CZECHOSLOVAKIA, 1940
MANY, MANY YEARS AGO, I lived with my parents on a farm, in a small village in the eastern part of the country that was then called Czechoslovakia. We had a fine old stone house with beautiful rooms, shiny wooden floors and a twisting spiral staircase. When I looked out my bedroom window, I could see the mountains that surrounded our land and separated us from Poland. The mountains changed with each season, as if an artist had created a brand-new painting. In winter they were frosty and white with snow, and bare bushes and trees cast deep blue and grey shadows across the hillside. In summer, as wild roses and yellow dandelions bloomed across the mountains, they were splashed with a rainbow of colours.
I didn’t really know it at the time, but this was a critical period in Czechoslovakia’s history and indeed in the history of the world. There was a war beginning in Germany, and it was slowly creeping its way towards us. It would have a devastating impact on people everywhere, particularly Jews like us. But as a child I was protected from this knowledge, at least for a while. For me, my country was a safe and secure place to live. And I was cared for and loved in my home.
There were other Jewish families in our village and villages close by, though not many of them were farmers. Most of them owned businesses. The Bottensteins had a clothing shop; Mr. Wohl owned the lumberyard; the Deutch family were tailors. Within our Jewish community there was one doctor, one lawyer and one pharmacist. Other Jewish families were shopkeepers, selling textiles, food, pots and pans and farming equipment. On evenings and weekends, Mr. Schlesinger, the owner of the local pub, played host to my father and his friends, who could often be found playing cards, drinking coffee and catching up on the local gossip. My favourite place was the bakery, where Mrs. Springer would sometimes give cupcakes to my friends and me when we passed.
Our farm was one of the largest in the area. We grew wheat, oats, barley and potatoes, and raised dairy cattle. We had many workers who helped take care of the cows and the fields. My father worked the land and managed the farm. My mother took care of our home and helped my father wherever she was needed. There was nothing she could not or would not do. She gathered crops along with the workers. She tended the animals when they were sick or giving birth. She even knew about human diseases and medicines. The workers on our farm would often come to her for advice if they were ill, rather than travel into town to see the doctor. I took part in all these farm activities, and I grew up sharing my parents’ love for the land.
I remember the time I stayed up all night long to watch a cow give birth. My mother let me stroke the cow’s head while she helped deliver the calf. I watched in amazement as the head, shoulders and legs of the baby emerged from its mother. I named the calf Tibi, and he followed me around the barn like a puppy.
Our village was too small to have a school of its own so, until I was twelve years old, I attended a school in the town next to ours. Each day my friends and I would walk for more than half an hour to get to school. We didn’t mind the walk because we had so much fun talking together. The time passed quickly with our stories and games.
“Gabi,” my friend Marishka would call to me, “do you want to race to school?”
“No, don’t run,” Nettie would complain. “My shoes are new and they’re pinching my toes.”
“Oh, poor thing. New shoes, a new dress, new ribbons in your hair. But you can’t even walk,” we would tease. Nettie’s parents owned the fanciest dress shop in town, and her clothes were always the latest style. Sometimes she brought us special things from the store; a silk scarf for me, a colourful ribbon for Marishka’s hair, even a handmade handkerchief for one of the boys.
“Gabi, will you come with me to the bakery after school? I have some extra allowance, and I’ll treat you to a chocolate roll,” Nina said one day. Nina was my best friend. We lived on neighbouring farms and we had grown up together. Unlike most of my friends, Nina was not Jewish. I listened to her tempt me with my favourite dessert and realized that, once again, she had forgotten something important in my life. It was Friday. I had to go straight home after school to help prepare the house for the sabbath.
“I’d love to, but I have to set the table before sunset,” I reminded her.
“Oops, I forgot. It’s not fair that you can’t play on Fridays. Especially in winter, when it gets dark so fast we never have enough time to do anything.”
“Maybe Mamma will let you sleep over next Friday night,” I suggested. “You can come home with me after school and help get things ready. Remember the last Friday night you came? I’ll bet you can’t remember the Hebrew blessing we taught you.”
“At least I’ll remember not to blow out the sabbath candles after supper. How was I supposed to know they’re meant to burn all the way down?”
Nina and I laughed as we held hands and walked together. We had always been like sisters, and we shared our biggest secrets. The difference in our religions didn’t get in the way of our friendship. We were just curious about each other’s traditions and holidays. I remember once going to holy communion at the Catholic church in town. Nina and her parents explained to me what it meant when they drank the red wine and ate the small biscuit the priest offered. I felt closer to Nina after that, as if we had shared something very private. I knew she felt the same way when she came to our house for Passover. She tasted matzo, the unleavened bread, for the first time. And she helped read aloud parts of the Passover story, as if she were my very own sister.
It wasn’t like that with all the Christian families in town. Many of these people looked at the Jews with a combination of resentment and fear. They envied any success Jewish people had in business, and they were afraid and suspicious of anyone who practised a different religion. There were some who made trouble for us, not shopping in stores owned by Jewish merchants, writing nasty messages on the synagogue wall, or not letting their children play with us. The very religious Jews were the target of most of these incidents because they looked so different — the men wore long black coats and black hats, and their wives covered their heads with wigs and wore plain-coloured dresses that covered their arms and legs and were usually buttoned up tight to their necks. They spoke mostly Yiddish, and their children attended special schools that emphasized religious studies. My school had a mixture of Christian and Jewish children, and I suppose that’s how you could describe our home too. It was mixed with religious customs and not so religious ones.
For example, we followed strict dietary laws. There were some foods we never ate, and we didn’t have meat and dairy products in the same meal. We even had two sets of dishes, one for meat, one for milk. But we didn’t go to synagogue every sabbath, and sometimes my father worked on the day set aside for rest. While we observed many Jewish customs and holidays, we weren’t as religious as the most observant Jews, and we didn’t dress the way they did. Perhaps that was why I could mix so easily with my Christian schoolmates.
Some of my friends weren’t so lucky. One group of Christian boys had a reputation for picking fights with the Jewish boys in my school. My friend David was cornered by them one day. They tried to force him to hand over some money. When he refused, they jumped on him, trying to punch and kick him and rip his clothes. David managed to stand up to them, and even landed a few punches himself before he got away. He ended up with a black eye but he wore it proudly, pleased that he had stood up for himself. Incidents like this happened occasionally. When they did, the grown-ups usually just shrugged their shoulders and said there wasn’t much we could do except ignore the bullies. We learned to avoid situations that might lead to trouble.
That Friday afternoon, I said goodbye to Nina and we promised to go ice skating the next evening on the frozen pond. I turned to walk up the long road to my house. I wasn’t really sorry I couldn’t go to the bakery. I looked forward to the sabbath more than any other day of the week. On Fridays, by the time I returned from school, our house was already filled with the smells of my mother’s cooking. A fragrance of chicken soup, yeasty egg bread and apple strudel surrounded me as soon as I walked in the door.
“Mamma,” I shouted as I burst in. “I have to tell you what happened at school today. Mr. Reich was bending over Nina’s desk to correct her arithmetic and when he stood up he knocked over the inkwell. He spilled black ink all over his suit. Everyone laughed so hard, except Mr. Reich, of course, and …”
“Gabi, slow down and take a moment to breathe,” my mother replied, holding my cold cheeks between her warm hands. “I want to hear all your stories, but first get the china and silver from the dresser and set the table. Then prepare the sabbath candles for lighting. It will soon be dark, and your father will be home from work.”
The dresser sat in the dining room, and it held all our special things. Each Friday I took the metal key that my mother kept hanging in the kitchen and unlocked its two doors. First I found the white linen tablecloth and matching napkins that my mother had embroidered with her initials. Then I carefully removed the white china and the silver candlesticks. The crystal glasses were the last to be carried from the dresser to the table. I was painfully careful not to drop anything. A crack in a plate, a chip in a glass or a dent in the silver would have been heartbreaking, both for me and for my mother. I cherished these treasures as if they were my own. And I loved the wooden dresser that housed them.