I was too young to give any thoughts to potential dangers, but my parents must have been fully aware of them.Yet they had the courage to take their young sons and move to this forbidding land where even the language loomed as a large obstacle to them. The official language in the Congo was, and still is, French...a language my parents did not understand at all.
Later on, as I grew older, it became clear that our parents’ concern about the threatening situation in Germany, and their deep sense of foreboding about the future of Czechoslovakia, made them persevere in their resolve to leave Europe, even if it meant moving to that unknown and dangerous country in Africa. I will forever remain grateful to them for doing this, despite all the appeals and arguments that the rest of the family used to make them change their minds.As a result we lived to see Hitler’s defeat, while most of our relatives perished in the Holocaust.
02. My Family
Now, I will switch gears and go back to where I should have begun this memoir. In other words, I will write about our dear parents, Julius and Amalie Diamant. Not only were they the foundation of our family but, as I mentioned earlier, thanks to their extraordinary courage and foresight, they saved us from the horrors of the Holocaust. And they also succeeded, despite challenging circumstances, to offer us an extraordinary life in the tropics. A life of opportunities and challenges that actually prepared Harry and me for almost anything the future had in store for us.
Both of our parents hailed from Moravia, an area of central Europe that, until 1918, was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the First World War it became part of the newly formed Republic of Czechoslovakia. Now, of course, it is called the Czech Republic because the Province of Slovakia opted out the federation, and became the Slovak Republic.
Father was born on December 31st, 1900, in the Moravian village of Kravsco.
Kravsko, some six miles from the town of Znojmo, is typical of the other villages in the area, an area of vast forests and fertile fields. The houses have thick stucco walls, small windows and red-tiled roofs. The streets are narrow and wind in a random way between the small homes. Our grandparents’ property stood close to a charming bridge, right next to a pond fed by a meandering river. grandpa Joseph and grandma Ernestine owned the village’s general store and, according to all indications, lead a decent life. They had four children; our father Julius, Uncle Arnold, Aunt Louisa and the oldest, Aunt Johanna. Theirs was the only Jewish family in the village.
The general store was on the right side of the property, with its front window and entrance facing a small parking area right off the street. Next came the living quarters, a storage room, stables for horses and, on the left side of the courtyard, a rental property that provided a good income for our grandparents. The well, with a hand pump, stood outside the kitchen door, while the outhouse was stuck all the way in the back of the yard.
I remember the time when, swollen by unusually heavy rains, the pond rose high enough to flood the courtyard and make life thoroughly miserable for our grandparents. But they were rewarded for their troubles with a good supply of fresh fish when swiftly receding waters trapped a bunch of them in the courtyard.
I also remember that Grandma force-fed geese so they would produce more fat and grow enlarged livers. This process is not very complicated, and still used to this day throughout the World, even though it does not look very humane. The animal is kept inactive in a narrow cage and, several times a day, a funnel is inserted down its throat so that food can be forced into the belly with the help of a wooden dowel. By the way, goose fat made excellent sandwiches. The best ones were made with thick slices of a farmer’s dark bread, liberal amounts of goose fat generously seasoned with pepper and salt, and a mountain of delicious cold cuts. Hello clogged arteries...
Two of the major crops grown around Kravsko were cucumbers and cabbage. They were used in large part to make pickles and sauerkraut, both of them in great demand all over the country. As a matter of fact, that general area was actually known as the pickle district of Moravia. Fermentation was made in wooden barrels, and farmers always kept a few of them on hand for year-round consumption.
Fruit trees were plentiful. Even country roads were lined with them. And these particular trees, as well as some in private orchards, were leased to individuals for the whole summer, a custom that is still practiced today. Just think about it, one could be living in a large town and yet have the thrill of harvesting cherries, or some other fruit, right from one’s “own” tree during an entire summer season. And while it is true that many of our orchards let you “ pick your own “, it is not really the same thing since it does not involve leasing a tree for a whole summer season. Anyway, our grandfather used to lease several fruit trees every season, and we had great fun picking the juicy fruits whenever we came to Kravsko. I used to stuff myself silly with cherries; my very favorite fruit. And, staying on the subject of gorging oneself, I recall that Harry and I were unable to keep our fingers out of the big barrels that contained grandpa’s delicious pickles. We usually chose the largest ones, washed off the brine and went to work. What a delicacy that was, as were the wild strawberries and mushrooms that we picked during our hikes through the forest. Grandma’s mushroom soups and gravies were to die for. Of course, grandpa knew the difference between edible and poisonous mushrooms, but if one could not differentiate between them, the way to play it safe was to have a pharmacist check them over (they did this free of charge). Mushrooms were also dried for winter cooking. They were cleaned, and left to dry on sunny kitchen window-sills. This concentrated the flavor and greatly enhanced the mushrooms’ unique taste in every dish they were used for.
I must not forget to mention Kravsko’s prominent “Castle”, built by an Italian Count in the late 1700’s.The local people refer to it as a castle, but it really does not look like one since it does not have turrets, or even a moat. It is a manor house, in the renaissance style of Italy’s Palazzi, which were the summer residences of wealthy Italians. The symmetrical facade is three stories high and has a different architectural treatment on each level. The sweeping gravel driveway and the fountain on the front lawn heighten the elegance of the property. The last Italian owner used it for his summer residence through 1939. Hunting was his favorite hobby, and he spent much time riding through the deep forest and large fields that were part of the estate. Father told me that the fresh game was hung in the cellar, and left to age for a very long time. Apparently, this aging process went on for so long that the game turned rather “ripe” by the time it was cooked.
I also remember my father’s favorite joke about a neighboring village known for its weekly “farmers’ market day” that was held on Thursdays. It became so successful that the villagers decided to petition the mayor for a second market day, and formed a small group that went to discuss the matter with him. Unfortunately, in all the excitement, the delegation mistakenly asked for two “Thursdays” per week... From then on, any outsider visiting the village and cracking a joke about two Thursdays a week, ran the real danger of bodily harm and a quick expulsion from the village.
As a final note about Kravsko, I feel compelled to report about what happened to the members of our family.
Grandpa passed away in 1938, and was buried in Znojmo’s Jewish cemetery. Unfortunately, this cemetery was desecrated during the Nazi occupation and its gravestones were used to pave city streets. The location of the grave was lost forever.
Grandma was deported and perished in a concentration camp in 1942. She went to Auschwitz via Terezin.
Aunt Johanna (Father’s oldest sibling, born in 1896) married Uncle Paul Katz and gave birth to two daughters, Susanne and Ruth. They lived in Vienna until 1938, when they managed to immigrate to the USA.
Aunt Louise (Father’s other sister, born in 1897) was deported with her husband Kurt Reich and sons Heinz, Morritz and Bertholt. They all perished in the Lublin concentration camp in 1942. They got to Lublin via Terezin.
Uncle Arnold (Father’s brother, born in 1899) was deported with his wife Emmy and sons Tommy and Josef. His wife and children were gassed when the family reached Auschwitz, via Terezin, in 1942. Incredibly, Uncle Arnold managed to survive the horrors of the camp and the “death march” that the Nazis organized in a futile attempt to hide the inmates from the onrushing Allied Forces. He