Zvika’s Story

A Few Words About Myself: Today, as I look back on my eighty-two years of life, I find my thoughts returning to the paths I have walked, the milestones where I paused, the people I encountered, and the moments that left their mark upon me. My life has held days of joy and love, of hope and the fulfillment of dreams—but also days of pain, loss, and struggle. Each one was a part of the journey that shaped who I am today. This is a story of an entire life, of persistent memories, of people who are no longer with us, of loves that left an indelible imprint on my heart, and of the belief that, even after many years, there is always more to tell, more to remember, and more to cherish. Now, at this stage of my life, I wish to open the door to the past—to revisit those days and share my life story with you, just as I remember it, as I experienced it, and as it continues to live within me to this day.

My life story begins on April 29, 1944, in Bucharest, Romania. My mother and father lived in the servants’ quarters on the estate of a Romanian army officer who held the rank of general. They were employed as tailors. This was a critical period during the Second World War. In February 1943, the general’s wife gave her consent for their marriage; they hurried to the Great Synagogue—named after Carol (who had been the King of Romania years earlier)—where a rabbi officiated the ceremony. The newlyweds then rushed back to the estate, fearing they might be caught by the “Skull Hunters”—Nazis who were roaming the streets.

On the night of April 28, 1944, my mother went into labor. Popa, the gardener—who was also in charge of the estate grounds and served as the general’s family coachman—hastened to inform the lady of the house (the general’s wife). He sought permission to harness the horses to a carriage and bring a midwife to the estate, as there was a grave risk that the Nazis would intercept them on the way to the maternity hospital.

At 12:05 AM—five minutes past midnight—I entered the world.In August 1944, Popa came running to my father and told him to go immediately to the “Big House”—the residence of the lady and her daughters. Popa appeared restless, and his worried expression alarmed my father. “What happened?” he asked. Popa shook his head, indicating he didn’t know, but added, “She asked that I bring you to the Big House right away. Upon arriving at the house, my father saw the General’s wife dressed in black. Meir, she said, pack some warm clothing—especially for the baby. She took out several 100-lei banknotes (Romanian currency) along with some jewelry and said, Take this, Popa will take you by carriage to the synagogue, where you will be told what to do next, I am so sorry—the Nazis have executed my husband, and they will surely come to the estate as well. If they find you here, they will kill us too for hiding Jews. My father hurried to the servants’ quarters and told my mother to pack their clothes quickly; within minutes, they were in the carriage, on their way to the synagogue.

Here begins our journey into hell, a journey during which we walked along the very edge of the Abyss. It seems to me that only a miracle saved us from terrible suffering and a torturous death. I was but a tender infant then, only four to seven months old. I could not comprehend what was unfolding around me; I had no name for the fear, nor could I recall these events as an adult might. Yet even today—eighty years later—it feels as though something from that dark era remains etched within me. At times, when I am under stress, my body reacts in a distinct way, a sensation difficult to put into words. I cannot say for certain whether this is directly linked to those distant days, but the feeling persists, suggesting that perhaps even experiences we cannot consciously remember leave their mark upon us.

(It is with this that I wish to begin our story—a story of survival, of horror, and of lives saved against all odds. Click here for the full story of the history of my mother’s and father’s families. For the first steps in Israel).