by Ann Huber
Trying not to step on any graves, we walked among fallen moss-covered headstones, carved with faded Hebrew lettering and Jewish symbols, disappearing under many layers of decayed vegetation. This place was creepy. In awe of the history lost in this cemetery, we searched in vain for a headstone with a familiar family name and left wishing we could find a way to restore the cemetery.
In Munich, we wanted to find the house where Herm was born. We started our research at the Munich Jewish Museum to see if we could learn any more about life at the DP (Displaced Persons) camp and confirm its former location. The Museum had few records, but we found a map of the neighborhood. It appeared to show that the community had been razed and replaced with an industrial complex.
Having traveled so far, Herm insisted we go anyway to the location, in search of some connection to the place where his parents had lived, where his brother Lenny had played soccer, and he was born. The neighborhood was far from the city center. To get there, we had to go by subway, tram, bus, and foot. Then, suddenly, after we’d walked down a couple of streets, there it was. The maps were wrong! It was like seeing a distant oasis in the desert. We could make out a street sign, “Spitzer Strasse.”
We walked through several more local streets until we finally arrived at a nicely maintained communal park with a grassy lawn and playground, sitting at the entrance of the former DP camp. The planned community, we learned, was known as Siedlung Kaltherberge. With great anticipation, we walked quickly down the quiet streets to a house that had the same number Herm remembered from his mother’s stories.
While we stood outside, staring, wondering and taking pictures, the homeowner came outside. He was wary we’d been sent by the cable company to investigate illegal tapping into their wires. “No, no, no, we are not with the cable company. I was born in this house,” said Herm, so moved that his voice cracked, bringing all of us to tears. The man’s attitude changed immediately and Walter and his wife Simone became extremely hospitable and taken with the story. They couldn’t do enough for us, and welcomed us like returning family.
Herm and Milo uncovering broken headstones
covered in moss in the old Jewish cemetery outside
Mordy.
The little house with the picket fence where Herm was born no longer exists. It’s been replaced with a new structure built by its current residents in the 1980s, but the community is still there, as are a few of the original homes.
Apparently, no other refugee had ever come back, and many younger members of the community had no idea of the area’s history and its vital role immediately after the war. A proud community, it had celebrated its 75th anniversary the year before we arrived. Walter insisted we take home their beautiful beer stein commemorating the community’s anniversary as a remembrance of our visit.
Now, the homeowners, who have since become our friends, tell us that Siedlung Kaltherberge is interested in a commemoration of its history, with the cooperation of the Munich Jewish Museum. The elders want to teach younger Germans about the refugees who tried to put their lives back together in their neighborhood before moving on to places with less painful memories.
Until my mother’s disclosure, Bucharest’s only significance to me was as my birthplace. However, as part of our pilgrimage, we continued to Bucharest in search of the house my parents owned and where they’d lived between 1947 and 1951.
Bucharest has been Romania’s capital only since 1881, so many of its public buildings are relatively new. It was modeled after Paris, with wide, tree-lined avenues, stretching from grand traffic circles, and even its own Arc de Triomphe. But its once magnificent structures were crumbling. The beauty of its landscaping, overgrown in some places, remained primarily in numerous public parks.
A few years before our pilgrimage, my mother, always a fighter, insisted that I file a claim for return of the house she and Sandu had owned. Now, with the help of a local agent, we went looking for our home. Numerous telephone calls to the housing authority were needed just to find the street Genadi Petrescu, since renamed Strada Cauzasi, tucked in between newer streets. And there, finally, was number 38. Joy! It was a stucco structure, with an ornate Roman-style cornice under the roofline. The house must have been an imposing structure in 1947. Now, sixty years later, the impressive architectural details were cracked and crumbling just as were those of most of Bucharest’s historic buildings. The Roma sitting outside under a porch playing chess gave us the same reception we later received from those in the streets of the old Jewish neighborhood in Galati. They were no happier to see us walking around than we were to see them living in our house!
A search we’d commissioned in connection with the claim revealed that the house had been converted into five separate apartments. Some apartments were still owned by the Romanian government. Others had been sold and were in private hands. In any case, all efforts by families like ours to seek compensation or a return of property have been stymied by corrupt government officials, despite numerous orders by the International Court to make restitution. My lawyer has assured me “I will keep working until the day I die to recover Jewish properties wrongfully taken and now in the hands of the Romanian government.” I’m afraid the claim will outlive me and the lawyer.
We made no claim for a small shop my parents had purchased in one of the many single-story buildings in the city’s tannery district, built at the city limits no doubt to protect residential areas from the noise, smell, and pollution. The shed-like structures still exist today, now home to other small-scale businesses. I stood transfixed in front of a row of these sheds, trying to picture what it must have been like 60 years earlier. They probably hadn’t changed much. But the single story, garage-like spaces stood next to a multi-lane roadway and across from tall, modern apartment buildings.
The train line my mother had mentioned so often took us from Bucharest to Galati, the last stop on the pilgrimage. When we arrived at the train station in her beloved Galati, I was disappointed to see little suggestion of the grandeur I’d pictured. In a barren area downhill from the main roadway the new train station, a product of Romania’s entry into the European Union, was no more than an aluminum-covered deck adjacent to several train tracks that snaked out into the distance. The station itself was no more than a few platforms, each with only a row of connected plastic seats, the concrete was broken and the paint was faded; the whole structure sunken into the high grass.
When Herm and I began exploring Galati, we used an older map to try to locate the storefront that was so central to both my father’s and my grandfather’s lives. I was crestfallen to discover that even the street no longer exists. It had been replaced with Soviet block housing. There were few signs of a former Jewish community. As we stood outside the municipal building, a few curious locals approached us. “May we help you?” the oldest of the group asked in Romanian.
“We are searching for a former shoe store, owned by Carol Marcus that used to be on Strada Tecuci on the corner of General Berthelot—about sixty years ago,” I replied in my rusty Romanian.
None of them remembered a shoe store, but a woman offered, “There is an old man in this neighborhood who might know. We’ll call him.”
A few minutes later, a kindly bald man, his back humped over, shuffled toward us. Again, I explained in Romanian what we were looking for. The elderly man responded, “Please forgive me, my dear one, I don’t remember it either,” in the formal manner of speech, that had never been familiar to me, since I’d learned to speak at home.
But I was exhilarated to be sharing details of my family’s history, standing on the same streets where my parents and grandparents had walked, and talking to a man who must have been there when they were, too.
The locals did direct us to the synagogue, built around the turn of the century. Overflow from a detached gutter damaged parts of the roof but there was evidence that efforts were being made to keep the large Byzantine-style structure in good repair. Next door to the synagogue was a large, three-story bri
ck building that we thought must have been my mother’s school.
Around the corner was a narrow residential street, stretching perpendicular to the street where my grandfather’s store might have been. We walked up the street as slowly as we dared, taking in the small, dilapidated buildings, now inhabited by squatting Roma. We had been warned that local populations felt threatened by returning Jews making claims for confiscated properties. Squatters sitting in pairs, on low stools outside their doors, warily watched us.
Finally, the friendly locals we’d first met directed us to a Jewish cemetery, being cared for by a middle-aged woman who lived on the grounds. To supplement her meager salary, the caretaker grew her own vegetables, raised chickens and ducks, and even had a goat. She appeared to be living a rather solitary life among the cemetery’s ghosts.
My parents’ house in Bucharest, the exterior now cracked and crumbling.
A memorial to Jewish lives lost during the First
World War, erected by the Sacred Society of the
Hebrew Community of Galati.
As we approached the tall iron gates, we were greeted by a short, stocky woman, sporting a huge cross on her blouse and she wore a long skirt, covered with an apron, both in ill-matched, multi-colored patterns; her hair was covered with a brightly colored kerchief. “May we come in and visit the cemetery?” I asked.
“No, it is the Shabbat,” she replied. I was quite impressed that she took her responsibilities so seriously. But we knew that it is not forbidden by Jewish law or custom to visit a cemetery on Shabbat.
“We would like to make a contribution for the cemetery,” I said, already feeling more comfortable with my improving Romanian. As I showed her a generous gratuity, her demeanor changed.
“Do you have head coverings?” she asked, holding out a kippah for my husband. She nodded in approval as I put on the scarf I brought for that purpose.
The cemetery was not well maintained; many headstones were overgrown with vegetation. Yet, it was in a quiet spot, on the outskirts of the city, and spring flowers perfumed the air.
As we walked around, we noticed a gnome-like mortician standing at the entranceway to the mortuary building and staring at us with bulging eyes. Sporting a black knit hat and wide peasant pants held up by a rope belt, he arrived to prepare for another funeral. I was surprised that the cemetery is still in use, awaiting the few remaining Jews of Galati.
We wandered the hallowed grounds until we came across a headstone with Mamaia’s maiden name of Zisman. Was it a relative? There was no one left to ask.
Chapter Twenty-Four
FAST FORWARD
AT OUR MOST RECENT Passover Seder, there were so many loved ones sitting around our parallel dining room tables, I could not help but reflect on the sacrifices and choices that brought us there. The dining room was brightly lit and the tables were set with Rebecca and Michael’s best and only china, best stainless steel silverware, and sparkling new crystal goblets. I felt great satisfaction, sitting peacefully and observing the festivities, now being hosted by our oldest daughter and her husband.
There was Lenny, still fit with a full head of hair (and less gray than Herm’s) and his warm-hearted wife Rhea, a newer member of the family. Periodically, I could still hear his voice rise above the others in peals of laughter. Sarita had passed away in her mid-fifties after a short and painful struggle with an aggressive colon cancer. She and I did really love each other. We met when I was 18 and Sarita was 25 and were close before we wasted precious years estranged from each other because of an inappropriate accusation I made during a petty argument about child rearing. For the next 15 years, she would not forgive me. At last, I saw forgiveness in her eyes the last time we met, which was the greatest gift she could have given me. Sarita was survived by two wonderful, beautiful daughters, Lisa and Tami, who were adults, but still young and vulnerable when she passed away.
Near Lenny was Lisa, who married David, her ideal husband, always patient and supportive not to mention loving. During their childhood, my girls always looked up to Lisa, their idol, and fought over who would get the sleeping bag next to her. Our efforts to keep our families close have paid off with memorable family gatherings. Lisa developed into a caring mom to Evan, Sam, and Jordan and a success with her own analytics career, having given up an equally successful side business as a baker.
Her sister, Tami, not to be outdone, has two successful careers. She is employed as a marine biologist for the Smithsonian Institute. She is also a talented singer, appearing with bands in the Annapolis area. Although not present at the Seder because she lives too far to attend, Tami always comes to mind. Herm and I see Tami as often as we can.
Sitting near Lisa, and always seen laughing together at family gatherings are our three daughters with their husbands and their children, our seven grandchildren—namesakes for many of our family members introduced in this memoir. Our oldest daughter, Rebecca, was named after my father, Baruch, aka Sandu. She was born while we lived in married student housing at Rutgers. She spent many an hour sleeping, bent over her scooter-chair at Herm’s lab while he was finishing his graduate research. Her husband Michael is the family’s marvelous chef in addition to his very successful management information systems career. They are amazing parents to their three children, Sophie, Lila, and Marcus. Rebecca has become a wonderful, very happy, partly stay-at home mom, who uses her education in nutrition and science as a part-time instructor and administrator at Montclair State University. She is a thoughtful and introspective woman who has taken a role as mother hen to her sisters. I believe this was a natural development for her given the number of times I called on her to watch them for me over the years.
Our middle daughter, Rayna, was named after one of Pesche’s sisters, Shoshana, who perished in the War. Rayna was born as we were transitioning from college to work with responsibilities for house and children. She was always so gentle and quiet at a time when we needed it. Always a hard worker in school, she went on to become an architect. She and her husband, Esteban, also a creative architect, from Argentina, are very caring and dedicated parents to Milo and Paloma. Esteban is also the family artist, illustrating Herm’s children’s books and teaching the young ones how to water color “properly,” as his niece Pepper reported to her pre-school class. Rayna, Esteban and their children annually spend time in Argentina with Esteban’s family. Esteban’s mother, Perla, a singer of Yiddish songs and a well-known geologist, has joined us for the Seder this year, bringing homemade gefilte fish based on an old Polish family recipe. Thankfully for her in-laws Perla and Lito, Rayna has a facility with languages and has learned to speak Spanish fluently. Rayna has become the family historian since she arranged our family pilgrimage to Europe.
Sara Marci, our youngest daughter, was named after Mamaia and Moishe. She and her husband, Jeremy, are also creative forces in our family, Jeremy being our grandchildren’s entertainer, hence the interesting names for their children, Ziggy and Pepper. Sara is the lead user experience web designer for her group at a large insurance company and Jeremy is a talented sports producer and video editor. At every Seder he is also in charge of madcap entertainment for the youngsters. Jeremy can usually be found with Michael, David, and Esteban outside, drinking a beer as they genuinely enjoy one another’s company. They might also be throwing around a football for the boys, Evan, Sam, Milo, and even young Marcus, who is not to be denied his place. As a child, Sara was always the comedian, finding ways to make us laugh, and easily making friends. As an adult, she almost always has a smile on her face.
Before the meal, all the children played roles in a grand Passover play worthy of Cecille B. DeMille, written by Herm and in costumes with props created by him from household items; cotton balls on a medical mask for a beard, golf balls for hail, and hundreds of tiny plastic insects for the plagues. Such a funny and raucous Seder! Milo, at times a bit oppositional, was perfectly cast as Pharaoh. All he had to do in response to Moses’s frequent demands to “Let my peopl
e go” was shout, “No!”
As I looked around the room, I could also imagine those loved ones who were no longer with us, sitting around the Seder tables, laughing, talking, singing, as they used to do.
Sadly, Sandu had been the first to die, as I’ve said earlier, in 1971, in the second year of our marriage. I’d always lamented that he’d died before he could meet any of his grandchildren. He would have been surprised at how much joy they would have brought him.
Moishe was the next to die in 1977 having experienced the satisfaction of helping us finish the construction of the basement of our first home and attending Herm’s graduation with a doctorate in psychology from Rutgers University. I’d received my bachelor’s degree at the same ceremony, holding Rebecca and already pregnant with Rayna. Moishe had experienced great joy from baby Rebecca, who knew just which strings to pull to get whatever she wanted from grandpa. She would gently stroke his rough chin at bedtime, pleading, “No bed. No bed.” He always gave in when he and Pesche were babysitting. Rayna crawled all over him as he lay in a hospital bed in the weeks before his death.
Pesche died in 1999, age 88 or 89. No one ever really knew her real birthdate. She had been present for the birth of each of her grandchildren, and lived to see them called a Bat Mitzvah and graduate from college. She almost lived long enough to attend Rebecca and Michael’s wedding. After spending more than 20 years in their Overlook Hills home, she’d lived for a short while at an assisted living facility, just down City Line Avenue. Tragically, greatly diminished by Alzheimer’s disease, her last days were spent in a nursing home. Together, Lenny and Herm visited her every week and supported one another in their sorrow.
