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also had to pitch in and do work that was normally done by adults. The whole Jewish community had to support the needs of its members and provide the necessities of life, particularly for destitute families. Our Hebrew classes ended when our teacher was also taken away to the labour battalions.
    The men in the labour battalions were not compensated for their work, and they were given only a one-week furlough once a year. When they arrived home for that visit, it was a huge event. And when they had to leave again, it was a very sad goodbye. To send them on their way, every household was busy for days, preparing food and provisions to help sustain the men while they were gone. With my father and uncle away, my grandfather was in charge of the daily grind and morale in my home. The gapingabsence of our men particularly struck me during Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) when there were only old people, women, and children at the synagogue.
    Another crucial edict forbade Jewish people from employing non-Jews, which meant that Anna, our household helper, could not be with us anymore. When she refused to leave us, the gendarmes came to remove her forcibly from our home. Anti-Semitism reared its ugly head again when the Jewish population was blamed for the wounded soldiers who came back (some with missing limbs) from the Russian front in late 1941 and early 1942 . Jews were held responsible because Hungarians claimed that all the Russian communists were Jewish.
    In the spring of 1942 , we received word by telegram that all the members of the Friedman family, my mother’s relatives, had been deported from Slovakia to an unknown destination. We had no way to communicate with them or find out where they were. My mother was devastated, and I thought of all the time I had spent with them during my summer holidays, especially my two cousins, Edith and Lily, who were close to my age. It was unthinkable that people could simply be removed from their homes and were suddenly gone, disappeared. I could tell from my mother’s demeanour that this news weighed heavily on her and filled her with worry. She had no idea what had happened to her own mother, her brothers, or her three sisters and their families.
    One day, months after their deportation, we received a postcard that read, “We, the Friedman family, are all here together. We are working on farms and we are awaiting your arrival. (signed) The Friedman family.” Other families in our town received similar cards, which were printed with a big German eagle and a stamp that said “General Government LublinDistrict,” the new name of the German-occupied area of Poland. While the postcards may have provoked suspicion in some members of the community, they gave me a deep sense of relief. I felt hopeful to learn that my relatives were alive months after they had disappeared.
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    In August 1942 , a few of my friends came to our orchard to pick fruit for their families. As we played and stuffed ourselves with fruit, we challenged each other to see who could climb the highest in a very tall walnut tree. This was a risky activity because you could easily miss a foothold or handhold on a branch and be severely injured.
    Suddenly, I heard my dog Farkas barking ferociously. I could tell that some strangers had entered our yard and he was warning us of the intrusion. Then I heard my mother call for me to come back to the house. When I arrived, I saw two gendarmes reading from a document to my grandparents, my mother, and my aunt. I could not imagine the contents of the document, but from the looks on their faces, I understood it was a serious situation. It was an order that my mother, my aunt Irene, my two brothers, and I each pack a bundle and prepare to be removed from our home. My grandfather and grandmother were excluded from this directive, as was Aunt Bella. My grandfather pleaded with the gendarmes, saying that my mother and aunt were Hungarian citizens, and that our