarlet had done, that, after all, Arnold was my destiny. There and then I decided to marry him. But this secret thought seemed strange even to me, for in the past few weeks I had become entangled emotionally with yet another man: Friedman. A German Jew, assimilated, learned, a professor at the university, fluent in several languages, 32 years old, my height, but slight in build, he is my tutor in English. I see him every day. I like him in an innocent, admiring way. After my lessons, we often talk about religion. He is an unbeliever. And now, since Auschwitz, my faith has been quite shaky, too. But yet there is something deeply imbued in me, with a different sort of influence I could even become religious once again. Yet here is Friedman, professor, writer, poet, working on his Ph.D., talking about his thesis. At times we discuss Rainer Maria Rilke, or Heine.

But I am ahead of my own narrative. Today I am convinced that if Alice had lived with me as we intended when we left Boulayes together, if I had someone to talk to, someone with whom to share my inner turmoil, then neither Friedman nor Arnold would matter! As it was, Alice stayed on in the hospital. She had a serious heart condition, from which she did not recover. For weeks, I visited her every day, stayed in the city for Sabbath, too, walked miles to the hospital and refused my brothers' invitations to spend the Sabbath with them in Boulayes.

Alice was very grateful. "Hold my hand," she would say. "I don't deserve this from you. I was mean and rude to you in the camp. Why do you reward me with kindness?"

"Forget the past," said I, "it's behind us. You'll get well, Alice. Think of the future, why always the past?"

"There is no future for me," she said prophetically. "And only two good things happened to me in the past. My sheltered childhood in the bosom of my parents' home, and my long-lasting dream to meet your brother Ern– again and marry him."

"How come?"

"Please don't interrupt me. When he was still a teenager, Ern– came to visit us in Presov. He was as handsome as a movie actor and the first man who ever talked to me as to a young lady. I never had any boyfriends. I would run away when anyone approached me. My shyness kept growing, for I thought myself ugly. I hated my red hair and face full of freckles. Then Ernest told me I had beautiful blue eyes and smiled at me. He opened up in me desires I never knew I could have. I wanted to he held by him, kissed by him, to stay with him. I still remember how I clung to him when we parted, and how he kissed me. When all the young Slovak girls were surrounded by the Germans, many could not stand the humiliation, the hunger, degradation, punishment. I pretended it was someone else: this could not happen to me! Instead I recalled Ern–'s smiling face and imagined beautiful youthful dreams in his company.

"Yes, I was a dreamer. Then one day you came to my block and announced that you were his sister. I had heard about you before--but all I cared for was Ern–. I screamed at you in rage. I couldn't even admit to myself that all that anger accumulated in me for being a dreamer instead of a realist was in conflict with my own self. I took you in not for your sake, not to save you from hunger, as you thought. I called you for one reason only: to find out what had happened in all those years to your brother Ern–."

"The last we heard of him was four years ago," I replied. "A letter came from Russia through the Red Cross, that his name was found among the missing persons. He might even be dead."

"No!" she screamed, and hit me with all her might. "No, don't say that! He's alive! I know he's alive and will come back!"

I looked at her sadly. Was she mad? I thought at that time. But then half of our block acted "mad". As long as she helped me out with nourishment here and there, I would still like to stay in her block. "Do I have to go back to Block 21?" I asked her.

"Stay, but don't come to see me personally. Pretend you don't know me. Mrs. Schechter, who prepares my food, will be the one you should contact in the future. I will talk to her today."

"When liberation came," Alice continued, "I came back to my home town. Not one of the gentile neighbours even wanted to recognize me. Our town had been emptied of all the Jews. In despair, I left for Bratislava. Sick and miserable in the hospital there, one day I had a vision there: Ernest came in, smiled at me--I could almost count his beautiful pearly teeth--but the vision talked: this time he was real. "Aliceka, I am so glad I've found you! So few of us are left in the family. I want to take you to Liberec, where Rose and the rest of us live."

"He put hope back in my heart. My love for him flared up anew. I felt better already. But then I remembered my other self in the camp: the one you knew.

"Ernest," I said, "I can't go with you. What if Rose doesn't want me there? First, you've got to find out whether she would welcome me. If she will, let me know, and I will follow you!"

"When your invitation arrived, I cried bitterly and packed my few belongings with great anticipation. I announced my arrival in a telegram, hoping someone would meet me at the train station. When nobody came (the telegram had never arrived), I took a taxi to Barvirska 5, and with fear in my heart, rang the bell.

"The family consisted of five women and three men: Rose, her three nieces, and a lovely young woman who was visiting, Abraham Rozsika, Ernest, LÈzu and Arnold. We were all remnants of many pre-war families, yet it was a coherent unit, bound together with understanding, love and necessity. When Friday night came and I heard Ernest making kiddush, I burst into tears. But they were tears of happiness, for I was embarrassed by everyone present, with so much love and warmth, that suddenly a ray of hope had appeared in my mind. But not for long! I caught Ernest's eyes on Rozsika, who suddenly became red in the face, so embarrassed was she. I knew she was their neighbour in Ungvar, and assumed this alone to be the reason for her presence--until I saw the love and desire in his eyes. Everything went black before me.

"Are you all right, Alice?' you have asked me. 'You'd better be, for tomorrow is Rozsika and Ernest's engagement. I want you to help me with the preparations.'

"I couldn't sit there any longer. My dreams were shattered. I wished I'd never come. When you wanted to leave Liberec soon afterward, I offered to follow you wherever you went, for by then nothing mattered to me any more. But I was wrong. I felt extremely good in Boulayes, until they discovered my other 'me'. After that I was only a burden to you, an unnecessary appendage. Yet, somehow I still wanted to live.

"Here, in the hospital, I close my eyes and see my mother and Dad. Mutti is calling me, she is awaiting me with open arms, and at times I feel lifeless, my soul reaching out to them. I fly, light as a bird, round and round and round, until I open my eyes and find myself again in this hospital bed."

"Alice, darling, I need you"' I pleaded with her. "Please don't fly away from me!" I teased her. She was hot and her skin was wax-like. I felt deep compassion for her.

In the hotel I found a letter from America with a cheque for a substantial amount of money in it. "All the cousins contributed," wrote Madeline, "for we want you to use this money for private lessons for English. You will need it sooner than you think."

The next day I bought a present for Alice and rushed off to the hospital. I found her lying in an awkward position, her body stiff, one side paralyzed. It took me awhile to grasp the cruel reality. She'd had a stroke! Her eyes looked at me with sadness so great that I asked her, without realizing she couldn't answer me: "Alice, dear, what happened?" I knew that she recognized me. I touched her fingers and felt a faint squeeze. With her other hand she tried to pull me toward her twisted face. She wanted to tell me something--but what? "T-T-T-T..." I waited, another five minutes passed before she uttered, "Thank..." and more time elapsed for the "you." It took some effort. She wanted to thank me for what I'd done for her. "Yes," her eyes said to me. I ran out of the hospital in tears. I telephoned my brother Ern– to come right away. He found me in such deep despair that he wouldn't let me stay in Paris all by myself. "You must come with me, at least for this week-end, or else you too will get sick."

Together we went to Alice to explain to her that I would be gone for the next two days. Her eyes consented. Even Ern– thought she'd understood.

Early Monday morning I came back to my hotel. A telegram was waiting for me. It had come from the Rothschild Hospital, and informed me that my cousin Alice had died on Sunday. Only a handful of people attended her funeral.

Alice was gone and I was going to pieces. I knew that only one thing could save me: to keep busy, not to think, not to feel! Besides taking French and English courses at school, I decided to study every day with a private tutor to help me with my English.

In the beginning it was a proper professor-student relationship. But then he began to stay late after the lessons, talking about politics, religion, his personal ambitions. And I listened. After lunch we'd sit at a quiet little cafÈ counter, talking, very comfortable with each other. Although he was fluent in French and English, we conversed in German, a language in which we both felt at ease.

We talked about the double standards of so-called morality, society's attitudes towards men, and strict codes of behaviour for women. I asked him, "Is it a sin if a woman has been involved with a man and the relationship has ended?" "It depends," he replied, "physically, that is, a woman can have as many relationships as a man, as far as I am concerned, as long as she doesn't get involved emotionally. A woman can carry a torch for a man for a long, long time. Even after his death, the memories can haunt her, making comparisons might thwart her chances for happiness with someone else. Besides, it's torture for the man who has to step into someone else's shoes. I'll give you an example. I lived with a woman for a year, she'd been previously married. I became enraged when she talked about her first husband, even though I'd never met the man. She would have been much smarter not to mention him at all."

I stood up. "Let's go, I have a sudden headache."

Alone once more in my hotel room, I thought of Lulu. Lulu, I can never forget you! No man will ever be able to erase you from my memory. If you had lived, we might have had a miserable marriage. But as it is, I can recall only the warmest, sweetest, most precious moments we spent together. You belong to my past and I will build a future only with all the impressions I've gathered so far. One can't pick up life at a certain point and leave the past behind! I am what my short life has made me.

Yet the next time we met, my professor asked me out for an apÈritif at the cozy terrasse of the Censier Denbantor, a little coffee house. I joined him. I needed to talk, to listen, to be in the company of a human being whom I enjoyed. We drank very little and I smoked a cigarette, watching the passers-by. We talked about literature, about this unusual city, how Paris grows on you. I watched the elderly florist putting out his wares, the magnificent decoration this abundance of colour gave to the grey buildings, all past their former glory. Yet they were just as much a part of Paris as the amorous couple just a foot from the flower vendor.

And then I told him that I had been married, that I'd had a baby boy in 1943, whom I carried alive to Auschwitz, and how I lost my whole family on account of my being Jewish.

"Now I understand," he said. "You are so very young, yet your outlook on life is mature. I wasn't able to reconcile your age with your philosophy of life. You are different from anybody I know. Thank you for your confidence."

We said "au revoir" to each other at the hotel entrance, but I carried my thoughts of him with me. Am I getting interested in him? I am not yet looking for any involvement, yet I am afraid of my own inner thoughts. I have to fight off my physical desires. I know how far I can go. How far is safe?

But suppose he too should become entangled in his desires for me, not only physically, but emotionally as well! It could be a catastrophe for both of us. We live in two different worlds--he, an entirely assimilated Jew, to whom G-d or religion is only a symbol, sometimes a laughing matter. He loves his lonely existence where wine, women and play are easily available. He's comfortably settled in his bachelor's ways, surrounded by books and music. "Only a fool marries," he stated one time, and I ask myself: "What is it that I like in him?"

He is translating Paul ValÈry, and he reads his own poems to me as well. His words are like pearls, so precious, so exact! I feel warmth when I am in his company, and safe, as if he could protect me from all harm.

I know that everything about him is wrong for me, and that I should direct my budding desires toward someone who is serious, Jewish and marriageable. For I must have other children in order to feel fulfilled, and so I must look for marriage and stop fooling around. An extra-marital affair wouldn't be right for me. I would still love to meet someone who is knowledgeable in the ways of Torah as well as in worldly matters, someone who is young, ambitious, sincere, and who would value my old-fashioned ideals as I myself do. But where do you find this kind of man?

Why is my mind so occupied these days with the professor? Can these two concerns be reconciled?

Paris, August 20, 1946

A grey, cloudy, rainy day in Paris. I sat up in my bed, did some leisurely sketching. It felt good to be alive. Malka (Naju's wife) slept here. She was afraid to stay alone in her room. "Tell me, Rose," she said, "why do you get up so early? I watch you rushing through every day, working and studying without stopping, without relaxing. Why do you do it?"

"It's simple. I must keep busy."

"Yes," she said, "I envy your knowledge. Just look at the books on your shelf: Czech, English, French, German, Hungarian. Compare this with me!"

"Malka, you are an expectant mother. Would you believe that I would gladly change places with you, to have an understanding husband as you do?" I jumped out of bed impatiently. At 9:00 I have a lesson at the Alliance FranÁaise. I have to shop and cook before Prof. Friedman gets here at 11:30. The day passes quickly. Arriving home, I stop first at my sister-in-law's. (She lives next door to me.) I look in the mirror, fix my hat, put on lipstick, check my hair, to see if it's neat. I give a bright smile to Rozsika, who tells me very approvingly, "You look great!" I stop before I come in. What's happening to me? Why do I suddenly care how I look? Can it be that I care because I am meeting my professor?

Rozsika handed me a telegram, but I forget to open it when I noticed Prof. Friedman's smiling, inviting eyes. "I missed you yesterday," he tells me. "Starting tomorrow I'll have two weeks of vacation coming to me," I said. "Great," he said. "I expect to see you every day in those two weeks. That's in addition to the lessons I am giving you!" Great anticipation. I know something important will happen to me in the next two weeks. Please G-d, make my decision the right one!

When the professor left, I was about to leave for the Cunard Yard office, when I remembered the telegram. It was from Belgium. Arnold had sent it. He is arriving shortly in Paris. I shiver. Does he still love me?

At the ship company office I had to wait for an hour, but finally everything was arranged favourably. When I wanted to pay, the officer said, "No, no, I prefer you to pay me--in a more natural way, you know what I mean, not with money." I pretended not to understand his insinuation. "I don't want money from you, just be nice to me," he said. "Sorry, no deal," I said, and threw the money on the table and rushed out, very embarrassed. I thought about Hersh Schwartz, who arranged for me to sell wigs in Brooklyn and keep the difference for myself. Luckily I can now live as a decent human being should.

I didn't want to go home, knowing that Friedman was using my premises to give a lesson to one of my neighbours. I chose to go to a movie instead. The Rex cinema wasn't far away, and by the time the film was over (at 7:00), I had to go to work (as a brassiere-maker). By ten p.m. I rushed home to my hotel. From St-Michel onward the rain didn't stop. I was soaked through by the time I got home. Still, I looked in on LÈzu and my nieces, Evike and Agi. What does life hold for these youngsters? They're not any better off than I am. I feel so close to all of them, my extended family.

I still have to study for tomorrow, but I am disturbed by the funny noises from Berger Agi's room. It's so loud! My G-d, I know they're honeymooning, but after all there is a limit even to love-making--and the walls of a hotel room are extremely thin!

August 24, 1946

I am lost, lost in my thoughts, lost in my faith... lost, like a blind man, so unsure, so insecure. Lost in the wilderness of doubts. Will I ever find my way out? And if I do, will it be the true road I should travel?

When I got out of Bergen-Belsen, my faith--as I was taught in an orthodox Jewish home--was gone. After all, I had been told, over and over again, that G-d is good, his deeds are righteous. Yet, seeing so many innocent people suffer, even children--including my own baby--killed in crematoria (one million of them), losing my parents and my extended family, as I did, and going through so much pain and humiliation myself--and G-d witnessing it all, without interfering--I was shaken to the core, and could not find a caring or forgiving G-d anywhere; not even a vengeful one who would punish the many Germans, Hungarians, Poles and others who dared to hurl us into the inhuman conditions in which we found ourselves. But G-d was silent. The thunder I heard was the angry expression of my doubts.

Well, it's easier to be an unbeliever, and I've stopped praying. Anyway, how could I utter the usual words for "Got fin Avraham... A gute woch soll kommen af mir and mein Apuka, Mamuka, Schwesters, Bruder, mein Mann, mein Kind, etc." None of them are left here alive to pray for, they are all gone. No, not gone: you took them forcefully from me, didn't you? And you still expect me to pray? To trust you? To love you and never, ever judge you? Oh, G-d, I am only a human being.

So I've tasted "treife" food (I was too hungry anyway)--and it was good. And I broke the Sabbath laws by travelling and going to the beauty parlor, instead of to the synagogue. Did I feel guilty? No, not guilty, but neither was I happy. I still lit the Sabbath candles; this I could never give up. I felt dull and empty inside. Before, my faith kept me going. Now I've become a stranger to myself. In vain I ask myself: Who am I? I recall my childhood, my religious upbringing, my father's unshakable faith in G-d. And I also remember Lulu, his doubts and questions. Who was right? They left me for the unknown and so my answer lies not with them, but only within myself. I must find a way out of this chaos on my own, for my own satisfaction and peace of mind.

A heavy burden is pulling me down, and I feel so tired! How I wish I could see the light, the road to my personal happiness! But will I ever reach it?

Destiny has also brought me close to a man whose intelligence and worldly knowledge I admire. Surely he would laugh at my problems, he is an atheist and prefers to be called a French nationalist rather than a Jew. His aim is to become famous through his books, poems and dramas. He is a playwright, but he's not as well known as he would like to be. Still, he is patient.

I am at the opposite pole. Impatient, still loving the Jewish people, and the desire for our a country of our own in Palestine excites me. How can I be of help to my surviving brethren? I ask myself over and over again.

Yet, at night, I lie awake in my bed, and feel a chill coming in through the window. How I crave the warmth of another human body, strong, loving arms embracing me, holding me tightly but gently. In the past I still imagined Lulu near me. Last night I dreamed about Professor Friedman. His lips touched mine and I didn't refuse his kisses. But then, as in any confused dream, suddenly Schwartz Hersu appeared, and Arnold, too! They all claimed me.

Suddenly, quietly, almost imperceptibly, the door opened. An old, bearded gentleman appeared before me. I noticed that he was of average height and smiled at me. "Eliyahu Hanavi!" I exclaimed. He acknowledged my recognition of him with a broad smile.

"Why have you come?" I asked him. He didn't answer. So I said, "I need advice. Which one should I choose: the professor, Schwartz, who is willing to come back for me from the United States, or should it be my brother-in-law?"

Instead of an answer, a terrible wind blew into my room. It kept blowing and blowing, picking up more and more strength, until I myself felt its intensity, its pull. It picked me up as lightly as a feather, and out we flew--far, far away. I looked back. Eliyahu Hanavi was still there. But he wasn't looking at the bed anymore. His eyes were following my flight, and he was smiling with deep satisfaction.

I woke up. It was semi-dark in my room, but the door was closed, the vision gone. Yet it had all been so vivid. What did it all mean? It was as if Eliyahu Hanavi had wanted to take me far away from here. But why?

If I had listened to him then, I could have saved myself and others a great deal of pain and disappointment!

When I told Ern– about my dream, he exclaimed, "Rozsi, how I admire you. Only great and worthy rabbis have visions such as this! I consider you very privileged!"

I am not Joseph of the Bible. My dream kept coming back, and I knew only that I had to get away, as far from my professor as I could. I also knew that to regain my equilibrium I had to return fully to my Jewish ways. What will tomorrow bring? It brought Arnold back into my life.

A train arrived the next day from Antwerp, and Arnold was among the passengers. He blushed when he saw me. His steps were uncertain as he approached me. His eyes caressed me. I could see he was suffering. He still loves me! A whole year has passed, but his feelings for me haven't changed.

On Friday I spent a lot of time with Prof. Friedman. We enjoyed being together, even though Arnold was jealous of it. Mr. Friedman doesn't know that I gave him up before our relationship could become serious. And Arnold doesn't know that the idea has once again come into my mind of marrying him.

September 1, 1946

We decided to skip the lesson for today. Instead, we decided to go for a visit to Preisz Aliska and her family. They live in the outskirts of Paris, in a lovely secluded private home, surrounded by a luscious little garden. I envy Alice, for her father came back, as well as three sisters. The five of them live harmoniously, waiting for visas from Texas. I was much impressed by the family. The old man in a kipoh studying the Talmud reminded me of my family before the war, and instinctively I knew that unless I can create a similar atmosphere again in my own life, I will never be happy. My professor was also impressed, but he had more practical thoughts on his mind.

On our way back to Paris in the subway, we were both speechless. So I asked him, "What impressed you most?" "Well, maybe I should tell you. I was thinking of renting the house when they leave for the States, and moving in with Tovarisch." "Tovarisch?" I was puzzled.

He laughed. "He's my pet dog. He's really my best companion, friend, partner, a lovable creature." "Your only friend?" I asked. "Oh, no, I do have someone else besides. A true friend, a male companion. We are very close to each other. In the past ten years we haven't needed anybody else. He's also a poet, sensitive, highly educated. And he's rich, and married. But that's never disturbed us. If I were lucky enough to get this flat, I'd keep a housekeeper, and my friend could come to visit me there."

At first, I wasn't shocked to hear this, for I didn't quite grasp the meaning of what he'd said. But I felt very disturbed, even upset, and I didn't know why. We looked at each other--two strangers, I thought--and there was no conversation between us. "How many stations till Ch’telet?" I had to interrupt the silence, which had become almost unbearable. "Only two." Finally, we arrived. "Au revoir, ý demain!" he said. I turned away, so that he wouldn't notice the tears in my eyes.

Paris, September 15, 1946

I decided to end my emotional involvement with him, so, when he asked me to go with him to a movie, for an apÈritif, etc., I refused. "At least let's spend Friday afternoon together," he suggested, knowing that my whole family leaves for Boulayes for the Sabbath and I'll be all alone. We'd be able to talk undisturbed. I relented. He brought his latest poems with him, and read them aloud. They were truly beautiful. Time passed quickly. I suggested he stay for supper.

Unbeknownst to me, my family missed the train, so they arrived just when we were sitting down to eat. Arnold was with them. He took in the scene, and grew pale. He looked like a stone sculpture. He never would have guessed that the professor was gay. He was not the only one who was mistaken. My brother Ernest also imagined who knows what. His remarks were offensive to Friedman, and he promptly left.

I cried a lot the next day. I looked at Lulu's picture, and accused him: "Why? Why did you have to leave me?"

Arnold came in. He put his hand on my shoulder and begged me not to think of my past. "The future will be bright for me," he said.

"You are good to me, Arnold," I said. "For this alone I should love you. I will really try."

"Ruzhenka, suppose you killed all my feelings for you, after all, you kept refusing me all along. Please don't give me new hopes. I'd be crushed if you disappointed me again. Besides, I almost got engaged to another girl in Liberec."

"Then why did you come back to Paris?"

"To hear from you that you intend to love me!"

"I'll try. I promise I will try!"

That night he sent me flowers, and kissed me tenderly.

....................

I had a date with Prof. Friedman. Sitting on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, I suddenly told him: "I am engaged!" He looked at me strangely, and asked in German, "Ich verstehe nicht, sind sie verlobt?"

"Ja."

"I am a lucky man," he said at last. Confused, I asked him:

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I am lucky, because I could have been very much in love with you. There is so much about you that I really admire! But think of it, how much I'd be suffering now, if I'd given in to my feelings.

"Oh, there were moments when I could have grabbed you and showered you with kisses. You were so desirable to me, but I held back, for I knew it wouldn't work. I didn't want to bring tragedy upon you."

Paris, September 18, 1946

If looks could kill, Arnold would not be alive. Professor Friedman looks at him with so much hatred! But he never utters a word against him. He talks with him kindly, as if he wanted to find out what's made me decide to marry a man so plain, so uneducated.

Today he couldn't restrain himself, and he asked me to postpone our lesson, for he wanted to talk to me.

"Rozhinka," he said, "You've taken a step in the wrong direction."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because other people get engaged when they are happy, joyous, full of hope for the future, while with you it's just the opposite. You felt sad and abandoned, lonely and depressed. You said "yes" in a gloomy, melancholy mood, not thinking about your future at all. You are inviting disaster."

"I am not sorry," I replied. I raised my hand defiantly.

"No, not yet. But you will be some day, when you're sober and can see the situation clearly."

"I doubt it."

"Let's face it, I can't get over it. On Sunday, when you told me you were engaged, it came so suddenly. I couldn't grasp its meaning. It hurts me to see you throwing your life away like this. Please reconsider. Think of what you're doing! If you believe in destiny, then you must also believe that everything has its time in life. If you had waited, things might have turned out differently, with just a little more patience. Instead, you went to meet your destiny beforehand, jumping into an abyss. Why? Look, your brother-in-law is not for you. You need a man from outside your own circle, and an intellectual. Someone like me. A man who can introduce you to new surroundings, a new world. You think too much about your past. You need new diversions.

"I would have introduced you to a purely French milieu, French culture. We would have gone to concerts, theatres, coffee-houses. An enticing new world would have opened up to you. Oh, I could have loved you dearly, so intensely. Of course, it's not for me, I have no objections to 'treif.' But there would have been one condition."

I looked at him, unbelieving. "What?"

"You would have to abandon your family. I can't stand their ways, and you are different anyway. I would have picked you out from that crowd and taken you as far as I could. What do you need your relatives for anyway?"

He was so solemn that I started to laugh. "You really don't know me. After the concentration camps, my family means more to me than ever."

"I haven't finished," he said. "The reason I suggested you get away from your family is simply--to forget your past. Take your brother-in-law. He too is part and parcel of the past you have to escape if you're ever going to build a new life. Don't you see that he represents your past, your murdered family, your pain? How can your wounds ever heal with him there as a constant reminder of your most painful memories? You have to forget, Rozhinka, instead you keep remembering. Forgive me, but I had to open your eyes." With this, he moved to the door and disappeared before I could even ask him, "What about our lesson?" A week after I met Paul--my future husband.

I was born in a town called Uzhorod (Ungvar), located at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. This part of Europe often changed hands. When my mother was born in 1882 in Ungvar, it belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Habsburg Dynasty ruled it with iron hands. Mother spoke fluently German and Hungarian. She was very proud of the fact that her parents were teachers (as was she), intellectuals at a time when many of the inhabitants of our town were illiterate. Even among the Jewish population, few knew how to read or write properly. In Ungvar at that time German was the language taught at school, spoken at home, written in the offices. It was my mother's mother-tongue. She spoke Hoch Deutsch, the way Goethe or Schiller wrote, not the colloquial spoken language. Mother constantly corrected me for misusing this beautiful language.

Hungarian was spoken by the natives and peasants. But mother's Hungarian was flawless, for she taught this language in later years. By 1918 when the First World War ended, the mighty Habsburg Empire fell and was divided into many small countries. Mother, with her fervent German Hungarian nationalism was very disappointed that our town suddenly became part of Czechoslovakia. Czech was a foreign language for her and she had to struggle to understand official documents.

By then, my grandparents were no longer alive and the Freidman School was closed. Mother still occupied herself with giving private lessons in German and Hungarian. Most of the students who attended the "Friedman Private School" (where her father was principal) had become doctors, lawyers, and engineers by then.

I was born on March 3, 1920, in Uzhorod. The family consisted of Father, Mother, two older sisters, an older brother and two younger brothers. We were six inquisitive children, boisterous, lively, full of mischief. My father was a Hebrew teacher, a melamed. He couldn't have earned too much, yet we were all cleanly dressed, fed properly and my childhood could be described as a happy one. Most of my friends came from larger families. Thirteen and even 16 was not unusual in an orthodox Jewish family.

My parents had the foresight to enroll me in a Slovak school so that I could learn the Slavic language. However all my friends attended the private Jewish School where Czech and Hebrew was taught. "We cannot afford the tuition," I was told brusquely.

I finished elementary and high school. Then a commercial two year academy where I was taught bookkeeping, typing, short-hand, Czech and German correspondence. I graduated in 1936 and was hired by one of the biggest firms--"The Flour Mill" as a bookkeeper and cashier in Uzhorod, my hometown.

My father was a great Talmud Chacham. His knowledge of the Hebrew books and his deep religious feelings were converted into an honest, just, considerate and all-round "beautiful" person.

I loved "Apuka," as we called him, deeply. It was he who got up in the middle of the night if I screamed for having a nightmare, it was he who understood all my whims and loved me without limit.

I equated religion with goodness. In my innocence I believed that all Jews must be good, if only they follow the way of the Torah.

I still see him in my mind's eye bent over the Gemara or other Talmudic books, slightly shaking his body rhythmically back and forth while contemplating some difficult passage in the Talmud.

I knew that father was hoping to get a Yeshiva bachur for me, forgetting that I was raised by a mother who was not religious at all.

Thus I compromised. Lulu himself knew the Jewish laws, was familiar with all aspect of Judaism, came from a religious background himself, but somehow after his own father's death, he lost his faith along the way.