By Chance Alone (2 page)

With my granddaughter Amy for the March of the Living, 1998. This was my first time back at Auschwitz since the war.

I
n the spring of
1998
, I was asked to accompany a group of
150
Toronto teenagers on a trip to Poland, where they would participate in the March of the Living, an annual event that takes place on Yom HaShoah, or Holocaust Remembrance Day. Each year, ten thousand individuals from around the world gather at Auschwitz I and march together to Auschwitz II–Birkenau, where they attend a memorial service for the six million Jewish people murdered by the Nazis and their local collaborators. Amy, my eldest granddaughter, was a part of this group; at sixteen, she was nearly the same age I was when I first entered the camp, in
1944
.

As a survivor speaker, I was tasked with filling in the missing pieces: the sounds, the smells, and the feelings of this place. For the first time in fifty-three years, I was going to enter the extermination camp where the Nazis had murdered so many of my family and friends. With no gravesites to visit, this was the closest I could get to their spirits, and I knew it would be a difficult experience for me emotionally.

My arrival at Auschwitz II–Birkenau in May
1944
was a terrifying experience. When I got off the train, I immediately noticed four huge crematoria very close to the platform and nestled among some birch trees. Although I didn't learn their purpose until later, these ominous structures with their massive chimneys were belching flames and smoke, and the brickwork crackled from the heat of continuous use. I recall feeling speechless and short of breath, like something monstrous was going to engulf me. As I lined up on the platform, separated from my mother and siblings, I was helpless and alone, afraid of the unknown. The SS soldiers manning the platform had a brutal look about them, and the skull-and-crossbones symbol on their caps made me panic. When I returned to Auschwitz II–Birkenau in
1998
, there were no immediate signs of the towering chimney stacks or the buildings that had once housed the gas chambers and crematoria. The SS destroyed them before they abandoned the camp in January
1945
, and the structures now lay in rubble. The birch trees had grown taller, and where once there was mud, there was now green grass cover. Gone was the smell of burning flesh and the skinny prisoners in their flimsy attire, hounded by SS guards. The place looked strangely benign to me now, and I was struck mostly by the sheer vastness of the site, the ruins of the barracks, and the barbed wire. A few kilometres away at Auschwitz I, I saw the barracks where I spent so many nights, the places where I was forced to stand at
appel
for hours, and the spot where the orchestra played. I remembered the hunger, the terror, the constant exhaustion. But I also remembered a few critical moments of advice, small kindnesses, conversations with my fellow prisoners, and the camp hospital that became such an important part of my story.

Speaking in front of the surgery in which I worked at Barrack 21, in 2014.

Sherri Rotstein, one of the organizers of the Canadian contingent of March of the Living, recalled seeing me that afternoon surrounded by the program participants. She said I was staring into the distance and she wondered what I was thinking about. She knew I had journeyed back—emotionally and physically—to a very dark place, but she was heartened by the fact that I was surrounded by Jewish youth, the Jewish future. It was true that being back at the camp filled me with sorrow, but it also gave me comfort as I watched Amy place a picture of my lost family members on the ruins of Crematorium II. I knew they were with us in spirit. And Amy represented the generations of children and grandchildren who'd thrived in the aftermath of the genocide.

My first pilgrimage back to Auschwitz-Birkenau gave me the strength to see, feel, and transmit the horrific deeds that the Nazis had perpetrated there. It was on this trip that I recommitted myself as a Holocaust speaker and educator, work I had first undertaken six years earlier. I have since kept up a rigorous schedule of presenting at schools and other events, and I've travelled back to Auschwitz many times. On one of these trips, my other granddaughter, Julie, joined me. She told me that she remembered hearing the stories of the death camps as a little girl, but it was not until she walked on the grounds of Auschwitz that she really understood the level of the Nazis' deception and the extent of the destruction of human life. She described the impact of seeing my barracks, my bunk, and the places where I laboured. She had always regarded me as a strong, happy, energetic man unscarred by the tragedies that befell my family and me. She told me how much she respected my personal mission to educate as many people as possible about the fate of the Jews during the Holocaust.

I made my very first public presentation to a group of grade
13
students at St. Joseph's Catholic high school in Barrie, Ontario, in May
1992
. I was nervous and felt myself breathing shallowly as I stood before them and rapidly told my story. I did not have the public-speaking proficiency to transmit my presentation with ease. After I'd finished, I told myself that I'd never do it again. But a few days later, the teacher sent me a thank-you note stating how much the students had appreciated my candour, and how much better they now understood the Holocaust. This feedback gave me the confidence I needed, and I continued to speak by invitation at other venues.

From that day forward, I embarked on a lifelong journey of learning, and I honed my speaking skills for different age groups. Today I speak to grade
5
students and university students, and everything in between. I have travelled the breadth of Canada, from the Maritimes to British Columbia, on speaking engagements, addressing audiences large and small, from classroom size to almost two thousand high school students in a large auditorium.

On one occasion, during a session with an elementary school in Sudbury, Ontario, I was greeted at the door by a group of grade
5
students, and I saw they all wore Star of David stickers on their chests. They asked me if I wanted one too. I put mine on and they escorted me to the classroom, where eighty students were assembled. The teacher informed me that they had read a book entitled
Number the Stars
and were sensitized to the sting of discrimination. I spent two hours with them and told them my story. They had written down several questions on pieces of paper, and I did my best to address them. When we finished, they all lined up and wanted me to sign their
question papers and add a comment. Some of them even had extra papers for me to sign for their families. A few months later, a parcel arrived from the school. In it was a felt quilt with twenty panels portraying what the students had learned from my presentation. One panel depicted a locomotive pulling cattle cars. Another showed fishing dories carrying Danish Jews to Sweden. Yet another had an image of my family, including my two brothers holding hands. The quilt was truly a remarkable memorial project, and it reinforced for me the importance of fully engaged learning about history.

Many of the students I speak to are in grade
10
, because that's the year when Second World War history is taught. I challenge myself to hold their attention for one and a half hours, as well as through the subsequent question-and-answer period. Often, students approach me after my talks to make comments, take pictures, or ask for my autograph. Teachers and principals have told me many times that they are in awe of how well the students concentrate when I speak. The many letters I receive from the students and their teachers attest to the fact that they really do understand the importance of Holocaust history. It puts their own struggles in perspective, encourages the protection of a democratic society, and helps them speak out when they see injustice.

In addition to speaking at elementary schools and high schools, I have given frequent (sometimes annual) presentations at many universities and colleges, including Lakehead, Trent, Ryerson, Brock, the University of Northern British Columbia, the University of Alberta, the University of Manitoba, the University of Regina, St. Francis Xavier, Western, and Seneca. I've also addressed the York Region police cadets, the Ontario
Provincial Police, and the Canadian Forces College in Toronto. I've made presentations at churches, synagogues, libraries, and community centres during Holocaust Education Week. My out-of-town engagements are very intense; sometimes I make as many as five presentations in three days. These trips can be physically and emotionally exhausting. But I feel they are necessary. And despite the demanding nature of the work, I'm always happy to meet diverse people across our country. If I am available, I will never refuse a request to speak.

While painful, my work as a Holocaust educator has also renewed my spirit. I believe that a new generation can relate to the Holocaust and its lessons with an understanding of how evil can operate when it remains unchecked. It is my hope that the students I meet will combat racism and bigotry wherever they see it, and that they will speak out and make a positive difference in Canadian society. After many visits back to Auschwitz, I can also see that the physical remnants of the Holocaust continue to deteriorate, and that the first-hand witnesses, like me, are moving on in years. I recognize how important it is for survivors to tell their stories, and to honour and remember the people and human potential that was lost. This volume is the final step in my journey as a Holocaust educator, and it stands as my own permanent contribution to this history and to the memory of my loved ones who were lost to this horror.

W
hen I was born in Moldava nad Bodvou, Czechoslovakia, in
1929
, my parents could not have foreseen the danger and destruction that would befall our family only a decade later.

Our town had a population of approximately five thousand people, most of whom were Roman Catholic and Reformist Christian. There were also about ninety Jewish families, totalling not quite five hundred people. The town had a secure atmosphere and I had many friends, both Jewish and non-Jewish. At one end of the main town square there was the Roman Catholic church, and at the other end there was the Reformist church. Constructed during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the baroque-style public elementary school and the post office were also near the main square. There was a high school located nearby.

I lived with my immediate family—my father, mother, grandparents, uncle, and aunt—in a large dwelling; each segment of the family had its own quarters. The businesses of the town were operated mainly by Jewish owners, including the confectionery
store, a large general store, two bakeries, two pubs, several stores for yard goods and materials, a glazier, and an herbalist. My father owned a pub called the Cellar, where people came to drink and socialize, and where he made and sold a variety of bottled liqueurs in mint, apricot, and chocolate flavours. There was a Jewish butcher and a family-operated bicycle shop that also had a Shell Oil concession to sell gasoline. The town's medical establishment included two Jewish doctors, a Dr. Fried and a Dr. Laszlo, and two Jewish dentists, one of whom, Dr. Gertner, was our family dentist. Two other pubs and a butcher shop were owned and operated by non-Jewish residents. The town's administration was overseen by the equivalent of a mayor, who was also the head of the district of Abaúj-Szántó. There was also a police station in the town.

My mother, my aunt, and my grandmother, like the rest of the town's Jewish women, were intelligent, well-read, capable, and contributing people. They all did volunteer work, such as crafting embellishments for the synagogue and helping the poor. We also opened up the orchards on our property to the needy, who could come and pick fruit in season. When knitted dresses came into style, the women took up knitting as well, making garments for themselves and their daughters.

The wedding picture of my Uncle Jeno (Eugene) and wife Irene, taken in 1930.

My extended family included my grandfather, Raphael; my grandmother, Malvina; my aunt Bella; my uncle Eugene, who was my father's brother; and his wife, Irene. While they all shaped my early life, my grandfather taught me many life skills that I still use to this day, and I particularly respected him and valued his attention. My father had another sister who lived in a town called Almás with her husband and children. Their family name was Lazarovits. My mother's helper, Anna, was another
important person in my early years. Anna came to live with us when I was born, and she was a strong woman in both body and spirit. Although she wasn't Jewish, she knew our customs and could recite some of our blessings for food. In my mind, she was also a part of the family.

I admired my grandfather's strength and knowledge. He'd been a cavalry officer in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and had fought on the Russian front in the First World War. The Jews of Austria–Hungary (who were emancipated in
1867
) revered Emperor Franz Joseph, and the elders in my town who were veterans and comrades of that period wore beards and side curls just like his. My grandfather and my uncle Eugene operated the lumberyard on our property. On market day, up to ten farmers parked their horses and buggies in our yard while they sold their goods at the marketplace. I loved horses, so it was a big event for me. Before the farmers left, they would purchase lumber from our yard, and my grandfather recorded the purchases in his big ledger. (After they brought in their harvests, they would pay for their purchases with either grain or livestock.) When they were gone, it was my job, together with my grandfather, to clean up the manure left behind with a broom that had a very long handle. The manure itself was used to fertilize our vegetable garden, and its natural odour didn't bother me. In addition to the steady work of the lumberyard, my grandfather and I also pruned and grafted the fruit trees in our orchard. I always preferred these duties to school, no matter how hard the work.

When my grandfather went to buy sections of forest to be converted into lumber, I was sometimes invited to go along with him. Once, we entered a copse of tall pine trees, and I could hear the wind in the canopy and smell the scent of the pine while my
grandfather was checking for the size and girth of the trees to be cut down. In my mind, I wondered if he knew how to get out of the dense forest. But my grandfather showed me how to find the particular signs that would help us navigate our way. On the way out, he taught me about wild mushrooms that were edible and others that were poisonous.

We lived in a rural area where horses and cattle were numerous, and there were occasions when these animals ate grasses that were not good for them to digest, making them bloated and in need of immediate relief. When there was no veterinarian to perform this service, my grandfather was called to release the gas from their bellies. The farmers were grateful that he was available, and his expertise in this area impressed me. I learned many skills by observing him—particularly the importance of a job well done.

My father, on the other hand, had embraced the automobile age in the
1920
s and early
1930
s, when many social and cultural changes were taking place. At one time, he owned and operated a bus that had a route from our town to Košice,
*
the capital city of our province, approximately fifty kilometres away. The driver of the bus was also the fare collector, and after a while my father realized that the man was keeping some of the takings and the route was losing money. So within a year, he sold the bus. He also owned a convertible car that he drove for many years, but eventually it became irreparable and was left in the corner of our yard, where it sunk to its axles. My friends and I would sit in the rusted vehicle and pretend to drive it.

My younger brother Eugene (left), Alfred, and me in 1939.

Around
1925
, my father established the Cellar, a popular pub where people liked to socialize. I sometimes was given the job of putting exotic labels on the bottles of liqueurs and red wax on the corks, and then adding my father's own seal to the wax. Each bottle was then put into a woven sleeve and dusted with white chalk powder to give it the appearance of age. I sometimes delivered these bottles to customers in the town. I enjoyed my time at the Cellar, and my father allowed me to be his responsible helper. On the cold, dark evenings after Hebrew school in winter, I often went to my father's establishment and waited there until closing time at approximately
8
p.m. He would give me a bit of alcohol to gargle to kill any winter bacteria. I was happy to wait for him rather than going home alone in the dark.

I recall times when my friends and I, after school let out at
4
p.m., bought kaiser buns from Deutch's bakery and then went to the Cellar, where we were allowed to open the spigot on a cask of liqueur and soak our buns under it. All my friends wanted to come to the Cellar to get fortification before Hebrew school. My father, although a strict parent, had a great sense of humour, and it was a happy time for my friends and me.

While my father was the provider, my mother sustained the secure atmosphere and the rhythm of the home environment. She supported our physical and psychological daily needs. I was born in
1929
, when she was twenty-five years old and my father was twenty-seven. My brother Eugene was born in
1932
, my brother Alfred in
1936
. My little sister, Judit, was born in
1943
, making a difference of fourteen years between us. All of us were born in the family home and delivered by midwives. My brother Eugene was the smart one, and I felt unfavourable compared to him whenever he finished his homework with little trouble and I did not.
It seemed that he was able to handle the curriculum of both the public school and the Hebrew school easily. There was a natural sibling rivalry between us. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Alfred, on the other hand, was coddled by me and every other member of my family, and was considered the baby until Judit came along seven years later.

***

My earliest memory is riding on the crossbar of my father's bicycle as he took me to Hebrew school to introduce me to my teacher. For the first time, I was leaving the security of my family, clutching only a paper bag with a buttered kaiser bun and a tomato for lunch. The school was located next to the synagogue in the centre of town, approximately one kilometre from our home. To a five-year-old boy, it seemed a long distance away. My father handed me over to the teacher, who spoke to me in Yiddish, which I couldn't understand. At home, we spoke Hungarian, my mother tongue.

I was very frightened by this strange new environment. It was a beautiful sunny day and there were many kids my age and older playing games in the schoolyard. Some of them were whittling and making whistles from willow branches. Some had their shoes off and were trying to catch small fish under the rocks of the River Bodvou, which flowed next to the school. Gradually, I made friends and was allowed to walk to school on my own. In the one-room classroom, there were three tables with benches; the children were grouped around them by both age and ability. This was a
cheder
(school) for boys to study the Scriptures (the Hebrew Bible).

A single teacher supervised the entire group, and he was strict and forceful. He used a stick to keep order, meting out punishment against those who did not learn the text properly. I was made to sit on the bench at his right side, and I received punishment regularly for my unresponsiveness. I'm sure that he was trying to demonstrate his expertise as a teacher to my father, who was a respected person in the community. But the more he punished me, the less I wanted to learn.

The pressure of this hostile environment, combined with my classes in the public school system (which I started a year later), was more than I could handle. Not only did I have to learn Yiddish at age five, but I also had to learn Slovak at age six in order to participate in the public school curriculum. Public school ended at
4
p.m., and then we went to Hebrew school until
7
p.m. I also attended Hebrew school on Sundays, and when the Hungarians took over the country in
1938
–
39
, I went to the public school for half a day on Saturdays too. Little time was left for childhood games. My rebellious nature was reflected in my unsatisfactory performance in both schools, which resulted in punishment at home from my father, who expected better results. Luckily, my mother was more understanding, and she came to my rescue on many occasions.

One day, our neighbour Ily's brother arrived for a visit in his fire-red Å koda sports car. I noticed this beautiful car parked in front of their home and was drawn to it like a magnet. In my mind, I saw myself climbing behind the steering wheel and taking off in it. Eventually, everyone came out of the house: Ily carrying a picnic basket; her son, Nori; and her brother, an artist who was tall and smartly dressed. They were going to visit the stalactite caves in Dobsina, approximately one and a half
hours away. I was dying to be invited to join them, but when Ily said, “Why don't you come along, Tibor?”—I was known as Tibor when I was young—I was faced with a major decision, because it was our Sabbath and driving in a car was strictly forbidden. If my father found out, the punishment would be dire. Torn between fear and desire, I opted to hop in the car and suffer any consequences later; I was determined not to miss this opportunity.