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Translated by Olivia Feldman
The Holocaust did not spare Romanian Jews. This was a period lacking logic and reason, steeped in unrestrained greed, an era in which the foundations of the world trembled and threatened to bury all of humanity, all their resources and works under the ruins.
Early signals of catastrophe emerged long before then. The “Goga-Cuzist”[1] regime that lasted a short time only left the following markings that could not be erased. The Jews had “earned” shaming, incitement, and mockery from others. Their worsening condition was expressed in all fields. In economic life, spiritual life, and social life, as well as in their treatment by government officials. An evil wind blew and implied the terrible tragedy that would befall the Jewish people.
Before the publication of the 1940 mass decree, Jewish lawyers were eliminated as staff from law firms in Bacău. At the top of the law offices stood a number of antisemitic Cuzist lawyers, among them Urziceanu and Antonio.
The 1940 decree that was published announced the immediate firing of all the Jews that were lawyers, engineers, teachers, architects, and journalists. Before this, they had removed the Jewish journalists from journalistic positions.
In the public high schools in the city there was an environment of antisemitism guided by some of the teachers. A German named Klug, possessing Nazi party ideals, taught Goethe and Schiller, but spent time during his classes on racial theory, on the superior Aryan race and the inferior Semitic race. Stoian was a geography teacher motivated “to advance” and to rise to the top of the Legionnaire's office. He managed to accomplish his dream: In the year 1940, he was appointed to be in charge of the Bacău region. Another antisemitic teacher, Popescu-Caso, who taught Romanian literature, banned his students from
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discussing the Jewish author and playwright Ronneti Roman, who wrote in the Romanian language in the 19th century, claiming that he was not worthy of being among other Romanian authors. Focşa, the music teacher, used to make deranged speeches on “national traitors that do business with kikes [2].” Few were the teachers who possessed broad and democratic horizons, like Butzatu, the nature teacher. People like that were “rare birds” on the instructional staff at the state-run secondary school in Bacău.
Therefore, it's no surprise that Bacău's youth who received an extreme nationalist and antisemitic education became passionate Legionnaires.
In the year 1939 after the assassination of the Prime Minister of Romania, Armand Calinescu, they captured “scapegoats”, many from among the Legionnaires from Bacău, and executed them in Florescu Square.
However, even after these affairs, many Legionnaires remained in the city and all of Romania. They continued to strive towards carrying out the fascist-nationalist plans of their leader, Corneliu Zelea Codreanu, (“Captain”, in Romanian) who was condemned to death and executed in the year 1939 by the order of King Carol II. [3]
Additional signs of the tragedy to come were stories of Jewish passengers being thrown off moving trains. In the city of Dorohoi, a pogrom took place. The Jewish commander, Yanko Solomon, was murdered in the town of Herţa (transferred in the year 1940 to the Soviet Union) in an attack by the Russian army. He “achieved” being the first Jewish victim of the Holocaust era in the Bacău Region. A few months before the ascension of the Antonescu Legionnaires regime in Romania the removal of Jewish soldiers from the Romanian army began. These [Jewish soldiers] were removed from the army and forced to strip off their uniforms and were dispatched wearing only underwear to their platoons. From there they were sent to labor camps. False malicious rumors were spreading that Jews in Bessarabia and northern Bukovina welcomed the Russian invaders who had seized regions according to a Diktat[4] imposed on Romania in the year 1940. According to those stories the Jews took flowers to the Russian Army, and humiliated, ridiculed, and struck the Romanian officers who were there when the [Russian] invaders entered. These rumors greatly contributed to the reinforcement of antisemitism and persecution against the Jews in Romania.
The Jewish refugees from Poland that fled to Romania after their nation was occupied by Nazi Germany told new stories. They told of the terrible faces of the Nazi occupation and of their attitudes toward the locals; they attacked the Jews to win over the hearts of the occupied and prompted them to express their hatred towards the Jews. This was a warning to the Romanian Jews and they began to fear their fate after the pro-Nazi regime rose to power.
The final warning that had been broadcast to the Romanian Jews was a Viennese Diktat from the year 1940. The Gigorto Administration was ordered to accept this Diktat that was imposed upon it, forcing it to abandon Northern Transylvania to Hungary. Bacău's youth who were sent to a hard labor camp in Ciceu that borders the province Bacău-Miercurea-Ciuc returned from the place they were deported to and told of the persecutions against the Roma and the Jews. They told of the “Hawk Protectors” and of the “Arrow Cross” of Szálasi.[5]
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This conveyed their diabolical cruelty. Their hatred towards Jews and Romanians was boundless. They could not bear the existence of one Jew! A mob of invaders raided the occupied villages and committed cold-blooded murder. Their hatred knew no bounds. It reached its peak a few months later, in a pogrom conducted in the town of Sărmaş. All of the local Jews were rounded up on Erev Yom Kippur[6] and they were forced to dig a huge pit –-- a mass grave – before they were shot.
The Hungarian murderers from Transylvania “displayed their might”, four years later (in the year 1944), in their establishment of ghettos in the cities of Transylvania and after that they sent the Jews to the concentration camps Auschwitz and Birkenau.
Translator's footnotes
Translated by Olivia Feldman
The regime of the Antonescu Legionnaires began with omens of catastrophe. The atmosphere was ominous. Most establishments, restaurants, and stores were marked with diagonal lines and swastikas. The clothing was mainly green shirts (the Legionnaire's symbol). Swastikas were marked everywhere. The people behaved in a peculiar way. It was possible everywhere to meet with familiar faces that became alien, with an indifferent and foreign expression. The look in their eyes was hostile. Until then it seemed that they were friends, but it wasn't so. Neighbors and friends acted alienated. When you politely asked acquaintances in the street or on the bus how are you, they responded with hostility.
New faces appeared in the city. They dressed in peasant clothes and underneath you could see their green shirts. These were vile people pursuing greed who were interested in looting, enemies of Israel. This attracted them to Bacău.
When you dared to take the risk to enter a state-run facility, you would find there: new people together with old-timers wearing new clothes. You breathed a sigh of relief when exiting from the building because their behavior was not in your favor.
In churches, they held prayers day and night. Christians held Easter style torches - on resurrection night they maintained different rituals, worship, and memorials to remember the victims of the Spanish war or victims from the era of the tyrant Carol II's reign[1]. The plaza of the main church, Saint Nicolai, in Bacău was full like never before. From there, convoys left to “the Green House” (residence of the Legionnaires, operatives of the “Iron Guard”) to the Romanianization center that had been established recently as well as the Jewish neighborhoods to loot and violate them.
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New decrees emerged every day and there were different rulings against the Jews. Work licenses were revoked for Jews who worked in liberal professions [2]; Jewish students and teachers were ousted from schools; Jewish property was confiscated. These decrees had sad echoes in the Jewish street. The Jews felt a lack of security for their lives or their property, for their workshops, large factories, and stores. “Romanianization panels” were being prepared. Jews began to pass their assets into the hands of their Romanian buddies. The decrees on eviction dates imposed on the Jews were virtually impossible to meet on time. The marauding bandits were full of greed and passion, they were not willing to wait. For a long period of time, they waited for their luck to play out, a rich dream. “Strada Mare” (the main street) and the magnificent Jewish stores there were their heart's biggest desire. Even small stores on other streets satisfied their lust. Their thought was that if the wealth does not flow, at least it will drip. They attacked on “Bacău-Piatra”, “Podul da Fier” (the Iron Bridge), and even on Leca street.
Within a number of months after the rules were passed, great changes were made. Who dared to go against it? Even without revealing their resistance, they were dragged to the “Green House” and beaten vigorously. Also, on the streets Jews were beaten everywhere.
In the year 1941 horrible news arrived from the capital, Bucharest. The Legionnaire's rebellion broke out. Many people were brutally murdered. The mass murder was carried out in urban slaughterhouses and the Jilava forest. People were removed from their beds in the night, placed in vans, and brutally murdered. An unknown caller announced that amongst the victims was Aurel User, a Jew from Bacău, who was an athlete, and one of the well-known cyclists in Romania. He was removed from “Universal”, the hotel he was staying in, was taken by force from his room, and brought to the slaughterhouse. Terrible rumors were arriving from other cities. A radio broadcast reported on street battles between the army and the Legionnaires and on the fall of the Legionnaires at the hand of the military forces loyal to Marshall Ion Antonescu, who held the power in his hands.
The local Legionnaires in Bacău all but disappeared. Their uniforms with diagonal lines, their green shirts, and the arrogant look on their faces almost disappeared from sight. However, the Jews, who from experience had come to their senses, learned they had nothing to be happy about, and that from “revolutions” no benefit would come for them. Replacing a ruler is just a “madman's joy”. After some weeks many disappeared from positions they had held in different government institutions and their places were taken by others. These were amongst supporters of Marshall Ion Antonescu.
Translator's footnotes
Translated by Dafna Chen
In the city and throughout Romania, new economic and political decrees were imposed on the Jews. One of the first decrees issued by the Romanian authorities was an order requiring Jews to hand over their radios to the police within 24 hours. The basements and restrooms of police stations became overcrowded warehouses of radios. A similar order was not issued in countries occupied by Nazi Germany (where it was only forbidden to listen to London radio broadcasts). After Romania was liberated from the burden of Nazi rule, the radios could not be returned because the functioning devices had been taken by officials in the establishment, their relatives, and friends: good radios were “purchased” in the first days after their confiscation. Later, a decree was issued regarding the presence of Jews in markets, shops, and even in public spaces. Each municipality (including the municipality of Bacău) published an order that defined and restricted the hours during which Jews were allowed to leave their homes to obtain supplies. The purpose of the order was to make it easier to identify Jews. It was decided that Jews were required to wear a yellow badge in the shape of a Star of David on their clothing. This decree had roots in the Middle Ages. In Bacău, it was formalized in an order that specified the obligation to wear this symbol, its size, and the location on the clothing where it had to be sewn. It had to be worn at all times. The “yellow badge” was a racist symbol and helped the mob identify victims more easily and attack them at will.
One of the harshest decrees was the dispossession of Jews from their property. The “royal road” to this was the “Romanization of property.” Another method used to impoverish and oppress the Jews was the issuance of an order requiring them to surrender a specific quantity of clothing and linens. In the city of Bacău alone, the amount collected reached millions of items. This operation was carried out by Jewish forces. The Jewish community and the “Jewish Center” (Romania's Judenrat) collected trainloads of linens and clothing from
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the Jewish population. These garments were supplied to the Romanian army and to the impoverished rural population. A Jew who was unable to provide the required amount of clothing and linens could fulfill the obligation by paying a monetary “ransom”. In the city, numerous teams were assigned to deliver the clothing and linens to the Jewish community center in cases where Jews did not bring them personally. This decree was not merely local – it was nationwide and particularly severe.
At this point, a widespread deterioration of the population began. Many Jews were dismissed from their jobs and forced to give up their shops and businesses. Over time, they became dependent on welfare. Strong young men were sent en masse to labor camps, and they were unable to support their families. These camps were organized under appalling conditions. The work was supervised by overseers with military ranks. These places became hellish in the eyes of the Jews, and the stories about them instilled terrible fear. Among the labor camps were: Doaga, Soroaya, Făgăra?, and Răcăciuni. Young people accused of participating in communist or Zionist gatherings were arrested along with others sent to the labor camps. Their fate was even harsher: they were deported and held in detention in Vapniarka or sent to other extermination camps in Transnistria.
One of the most dreadful decrees issued during that time was the abduction of Jewish hostages. Every night, Jews – especially those from the middle class such as intellectuals, merchants, and clerks – were arrested. They were torn from their homes in the dead of night and gathered in synagogues that had been transformed into special prisons for Jewish hostages. This was the case at the Grain Merchants' Synagogue and the synagogue named after Rabbi Israel on Leca Street.
These hostages were held accountable with their lives for anything that might occur – any hostile act or potential sabotage against the Romanian or German armies. They lived in constant danger. After a month or two, these hostages were returned and replaced by other Jews who took their place. The idea of taking hostages was borrowed from the Germans, who practiced it in occupied territories. Fortunately, there were no attacks in the city or district of Bacău during the war, and only one hostage was executed. Local authorities tasked the hostages and community officials with conducting a census of the Jewish population. The purpose of this census remains unclear. It may have been intended to update information on each Jew's residence and whereabouts, possibly to locate those who had evaded the linen and clothing requisition or to prepare for deportations to labor camps. Another possibility is that the goal was to register all Jews in the city in preparation for deportation convoys to Poland and extermination camps.
Rumors spread about an agreement between Marshal Antonescu and Gustav Richter, Eichmann's representative in Romania, concerning all Jews of the Regat (the Romanian heartland). These rumors were not baseless. After the war, documents confirming the existence of such an agreement were discovered. However, the agreement was never implemented – not due to any compassion on the part of the perpetrators, but for other reasons: the Nazi army's defeat at Stalingrad, which signaled its broader collapse; a severe shortage of railway cars for transporting goods; and the intervention and tireless efforts
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of Romanian Jewish leaders – Dr. Wilhelm Filderman and Chief Rabbi Dr. Alexandru Șafran – who risked their lives to save their fellow Jews. It is worth noting the efforts of the local leadership, which did everything in its power to minimize the damage caused by the authorities, delay the depletion of the local Jewish population, continue educating Jewish youth who had been expelled from Romanian schools through private frameworks, and preserve Jewish values.
A major initiative took place in the realm of welfare and health. More than half of the Jewish population had lost their assets. Jews lived in poverty and poor sanitary conditions that led to various illnesses. Dr. Shmuel Șabat headed the health department of the community organization. His work seemed divinely guided and was of great importance. He was assisted by Shulamzon and Kisler. Together, they planned the department's budget according to the needs of the Jewish population. Financial support came from the Joint Distribution Committee and from the “Organization for the Child ” (O.S.E.).
Their first initiative was the establishment of soup kitchens – on Leca Street – where the destitute received a hot meal free of charge. The soup kitchen operated in several shabby huts; compared to them, the Jewish school looked like a palace. The impoverished arrived daily at noon and waited to be served a ladle or two of barley grits soup, cabbage, or beans. Occasionally, potatoes were distributed. Meat was served only rarely on holidays. The food was eaten from buckets or small pots brought from home. A relief committee was formed, composed of volunteer women. Their role was to supervise the hired cooks and distribute the food. While the work wasn't physically demanding, emotionally it was far from easy. It was especially difficult to deal with the disruptions caused by members of the local ultra-Orthodox community. Conditions were harsh. There was no place to store prepared food, and soup was reheated on the Sabbath, which according to Jewish law constitutes a desecration of the Sabbath's sanctity. When the Sabbath-shift volunteers arrived for duty, they were shocked to find the food spilled, the fire extinguished, and utensils scattered on the floor. The cooks stood stunned and frightened in a corner, appearing as if they were bracing for physical assault. A rabbi and several of his followers raised their voices at them and even threatened them with fists. The Hasidim repeatedly warned against desecrating the Sabbath, and when their pleas and warnings failed, they resorted to physical action. One of the volunteers angrily confronted them: “You came straight from synagogue, and now, after this act, you'll go home where chicken soup with noodles, hot kugel, and wine for Kiddush await you. You'll feel good and praise the Holy One, blessed be He. But all that food will stick in your throat when you remember how many broken souls were left hungry… ” The quarrel and threats continued until the head of the community arrived and ordered a different meal to be prepared.
The community's welfare department provided financial aid, though modest. The department distributed firewood to the poor and refugees for heating. Special assistance was given to the sick and to mothers. The “Organization for the Child ” (OSE) helped establish the “Materna ” clinic on Leca Street. A salaried physician worked there, along with many other doctors who volunteered their services.
Another major activity of the welfare department was the reorganization of the “Shuler ” Hospital. This hospital established an outpatient clinic and a department for infectious diseases: typhus,
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scarlet fever, diphtheria, and enteric fever. Both senior and junior Jewish doctors worked at the hospital. Among them were Dr. Galfan, Dr. A. Klein, Dr. Mishu Shulamzon, and Dr. Alexandru Iliascu, along with many others whose names we do not have.
Translated by Jacob Coffler
A number of young teachers from “The Jewish High School”, aided by the students from older-age classes, discovered the spirit of volunteering and initiated and began finding children without (familial) structure and without parents. Teams of volunteers visited the homes. Sometimes, they found locked doors and only through the window could they see the children, sitting on the floor. Oil lamps smoked, serving to illuminate and to heat. Their goal was to remove these children from these homes, to take care of them, and to keep them safe. The synagogue, which was found to be most appropriate for this purpose, was located close to the Jewish High School.
Olga Marcus, an eager girl, a student in grade 12, skillfully managed the children's house post-World War II. She shared: “Collecting the children spanned a number of days. Every day we found children in a hard situation. The synagogue became a children's home and soon it was very crowded. We transferred the children's home to another synagogue, a synagogue named after Weissman, next to the market.
To begin we brought a barber and shaved their heads. The kids were checked by Dr. Shmuel Șabat z”l, a man we affectionately call “The Father of the Children,” helped by two PhD students - students of the college of medicine who were expelled from their studies following the race laws – Mişu Schulmson and Alexander Iliescu. The next task was gathering clothes. There was no furniture in the children's home. There was no furniture besides two beams laid upon two tree stumps. It happened that a child's finger got caught between the beam and the stump. I was calming the child and gave him candy and a piece of pretzel. Even my finger got caught one day between the beam and the stump; Lorica Cioara, my friend, offered me candy so I wouldn't cry either… Organization of the home was difficult and conditions were strenuous and even illegal. No special preparations were made
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and the decision to start and manage [the home] was almost made at the same time. Over time, it became the “Poor Jewish Children's Home”
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next to the Jewish High School as opposed to the “Affluent Jewish Daycare” operated by the community. There was no budget, the neighboring high school operated [the school] and its income came solely from the students' tuition.
It took devotion, determination, and enthusiastic youth in order to save these children from death. We received lunch from the kitchen of the food bank where the poorest Jews ate. We organized breakfast and dinner on our own: when missing bread, we cooked cornmeal. In the evening, we would blanch the cornmeal and mix it up with beet sugar to sweeten it.
Over time, the quality of the food improved. We invested in fundraising efforts. We succeeded in getting established Jews [in the community] to reach out to help. On a kid's birthday or a holiday we asked Jews to donate meals to children. Teachers Zachariah and Waldy acted from the bottom of their hearts - they managed to recruit volunteers, women who routinely cared for the children, or worked to collect donations of clothes and food.
The center grew. It still needed furniture. In its first year, the center prepared parties with entrance fees in the “Jewish High School”. The money collected [was used] to purchase furniture for the center: tin covered tables and benches.
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The children that stayed at the center would never forget their “friend” Dan (Danotz) Schulmson, who played accordion to entertain them; or Armandel, who prepared decorations for the parties.
One day, in the afternoon, they sat down on blankets on the floor and they listened to a story told by the kindergarten teacher, who was a young girl. She used a wooden box at Story Time, standing upon it sometimes to emphasize and make it easier for the children to learn. She made hand movements and her feet kicked the box every now and then. The children laughed, they were amused and the story fascinated them. Suddenly, a number of people entered and took the box [away]. Who could believe that the box which was a source of entertainment for the little ones would be used as a coffin, to take a body to the cemetery?
After all, they lived in wartime and there was a shortage of everything! Even used sugar-boxes could house the dead!
Some time after that, the center moved to the Meriescu Synagogue. There, the upper floor was arranged for use as a bedroom. Children came to the center from beyond the Gherăiești neighborhood, past the Șerbănești Bridge [on the] Bistrița [River]. Due to lack of space, those with no room to stay were forced to go several kilometers and return home.
Later, we moved to Rabbi Israel Synagogue, which was larger and more expansive in its area. We installed a small sandbox in the yard. Patients with rickets sunbathed. An act that brought outrage to some Haredi Jews (mostly elders) who opposed the children - even [ones] sick with rickets - sitting naked, without clothes, in the yard of the synagogue.”
Translated by Megan Sarkissian
We should now discuss the core of spiritual life in Bacău during the days of the Holocaust: the Jewish high school. A school that was like an “oasis” in the hot and stormy desert.
On September 7th, 1940, the Romanian authorities announced their decision to enforce “Numerus Nullus” in education regarding the Jews. It was not just university studies, but all grades of education. Jewish students and teachers were expelled from all national schools, at all levels. There was a need to establish a different educational framework, especially for Jewish teenagers. Expelled from the national schools, the Jewish youth needed a framework that would provide refuge and help them overcome the difficult feelings of discrimination.
At the initiative of a number of Jewish teachers and intellectuals, and with financial support from the Jewish community, a Jewish high school was established in Bacău where both boys and girls studied. This high school operated in the boys' Jewish school, an old building reinforced with wooden pillars since the “earthquake” that happened in 1940. The Jewish high school opened its gates after a few weeks of trials, doubts, plans, and revisions. A few hundred students occupied the spaces on the ancient school benches. The physical condition of the space was irrelevant. What was important was the joy of returning to their studies. The teachers were qualified, former teachers of the national high schools, as well as young educated people full of enthusiasm, ready to make their contribution to the education of the new generation. The school speedily became crowded and crammed. Sometime after its beginning, the school received additional buildings that were owned by the community: an old matzah bakery, a poultry slaughterhouse, small rooms and abandoned buildings that were scattered over a wide area the heart of which was centered around the community building on Vasile Alecsandri and Alexandru cel Bun street.
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In the chronicles of Jewish Romania, the Jewish high school from Bacău was recorded as a symbol of courage of the members of the Jewish community who established a strong spiritual pillar in a hostile environment. The teens of
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the city and the teens of the rural towns came here, and they took part in Jewish spiritual life and wisdom. A Jewish high school whose students found in it their identity and continued on their path. This was one of the most prominent forms of the Jewish spiritual revival and the only means of coping with the discriminatory situation of the Holocaust era.
From its establishment, the Jewish high school became a cultural center. In addition to all subjects in the state curriculum that were studied, the history of Israel and the Hebrew language were also studied. Every week general education lectures were held, the lecturers were students. After the lecture, discussions were held. But these children, who had reached adolescence and even passed it, were in need of more than what was given to them in the normal educational system. There was a need to encourage and teach them to develop their common sense, their imagination. There was a strong need to encourage their inner strength and their mood, to encourage their hopes for the future so that their spirit wouldn't be broken, and to teach them to cope with hard circumstances.
The activities of the school became limited over time due to the rapid depletion of the Jewish population. New strength was required from youth full of enthusiasm ready to try to improve the situation. So, the idea to establish an orphanage was born – for orphans or for children whose parents were deported for political reasons, for children of Jews who were sent to labor camps.
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The high school students took on the sponsorship of the orphanage. Another social activity of the Jewish high school students was within the community framework: in the registration of the Jewish population required by the authorities, in collecting clothes, and in delivering them to the designated district office. The Jewish youth also organized a list of the Jews who had to go out for various public jobs, such as clearing snow.
Many times, there were high school students that were assigned to work in these work groups. In every class when they took attendance, strange echoes arose with connections to the word “absent.” You could never know if the “absent” was detained and sent to hard labor, or in prison in the basement of the police building because of Zionist or Communist activity.
By Fall of 1944, the unstable existence of the Jewish high school of Bacău was over. Its alumni took their university matriculation exams. Students were released from labor camps and took their remaining exams. Many students returned to the public Romanian high school…
They left the Jewish high school with mixed feelings: the joy of victory over fascism, but also the feeling that they could never see true friends in their Christian classmates. They had the feeling of alienation and disconnection. They went through deep emotional turmoil because of the hatred, the persecutions, and the humiliations that they had suffered. The public high school was in a fancy building with spacious classrooms, amphitheaters, libraries, study rooms, etc., but they felt foreign and had a strange feeling when they walked on the bright and cold tiles…
The Jewish high school raised a generation of serious intellectuals. Today, many of the former students of this school from Bacău are in the liberal professions: they are scientists, renowned doctors, engineers, and university professors. Among them is the mathematician Solomon Marcus; the physics professor Marcu Eybeschitz (a world-renowned expert in magnetic physics); the professor Yosef Kraus; the professor Izo Eybeschitz; the physicist Rita Eybeschitz-Solomon; the architects Rica and Uța Gonen; the journalist Tehila Ofer; the doctors Lucci Eybeschitz-Zilberman, Jacques Grad, Ruțu Goldstein, Freddy Froimovici, Sergiu Kalmanovic-Klimsko, Coca Ambrose, Dudash Kerzer, Emil Scharf; the lawyers Yoji Goldberg, G. Mozeri; the renowned educator Olga Marcus.
Many died prematurely and thus a brilliant career was halted: Silviu Solomon, Jiko Leventer, S. Grinberg, Puiu Brovar, Vera Novak, Sergiu Laufer, Mirel Segal, Puiu Stofler, Dora Vigdar, Poyka Grad, and maybe in the rooms of the next world they met with their teachers who loved them so much, that “in their lives and their deaths they were not separated.” Teachers who stand out as worthy of notice: Drimer, Guttman, Aronovici, Vaksman, Hilda Simon, Albert Braunstein, Wagner, Mititelu, Copler, Hirschensohn. May their memory be a blessing. They, and many more, set the tone in that welcoming school, the Jewish high school in Bacău.
Translated by Megan Sarkissian
Everything in those days seemed like “haloimes,” a Yiddish word encompassing dreams, illusions, and hopes all at once. Illusion and hope that we would survive after the genocide of the Holocaust. Hope that we would return to be free humans without racism and persecution, without the yellow patch, without hard labor, without exile. A dream that we would survive to leave this place that did not welcome us. Despite everything, a new strength was found within us. Strength to not only continue to preserve our human character in our gray existence, but also strength to revive imagination through song and art, under the stage lights.
The Jewish high school was the center of extraordinary artistic activity. The local population was engaged with this activity. The high school students and the music teachers, Jean Kofler and several other young teachers, were influenced by “Baraşeum” [1] in Bucharest and took it as a model to emulate, even though they were not given the same great talents. They organized an orchestra, a small one that showcased stage-plays, concerts for light music and classical music, and parties for Purim and Hanukkah. Among our “singers” were decent tenors, talented directors and actors. Singers worthy of notice are Blanch Edelstein and Paula Goldberg. We had dancers from the “Bolshoi Academy”: Margit Wolf, and Silvia Marcovici, “prominent” violinists: Bibika Braunstein and Jean Comisionero, notable actors: Jackie Grad, Silviu Solomon, Jinel Solomon, Maritchika Grinberg, and Sonia Haifler who “signed” on to plan and prepare the scenery and wardrobe. The “technician of all trades” was Jory Lachter.
We had a big problem with the censorship. The actors and directors were incredibly agitated every time before the approval for a show. We were also anxiously waiting for approval. The enthusiasm was immense. The first round of applause was heard long before the start of the show. We waited for the approval
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of the show accompanied by applause. The excitement was tremendous and accompanied by laughter and emotional tears. They had so few joys in those days, as if they already forgot what laughter is. We knew that the actors were not “great geniuses”, but their genius came from knowing how to keep the mood uplifted and their audience in strong spirits. The audience members never knew what would happen to them when they came home. They had a fear that they would be met by the police at their doorstep with a call to hard labor, or with a deportation order, or a notice to evacuate their apartment or store – their livelihood – which could have been nationalized overnight (“Romanization”).
The first concert comes to mind, as if it were all happening right here, right now. I don't remember if the concert was for classical music or light music. Perhaps both. In this endeavor there was a sense of purpose. You had a strong urge to play melodies for the crowd that penetrated the heart like “Ness Ziona”, “Mayn Shtetele Yas” [2] (“Yas Town”), nostalgic tunes expressing the pain of the Jewish people and the yearning for Zion! The listeners were content. Their radios were confiscated, admission to cinemas, theaters, and concert halls was prohibited, and here was the only way they could enjoy themselves.
The repertoire was getting richer every day. Ițicovici as well as Iosif, Hebrew teachers, collected and arranged Hasidic songs, Hebrew songs and songs in Yiddish, and pioneering songs. At concerts, classical compositions by the greats of music were played: Beethoven, Liszt, and Berlioz.
When the school hall became too crowded to contain the Jews, they moved the performances to the synagogues. I still remember a show held in the “Rabbi Israel” synagogue. The name of the show was “Dream Journey,” the end almost became…a nightmare journey; during the performance when the general enthusiasm was at its peak, the stands began to crack. People started to cry out in fear, but…the show went on and the audience members sitting in the stands were evacuated.
The audience was unique: nothing would make them give up a show for which they already paid an entrance ticket. Their enthusiasm was boundless and displayed through their applause!
Purim parties were very successful. Many “Hamans” and “Esthers” volunteered to perform. The month before the holiday, preparations were made, costumes, masks, backdrops, and ceremonies. Women in the city used to prepare “Haman ears” (“Hamantaschen”) and special sweet pancakes for Mishloach-Manot[3] (“Shalach Mones”).
Over time, the artistic activity developed more and more. Halls of the community institutions began to show plays and entertainment programs, either taken in whole or in part from the Jewish theater in Bucharest, “Baraşeum.” The successful performances won thunderous applause, the actors and musicians were in ecstasy and forgot they were playing in a gilded cage, with improvised props and masquerade decorations.
The play “Haloimes Melody” expressed our situation as Jews in the truest and most authentic way. (The name was originally in Yiddish: “The Melody of Dreams”). Our wretched reality, that lacked logic, was in our eyes like “haloimes” [surreal]. Only the lifeforce and our strong will to survive helped us bear with life, to hope and to be happy in such a difficult time.
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Certain streets were prohibited for Jews to pass through in the evening hours. So “the actors” would routinely evade the eyes of the police to pass through fences that were in “Strada Mare”, to sneak from house to house, friend to friend, for the sake of organizing rehearsals for the “grand premiere” or the “concert of the century.”
The texts for the plays were taken from plays written by authors from Bucharest or local authors, like Dr. Waldstein or Olga Marcus. The orchestra included members of the Iancovici family (the father; the son Aurel; the daughter Ella), Didi Steinbach, Solo Blumenfeld, Izzy Lazarovici, Eugen Feldhar, Izzy Her?covici, Bibi Braunstein, and M. Hass. The concerts were managed by Blanch Edelstein and Hans Kofler.
The performances were directed by the “director” Ernst Simon. The actors that stand out in my memory: Jacko, Isu Davidovici, Floretta Abramovici, Ada Simon, Jinel Solomon, Silviu Solomon, Mina Schechter, and Paula Russo-Goldberg.
Great acting talents were discovered in some of these young people. They continued their careers in theater. Some contributed to the foundation of the state theater in Bacău later on. It is important to mention Lori Isaac-Cambos, who became a well known actress. A serious illness put an end to the stage career that was as well-suited for her as she was for it. Rozina Cambos, her daughter, was and still is a talented actress, continuing the family tradition. Blanch Edelstein, who was an opera singer. Fritz Braun, an actor in the Constanța state theater (Romania). They, and others in their artistic activity were the body and soul of the small artistic revolution of Bacău in those days, days of rage and terror. The “actors” worked without pay, all profit was dedicated to the orphanage and to the nursing home sponsored by the high school.
Even though the actors' pockets were empty, their souls were rich and full. The performance hall was full of people, and our hearts beat powerfully as if in rhythm to Hasidic song and dance. Occasionally we found among the crowd a former classmate, who was Christian, or another familiar face who was not Jewish. These evoked warm feelings in us and we would hide a tear. We lived in a cruel world full of murder and bullying and wickedness, and one warm soul would warm our hearts.
Today, after fifty years, the nightmares and the “haloimes” have slowly, slowly disappeared…today, we live in a dream come true. In these years we saw an imagined Land, a land beyond another curtain.
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Translated by Dafna Chen
“Strange, dramatic, and twisted is the fate of the Jewish people in the lands of exile.”
The Romanian is born a poet, lives and works as a clerk, and dies a pensioner. His life is quiet, with occasional ups and downs, adjusted slightly according to his origin, social status, and inclinations. The Jewish child never knew what awaited him in life.
I often reflect on our childhood and youth – tossed from place to place, from schools, from homes, from towns into the Nazi night. We lived in constant anxiety about the future.
While Romanian youth prepared for life and its joys, we wandering Jews lived in uncertainty and readiness to flee. The first escape was in the summer of 1941. A rumor spread that Jews from the towns of Bacău County would be deported. The rumor became reality. On a clear and quiet morning, a deportation order arrived: no Jewboy's foot would tread again in Târgu Ocna, Moinești, Onești, Dărmănești, or Perchiu.
We heard rumors of pogroms in Dorohoi and Iași, of death trains, of deportations to Transnistria, and of extermination camps. We knew death awaited us – but not how. “For now,” only the Jews of the county towns were deported. The order was unequivocal: within 24 hours, Jews had to surrender, pack, and load their belongings – only what could fit in a section of single wagon, for which they had to pay in gold. From the town and nearby villages, Romanians quickly arrived, smelling loot. They came to “buy” – to seize furniture, pianos, heirlooms passed down through Jewish families, precious to Jews and cheap to Romanians.
The scene was terrifying. Homes emptied within hours. Even
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“friends” and “good neighbors” revealed their greed. Jews were stunned by the behavior of people they had lived alongside for years. It felt like a nightmare.
Here and there, some hid out of shame; shame for being part of a people who had lost their humanity. A few wiped away tears of helplessness in secret, unable to stop the cruelty.
The Jews of Târgu Ocna, Dărmănești, and Onești departed in convoys. With pain, they looked back at their childhood towns, the forested Casin Mountains, the Oituz Mountains, the silvery valley of the Trotuș River. They left behind memories of youth.
Tent-dwelling Roma looked at them in wonder – who were these people coming to take their place? They had nothing to fear. The “Jewboys” didn't stop there.
After many hours of travel with their bundles and bedding, walking behind the wagon, the Jews arrived in Bacău.
Relatives, friends, and curious onlookers surrounded them. A rumor spread that they would remain in Bacău as “useless objects.”
Indeed, they stayed and were not sent to concentration camps. Their wagons stopped in synagogue courtyards-these would be their homes until the war's end. Some found shelter with relatives. Others rented apartments. They had nothing left – but they had hope.
They were encouraged by the fact that their children returned to Jewish schools, elementary or high school. These schools were of immense importance to the deported students, who found warm and friendly hearts among classmates and teachers.
The fate of the Jews of Perchiu was horrific. Legionnaires ruled the town even before Antonescu's regime. Local leaders of the Legionary Movement included Father Sion, council head Nicolae Paslaru, and Go?i Tomazi from Zăltari. Beatings, arrests, and persecutions continued until all Jews were deported. Men were sent to forced labor and concentration camps in Ialomi?a, Suroaia, Doaga, and across the Bug River in Transnistria. Few returned. Women and children were deported to Bacău, where the Jewish community cared for them.
Before the deportation, a horrifying incident occurred. Jewish community leaders were detained in a room near city hall. A large fire broke out near the room where they had been held for 48 hours. They were released only after the intervention of a prominent local and narrowly escaped death.
Lupu Nadler, former head of the Jewish community in Perchiu, recounts:
“I was sent with my father to court, accused of communist propaganda. The court in Buzău knew the charge was fabricated, but fearing bias, sentenced us to three months in prison. We were brought to Bacău with our townspeople. General
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Rakovicea, known as 'the Black General,' commander of the Pașcani front, received us. He was notorious for cruelty and tried to establish a ghetto for local and deported Jews. Mrs. Ella Kančikov and police chief Cotisel, a kind-hearted man, strongly opposed him.”
Jews never returned to Perchiu. Their homes were destroyed or seized by Romanians. The synagogue building was sold. After Antonescu's fall, fifteen Legionnaires were tried, among them the leaders Paslaru, Tiron, and Tomazi. Others fled and hid in other towns under false names. The trials dragged on. They had friends in high places. There was a risk of deliberate file disappearance. Eventually, those tried were sentenced to five to fifteen years in prison.
Another escape of young Jews to Zion occurred as an underground operation. Zehava Solomon-Glazer, a former student at the Jewish high school in Bacău, recounts:
In spring 1944, the German army was retreating on the Eastern Front. The Russian army advanced rapidly. Rumors spread that the Russians had reached Iași. We, members of the Gordonia youth movement, planned to flee to Bucharest and continue to the Land of Israel-the dream of our youth. We knew it would be a difficult experience-an illegal immigration full of adventures and dangers. Traveling to Bucharest was risky without a permit. We feared police, spies, and retreating German forces. I obtained a school certificate from the Jewish high school and said goodbye to my parents, classmates, and friends. We were four young people. We never imagined that two of us-Puiu Groberg and Valerio Scheler-would die heroically and prematurely.
We arrived in Bucharest full of anxiety, each going to their host. Bombs exploded above us day and night. We sat in shelters, rarely at home. We longed to escape that hell.
On May 12, we boarded a train to Constan?a to board a ship. Each of us had one bag with basic items. Rude and mocking customs officers rummaged through our belongings, telling crude jokes about “Jewesses” fleeing to Palestine. Only bribes made them more pleasant. We reached the sea, to our ship “Maritza.”
Our ship? We had seen ships in pictures and films-passenger liners, cruisers, yachts. But never such a pile of rusty metal, which looked to us like a floating coffin called “Maritza.”
A Bulgarian cargo ship with Turkish sailors-or a Turkish ship with Bulgarian sailors. The sailors roamed the deck constantly. Only later did I realize they were drunk most of the time-filthy savages,
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nothing like the handsome uniformed sailors from books.
The ship was full of pioneers and “civilians” awaiting cabin assignments. The sailors mocked our hopes and “politely” invited us below deck. There we spent the voyage in suffocating overcrowding. I remember our first escape-on wagons with bundles. At least then we had air and sky. Here, below deck, we had only a candle lighting our cramped bodies on the floor.
Soon after departure, seasickness spread. We tried to reach the deck for air but were too weak. Where we were, below, stank of filth and vomit. The atmosphere was unbearable. The food was terrible. It was a miracle that no typhus or cholera outbreak occurred on that rotten nutshell floating on the sea.
We neared Istanbul when the engine failed. The ship stopped. We were surprised it had worked that far! The crew managed to radio the port authority. Tugboats were sent to tow us to port.
We arrived in Istanbul at night. The view was beautiful. The port and city lights revealed a scene from “One Thousand and One Nights”-golden church domes, mosque minarets piercing the sky, the “Golden Horn” with palaces near the Bosphorus, through which wild invading tribes had passed for generations-a place of eternal cultures. I gazed at the scene-it felt like a dream. I was exhausted from heat, hunger, and lack of sleep. We all felt reborn, with new blood flowing in our veins.
We disembarked, dazed and weak, from the “floating coffin.” We were greeted by Jewish Agency representatives – the first Israelis we met. They gave us food packages, led us to the train, and boarded us.
We passed through Anatolia, joyfully gazing at poppy fields and the Lebanon Mountains. The train passed through tunnels and strange-looking settlements, unlike anything we knew.
Our first stop was Aleppo, Syria. There we stayed in a British military camp. Red Cross nurses gave us vaccinations and treated our wounds from the ship's filth and harsh conditions.
We were in poor health. We suffered from stomach illnesses following seasickness and the terrible food. Others among us burned with fever. Their hands swelled, and they could not move them due to the vaccination injections. Yet gradually, our condition improved, and with it, our spirits lifted as we neared our great final destination…
We arrived in Beirut, the “Switzerland of the Middle East.” The city amazed us with its beauty-
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its palaces and luxurious villas, its crowds in the streets and its splendid beaches. The streets were lined with elegant shops selling jewelry, European and Eastern clothing. We had no opportunity to explore the city, only glimpses on our way to the train station. At the station, emissaries from the Land of Israel awaited us. They greeted us warmly, gave us food and fruit. We were thrilled, dancing the Hora and singing pioneering songs. We boarded a freight train, a fact that didn't bother us at all. We were close to the land of our ancestors, our homeland-and that was all that mattered.
We entered the Land of Israel through Rosh HaNikra. The mocking wishes of “Jewboys to Palestine” had come true. During the train ride, Jews waved to us with their hats, greeting us with blessings.
In Atlit, the British stopped us. They were cold, indifferent, and formal. We were taken to a quarantine camp. But we were full of excitement, singing and dancing the Hora, completely unfazed by our situation.
We stayed in barracks with rough beds. At night, we dreamed of the new life that had just begun and thought of our brothers we had left behind. We hoped they would come too, after the war ended!
After some time in Atlit, we were dispersed to kibbutzim and Youth Aliyah settlements-finally, a celebration for us too…
More than forty years have passed since then. Many of us remained far, far away. Some were lost along the way-in the depths of the sea, on ships sunk by the German army. Mircea Grinberg, a student at the Jewish high school, is said to have died aboard the “Mefkura.” I will forever keep their memory. Another warm place in my heart belongs to Yehuda Rubin, Zvi Reicher, and others-fellow students from the Jewish high school-as well as Itzikovitz, my Hebrew teacher from Târgu Ocna, his wife, and a niece. Others perished aboard the “Struma.” I preserve the memory of the daughter of Okhberg, a bookseller from Târgu Ocna, married to a young lawyer named Jonas, and many others who died sanctifying God's name… They took their hopes with them into the depths. And all this after passing through the circles of hell created by the Nazi criminals. In death, they joined the victims of the extermination camps in Transnistria, on the shores of the Bug River, in Auschwitz, and Majdanek. I shed a late tear in their memory – one among the many tears we cried during our deportations and escapes.
Translator's footnotes
Translated by Dafna Chen
March 1944…
Countless times, a question gnaws at my mind: “How long has it been since I crossed the border between life and death?” A week, perhaps a month, or maybe it never happened at all…
I left behind a world vibrant with life, smiling at the sun, smiling at women, at children… Here I found a paralyzed world, bound by the invisible cord of deportation, summoning all its strength to prolong life by a day or two, struggling to keep the body alive lest it perish from hunger, disease, and helplessness.
Strange! I was the only free man in a world of captives. I wandered like a sleepwalker through the narrow alleys of the ghetto. From time to time, I was stopped by a police patrol, and they pulled me out of my daze. They asked me to identify myself and looked at me with hostile, suspicious eyes. To them, I was a ghost in a world of demons…
What was I looking for there? What was I looking for? A strange mission – to snatch children from their mothers. In doing so, I hoped to save them from the claws of death and bring them to the other side. What children? So few remained… Some had perished in the early days of the deportation, in lead-sealed trains that brought them to the point of no return – Transnistria. Others were buried under shrouds of snow in the vast steppes…
I found only a few, a few hundred miserable, starving souls in frozen, suffocating, and dark rooms.
I am the man who walked like a sleepwalker through the alleys of the ghetto. I saw sights that burned my eyes when my tears dried up… I was horrified by the Noma patients. Those afflicted with this terrible disease lay on the ground,
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worms crawling over their bodies. I saw many patients lying like that, in piles. The ghetto doctor explained to me that the dreadful disease “Noma” originated from the bran of cornmeal, which was the only food available to the ghetto residents-they cooked it instead of mamaliga. The belly swelled, the stomach twisted in pain. Patients lay unconscious, naked, their bodies decaying while still alive. Their wounds teemed with worms, trying to grasp every tiny piece of living flesh…
I muster my last strength and arrive at the train station… There, an enormous field stretched out. That was where the train stood – the one meant to return me to the world of life and freedom. Two hours remained until its departure. A convoy of several hundred frail and shockingly thin children arrived, dressed in rags. They had been gathered from all the ghettos of Transnistria and were being led toward the train cars under the watch of policemen and their guard dogs.
I receive my assigned car – a cattle car, like everyone else… In my trembling hands, I hold the list of my “passengers.” I begin reading the names…
Suddenly, a terrible commotion erupts. Wails and screams pierce the air. A crowd floods the ice-covered field – a vision of the end of days. Women with disheveled hair and exposed chests, old men and boys with frightened, bewildered eyes, dressed in sackcloth that seemed to slip off their emaciated bodies. All of them ran in indescribable chaos toward our train cars.
Later, I understood. The crowd had managed to break through the police cordon and storm the field, trying to reach the train and board it. It was the only train heading toward freedom, toward life.
They clung to the train's railings, steps, and doors. Women called out their children's names and tore their hair out. Others raised their fists at the murderers. Perhaps it was their first outburst since their deportation.
At first, the policemen were stunned. They were caught off guard and unprepared. They looked on, confused by the unfolding events. But soon they recovered from their shock. Their response was horrific and brought disaster. The policemen began unleashing their dogs on the Jews and striking in every direction with their rifle butts.
The door of my car was open, and through it I saw the savage dance of oppression. Dogs trained for cruelty and killing attacked, sinking their teeth into the helpless victims, tearing flesh and rags from their bodies. Policemen struck with fury and hatred. The air trembled with screams. Some fell under the blows, their bodies trampled by the retreating crowd. The number of assailants grew and surrounded them. The barking of dogs mixed with the shouts of officers giving orders, firing into the air or at the crowd to draw the policemen's attention to their commands.
Wounded and dead lay scattered across the field, soon covered by snow.
I heard a creak… the door of the car was shut from the outside. I heard people sealing it with lead… I couldn't see a thing because of the darkness inside the car and the smoke rising from a stove with embers.
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I lit the kerosene lantern I had received at the start of my journey and saw around me pale, frail figures through billows of smoke. A nightmare vision. I remembered that when the chaos broke out – hellish in its intensity – some had clung to the door handles, begging me to have mercy, to save their lives. I was fully aware of the danger I was taking upon myself if I allowed even one unauthorized person aboard. I tried to resist, to pry their hands off the door handles of the train car. But what could I do? My strength was no match for those who were fighting with the last of theirs to stay alive. I could have called the police and asked for help. But how could I ask for help from murderers? Of course not. Even the thought of it silenced me.
I stood helpless, wondering if perhaps none of this had ever happened. I tried to count the passengers under my supervision. I was filled with anxiety. I estimate their number was twice what appeared on the official lists. How did the other couriers manage to withstand the pressure in the other cars? And who can say they succeeded?
If I had any doubts that this was reality and not some hallucinated dream, they vanished in an instant. Someone grabbed my arm. I heard a faint voice whisper: “It's me, Mira.” I was startled – it felt like an electric shock. Mira? No, impossible. Madness! It couldn't be… I must be hallucinating.
I had known Mira in my hometown about ten years before the Holocaust began. We had a beautiful friendship, as often happens between young people setting out to conquer life, to discover its secrets, to distinguish between good and evil, between beauty and ugliness, between light and shadow.
Our paths parted after a few years. Rumors reached me that Mira had married, and the events found her in a city whose fate was deportation. During my time in the ghetto, I hadn't seen her.
Mira told me her daughter was “legally” in one of the cars, that her husband had remained in the ghetto, and she couldn't bear to be separated from her child. I tried to make out her facial features in the lantern's light through the smoke. I was terrified. I couldn't believe this was the Mira I remembered – a lively, slender girl with black, sparkling eyes, always asking questions. Now she was a shadow of a woman, like a weak child, a human remnant. Suffering and hardship had erased all age distinctions. Children looked like old men, and adults like frail children.
When did we begin to race across the ice-covered plains of the steppe? I looked through a crack between the wooden boards of the car. Night had fallen. From time to time, we pressed our faces to the cold planks to breathe in the fresh air that seeped inside.
The air in the car was thick, and we choked on smoke that burned our eyes. A foul stench of feces, urine, and oozing wounds surrounded us. Children groaned, cried, and screamed in nightmares.
I waited for dawn. I feared the first inspection and was scared to death. I wanted to escape this hell at any cost. Mira stayed awake beside me all night. She had no strength to speak.
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Her eyes, burning from dryness and tears, expressed more than her lips could, lips that had turned blue from the cold.
Suddenly, the wheels of the train cars screeched to a halt. The locomotive let out a sharp whistle into the night. Voices could be heard outside, noise – and then silence. Two hours passed like that. A ray of light pierced through the cracks between the boards of the car. Dawn had arrived.
We sensed commotion outside the car. The lead seals were removed. The door opened, and uniformed men entered. From the look on their faces, I immediately understood – they had received reports about the “illegals” hiding in the cars. They began counting the passengers but gave up. We were ordered to disembark. Small children who couldn't climb down on their own were dragged and thrown by policemen standing on the platform… Within minutes, the platform was swarming with children, as was the space between the railway tracks.
A lieutenant colonel, assisted by a civilian, began reading the list of names. We, the members of the delegation, were set aside. Whoever's name was called was allowed back onto the train. About two hundred people whose names weren't on the lists remained on the platform. These were the “illegals”… I saw Mira among them. Suddenly, she lunged at her daughter, who had just been lifted into the car by a soldier. She snatched the child from the policeman's arms, embraced her desperately, and covered her face with kisses. An officer struck her with a whip. Both – mother and daughter – stumbled and fell. I didn't see how it ended. The lieutenant colonel took us to the waiting hall of the Ataki train station. We were asked to hand over our documents and were accused of helping people escape…
I don't remember how long we stayed in the waiting hall of Ataki station. Artillery fire could be heard, and it's no wonder the policemen forgot about us. It seemed the Russians had succeeded in overpowering the German forces at the front. Suddenly, the lieutenant colonel reappeared, accompanied by a civilian. He gave a forceful speech and announced that he had received orders from Bucharest to allow us to continue our journey with the convoy of children. Apparently, the authorities had other concerns! Once again, the children were entrusted to our care. The children told us that the “illegals” had been marched back on foot to the Mogilev ghetto.
More than forty years have passed since then. “My children,” the children of Transnistria, now live mostly in Israel. I meet them on the streets of Tel Aviv, in kibbutzim and moshavim. Today they are parents themselves. Healthy “Sabras” who do not and never will be able to understand what happened to us during the Holocaust. The “Children of Transnistria” will never forget the Holocaust. It is etched into their blood. Mira's daughter and her father will never forget. I met the father in Jaffa a few years ago. He told me that Mira had died of typhus and heartbreak a week after returning to the ghetto. He asked me about a book published in Romania titled “Madness” and whether its claims were true – a book rumored to attempt rehabilitating the memory of the “Red Dog,” Antonescu. Helplessly, I shrugged. I saw reproach in his eyes: “What, you've forgotten too?”
No, no – I have not forgotten … I write this indictment for you, children of Transnistria, who remain buried
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beneath the snow in the steppes. For you, whom death overtook, consumed by the terrible disease of Noma. For you, who still mourn your loved ones buried in the ghetto soil of Ra?cov, Skazynets, Mogilev. For the victims and the survivors, I write this indictment against the murderers and their accomplices. An indictment against those who, in the madness of nationalism, attempt to absolve the murderers of their crimes.
Original footnote:
The author of the book was a member of the national committee that repatriated the orphaned children from Transnistria to Romania in March 1944.
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