Nitra, Slovakia, September 1944: Miriam Freedman, her sister, mother, cousin & uncle & aunt go into hiding in a flat:

"At nighttime, the caretaker used to bring us food. We sat there, never able to talk, no toys or books or anything. Things becoming all the time worse. The caretaker was fantastic. Sometimes Germans came in looking accommodation for the officers. So what did the caretaker do? He changed the lock of the flat & said the owners were away & nobody can use this flat. He was very clever, the caretaker. He changed the locks.

I can’t remember having a shower or a change of clothes. The caretaker had a daughter my age. They had a problem: why is her mother now cooking a lot of food? So the little girl had to be told about us, but she went to school & children often tell secrets they shouldn't. So they actually threatened her to death, the people who saved our life, if she revealed anything to anybody.

The caretaker helped us because he was paid, but also because he was a communist. He disagreed with the Germans. At first my uncle had a little money. Eventually it ran out. But my uncle promised after the war that he'd be compensated. By that stage it was as bad for them as for us. If they're caught, if they reveal they're hiding Jews, they are in same position. They know they're going to be killed as well, if we get found.

Once we were nearly caught forever. A drunken official came with about 20 soldiers, Hlinka Guard or Nazi, I do not know. They said: we know there are Jews here, we are going to find them one way or another. The caretaker took us down to the cellar. He'd carved a hole there. We went 8 people into this hole, like sardines. The size of this sofa, 8 people, lying together, when there was a rumour that the building is going to be searched. I don't remember ever eating, or going to the toilet. It was like you blocked it, are in a state of denial. You don't want to believe it happened. Next to our hole, in the basement, soldiers used to come regularly to exercise. A tiny wall between us & this big room where the soldiers were exercising. If you cough, we had it. So we had this continental quilt with big feathers. We all had it on our mouth, if you cough into the quilt you don't hear the echo. Sometimes we were there for long time. At night they left, so we could go out into the next part of the cellar. I went to see it a few years ago. You can’t believe it, how small it was. All I remember is, move, move, but where shall I move? There was only a wall & a pipe. It was so terrible.

When things quietened down we went back up to the flat. But then a new rumour that they're looking for Jews here. The caretaker terribly quickly ran upstairs & told us: this is the end of it, we have to surrender now to the Gestapo because I can't take you down to the cellar. I can’t take you anywhere, say goodbye, pray, do whatever you like, say goodbye to each other, that is that. Believe me, he was in terrible danger too.

But this is what he did: the officer took away all the bunches of keys from every single flat that the caretaker had. But what the caretaker did in 5 seconds: he slipped the old key into the chain & our new key was put away. We could hear the officer coming from door to door. We could hear them talking in the flat next to ours, but very merry, all laughing & joking. I suppose they gave more drink – drink, drink, drinking all the time. When they came out it was the turn of our flat & we could hear him. He tried to enter the key in the keyhole. It wouldn't go in, he couldn't get in. So the caretaker said to him, listen, the only way we can break this door, we go downstairs & get some heavy instrument to break it. For whatever reason, it’s not opening. So he convinced the officer who was drunk, gave him more drink, went downstairs & he said, well, we have seen all the flats, didn't we? So now we can say goodbye. It’s the only flat he didn't enter. Only flat. ’Cos he was so drunk he didn't know what's happening & they said there's no more places to look. This was our saving grace. We couldn't hide anywhere in the flat. There was only one cupboard there. Hiding there wouldn't have made any difference, we'd have been caught. This was the end of our life, would have been. Then we were rescued by the Russians. And trouble started with the Russians [laughs].

One story I forgot to tell you: Christmastime, the caretaker told me: I’m giving you a present. He brought his little daughter to play with me. It was something wonderful because I never saw a child my age. But I didn't know how to talk to her anymore. I had nothing to talk to her about. But I said one thing: if I survive this war I want to be a sportswoman. That was my whole dream: running, running, running. I said to her, I’m going to race you & you never could catch me. The war came over, I couldn’t walk any more. Because of lack of circulation our legs were so swollen. We didn't move. When you don't move for a long time you can't just start. So when the war was over, the girl said: Come on, let’s have a race. I couldn't even lift up my leg. But I was determined to become a sportswoman. I become one, & reached quite a high level. Running, swimming, handball, cycling. I trained for the Olympics. All my life was sports, sports, sports. Every possibility. When I got out of the war something in me wanted to move. The running represent freedom to me, to move."

Miriam Freedman

Memories

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