[CLI Part 26] do_umRW96XLJQF2yT8AgRaUS

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Document from the Arolsen Archives with the ID: do_umRW96XLJQF2yT8AgRaUS
Document from the Arolsen Archives with the ID: do_umRW96XLJQF2yT8AgRaUS1200×1816 297 KB

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Discussion Question

Motel MITTELMAN #polish

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Motel MITTELMAN (MITELMAN, MITELMANN) (* 1921-06-20 in Czestochowa, Poland; Survivor; + 1996-11-13 in Melbourne, Australia)

Son of Majer MITTELMAN and Chaya Sara JAKUBOWICZ.
Married to Henia MIKOSKA.
He had a son, Marcel MITTELMAN.

Imprisoned in Camp Hasag, CC Buchenwald (Prisoner Number: 113702) and CC Mittelbau-Dora.

Living 1946-12 in Frankfurt/Main, Zeilsheim, A.C House of Israel.

Living in Paris.

He did emigrate, most likely to Australia.

Sources:

Henia MITELMAN, née MIKOSKA (* 1924-03-03 in Podebice, Poland; Survivor; + 2005-04-30 in Melbourne, Australia), his wife

Daughter of Henoch MIKOWSKI and Sara WOLKOWICH.

Imprisoned in Lodz, Ozorkow, Poddebice, Bergen-Belsen and Tschenstochau-Pelzery.

Liberated in Bergen-Belsen.

Living with her husband in Zeilsheim.

She was interviewed in Australia.

Sources:

Mayer MITTELMAN (* 1946-08-18)

Sources:

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Memoirs of Henia Mittelman regarding her experiences in Podembice, the Ozorkow Ghetto, in Lodz, and in Hazag Pelzery and Bergen Belsen camps

Source: https://collections.yadvashem.org/en/documents/10864043 (Rearranged to the correct order of pages)

It is 1993, some fifty years after the Holocaust, I have
finally found the strength to put pen to paper. Despite
the pain in recalling in detail, the vents of so long ago,
I have decided that this is a task that I must do. I am
growing older. No one can be sure of what each new day may
bring. I feel it is my duty to leave behind a testament to
the events I have witnessed and personally endured.

I shall limit myself to recounting only some of my most
vivid experiences. I want to record the names of my
immediate family and relate something of their lives and
deaths. I want to tell of some of the people who played
their part in my life. Those who showed me kindness and
those that were evil.

May this short document form a link in the chain of my
family history. May it help my children and their children
learn of the events which befell their family and their
fellow Jews.

I was born on March 3rd 1924. My mother was Sarah Esther
Wolkowicz. My fathers name was Heniek Unikovski. Three
years after their marriage, my father became ill and died
in Poznianski Hospital, Lodz. At 23, my mother, pregnant
with me, was left a widow. Alone, she returned to live
with her parents in the small town of Podembice.
I was named Henia, in memory of my father.

I was brought up by my grandparents Wolkowicz. My
grandmothers maiden name was Freida Rivke Opas. Her family
had emigrated to the United States before the First World
War in 1914. This included her parents, five brothers and
three sisters. My grandmother had just been married and
her husband - my grandfather did not want to leave Poland
and his two brothers.

My grandparents had nine children, six sons and three
daughters. Their names were my mother Sarah, her sisters
Miriam and Frume and brothers Meylach, Asher, Abram,
Yehiel, Isak and Hayim. They all married and had children.
My Uncle Hayim left for France, when I was three years old.
He married in France and had two sons, Marcel and Vivy, who
both married and had children. My Aunt Frume died at
twenty one from appendicitis.

When I was six years old my grandmother died, and my mother
took over the household and ran the family business with my
grandfather.

It was then that I started school. It was a state school
with both Jewish and Polish pupils. The hatred towards us
Jews was very evident. I often came home in tears as the
Polish children teased me, called me dirty names and even
hit me. I cried and asked my mother and grandfather why
they behaved like this to the Jewish children. I couldn’t
understand why our neighbours hated us.
I also attended a religious Jewish school - Bet Yakov. I
found the lessons there interesting and felt happy and
free, unlike the atmosphere at my state school.

My grandfather was a religious person who kept a Kosher
home and observed the Sabbath and all festivals. He used
to be called Reb Wolf Wolkowicz. Friday night was always
special. My mother would prepare a festive meal. All the
grandchildren would gather and we would sit and listen
to the stories of the bible and Jewish history.

In 1938, when I was fourteen, my grandfather died. I
missed him terribly - he had been like my father. My
mother had to work even harder to provide for my needs.
Although there were already murmurings of war, my mother
sent me to Lodz to learn to become a seamstress. I lived
with my uncle, my fathers brother Yaccov Unikovski. He was
married and had three sons. But I was there only for a few
months. It was 1939 and the war erupted. I immediately
returned home to my mother.

Then the Germans arrived.

We were chased out of our homes and left standing all day
in the streets, while they searched for the most
comfortable houses for their own use during the occupation.
We were beaten and shot at and some of the old Jews had
their beards cut off.

The next day, all the men were rounded up and taken away.
Among them were my uncles - all leaving behind their wives
and small children.
We were evicted from our home and resettled in a house at
the edge of town where the stonemasons used to quarry for
building materials. My mother and I were given a hut where
a roughly hewn pole had been pushed in to support the
ceiling so that the whole structure would not collapse. We
were left with no belongings and no way to make a living.
Two of my aunts and their four children shared our hut.
The year was 1940.

One day I crossed the outlying fields and went searching
for work in the Polish Quarter of the town. I met a Polish
woman of German descent and told her I was looking for a
job as a seamstress as my mother and I had no money to feed
ourselves. She walked me home and promised that she would
give me some work. She kept her word. She returned
bringing some material for me to make into coats for her
two children. My mother was very frightened, because I was
only partly trained and she didn’t believe I could do the
job properly. I finished the coats, and the German woman
liked by work [sic]. She took me to her home, and I became very
scared when she led me into a cellar under the house. She
uncovered a table on which lay dozens of prepared chickens
and ducks. She told me I could have as many as I could
carry, but warned me to keep quiet and out of the way of
her husband, who was an officer, working with the German
Police and hated Jews.
When I got home my mother couldn’t stop crying because I
had returned safely and had brought back more food than we
had seen for months. She thought it was a miracle.

Soon afterwards I was ordered with other young people to
the local cemetery where for days on end from daybreak till
late at night, we were forced to exhume the remnants of the
Jewish dead. The cemetery now cleansed of Jewish bodies,
was to be used to bury Poles and Germans. We slept on the
ground in animal stables.
I escaped and arrived home hungry and in rags. My mother
put down my return to another miracle.

At the end of 1940 my mother and I were sent to a small
town called Ozorkow. We were among a group of people who
could sew.
The rest of the Jews from our town were sent to their
death. My mothers whole large extended family perished in
the death camps. These incldued my uncles, aunts and
cousins.
When we arrived in Ozorkow we were all herded into the
centre of town. The Germans selected 10 men and forced
them to build gallows for their own execution. Among them
were a father and son who hugged and kissed with the nooses
around their necks, as other men were forced to kick the
boxes from under their feet. All of us had to stand and
watch as they strained and kicked till their deaths.
My mother told me, she no longer wanted to live and have to
witness such atrocities.
From this place of death wer were taken to our new home. A
barn, previously - a chicken hatchery - no windows or
doors, no toilet or water. We slept on the ground.
My mother and I were sent to work in different places. I
only saw her at night, when she managed to scrape together
a meal for me. She hardly ate and became thinner and
thinner. It was only later that I realised she had only
eaten that food that was kosher.

By now, the huts and barns where we lived were surrounded
by barbed wire and we were locked in, behind a gate. Each
day there was a roll-call. We were forced to gather in an
open space and counted by the SS police. This was call the
„Appel“ [sic].
Life continued. We lived 2 and 3 families in small cramped
rooms. People regularly died from illness and starvation.
My cousin Golda, a girl of 18, the daughter of my oldest
uncle Meylach, escaped from one of the camps. She arrived
on foot at the ghetto gates. She was seized by the German
guards and placed in a temporary goal. I could only see
her through the barbed windows.

Some time later we were all gathered in the open field and
forced to march about 3 kilometres to a large white
building. We were left to stand in the grounds for many
hours. Suddenly there was a lot of noise and shouted
commands. We were encircled by SS troops armed with
machine guns and together with the Jewish policeman they
prodded us inside the building. We were forced to strip.
All of us, men, women and children were left standing naked
for hours. The Germans sat at a long table. They were
dressed all in white with white gloves and white caps on
their heads, like doctors wear during an operation. We had
to file past them and were stamped with the letters „A“ or
„B“ on our buttocks and chest. We were then told to dress
and returned to the ghetto. My mother was stamped with a
„B“. I with an „A“. They dye could not be washed off.

About a week later we were again taken to the white
building. This time we were left to stand in the grounds,
with no food or drink, without toilets, for the rest of the
day and the whole night.
At daybreak the SS arrived. Together with the German
soldiers and Jewish policeman they started beating us and
forcing us to undress.

Those stamped with a „B“ were pushed into the white
building. The ones marked with an „A“ were marched back to
the ghetto. On the way we were constantly hit and bashed.
At gunpoint they forced us to sing. We couldn’t stop
crying. We had just been parted from our families and
friends.

Fathers, mothers and children marekd with the letter „B“
were sealed in trucks and driven on the road to the town of
Chelmo. On the way they were gassed to death with the
fumes of the exhaust pipes.
Among them was my mother and my cousin Golda.
When I came back to the ghetto, I was totally on my own.
I threw myself onto a bed and couldn’t stop crying.
All around me men and women were doing the same.
I don’t know how long I lay there. I was woken from a
fitful sleep by a young man. He scolded us for our crying
and encouraged us to eat some food.
He asked my name and whether I would work in the hospital
looking after typhus sufferers. I replied that I didn’t
think it was proper for a young girl to work in a hospital
and anyway I didn’t have any training.

Next day, at the morning roll-call, 2 girls and I were
ordered to one side. We were handed over to the director
of the Typhus Hospital, his name was Groniewicz.
We were put to work in the hospital - a large barrack in
the middle of a field in the ghetto. The chief doctor was
a German Jew. He taught us to give injections to the sick.

We were told to constantly wash our hands in a strong
antiseptic solution. Unbeknown to the Germans, we also
tended to numerous typhus sufferers who were hidden in the
lofts and cellars of their huts. Some were so ill, they
tried to stop us giving them injections. I used to steal
some of the hospital food to feed these unfortunates. But
food was always short. I gathered courage and begged the
ghetto Jewish leader for some extra rations. When he
agreed I felt that I was really helping the needy and began
to hope in one of my mothers miracles - that I would
somehow survive the carnage.
The Germans decided to close the hospital. The patients
were lined up against a wall and shot. The staff were kept
at a distance. Another girl and I managed to spirit away
two boys and hide them under some bedcovers - away from
the wall of death.

It was 1942 and we were all transported to the ghetto in
Lodz. The boys went with us. I met one of the small boys
in Melbourne 40 years later. His name was Zalman
Rogoczinski, known as Rogers. He died in Melbourne this
year.

On entering the ghetto, those of us who looked capable of
work were put into separate dwellings. I shared my
quarters with three other girls. Hunger and illness were
rampant. Each day there was an inspection. The sick and
those no longer able to work were segregated and deported
to their final end. These were the ‚selections‘ for death.

Our hut was on „Brick Lane“ behind the Lagawincner
Hospital. On these ‚selection‘ days our view was horrific.
Men, women and children, some alreadys dead, others ill or
weak were thrown from the fourth floor windows directly
onto trucks waiting below. Babies had their heads smashed
against the window ledges and then hurled to the ground.
During one of these gruesome episodes we managed to save 6
children, 3 boys and 3 girls and hid them among the bales
of material and rags in an old factory next door.

I was put to work in a laundry. My work was to hang up
clothes for frying in a small attic. There was no air to
breathe and the heat was unbearable.
I came down with typhus. I was fortunate to be put into a
hospital. My hair was cut off. I was unconscious from the
fever for eight days. When I came to my senses I overheard
the nurses whispering about what to do with me. Anyone who
was in hospital for more than 10 days was immediately taken
by the Germans to their death in the crematoriums. I
forced myself to get out of bed and told the nurses I was
feeling much better and went home.
Due to the unhygienic and dirty conditions at the hospital
I came out with a violently itchy skin infection which was
highly contagious. My home mates, out of fear of the
infection spreading to them, put my bed out into the cold
and unlit outhouse. The fever was still with me. Only
when they left for work was I able to creep into the house
for some warmth and a chance to wash myself.

With no improvement I went to see a doctor. He examined me
from afar, touching me only with a stick. He gave me an
injection into my left arm. But, from the distance he
missed the vein. My arm almost instantly blew up in red
blotches. He bandaged the arm with paper and sent me home.
I went outside and fainted in the courtyard. The courtyard
on Breziner Street also housed a meat storage depot. One
of the meat carriers saw my plight. He waited till I was
conscious, put me on the blood spattered wagon and took me
home. In time, the fever broke and the infection subsided.

I went back to work in the laundry. My new job was to iron
clothes from 8 in the morning till 2 in the afternoon.
Together with other women I ironed the uniforms worn by the
German Ghetto Commandant Bibov and also the clothes of the
Jewish leaders of the Ghetto Community (The Juden Ratt [sic]).
The president was Hayim Romkowski and his assistant was
David Gertler.
On finishing the ironing each day I was sent to stand guard
over mountains of clothing and shoes which had been
returned from the death camps. My guard shift finished at
nightfall. I then had to join the queue to receive my
meagre rations or use my wages which were paid to us in
special Ghetto coins called Romkes to perhaps buy some
cabbage or potato peelings. Then back again to another
long queue, to get to a gas stove and boil up some warm
food.

One day at work, feeling especially tired and hungry I
searched in my bag for some scraps of bread. I had left
the hot iron standing on a partly finished garment. The
smell of the smoke told me the worst. I had burnt a hole
in a shirt. The manager of the factory, a Jew called Fine
angrilly ordered me into his office. He dismissed me on
the spot and refused to give me a referral for any other
work, as he claimed I was sabotaging the factory. If you
had no work in the Ghetto you were instantly part of the
next human consignment to the concentration camps. My
crying and pleading for a second chance were useless. I
even went to see his wife and begged for her help. Again
for nothing. The sister of a friend, who worked in the
Juden Ratt [sic] managed to get me a job in another factory,
Corruption was part of Ghetto daily existence. Life itself
depended upon whom you knew.

My new workplace was at Kashub, close to the electrified
wire fence surrounding the Ghetto. Every day on going to
work, we had to run the gauntlet of stones and profanities
thrown and spat at us from the other side of the wire fence
by Poles. They often encouraged their children to follow
their example.
My job was to sew blankets. Due to my training I worked
very quickly. On one occasion when Romkowski inspected the
factory, he complemented me on my work, pinched my cheek
and organised for me to have some extra bread and a double
portion of soup that day. The old sadist - he exploited
every person till their last drops of sweat and blood.

After three months the factory closed and I was transfered
to an underwear factory to make corsets using an old sewing
machine. The factory was on Brick lane close to Baluter
Square, so it was closer to my home.

Most of the women who worked there were from Lodz and were
still with their families. They had pity on me, a young
girl, all on my own. I was often invited into their homes
and many went out of their way to give me some private
sewing work, so that I could earn a few extra Romkes. for
the first time since I lost my mother I felt some human
warmth and kindness.

Since I was on my own, without family and from out of town,
I was issued with a Singles Passport to stay in Lodz. For
a short time life continued almost peacefully. I was
suddenly evicted from the house I shared and transfered to
a dilapidated flat on the 4th floor at No. 5 Jew Street.
The flat was dark, cold and dirty. My flatmate was an old
spinster. She wouldn’t stay in the flat at night, as she
told me her parents had starved to death in the residence.
One night, alone, I watched in terror through holes in the
rags covering the window as aeroplanes bombed the Synagogue
on Volborska Street. It had been the oldest and most
beatiful synagogue in Balut.
In the factory I only worked till 2 in the afternoon. For
the rest of the day I worked as a seamstress for various
private people. One of these was the Zimerman family, who
were Romkowskis gardeners. I was paid with soup tokens.

They also recommended me to their in-laws, a German Jewish
family called Popper. Madame Popper, as she called herself
was cold and mean, but her husband, an oldest man, was
gentle and considerate. When he met me, he always shook my
hand and often left some form of token or coupon in it. On
one unforgettable occasion it was a coupon for coal. I
managed to drag a 25 kilo bag of coal up the four flights
of stairs. My exhilaration gave me the strength.
There was no happiness for me in the house. The old lady
was grizzly and unkempt. Even though I shared my meagre
rations with her, she constantly stole from me. Even after
an exhausting days work I was loath to go home.

Life went on with daily problems. It was January 1944.
One night I was woken by two Jewish policeman, who ordered
me outside. I was strangely happy - as I didn’t believe my
life could get any worse. The policeman couldn’t
understand my happiness as they told me that they didn’t
know where I was being deported to, perhaps even to the
death camps.

Outside, they gathered together some 300 people. All
young, without families, all with singles passports. We
were taken to the largest goal in Lodz, called Czarniejego,
situated close to the Ghetto fence.
We were kept there for four weeks. Two people to a cell.
The cell, constantly dark, damp and cold, contained a
double bunk, a bucket for a toilet and a jug of water with
2 mugs. Our food consisted of a piece of bread and a mug
of coffee a day. The walls were covered with graffiti and
messages from earlier prisoners. They knew they were going
to their deaths and wished us, the newer occupiers, better
luck. We were let out into the prison yards for two hours
a day. Passers by, even though they themselves were in
rags and hungry, often pushed though bits of clothing and
food to us, through the barbed wire. Our guards, the
„Zonder Kommande“ [sic], who were Jewish policeman, treated us
very roughly and constantly beat us.

Some four weeks later, we were encircled by German
soldiers. We were forced to march for over two hours.
Many fainted, some just fell from exhaustion and were shot
or left to die. We were herded into cattle trucks, the
doors slammed shut and the train started off. No one among
us knew the destination. On the way some of the wagons
were disconnected and the people inside sent to their
deaths at the Auschwitz Concentration Camp.

I was among the lucky ones who were sent to a concentration
work camp at Czenstechowa, called the Pelcery Hasag. When
we got out at the station and were surrounded by other
Jews, we were amated that there were still Jews alive in
Poland. We were again marched a number of kilometres to
the concentration camp. We were taken to a large hall and
left there all day. The people from the Hasag came to
stare at us as they also didn’t believe there were other
Jews still alive.

The Jews of Czenstechow took us to their hearts. They
handed over one days bread ration from their allotment to
us. Their leader addressed us and advised us to how to
behave in our new surroundings. The women were all
allocated to live in a large space, on the second floor,
above a factory. This became known as the Lodzer Hall.

Next day, we were put to work. My job was to produce
special bullets to be used in areoplane machine guns. The
factory employed at least 200 people.
On one Sunday, when we weren’t working, a girlfriend and I
went to an open space outside the barracks where the Jews
of Czenstechowa lived. There was an impromptu soccer game
being played. We stood and watched as all the seats were
taken. A good looking young man offered me his seat. Just
then the match finished and the crowd broke up. I heard
foot steps behind us. I said to my girlfriend not to turn
around. But she did. It was the same boy. He came up to
us and introduced himself. My girlfriend left and I was
left alone with him. He insisted on walking me home and we
made arrangements to meet after work the next day. A
romance was blossoming. His name was Motek Mittelmann. He
worked in the same ammunition factory. He had the
dangerous job of filling the bullet shells with gun powder.
A pattern developed in our routine. Daily, during the meal
break he would come over and we would share our meagre food
rations, using a wooden box, as our dining table.

One day we lingered too long, and Motek was late in
returning to his post. The boss of the factory, a German
called Ginter was waiting for him. He immediately ordered
him to the guard house where his punishment weas a hiding-ten
strokes of a heavy strap on his backside. The sadist
Ginter then took him to his office and gave him some soap
to wash down his flayed skin,- but, he also ordered more
beatings. Motek worked out a system of wrapping himself
with some rubber off-cuts under his clothes before the
beatings, but the pain was still excruciating.

I did have some luck. In the factory there was a large
washroom. When I worked night shift, we had the
opportunity to thoroughly wash ourselves and our clothes.
This was a special treat. During the night shifts, while
the other girls covered for me, I managed to hand sew a
pair of trousers for my Motek. I used to hoard my bread
rations, but one of Czenstechowa girls persuaded me to eat
them as soon as I got them. You are now in the Hasag
factory, no longer in the Lodzen Ghetto, she told me.

Our bunks were checked daily for cleanliness and neatness
by a tiny German officer. Whatever the condition he still
found a reason to bash us.

Some time later, a large group of us was separated at work
and taken outside. We were to be transported to a
different, distant factory.
A friend ran to wake Motek, who was working night shift, to
tell him I was being evacuated. Motek came running and
stood next to me in the group that was being transported.
His boss, Ginter, noticed him and ordered him out, as he
considered him a valuable employee. Motek bagged him, not
to separate him from me, his wife. Ginter relented and we
were noth taken out of the line and returned to work in his
department at the Pelcery Hasag.

My new job was not only to work myself but to control a
group of people who cut up long metal tubes into shorter
bullet shells. These were then washed and filled with gun
powder. The mashines we used were very old. As well as
the ten women who operated the machines there were three
men who continually had to repair them.
We worked in two ten hour shifts, both during the day and
night. The bullets we made, were weighed and we had to
reach a set quota. We were always very tired and weak and
the machinery we used was decrepit. Not only did we have
trouble keeping up with the quota but many of the bullets
were of such poor quality, that they had to be thrown out.

The finished bullets were piled onto a large cart which was
pulled not by horses, but by two men. One of the men was
my Motek. When he weighed our production he would lean on
the scales to increase the weight. He even dragged the
cart around in circles, so that the contents would be
weighed twice. But all the tricks didn’t help. We were
unable to keep up with the demands of the German bosses.

One day the chief supervisor ordered our 13 man team to his
office. One by one he called us into a separate room and
assaulted us. He beat and kicked us wherever he could
reach. Stomachs, kidneys, heads, the mens private parts,
nothing was spared. He gleefully informed us that these
beatings would be repeated daily.

We were only saved by the intervention of the chief of the
whole Hasag factory complex. One day he visited our
termentor and abused him in front of us for his actions.
He told him he was in charge of people not animals. People
whom he needed to be able to work and produce. We were
very happy to hear that as a direct result the supervisor
had shot himself.

5

Ginter who had saved me erlier, still made my life a
misery. Whenever he found fault with the work of the team
I supervised, he punished Motek instead of me. He took
pleasure after he had ordered Motel to be beaten, to bring
him to his office and give him some extra bread or other
food.

The Germans introduced a special SS Guard. He sat in an
elevated position and watched every move we made.
On one night shift, one of the young girls nodded off and
the machine began to produce defective shells. I quickly
woke her and tried to hide the bad work, but he saw me. He
rushed down and called me over. I could see death before
my eyes. As I reached him he bashed into me. I fell
unconscious. He had broken my nose, split my lips and
knocked out five teeth. I lay motionless. Someone ran to
get Motek and told him I was dead.
Motek came running, and ignoring the SS Guard, lifted me up
and carried me away. It was one of my mothers miracles,
that he wasn’t shot on the spot.
Motek carried me to the infirmary where the remnants of my
five teeth were removed and my split lips sewn up. Nothing
could be done about my broken nose.
I was left alone in the hospital bed for eight days in
constant agony. When I came back to work, I was punished
by being put in charge of two huge machines, both over 2
metres tall.
In both machines there was a raging fire and my job was to
keep adding iron chunks for smelting. The buckets of lead
I had to lift up to the very top of the machines were very
heavy and sometimes chunks spilled out. The supervisor
took great pleasure in punishing me. Not only did he
constantly hit me but also enjoyed himself by pinching and
touching me. I used to shiver whenever he came close to
me.
My sole consolation were the times when Motek would walk by
and smile at me and give me the courage to carry on.

Our time at the camp was coming to an end. Russian
aeroplanes were beginning to strafe and bomb the site.
Soon we were again herded together in the Hasag Square.
Men segregated from the women. Families and friends were
separated for the last time. The SS beat and whipped us
apart.

The crying and screaming was unbearable. The men were
taken away. I could see Motek and his brother Moshe from
afar. I thought surely for the last time.
The next day the women were gathered together. We were
marched through the gates in the barbed wire fence and
taken to a train depot. The Poles stood watching. They
yelled insults at us and encouraged their children to throw
rocks at us. Some of the women tried to hide or run away.
The Poles caught them and handed them back to the SS
Guards.

At the depot we were pushed and prodded into the cattle
trucks. The massive doors slammed tight.
Inside there was no light, no air. Women fought for a
position on the floor. Blood started streaming. Panic
raged and we became like wild animals in a cage.
The train travelled for a number of days. We had no idea
of time. There was only pitch black darkness all around
us.
People became ill, many died. We separated an area to pile
up the bodies. Even today, as I write the memories bring
me to tears and uncontrollable shivering.
Finally the train stopped, the doors slid open and we were
ordered out. The built up stench burst our like smoke from
a burning building.
We were in an open field in Germany. Nearby, inside a
barbed wire compound were some French prisoners of war, who
gave us some water to drink through the fence. We were
again packed into the trucks, the doors shut and the train
continued on its journey. We thought this hellish trip
would never end.

We arrived in Bergen-Belsen.
Our welcoming committee were SS guards led by the Camp
Commandant - Kremmer. There were also 2 Jewish female
guards - „Kapos“, one from Poland, the other a Czech. Both
yelled and screamed at us and called us Czenstechowa
whores. It was freezing cold. They marched us for what
seemed a very long time through the snow and sleet.
We were herded into a huge hall and forced to strip naked.
Out hair was shorn off and our heads shaved. We were
prodded into a shower room and left standing.
Suddenly water poured from the shower heads. The smell was
putrid. Panic erupted. Many thought we were being gassed
and began intoning „Shma Yisroel“ and other prayers through
the sobbing and screaming.
But the stinking odour was only from a disinfectant mixed
in with the freezing cold water.
From the showers we were taken into a hall and surrounded
by SS guards with clubs in their hands. They forced us to
dry ourselves by rubbing against each other. We were left
standing like that for a couple of hours.
They then lined us up and marched us into an adjoining
room. Again, the walls were lined by armed SS guards. We
were in turn called up to a pile of clothing in the centre
of the room and thrown various articles at random. Nothing
was suitable or fitted. I finished up with a light summer
dress and a short striped coat.

We were then chased outside into the freezing cold. For
some unknown reason my hair was left in tact, and as it was
still wet, it actually froze ony my head. Parts of my hair
broke away like ice.

We were led to our barracks. It was the 2nd December 1944.
Two Jewish sisters were in charge of our particular
barrack. Their names were Mania and Doba. The way they
treated us, was often worse than the SS guards.
We were given some straw and every two women were allocated
an area of the floor measuring about half a metre by a
metre. During the day two of us had to huddle there
together. At night, we had to sleep on the same spot. The
only way that cold be managed was for one to sleep between
the other girls legs.
I shared by space with a young called Bronia
Rosenberg.
At daybreak, we were chased outside for the daily „Appel“,
- the roll call when we were lined up and counted. We
always had to stand in the cold and frost for a long time,
sometimes up to half a day, till Commandant Kremmer
appeared with his Kapos to count us.
So we stood regularly in the cold, without food or drink
till after the counting ceremony.
We were then chased back - like sheep into their pens -
into our barracks. Back to huddle on our metre of straw,
waiting for the meal to finally arrive. There were no set
times for the meal. The watery soup and bits of bread
could be given to us any time during the day or night. By
then, the women hungry and dying of thist fell upon the
food like animals, pushing and jostling.
Human beings turned into wild beasts.

Our main activity while sitting on the straw was to try and
help each other get rid of the lice which had taken over
our clothes and bodies.
I managed to barter a needle and some scissors for my bread
ration. I was delighted I could cut back my friend Bronias
toenails, as was beginning to develop an infection.
As i have written before, I could sew well, but I didn’t
have any material or thread.
Some girls managed to get their hands on some blankets left
behind by people who had been deported. I pulled out the
thread from the blankets and cut up the blankets themselves
into material, which I managed to sew into some clothes and
foor coverings for myself and the girls.
My payments were a few extra mouthfuls of soup.
In a short time, even these, our new clothes, were lice
ridden. We were constantly scratching. We had no water at
all to wash ourselves. I even used some of the watery
coffee we got each day to try and wash myself.

One day we were taken outside to move some heavy wooden
planks. My friend Bronia and I had to carry them on our
shoulders. The guards were beating us with batons and
yelling at us, that if we didn’t move faster we would never
see the inside of the barracks again.
From a distance I saw some of the Ukrainian women prisoners
gathering some food. I tried to run over. One of the
„Kapos“ saw me, caught me and started to attack me. She
tried to scratch out my eyes. I protected myself with my
hands. She beat at them with her wooden club. I got back
to the barracks with a scratched face, blood soaked bloated
eyes and large swollen hands.
Doba, one of the sisters who ran our barracks, saw my face
and asked me what had happened. When I told her, she
became very angry at what I had attempted to do, and in
turn attacked me. She beat me so badly I could hardly move
for 2 days. When I could, she took me outside into the
cold and made me knee all day on the bare ground, without
any food or drink. When she let me back inside, she gave
me some bread and hot soup. He power over me, seemed to
give her great pleasure.

Some time later, all the women from all the barracks were
gathered in an open space surrounded by armed SS guards.
We were forced to sit on the ground. They started calling
out people, beginning with those whose names started with
„A“, and then through the alphabet. There were so many
people, that the process took 3 full days from dawn till
late at night. Even then they only got to names starting
with „T“.
Those women called out were marched away to other distant
work camps. May perished on the march. Some from
starvation and illness and others had the misfortune to be
killed by bombs from the allied war planes which were
already attacking Germany.

As my name started with „V“ I was taken back to the
barracks. I was now among mostly Hungarian women although
I managed to find four girls from Poland. We were sitting
and sleeping on bare ground.
I became ill. I contracted Typhoid Fever and suffered
terribly with dysentery and diarrhoea [sic].

Two „Kapos“ dragged me into the Death Block Barrack. Here
a couple of hundred people were painfully awaiting their
end. As a person died they were thrown outside, onto a
stack of dead bodies. The Crematoriums were no longer in
use. The ovens were clogged with the ashes of too many
bodies.
I managed to crawl back to my barrack among the Hungarian
women. I was lucky, nobody informed on me. Somehow, just
lying on the ground I began to feel stronger.

A girl and I, managed not to eat our bread rations for
three days and bribed some other girls with it, to allow us
to sleep with them on their bunks in a better maintained
barrack. Every morning we had to smuggle outselves back to
our barrack for the daily roll call. We managed to keep
this up perhaps a week.

My fever returned. In fear, my bunk mates forced me out of
the barracks, to sleep in the open. In the morning I tried
to drag myself to the roll call. I was seen. From
somewhere I got the strength to get up and run away from
the „Kapos“.
I crawled into an oven where bodies had been burned and
covered myself with the ashes. I lay there all day, till
in the darkness I got back to the „Hungarian“ Barracks.

The last weeks in the camps are like a nightmare. The only
food was some bread and black coffee. I was too sick to
eat and used the coffee to wash.
Having to go to the toilet was a terrible problem. The
latrine was just a huge pit in the ground in the
suurrounding woods. This was guarded by some Russian and
Ukrainian women. They developed a sport of throwing the
very weak into the pit abd letting them struggle to their
death in the mire.
I remember another girl. Her sister expired next to her.
She kept the body covered for daysm so that she could get
the extra bread ration. It was only when the stench of
death became too obvious that the body was removed.
The weeks passed. Our life degenerated into that of wild
animals.

Early April 1945.
Sick and exhausted from my illness I tossed in my sleep.
Outside, the noise of warplanes and exploding bombs was
becoming louder.
Early morning I thought I heard someone shouting that we
were free, but I fell into even deeper sleep. I awoke mid
morning - the barracks were empty. I could only see very
sick women still lying around me.
I managed to get to the window. I saw our guards and
German soldiers with their hands on their heads being frog
marched along, at the point of a gun, by English soldiers.
I stumbled outside. Former inmates were running and
jumping all over camp. I tried to join them, but found it
difficult just to shuffle along.
I got to a large pool of water in the woods. The water was
green with slime, but i bent over to scoop some up. I felt
my mothers hand on my shoulder stopping me. I looked
around. It was a young English soldier offering me a clean
drink from his water bag. I couldn’t understand a word of
what he was saying, but let myself be led into the
sunlight, where he sat me down, supported by a barrack
wall. I sat there. People were running everywhere,
grabbing whatever food they could get their hands on. I
could only watch - too weak to get up.
At night I crawled back into the barracks to sleep.
Next morning I forced myself to go outside. There was very
little food or water in the camp. The Germans had tried to
kill us all by poisoning everything, but were interrupted
when the English army broke through into the camp. I
picked up scraps that others had dropped.
I found a cabbage head and stuffed it down my dress, so no
one could take it away from me. Finding a quiet secluded
spot, I sat down to my feast.
I dragged myself to a pile of clothing. I managed to find
a clean coat and a pair of mens shoes. The shoes were much
too big, but fitted my bloated swollen feat very well.
On the third day of our liberatio I at last left the
barracks. I noticed a group of wemn who were putting
their names down as nurses in nearby hospitals. With the
help of an older girl who was a registered nurse, I lied
that I was a partly qualified nurse and was finally
released from the camp.
It was the 4th April 1945.
Together with my new friend Lola, I was assigned to a
hospital in Bergen itself. It was temporary hospital
converted from the German military quarters. We looked
after the inmates from the camp. They suffered from all
sorts of infections and many became very sick from
overeating after they were released. The hospital beds
were cramped full.
My girlfriend and I at first slept in an attic. Lola could
speak English and we became friendly with a young English
doctor. He allowed us to sleep on the floor in his
surgery, as long as we cleaned and tidied it up before he
came to work.
One morning Lola left very early - she was searching for
her sister who had disappeared from the camp. I started
cleaning up and must have fainted. The matron of the
hospital found me, and had me carried to a special womens
hospital by two Hungarian men.
These men who now looked after the sick had collaborated
with the Nazis and had dragged people to their deaths.
I spent a fully day in a corridor, till I was examined. The
doctors told me I had fluid, both in my lungs and legs. As
they were very short on medication, they prescribed just
plain rest in bed.
They first put me into a ward of 10 women. As I wasn’t
getting better they transfered me into smaller room with
two Yugoslav women. We couldn’t make ourselves understood,
but they cared and looked after me like a younger sister.
One day a Belgian doctor came to examine us. He quickly
ordered me out. the women were suffering from TB and were
very infectious. I was moved to a small quiet single room
where I slowly regained my strength.

When I felt stronger I went in serach of anybody I knew or
who had every shown me any warmth and kindness. I met up
with Lola and my fiend [sic] Bronia from the death camp at Bergen
Belsen. I was still aptient in the hospital.

I told them both about my Motek and my hope that he too had
survived the slaughter. Bronia told me sadly that she had
heard that Motek was dead. He had perished with his
brother Mojshe in the ovens at the Cardelegan Concentration
Camp.

I had been fortunate to get a permit to live in Sweden. I
perpared to leave shortly.
A few days later I was approached in the street by two
girls. One of them asked me if my name as Henia
Unikovski. She told me, she had just came from Hamburg.
She had seen my Motek. He was alive. He was searching for
me. I stood dumbfounded. Tears ran from my eyes but I
couldn’t stop laughing at the same time.
I was in quandary. Should I go to Sweden. How could I
lose such an opportunity. Lola who was deeply religious
told me to see a Rabbi. He listened to my story and gave
me the advise you would expect from any person with deep
beliefs. He told me to go, for if it was my fate to meet
him again, Motek would find me at the ends of the earth.

Troubled, I tossed and turned in my bed all night. It
didn’t help that there seemed to be a lot of noise and
activity outside the hospital. In the morning I gathered
a few possessions and boarded the bus to Sweden.
Suddenly, Lola was running towards me and screaming that I
should get off the bus. „Motek is here“ she yelled, „He
has been searching for you all night“.
And there he was. I fell into his arms.
Another of my mothers miracles had happened.
Moteks survival was also a miracle. He had been in a
number of death camps including Buchenwald and Cardelegen.
He had escaped from Cardelegen. Some of the prisoners had
tunnelled their way out of the camp using tablespoons
instead of shovels. When the breakout occured, many were
shot. My Motek got away.

We now had to find somewhere to live. We moved into a
large house with many other surviours [sic]. We achieved some
privacy by hanging up sheets and blankets to divide up the
rooms.
My health was not getting any better. I developed Pleurisy
and was admitted back to hospital. But the times were
happy. Every time I felt a little better I used to go back
to the house - to my Motek.

Family survivors began to find us. Motek was one of a
large family. He had six brothers and a sister. His
parents, three of the brothers and his sister who was then
eight years old were murdered by the Germans.
His brother Mojshe arrived with a bride in tow. A second
brother Leon who had survived the Majdanek Concentration
Camp also came. We gladly found room for everyone in our
cramped quarters.
Leon was attracted to Bronia, my friend from the
concentration camp and a love match developed.
I returned to hospital. Three litres of fluid were tapped
from my right lung. The doctors forbade me to get our of
bed.

We had heard that there were some Jews starting a new life
in a small town called Zalzheim. We decided to make the
move. Motel had to smuggle me out of the hospital against
the doctors orders.
The trip to Zaltheim was a nightmare. We first had to
catch the train to Frankfurt. The train was so crowded,
that we actually scrambled on board through a window. From
Frankfurt we went by horse aand cart to Zaltheim.
On arriving we had nowhere to go. We were allowed to sleep
on the floor with other new arrivals at the Jewish
Community Centre. I was very weak, constantly fainting.

Motek had to varry and drag me everywhere.
We were in luck. Motek met a friend who organised a job
for him with the Unra police. We managed to find
accomodation with a German family.
Moteks other surviving brother Zisman arrived from Russia
and moved in with us.
My friend Lola, met a religious Jew, Arieh Zaricky and they
were married in our house. They settled in a nearby town
called Labertheim.
After a time, when they had became settled, they invited us
for a visit. When we arrived, their house was decorated.
The table was set and friends were present. A Rabbi was
waiting. Motek and I were officially married in a
religious ceremony.

Motek left the police job and began to trade in business.
I became pregnant and in 194 our son Meyer (Marcel) was
born. Our joy was unbounded. After the catastrophe we had
endured, to now miraculously have a child.
We decided we no longer wanted to stay in Germany among the
people who had caused us such anguish. We settled on
France for our new home.
My husband left for Paris to see an uncle, his mothers
brother, who had lived there since before the war. I was
left behind with the baby.
Some weeks later Motek organised for me to join a group
of people, who were being smuggled across the border. With my
baby in my arms, accompanied by my brother-in-law, Zisman
we made our way to a village called Sarbuken near the
[Sadly, here the document ends]

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His son:
Marcel (Mayer) MITTELMAN, mentioned in Henia’s memoirs above, a Melbourne Jewish artist

[quote] "Born in a German displaced persons camp, Zeilsheim, to two Holocaust survivors in 1946, Mittelman’s family moved to Paris where his parents worked in their cramped apartment making women’s coats. " (source and more about him and his works here)

Most likely Marcel’s daughter: Romy MITTELMAN, a jewellery designer in Melbourne
https://egetal.com.au/romy-mittelmans-family-of-artists/

and Marcel’s wife: Susan WALD (MITTELMAN) (born 1952), also an artist
https://www.printsandprintmaking.gov.au/artists/2817/

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Motek MITTELMAN

Motek Mittelman died in 1996 in Melbourne (Australia):

Mordka Michal „Motek“ Mittelman (Mitelman) (1921 - 1996) - Genealogy (geni.com)

Motek Mittelman (1921-1996) - Find a Grave Memorial

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I’ve written to Yad Vashem about the missing pages of her testimony, and I’ve received the remaining pages, the text continues as follows:

[With my baby in my arms, accompanied by my brother-in-law, Zisman we made our way to a village called Sarbuken near the]
border at the edge of the Schwarzwald Forest to join the
group.
About 20 of us were holded up for over 24 hours waiting for
the smugglers orders to move.
Finally, two smugglers led us into the forest. As we got
closer to the border, some started to run. Carrying my
baby I tried to follow. I tripped over some tree roots and
fell heavily. The others crossed the border and
disappeared into the night. I got to my feet, the baby
still in my arms. Only I couldn’t move and carry the baby
as well. The smuggler told me to leave the baby and run.
I refused and sat down on a stump. I was completely
exhausted. I told him if he didn’t take me back to the
village, I would start screaming and we would all be
arrested. He had no choice. We returned to the village.

We managed to find another border smuggler. This time an
ex German policeman. I was petrified to be near him. He
walked me with my 5 month old baby in my arms across the
border in broad daylight. His only instruction was that if
anyone challanged us, I was to pretend to be deaf and dumb.
No one did.

We arrived safely in Paris where my husband was staying
with this uncle and aunt.
They had arranged for us to move into a dilapidated summer
house in a village close to Paris. My aunts family had
used it before the war. It was no more than a hut, broken
down and filthy. My aunt gave us some food but told me
that that was all they could do for us. From now on we
were on our own.
Life was very difficult. We couldn’t speak the language.
Food was only available in exchange for ration cards, which
we couldn’t get, as we were illegal immigrants.
A neighbour, a Frenchwomen, took pity on me. Although we
couldn’t converse she understood that I wasn’t able to feed
my child. She took me to a farm, where I was given fresh
milk and bananas and told to come back whenever we were
short of food.
Everyday, at daybreak Motek left on foot for Paris to look
for work.
One day exhausted and hungry, he fainted. Recovering, he
sat in the gutter. Passers by tried to help, but he
couldn’t make himself understood in French. They left him
alone, thinking he was drunk.
Finally, Motek found work as a presser, ironing suits. His
boss was a „Landsleit“ a person from his own town. We had
to be grateful that he gave my husband a job and taught him
how to do it, but he was paid only a pittance.
We found a very old apartment which was all we could afford
and after having lived in the village for some months, we
all moved to Paris.

A neightbour from upstairs got the door open with some
tools. The baby was still sleeping soundly on the floor.
I managed to trace my uncle who moved to France before the
war in hiding under the Vichy Regime. They too had lost
everything and had to start from scratch.
I received a pleasant surprise. As I wrote at the
beginning of my story, my grandmothers family had migrated
to the United States. Before the war I had corresponded
with one of my distant cousins called Marvin who lived in
Ohio. I was able to write to him in Yiddish, as he was
studying at a Yeshiva. After the war he made all possible
enquiries as to the fate of his family. He had found my
name on a list of survivors from Bergen-Belsen. He
managed to trace me to Paris. We started to correspond
again. He helped us by sending various parcels of food and
clothing. Unfortunately he contracted Polio and died.
Another family chain broken.

It was possible to get temporary permits to stay in France.
But it was very costly as we had to go through the
blackmarket.
Motek worked very long hours, both day and nigh, to
accumulate the necessary money. We finally managed to save
enough.
We were issued with a three year permit of residence and
finally received ration cards for our day to day existence.

[MISSIGN TEXT] as Motek worked, we still had difficulty in making
[MISSIGN TEXT]eet. We found a woman in a nearby village to look
[MISSIGN TEXT]our baby. This enabled me to go to work and help my
[MISSIGN TEXT]and. We missed our child terribly and went to see him
[MISSIGN TEXT] often as it was possible

[MISSIGN TEXT]ut of the blue, I had an attack of Peritonitis and had to
undergo an operation. We had to borrow to meet the costs.
I left hospital too early, and developed severe post
operative complications. But, I felt compelled to work
side by side with my husband.
We moved to a run down area The apartment we took over
was filthy. Bed hugs and even rats shared our home with
us. The big advantage was that the apartment was not in a
residential area and we cold work both during the night as
well as the day.
We spent three years there. We turned our home into a
clothing factory. We worked each waking moment to build a
future for our children.

We decided to make Aliyah to Israel.
Having sold our possessions we left Paris for Salonika. We
spent two weeks waiting for a ship. We arrived in Haifa in
1949.
We were taken by trucks to settlement near a cemetery in
the dessert. We lived in tents. At night the jackals tried
to get through the flaps. There was little food. We felt
we were back in a concentration camp.
Again my husband tried to find work. He went to Tel-Aviv.
He found work as a carrier. He dragged refrigerators on
his back up the stairs to apartments on blocks of flats.
We found somewhere we could afford to live. A hovel in
Jaffa owned by an Arab. Not only was it filthy but various
animals and insects shared our quarters.
Even there we weren’t left alone. The police came and
wanted to evict us because we had found the dwelling by
ourselves and not through the official government system.
Out neighbour, an Egyptian Jew intervened. He argued with
the police on our behalf and we were left in peace.
My husband made some furniture, a bed and table out of wood
from the boxes he lugged on his shoulders. When it rained
we had to regularly move our bed to try and find a dry
spot. I found some work part time sewing in a factory. We
managed to find a hospital run by nuns who looked after our
son during the day. When we brought him home, he played
with his Arab neighbours in the street. They managed to
understand each other in various languages, French, Hebrew
or Arabic. My son was four years old.

We were not happy in Israel. The beauacracy by which the
new state had to be governed together with the abrupt
temperament and mentality of the people then prevelant was
one, that we couldn’t live with.
An incident at work was the final straw. I was working as
a seamstress producing sheets. As I was being paid
piecework I worked as quickly as possible. In my hurry I
put a neddle through my hand. I fainted on the spot. The
machines were stopped instantly and I was carried to a
first aid station. They refused to treat me, because the
factory was not in their designated area.
After 10 months we decided to leave Israel and return to
France.

We left without a permit to re-enter France.
We only had a visitors visa to holiday in Italy. We
stopped over in Milan. We couldn’t even afford to stay in
a hotel. To pay the bills I sold my overcoat and finally
I was forced to sell my wedding ring.
I still remember walking down the street and my son licking
at the shopfront in a cake shop trying t get to the taste
of sweets inside. I promised myself to do everything
in my power to achieve the things I wanted for my child.

We began to search for a way to re-enter France.
My husband found a border smuggler who arranged for a Visa
for us to enter Switzerland and from there a holiday visa
to stay in Marseilles. We travelled by train.
At the Swiss border, the train stopped and my husband was
taken off the train for our papers to be examined. He was
hone for a long time and the train began to move out. I
was terrified. Visions of being left alone in the world
with my child sprung up before me. The train was now at
full speed - a carriage door opened and my husband
appeared. At the last moment as the train was pulling out
he was released to go and had scrambled onto the last
carriage.

When the train stopped in Paris, on the way to Marseilles,
we got off.
Our money had run out. All our possessions were wrapped up
in one bundle. With my child’s hand in mine, I had to beg
the money for tickets on the Metro from a stranger.
We moved in with my husbands brother. His home was tiny.
We slept on the floor. Motek fortunately found work
quickly, ironing ladies coats.
The lady in the nearby village who had looked after Marcel
earlier, willingly took him back, even though we could only
promise to pay her at some time in the future. I too found
work.
We managed to rent a room in a 5th floor apartment. We
slept on a folding bed. When the bed was open we could no
longer open the door. We lived and worked in that room for
two years. We managed to save some money and could now
afford a small apartment, made up of two rooms and a small
kitchen. We turned the bedroom into a clothing factory and
used the livingroom to sell the clothes we manufactured.

Our greatest thrill was when we were able to bring Marcel
back to live with us. I fell pregnant and our second son
was born in 1957.
By 1958 we had established a clothing factory in a nearby
small town. There were no Jews in the town. We ran the
factory for three years. For a short time, my husband
worked in Paris and I ran the factory myself.
Our labours began to bear fruit. We became French citizens
and officially moved to Paris. My husband and I still
worked very hard, but our sons were with us. They grew and
attended school. Our life normalised.

At 18, Marcel had to begin his military service. He
enjoyed the training and in a short time was promoted first
to become a Corporal and then a Sergeant. His unit was due
to be stationed in Germany. Marcel refused to serve on
German soil. His superiors understood his feelings and he
was allowed to remain in France. He finished his service
as an officer in the Reserve Forces.

Our business was improving. We were now running two shops.
Marcel, on coming out of army, helped in the business and
studied to become a Fashion Designer.
In 1969, Marcel decided to try his luck in the United
States. We had friends in New York who operated a large
mens fashion business. He worked in America for three years.
We visited him once and were delighted to see him settled
and happy.
It was remarkable to see how well our two sons got on. It
was heart breaking for them when they had to part.
But, Marcel had his work in New York. We had our business
in Paris and Francois had to return to school.

As I have written earlier my husband had three brothers who
had survived the war. They had all started a new life in
far off Australia.
His oldest brother visited us in Paris, and in turn invited
us to come and see the family in Melbourne. Motek and our
elder son from America decided to make the long trip. I
went on a short visit to Israel.
During theor month long stay, Marcel met and became
friendly with a girl. But after a pleasant stay, my
husband returned to Paris and Marcel to New York.
Imagine my joy, when some weeks later Marcel landed on our
doorstep. He informed us that he was only staying with us
for a few days and that he had decided to live in
Melbourne.
We had our suspicions about the reasons behind his move,
but he was very coy about his motives. Our suspicions
proved correct. Some four weeks later he rang to tell us
he was engaged and the wedding would take place in August.
This was esecially considerate, as during that time of the
year, the shops were shut in Paris and we would find it
easier to come to the wedding.

The wedding was on August 18th 1973. I arrived in
Melbourne some two months earlier. The beauty of the city
overwhelmed me. The parks and gardens, the abundance of
flowers everywhere was something I had never seen in Paris.
My younger son as ever, did not want to be parted from his
brother and we began making enquiries about him settling in
Australia. But again in September we all returned to
Paris.

As the weeks went by, we all in turn came to the conclusion
that we wanted to join our family in Melbourne for good.
I especially did not want my children to be thousands of
miles away from me when our relationship would be limted
to letters and the telephone.
My son Francois left first, so that he could start the
school year in 1974.
My husband and I again organised permits, sold our
businesses and hopefully for the last time packed our bags.
We transfered some funds to Australia. By the time we
arrived, our son had bought us some property and we
immediately moved into our own home.

We were again in a strange land, unable to speak the
language. I went to a special school to learn English.
But we were among family and friends.

Some three years later Marcel and his wife Susan blessed us
with our first grandchild, Steven, and two years later a
granddaughter, Romi. What can a grandmother write. They
are both beatiful, thoughtful and intelligent children.
In 1986, my son Francois also married. He and his wife,
Brenda have since presented us with two wonderful
grandchildren. A girl called Courtney and her brother
Sebastian.

Out happiness could not be surpassed when we celebrated the
Bar-Mitzvah of our grandson Steven.

To think that after all we have lived through and the
attempt to murder and exterminate our people, we were able
to celebrate such a joyous family and religious occasion.

Our life has settled down.
Our family life is happy and satisfying.
Out faith and belief in the future is restored every Friday
night when we have our whole family with us for the Sabbath
meal.

My darling children and grandchildren. I hope that we may
be spared many more years to spend together in such peace
and contentment. Read and remember my story. Do not
forget what your parents and grandparents experienced and
lived through. Remember that they suffered only because
they were Jews. Be aware and learn about your heritage.
Always live as compassionate people and proud Jews.

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