From time to time I try to accept our imminent homecoming. It has been so long since I was a civilian! Other worries will start to preoccupy me. My G-d, it has been such a long time! How will I cope with it all? Then I smile to myself: I wish to have all those worries, to be left at home, to be near you. My darling, I love you. I embrace you countless times, I kiss you (in my mind) everywhere in my stormy, fervent, passionate, joyous way. L.

September 21, 1941

My beloved, dearest sweetheart,

I wish, hope and desire that a year from now you may address me and refer to me as your happy, satisfied husband. Husband? Sounds like a joke, but it becomes sincere and even moving in connection with you at my side. You must believe me that this is now my most ardent wish, to live my entire life with you, to celebrate life together! A tiny, insignificant place in this huge world, but with you in it, I imagine it as the perfect dwelling for happiness and contentment.

The sun is shining brilliantly, there is a tranquil pre-holiday festive air around me, my desires are flying to you, home among my desires at this approaching holiday, more than ever, home!

………………………………

[He did come home.] Many problems and the uncertainty on the front kept us alert. Every day, more and more of our Jewish boys were called in and sent to Russia. This knowledge hung over our heads like the sword of Damocles. (This letter is unfinished.)

Barca, October 27, 1940

Dear Ruzhenka,

I was so very anxious to answer your lovely letter, but we were all punished (for one person's mistake) and they took away our privilege to write. I know you worry if I don't write, but always remember, I am not my own master, any little whim of our superiors and we are forbidden to write.

I am suffering from a headache, please bear with me if my letter doesn't sound as beautiful or enthusiastic as I would like it to sound, as you would deserve from me.

"Yes, Lulu, women are modest," you write, which means that I expressly forced your confession--"I love you"--is it not true? Please forgive me, but you are still a very little girl, my little girl. I can embrace your waist with half an arm, and perhaps, for a little girl who doesn't have to be modest as an older one does, it's easier to express her true feelings.

I see your face so clearly now, one Saturday afternoon at your sister Manya's house. You handed me Louisa's letter, confidentially. She wrote about Czin, that he is engaged but not happy, how gladly he would have waited for you, but you discouraged him. You touched my heart with your serious facial expression, as if saying, "Look at me, I've grown up, I've already had a marriage offer. You see, I am not a little girl anymore." Yes, you grew up before my eyes, but I still cannot grasp how quickly! After all, Ruzhenka is a still a little girl, a big boy's little girl, my little girl.

And again I recall when you finally started to call me by my first name, yet here and there you still confused me with "Mr. Weiss." It was funny and delightful. "Again?" I asked you smilingly, and you repeated several times, as if not to forget it, "Lulu, Lulu, Lulu!" I had to recall this event, when you wrote down six times in succession, "I love you." I am truly touched by my little girl's freedom to express what she feels, regardless that women are supposed to be "modest."

Your letter arrived Friday. I read it with joy, satisfaction, over and over again. Did I ever tell you, you have a talent for writing? Or does it seem so beautiful to me because it is a part of you? Your clear expression and choice of words amaze me.

Sweet one, how I shudder to think of the coming weeks, and weeks after. With each passing day, we calculate: it's a day less till we'll be allowed to go home to our dear ones. Counting the days makes us more impatient, hoping in vain makes us more desperate. The rainy, wet weather makes it more difficult to bear. The invisible chains are getting heavier and heavier each day. How can people act as if our internment could be normal? Strange how selfish everyone is! Each one was preoccupied with their own problems, no one listens, no one cares about the others.

I should go home to store up some "reserve joy." There is just too much accumulation of gray, senseless days and events here. If only I could see some meaning in it!

This is why I had to force your confession: the knowledge that you love me keeps me going. I hold onto it as an exhausted swimmer holds onto the rope by which he will be pulled back to life once more. Your love, and the love I have for you, carries me through this very difficult period. Without it, I could not survive. I never want to lose you. At times, I have nightmares that you've left me for someone else, and I awake frightened. Why, it could happen in real life too, I torture myself. How could that happen, after I embraced you with all the feelings I possess? You would have to tear my heart out with you in it. I know now how easily I could be destroyed. Love me and don't let it ever happen again!

I am writing this letter to you in spite of the strict rule of our commandant not to write. I am taking the chance anyway, and hoping that a visitor to a fellow inmate will mail it to you in Ungvar. I sense that my letters are as important to you as yours are to me.

I love you, I love you, I love you, my dear, my own.

I embrace you countless times. Lulu

Barcza, November 9, 1940

Dearest,

I would like to believe the widespread rumours that on the fateful day of November 15th, we will be released and allowed to go home. Some say we will be moved to Kassa instead and thus we all have high hopes for that day. Time passes very slowly. An hour, a minute seems an eternity. But when night comes, we gather our strength anew. I don't mind the heavy work any more, I've gotten used to it. What bothers me is the uncertainty of our future. They took away our passes to get out for at least a day. Even parcels from home were forbidden. And they censor everything we write. Our superiors at work are uneducated country boys; their language is dirty--I've never heard so many cuss words in my life. They need to show how "powerful" they are by being sadistic to us, ruling over us. I worked all day long at the railroad. Hard work. Work, meals, cards. For those who enjoy it, rest.

They can do with us as they please. They can keep us here as long as they want to. How long one morning seems to last, and that is only half a day. There is no earthly power to get me out of here. I have become a nameless number. I have lost my human status; no one cares what happens to me--with us--unless I break some of their silly rules. Chained and forgotten are we. Home, G-d, self-sacrifice, duty are foggy meaningless notions. Obviously G-d has forgotten about us. The majority are praying to Him devotedly. The majority here are religious Jews. As I open my eyes each day I hear the familiar melodies of the ancestral prayers. Those old, time-worn melodies I still appreciate. Poems about creation, weather-beaten old melodies of Eastern origin, the familiar sounds of a praying congregation, the humming and singing I truly enjoy. I do not take part in daily prayers, but often I find myself singing along with the rest. These prayers mostly extol G-d in different ways. I cannot be reconciled to all the cuss words in which G-d's name is so emphatically pronounced. Does it bother G-d at all? Who knows? He is so silent--busy with more important things? How excellent it would be to find out the truth!

What is the use of rebelling? Who am I? A forgotten leaf fallen from a tree--or a tiny speck of dust. An individual blade of grass is rebelling, is impatient, would like to know more about his own destiny. Where do we stand? What to expect from our future? To think is no pleasure any more. To think means getting more confused, more uncertain about this whole planet called Earth. The majority don't ask questions. Card playing is the best medicine to kill time, and many approve of it. Reality forgotten, they live for the excitement of winning. I am a stranger to them, just as they are to me. What do we have in common? The desire to go home as soon as possible. That's about all.

Peacefully they are playing. Cards excite them, all seems to be so normal, expected, natural. They were called up for military duty several times in the past. Is it different this time? Why, yes! This time they called up only the Jews and it's not military duty any more! Separated from others, they call it "forced labour." And what do we do? Carry heavy stones or wood or coal. Is there any useful purpose in it? Of course not! As long as we are occupied, we will not rebel; instead we will sleep and rest our tired bodies. Is there a plan in this "forced separation" from our families? Strange that there is no regard for age or health. Old Jewish men were also called up and I've met even cripples among us. What does it signify? Could it be that now they are not pleased any more with the "Jewish law" which forces Jews to employ Gentiles? Could it be that they want to eliminate all Jews from business and the economy? And what about all the professionals? After all, we have many doctors and lawyers among us--some famous ones--yet all they do now in their free time is to play cards. How relaxed they look! None seems to be worried, as I am. They sleep nights, while I have nightmares. "Why worry, soon we'll go home," they say.

Barcza, November 19, 1940

Some of us are going home, mostly those from age 42 up. Our commandant gave them a heart-warming speech: "You deserve your freedom, go home and try to dispel all bad prophecies, bring optimism to broken hearts." There was rejoicing among those who will soon be leaving and a flicker of hope was born in our hearts as well. We all wished each other "Happy New Year" in Hebrew. Next day up at 5:00 to continue the road building. Instead of last week's sixty to eighty men, today there are only eleven of us. By lunchtime we had filled the wagons with heavy boulders, to carry them to the roads we are building. It started to rain heavily. No avail. Rest time. Before my mind's eye, Ruzsenka appears. I love her deeply, thoroughly, with passion. A true love, which has had its trying times. Several times, she and I, separately, both wanted to break up, to end our relationship. Each time meant a profound shock for me, for I didn't want to lose her. A realist by nature, I still have feelings, if given the chance to love. Superficiality estranges me. I am a man of true deep feelings. Light, superficial feelings are not my cup of tea. Was I born with my present nature, or did I acquire it through my upbringing, friends, school, my environment? Regardless, I love Ruzsenka with my whole being. It's a true love in every sense, if ever there was one. It includes all the specifications of true love. I love her with my mind, my feelings, my sentiments, my desires. When I think of Ruzhenka, I am full of hope. I love her with all my strength and every small part of me and all the feelings I possess. She is life's only bright side. I am drawn to her and suffer from being forcefully removed from her presence. My love for her is the deepest, purest, most desirable feeling one can have. My love for her is everlasting, growing in intensity every day. Is this because I am so far away from her? And Ruzsenka? Does she miss me as much as I miss her? Does she feel the pangs of separation to the same extent that I do?

[Here Lulu's diary ends.]

On June 22, 1941, the Hungarian forces joined the Germans in invading Russia, although Hungarian participation was somewhat reluctant, because Regent Nicholas Horthy was still resisting the German demand for general mobilization.

The future was uncertain. We were going "steady" but the thought of marriage had to be postponed again and again. The news from Germany and Slovakia was devastating. Each day brought more sorrow for us. The neighbouring Slovak government passed daily more and more anti-Jewish legislation.

It was a bright, sunny, cold day when January 1942 arrived. Fear crept into our mind and bodies when news arrived from Slovakia. We asked ourselves: What will happen to us? We had heard of concentration camps being built for Jews, but believed those who said it's only for work during the duration of the war. Lulu expected to be conscripted every day now and we shivered in ten degree weather. Lulu, who was forced out of the office by then, religiously waited for me every night after work. Sometimes I had to work overtime, in order to hold on to my job. A Christian Hungarian gentleman was put in charge of the mill, Mr. St. Istvanyi. He was an aristocratic, likable young man, who insisted that all the employees stay in their respective jobs.

By February, I was very depressed over what I had heard from Berger Z. who had jumped off the wagon which was taking Jews from Bratislava, Slovakia, to Auschwitz. His clothes were torn and he spoke like a demented person. No one believed him. To kill Jews? Why?

Lulu waited for me as usual. The snow was crisp under our feet. Our city looked pure and lovely. We found ourselves on a deserted street hand in hand. Suddenly Lulu stopped. I looked at him. "Ruzenka will you marry me?" I couldn't believe it! How many times had I thought about him asking me this most important question--but when? And yet, now that I'd finally heard it, I couldn't answer him.

"Ruzenka, I asked you to marry me, why don't you answer?"

"Let me think it over!" I said.

Lulu burst out laughing. "You can't be serious? Haven't you already had enough time to think it over?"

"I…I can't answer you. Please give me another day!"

Our official engagement party took place in August 1942.

In the meantime the news from neighbouring Poland was devastating. By now all the Jews were in the ghettoes, many dying of starvation, many taken away to places unknown, never to be heard of again. The same was true of our Slovak co-religionists.

In Hungary we hoped that Horthy would never allow his useful, productive Jews to be deported. In March 1942 Horthy replaced his pro-German Prime Minister Bardosy with Kallay Miklos, who sought to disengage Hungary from the war. During this time, there was a lull in drafting our boys and we started preparation for our wedding, which took place on February 7, 1943.

Hitler was furious. Hungary appeared to be acting more like a neutral state rather than a German ally. Consequently in April 1943, Hitler summoned Horthy to his headquarters and criticized him for Kallay's policies.

Things rapidly changed after that. All Jews had to be replaced in all jobs, especially white collar jobs, with Aryans. I lost my job at the mill. My parents had no other income but mine, and Lulu thoughtfully never asked me what I did with my earnings. I suspected he knew.

One of my Christian colleagues opened up a mill thirty miles from Ungvar. He offered me a position. Of course my salary was paid unofficially, out of his own pocket, for by then, no Jew was allowed to work. This meant, that I had to get up at six o'clock every morning, rush to catch the train, work the whole day and return to Ungvar around six o'clock at night. How I hated to leave the warm bed so early and arrive, often in the last minute to the train station. It was a harsh, bitter winter in 1943, and it stands out in my mind as the worst winter in Karpatoruss as well as in Russia, where many Jewish boys froze to death, becoming ice sculptures, among them my sister Louisa's husband Henry, whom a friend found in that condition. Manya's husband Arnold was more fortunate. The handiest man in his group, he was kept inside to create jewelry for the wives of his superiors at the Hungarian Forced Labour Camps. Lulu knew that his days at home were numbered. We rented a furnished room from another Jewess whose husband was on the Russian front. Our marriage, which was so promising, turned into a nightmare. Lulu was depressed now for longer periods and he didn't perform as a husband should. I came to dread his "moods," which turned out to be stronger than any sentimental feelings. As a young married woman, I went with my mother to the mikvah (ritual bath). Lulu smiled when I came home and I told him I had to wash my hair which I found sticky from the bath. About half an hour passed. I was joyful at the prospect of his physical closeness. I pampered my body with powder and perfume. Married for only four weeks, I shyly entered our bedroom.

When in time my period didn't arrive, I feared I might be pregnant. I tried every home remedy available, but nothing helped. The doctor had no doubts. "You are expecting!" he said. "I must say you haven't chosen the best time for a Jewish child to arrive. Look I am a friend of the family. I know I would risk losing my practice, if this becomes known, but I am ready to help you have an abortion. If you should change your mind, come back and I will help you."

I waited for an appropriate time to tell Lulu. It was Sunday. Both of us were home from work, and after a leisurely breakfast, he said: "Come here!" I sat in his lap, looking into his lovely dark-blue eyes, so expressive, so deep, so full of unknown desire and fears. "How did you know I wanted to tell you something?"

"I didn't," he said sadly. "I'll tell you what, first you tell me whatever it is, and then, I will."

"Can you guess?"

"You lost your job."

"No, no, something more personal!"

He knew right away, but he kept teasing me: "You need money... O.K., how much?"

"Oh, Lulu, don't you know, we are expecting a baby!"

Pride mingled with sadness; his expression changed from happiness to utter despair.

"You aren't going to keep the baby, are you?"

I burst out crying: "Your child, our first baby, and no one, not even its father wants it." I resented his remark.

"Yes, I will keep it!" I said with irritation, in spite of everyone's well-intentioned advice, and started to cry.

"Ruzenka, you haven't even asked me what I wanted to tell you. Don't you want to know what it is?"

"I am sorry, but I am so filled with the idea of having the baby, that I forgot your problem. What is it?"

Again a dark cloud passed across his face, and tears ran down his cheeks.

"Lulu what is it?"

Instead of talking, he took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to me. "Oh, no! My G-d, it can't be!" I exclaimed.

"So they didn't forget you. We must part once more in four weeks’ time! Oh Lulu! It's so unfair. By then we will have been married only three months. Even in Biblical times, there was a law permitting young married couples to stay together. What am I going to do?"

"With me away and my mother getting older and weaker, you are needed in our store. There is an extra room where we will move in to save on rent, and mother will be happy with you around."

Sz�reng, July 25, 1943

[Letter from Lulu]

My dearest Ruzhenka,

Since our return, we have been living in constant fear and tension. From the slightest movements, appearances, news, we try to figure out our next step. Where are we destined to go? When and with which regiment? Who told what? We are eager to hear the slightest news to build our hopes or disappointments upon it. This waiting and uncertainty help to create a bunch of nervous wrecks here.

"We are leaving now, we are not, we stay, we go." We live in doubt about our dark future. Some war clothes, which were distributed, signal our transfer over the border to Russia.

Dearest Ruzhenka, each and every one of us would prefer to stay within our own borders, even though at times the mysterious, strange country arouses some excitement in us. But then reality sets in and I know that being so far from our loved ones also means less and less mail, all kinds of dangers lurking in the darkness of the unknown territories, new surroundings, a strange world, the unexpected. No, I certainly would not like any part of it! Let's hope we may stay here if some miracle happens.

Please do not worry about me, my darling. I am not afraid!

Of course, I think of you all constantly, at home where, I gather, there are other problems, other worries. The troubles enter my body, I feel them in my veins; the world is shaken by the cruel war, millions of people alive today will be dead as a consequence of this senseless war. I cannot run away into my private, idyllic home. It is not possible! Yet everyone here is occupied only with his own personal problems. No one wants to see the overall picture. An ocean of people, each one caring only for himself!

At times I rebel. I suffer unbearably, overwhelmed with bitterness. I ask G-d, how long? I am impatient, full of hopelessness and powerlessness. It's eating me up, grinding me to pieces.

Faith, truth, justice! It's all a bitter irony, nothing happens according to that! We are puppets of fate, pulled in all directions. We don't want to be! Darkness envelops us, nationality, stupidity, superstition and lawlessness reign all around us; dignity of the human being doesn't exist any more. Hate and degradation are our daily fare. How could this have happened in the twentieth century? So many technical advancements, airplanes, radio--what for? I could scream, I could beat up these stupid fools with great satisfaction, even joy. Instead, a tiny hope is dangled before our eyes. Yes, don't give up, the day will come and all will be well. But how long, how long can a human being bear such depravity? Nights are a blessing to my overactive mind. Sleep envelops me with soothing, soft unreality, creating new hopes for the next new day, and so I can bear it only day by day, refusing to think of the weeks and months which must follow.

I love you, my darling. If only I could be near you, the nearness of your presence would already eliminate these painful thoughts. Yes, to be near you, to live for you only would sweeten my life. From the pleasures I would receive from you I could blind myself to the consequences of today's erratic world's behaviour, I would deny myself the art of thinking for the pleasures of the normal everyday life.

I know you love me and your love sustains me. I treasure it. This keeps me alive in my most difficult hours. I think of you and of the New Life you carry under your heart. It's an all-embracing, all-enhancing, heightening feeling. This new life tends to intensify the responsibility; our maturity, accountability for it. This feeling transcends all my thoughts, and the knowledge that we will be parents puts us in the category of responsible, mature people. How thankful I am to you! I warm myself at the fire of remembrance. For you and our life together, our beautiful, unforgettable moments in the past, for all these I am thankful to you. I love you! It has been a long time since I put you in my heart.

I realize I was restless and impatient with you during my short stay. I know I caused you sorrow and bitter moments then. But please remember that my fear for your safety, for your well-being, for your future, those were the cause of my strange behaviour, never lack of love for you!

I saw how much pressure, uncertainty, problems of persecution, and financial worries all envelop you. I was unable to help you with these, I was a prisoner of my own body and thoughts. I didn't want to react in anger, but how could I have done otherwise and still be honest with myself? There I was, seeing all, knowing all, yet paralyzed, unable to do anything for my dear ones. Forgive me.

My thoughts are with you. Take care of yourself, my darling. Let me hear some good news from home. My love to all,

Forever yours.

P.S. Not much is left from your parcel. The cookies and home-made jam I still enjoy.

In August 1943 I saw him once more in Csop. I took an early train, for I wanted to have as much time with him as possible. I am six months pregnant, we stood on the platform to say our good-byes. At one point later in my life, when I came back from the concentration camp and stayed in a cheap Paris hotel, where all I did was write, at that point I described that scene on the railroad platform.

Thirteen years have passed since that event, but I still feel the intensity, the concentration of fear mingled with pain. I had a premonition that I would never see him alive again, and I couldn't bear the thought of it. Gently he kissed me over and over again, cherishing every second of this last togetherness. The whole transport was sent out to Russia, hundreds and thousands of our boys. Only a handful came back. I can still see the criss-cross train tracks, and the train's windows and doors from which our boys leaned out. They were packed as densely as sardines, leaving us, their wives, mothers, sisters, sweethearts, behind.

The train started to move slowly. I cried bitterly. Suddenly he jumped down, ran to me, crying, "I love you, I love you!" And then he was gone.

Csop, August 1943

After our parting, in the train which took me back to Ungvar, the air was stuffy, the pain in my chest throbbing, the baby kicking in my belly as if in protest. My tears were choking me--how much can a person stand? These were my last thoughts before I fainted. When I came to, a pleasant woman was offering me water from a jar. I thanked her profusely. "Where are you going?" she asked me. "Uzhorod," I answered. "But we've just arrived there," she told me.

She helped me out and I was back in the city of my birth. I staggered down the few steps and out of the station. Life seemed empty without Lulu. "We are going to the front," I had heard him say. Without arms, without training? Oh G-d, keep them safe! Take away from me this terrible premonition that I will never see him again!

Oh, Lulu, I am carrying your love child, our child. You must come back, please come back, and stay with me.

Our house was within walking distance of the train station. When I went in, his mother met me at the door. Our eyes said all, sadness filled them and overflowed. Suddenly I realized that I wasn't the only one who was suffering from Lulu's departure. His mother and I became allies. From then on she treated me with special consideration and thoughtfulness.

I threw myself into the routine of daily life, which included full-time work in the grocery store. That was what Lulu wanted. "Help Mother as much as you can. She is getting on in age." I wrote to him every day and asked his commanding officers to forward my letters to him. I lived only to hear from him. Two months passed before his first card arrived from the Ukraine. "Only the knowledge that you love me and the fact that you will soon make me a father keep me alive."

Another card came for Rosh Hashanah. They were deep in Russia and the war was raging. My fears for his life multiplied. By then I was heavy, with a big, protruding belly. We lived from day to day. Hearing of the terrible murders of Jews in Kamenets-Podolsk and elsewhere made us all shudder. "It won't happen here," said the optimists. "What if it does?" I heard the doubters saying. Wherever we went, the army, tanks and soldiers surrounded us, and private citizens were scurrying like rats. They dared leave their homes only for food or emergencies. My father became sick. He needed a hernia operation. I knew about it. I intended to go to the hospital to be with my mother during the operation, but I miscalculated the time. When I arrived, they just brought him out, pale, weak and silent. Only his eyes showed any sign of life. Mother's facial contours were changed. She was bitter and disappointed. I had failed her, without knowing or intending it.

"I have six children. You are the only one left in the city. Where were you when I needed you most?" "Oh, Mother!" "Don't 'mother' me, I was all alone when he was taken to the hospital, when I needed some reassurance. You were in your fancy home with Lulu's family. How quickly you've forgotten us!" I cried. "Mother, please. This is cruel." "Yes, cruel," she went on, "that's the word for it. I cried all night long, all alone in the darkness. Six children and not one of them here when I need them! And you stroll in here after the operation!"

"Please, Mother, how is Dad?"

"You saw him! They treat Jews here like animals. They wouldn't even give him a decent room. I have to take him home. Some day your cruel behaviour will come back to haunt you!" she said, and turned her back to me. I shivered. I was about to become a mother myself, and her words pierced me straight through the heart.

Within a week I gave birth to a healthy boy. In the over-crowded anti-Semitic hospital, all I heard was "You Jews!" Everything was our fault, and the harsh voice of Hitler shrieked from the radio next door. The birth pains were unbelievable. I screamed and screamed, but no one cared. "Push, push hard!" was all I heard. I obeyed. With my two hands I held the bed posts and pushed. The soft tissues within me were tearing, and I was bleeding heavily, when I heard a faint cry. "Someone must have come," I thought, "I have a baby, a live baby, thank G-d!"

"Lulu, we have a boy! His name is Michael-Andrew. He is beautiful. Looks just like you! Blue eyes! Would you believe it? Come home! He needs his Daddy!" I wrote and wrote. But no answer came. Young as I was, I imagined the baby as a "thing." Every four hours, I figured, I will feed him, the rest of the time he will sleep and I'll be able to occupy myself in the store. But as it turned out, I didn't have enough milk. And he was so tiny!

My mother-in-law found me crying. "What am I going to do?" I cried. "Don't worry! I know a peasant woman who gave birth at the same time you did. We'll hire her to supplement our baby's milk with her own ample supply. Nature supplies a woman with more if it's sucked more!" Soon the woman settled with her child in our house, and we fed her our best food so that she could give our baby the best milk. I worked in the store and came in to check on her every four hours. Inevitably I found Andrew at her breast. In my naivet�‚ I never thought of her cheating us. She became fat, her baby as well, but Andrew looked thinner and thinner every day. I took him to my doctor.

The doctor said, "This child is starving. Don't you feed him?" I told him our story. "The bitch must be feeding her own baby well and neglecting yours! Throw her out! I will prescribe bottle feeding. Let me know the results." I followed doctor's orders, and Andrew started to gain weight. He became truly beautiful.

In the meantime I was worried about Lulu, and about my father, whose surgical wound never healed properly. He was leaking all the time. And I worried about my mother, who was aging visibly and mourning the death of her son Ernest.

"But Mother," I said, "he might be alive! The letter from the Red Cross only says 'disappeared.'" L�zu was also in forced labour, but we heard from him often. His unit never left Hungary. And Ari, my youngest brother, lived in Budapest with valid "goyish" papers. My two sisters, with their five children among them, lived in Hust, sharing their responsibilities, without their husbands, who were also on the Russian front in danger, but we had no idea where.

We knitted and sent parcels to our men. Winters are harsh in Russia. There was a forwarding address, but we never knew whether they received our parcels. By now it was spring 1944. There was no sign of the war ending. The Jews were squeezed more and more. Our businesses were taken away, Jews couldn't work in their professions, children could not attend public schools. We became, in effect, "pariahs."

Pesach was approaching and I hadn't heard from Lulu for four months! The pressure from inside, the pain and anguish, and from outside--Jews were disappearing on the way home from synagogues: first beaten, then taken away--was unbearable. Father told me how one boy hit him and pulled his beard on the way home one time. I begged him to stay within the safety of our house. "Please, promise me you won't go out," I pleaded with him.

It was a warm, lovely spring day, that fateful day in March 1944. I was bathing Andrew when the mail-carrier arrived, handing the letters to Lulu's sister. I heard a blood-curdling scream, then a muted cry, but I couldn't put the baby down. She came out to me with red, swollen eyes. "What happened?" I asked. She was divorced, and her husband lived in Budapest. I accepted her explanation: "My husband committed suicide!" In those times many Jews took their own lives, rather than wait for the Germans to decide their fate for them.

Only after the war did I find out from a niece of mine that the letter from the Red Cross was in fact the announcement of Lulu's death. My sister-in-law never shared this news with me or her mother. She died in the crematorium with our own Andrew in her arms and the secret of her brother's death locked inside her. Lulu had stepped on a live mine when the Jewish boys were sent ahead of the regular army just for this purpose. A friend of his, Stephen Landesman, told me after the war: "He didn't die instantly. They had to amputate one of his legs. He screamed in pain. He survived a few more days. When gangrene set in, he knew he was dying. 'Ruzhenka,' he moaned. 'Our son, I wanted so much to see our son!'" "Did he know?" I asked. "Yes. One of my mother's letters came through. In it she mentioned your and Lulu's son."

Rozsika, my dear sister-in-law, you saved my life twice. You knew that I was living only for Lulu's return. Had I known about his death back then, I would not have survived. Only the knowledge that I wanted to see him again kept me alive in the camp.