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Överlevarna

One podcast - four themes: survivors of the Holocaust, the Palestinian Nakba, the second generation and Jewish Högalid. The podcast’s various projects have been funded by, among others Statens Kulturråd, Palmefonden, Victoria AB, Kungl. Patriotiska Sällskapet, Helge Ax:son Johnson Stiftelse, Annika och Gabriel Urwitz ´´Stiftelse, Samfundet S:t Erik, Lind & Co, Ordfront and private donors.

Apropå förra veckans avsnitt med Leif Freilich har jag grävt fram en av min pappas gamla bandinspelningar. Pappa hade köpt en Grundig bandspelare, med ett grönt magiskt inspelningsöga, någon gång 1956. Han gillade att göra inspelningar med oss i den övriga familjen, gärna i hemlighet för att få till spontana samtal.
Här testar han att, mer eller mindre i smyg, spela in mina farföräldrar, Josef och Sabina Hermele och Leif Freilichs föräldrar, Ala och Jakob Freilich. Freilich. Vi bodde grannar och mamma och Ala var bästisar.
Under samtalet blandas röster, språk och dialekter; mammas litvish jiddisch med de övrigas poylish samt pappas tyska, uppblandat med lite svenska här och där. Inspelningen är gjord i vår lägenhet på Lindvallsplan 4.
Personerna, i ordningsföljd:
Pappa Arthur Hermele, född i Berlin, Tyskland
Farfar Josef Hermele, född i Mielec, Polen
Mamma Perla Hermele, född i Suwalki, Polen
Farmor Sabina Hermele, född i Sędziszów, Polen
Ala Freilich, född i Lowicz, Polen
Jakob Freilich, född i Sawina, Polen
00.00-02.00
Innan inspelningen börjar har pappa, spelat upp en tidigare inspelning som han gjort med Kenneth och mig. Han frågar nu ut farfar om han kunde känna igen våra röster. (Kom ihåg att 1956 var bandspelaren en nymodighet!) Farfar svara jakande, men lägger till att en kappa till mamma hade varit bättre, än att lägga pengarna på en bandspelare. Mamma instämmer i detta.
02.00–03.50
Farmor kommer in i samtalet och blandar jiddisch med lite svenska; ”ordning!”. Mamma lägger upp taktiken för hur inspelningen ska hemlighållas för grannarna Freilich, som är i antågande.
03.50-04.40
Ala och Jakob Freilich anländer och samtalet böljar fram och tillbaka.
04.40-05.50
Ala upptäcker bandspelaren och mamma förklarar att det är ”unzer bandinspelare”. Ala tar ordet, Jakob och farfar flikar in.
05-50-07.40
Mot slutet av inspelningen berättar Jakob Freilich följande historia till övrigas hörbara förtjusning:
”Ger Chasid (en rabbin från en känd, ultraortodox dynasti, min anm.) kom till Lodz. Polisen stoppade trafiken. Flera tusen ville röra vid honom. Det gick ju inte, så de stod i en rad. Den som var närmast Chasiden rörde vid honom. Alla andra stod bakom varandra i en rad och vidrörde den person som stod närmast. På så vis kunde alla säga att de vidrört Chasiden.”
07.40-08.00
Farmor: - (på svenska) Nej, nej, jag ska inte tala.
Ala: brister ut i sång.

Det judiska Högalid #35 - Här talas jiddisch!

In 1946 I was working at the King David Hotel in al-Quds when the Irgun carried out a bombing against the southern wing. The British military had its headquarters there. I was in the hotel dining room, far from the explosion, and was unharmed. After the attack, all the guests disappeared and those of us who worked at the hotel were dismissed.
I then joined Abd al-Qadir al-Husayni’s resistance movement, Jaysh al-Inqadh al-‘Arabi. They sent me to a training camp in Syria. I was given a uniform and weapons. I took part in the fighting around the Palestinian village of al-Qastal and was standing beside our leader when he was killed. We took his body to al-Quds, where he was buried next to his father in the mausoleum of the Khatuniyya Madrasa. It is located by the al-Aqsa Mosque. There was a large crowd at the funeral.
When the British withdrew from Palestine, they left all the weapons and equipment to the Jews. After that, the Jewish Zionists carried out the massacre in Dayr Yasin.

Nakba #60 - Mohamed Mahmoud Gadallah

- Pappa fick en stroke och blev delvis förlamad när han var 73. Till slut blev det för tungt för mamma. Pappa kom till Rosenlunds sjukhus, där han låg länge innan han gick bort, säger Leif Freilich.
Hade pappa kvar talet?
- På sjukhuset sa han ett ord som jag fattade: aheim. Han ville hem därifrån.
Vad svarade du?
- Vad skulle jag säga? Det var jobbigt.

Det judiska Högalid #34 - Leif Freilich

1948
“My father had binoculars that I was allowed to borrow. Through them I could see how the Zionists burned down the Bedouins’ tents on the outskirts of Ṭabariyya (Tiberias). Some of the Bedouins died, others fled. Then the Zionists advanced into Ṭabariyya.
They fired at our house. We had only old pistols and knives and a single automatic weapon to defend ourselves against their modern weapons. Fifteen soldiers from al-Urdunn (Jordan) came to our aid. But the Zionists blew up their headquarters and the soldiers fled. The next day I went out to see what was left. Everything lay in ruins. I discovered a body in the rubble. It was George, who had been guarding the headquarters. The following day his family came asking for him.
The situation became too dangerous. We fled and took shelter in a classroom in a girls’ school. Mother gave us potatoes to eat. Then a bullet went through the window and hit the wall on the other side of the classroom. Luckily, everyone was safe because we were sitting on the floor eating.
Gradually the Zionists began shelling Ṭabariyya with artillery; the entire school shook. On one occasion a teapot filled with boiling tea fell to the floor and burned my foot. I still carry the scar today.
My parents decided that we should leave the school and make our way to the town center, 1.5 km away. My older brother carried me on his shoulders. British soldiers and some priests offered to evacuate everyone to al-Nasira (Nazareth). They brought buses.
Samcha, a Jewish settler from Kiryat Gat, came riding his horse to our village. He told us that we could stay in the village and that we would continue living together in peace. The villagers told him that this was our land and that the Jews should leave Palestine. Samcha insisted, but he was attacked and forced to flee.
Shortly afterwards Haganah began shelling us, especially at night. It was impossible to sleep. The Jews also received help from British soldiers. Eventually we were forced to leave the village. We took what we could on a horse, a camel, and a donkey. It was my grandfather, my father, my two uncles, and me. In total we were 20 family members who were forced to flee.
We went to Thkrein, a neighboring village seven kilometers to the east. Then we continued to Bayt Jibrin, at the foot of Jabal al-Khalil (the Hebron hills). It was already overcrowded with refugees sitting on the ground under the olive trees. We had only been in Bayt Jibrin for ten days when the Jews began attacking us. We moved further up to the next village, Idhna, higher up in Jabal al-Khalil. There we and many other families had to live in a barn together with cows. It was terribly cramped; there was no water, no toilets. We lived in the barn for three months. Then we were attacked by the Israelis. It had begun to snow and we did not even have shoes when we fled higher up to the village of Taffuh. There were old underground caves where we could take shelter. After three months in the caves, we went to the UN camp Fawwar. It took us a day to get there.
In the camp we lived in tents. When it rained, water leaked in. When it snowed, the tents collapsed under the weight. We had no firewood. It was a very hard life.”
Israel allowed us to visit our village Summayl. We rented a bus and went there. The houses were still standing. We sat down in front of our house and cried. Later the Israelis destroyed our house.”
2022
“UNRWA helps us with food and firewood here in the camp. But many are unemployed; we have no money.”
Reflection
“I pray to God that we will defeat the Israelis and the Americans. We have been killed by American weapons.”

Nakba #59 - Hassan Ibrahim al-Najjar

I avsnitt #31 av Det judiska Högalid berättade Herbert Trus att hans far, Lejb Trus, anslöt sig till partisanerna i skogarna utanför Bransk, efter den tyska ockupationen av delar av Polen, 1939.
Historien fortsätter så här:
Där lärde Lejb känna en annan partisan, Josel Broide. De blev vänner för livet.
Efter kriget utvandrade Josel till Buenos Aires, Argentina. Lejb och Josel fortsatte att hålla kontakten brevledes. När Josel blev blind skickade han i stället den här kassetten på jiddisch till Lejb, någon gång i början av 1980-talet.
I veckans avsnitt får du lyssna till Josels kassettbrev på jiddisch, till Lejb Trus. 
Mina kunskaper i jiddisch är rudimentära, men jag älskar att lyssna till Josels röst.
Varför?
Orden talar till hjärnan, rösten till hjärtat. Rösten är personlig, den har sitt tonläge, sina pauseringar, darrningar, osäkerheter och sin rytm. Kort sagt, vi kan höra Josels känslor av sorg, stolthet, tvekan och glädje, genom tid och rum.
Josel och Lejb lever inte längre, men de har levat, vilket denna inspelning är en påminnelse om.

Lite bakgrund:
Lejbs far, Alter Trus, skrev ner sina minnen i Bransk Yizkor Book, där han bland annat beskriver partisanernas motståndskamp:
”The first order of business which the Bransk group consists of destroying the telephone connections which were located on the Bransk Tchekhenoftse road. This was the direct line to the front at Warsaw. In one night the telephone wires on this road were cut in several places. The poles for a distance of 2 kilometers were torn down. The entire Bransk group of partians participated in this. At the same time a combat unit is set up as well as family camp.
At a meeting it is decided to hand down the death sentence to Koshak, a Pole and the betrayer and Jew murderer.. The armed men are given the job of carrying out this order. Among them Mulje Kleinot an Josel Broide.”

Det judiska Högalid #33 - Yosel Broide

- Mina föräldrars äktenskap var inte lyckligt. Mamma fick tre barn med tre olika män, säger Peter Haas.

Det judiska Högalid #32 - Peter Haas

George Baramki Khury (GBK):
“My sister Laura and I lived in al-Quds, near the Mandelbaum Gate. We had two houses,
one on each side of St. George Street. I attended St. George’s School. It was a boys’
school, with both Jews and Arabs.”
Laura Khury (LK):
“Our father rented out the upper floor of our house to some Jews. He heard strange
noises—something was going on up there. It turned out they were printing counterfeit
banknotes! They were later arrested by the British.”
GBK:
“The neighborhood was mixed, and shooting between Jews and Arabs on the streets
became more and more frequent. In 1947 the situation worsened, and we were forced
to leave our house. It was no longer safe to stay. My mother had a cousin in Talbiya,
in al-Quds, a very beautiful and quiet Arab area. We moved there without bringing
any of our furniture.”
LK:
“Talbiya was a very elegant neighborhood—like Fifth Avenue in New York. One day
there was a terrible storm; it was pouring rain and hailing. We heard an awful noise
that we thought came from the storm. But it turned out to be a bomb attack on the
Semiramis Hotel in Qatamon. Entire families were killed.”
GBK:
“After we had stayed with our cousin for three or four months, a Jewish soldier was
killed in the area. Just a couple of hours later, an armored vehicle arrived with a
loudspeaker on its roof, announcing:
‘Residents of Talbiya! You must leave your homes immediately!’”
LK:
“The vehicle was a monster, with its headlights taped so that only a narrow beam of
light showed.”
GBK:
“We were alone in the house. We were terrified. When our parents came home, we
told them what had happened.”
LK:
“We couldn’t stay. It was already dark, it was raining, the weather was awful. We left
as quickly as we could. The streets were in chaos.”
GBK:
“We fled to Baqa‘a, in southern al-Quds, to our uncle’s house. Only Arabs lived there.
That was the second time we were forced to flee.”
LK:
“One evening, as I was on my way home, something brushed past my head. At first I
thought it was a bird—but it was a bullet. If I had been wearing shoes with higher
heels, I would have been killed. The shooting continued when I got home; bullets
ricocheted into our house.”
GBK:
“At the end of April 1948, after only a few weeks at our uncle’s place, we fled to
Birzeit. That was the third move. We rented a small house there, where we lived with
our grandmother and our parents. Our mother contacted our neighbor in al-Quds,
who was a British policeman. Our house was still untouched. He arranged the
necessary permits to move our furniture from Mandelbaum to Birzeit. A few weeks
later, the British Mandate ended.”
“After the war of 1948, the border was drawn straight between our two houses at the
Mandelbaum Gate. The houses stood on opposite sides of the street, and barbed wire
was stretched between them. One house ended up in Israel, the other in al-Diffa
al-Gharbia, which had been annexed by al-Urdunn (Jordan). Our house on the Israeli
side became an army post. All the windows were boarded up, and through the gaps
they fired at the other side.”
“After a few months in Birzeit, our grandmother wanted to visit two of our aunts in
Ghazza. Our father rented a car and we went along. We traveled via al-Khalil and Bir
al-Sab‘a. It was a long journey, since the shortest route along the coast was now in
Jewish hands.”
LK:
“I didn’t want to go to Ghazza. I cried to avoid it, but it didn’t help. I have never liked
Ghazza.”
GBK:
“We stayed with my aunts for a couple of weeks. Then the Israelis took over
al-Majdal, which had previously been occupied by the Egyptian army. We became
trapped in Ghazza and could not return to al-Quds. That was the fourth displacement.
We were lucky to be able to rent a new house in Rimal, a sandy area near the forest.
We shared the house with an Armenian family. We had only one suitcase with us—no
furniture, nothing. We used wooden crates and built tables, beds, and wardrobes.”

Nakba #58 - George Baramki Khury och Laura Khury

- Min farmor, Sarah Trus, mördades 1942 i förintelselägret Treblinka. Jag hade velat träffa henne, säger Herbert Trus.

Det judiska Högalid #31 - Herbert Trus

Samia Nasir Khury recounts:
“In 1993, during the First Intifada, my son produced a song and had it copied onto cassette tapes. I paid for the copying, and he borrowed my car to deliver the cassettes.
‘I’ll be back after lunch,’ he said.
But he did not return. He was arrested by the police and taken in for interrogation at the Moscobiyeh detention center in al-Quds (Jerusalem). He was accused of distributing music that glorified the Intifada. The prosecutor repeated a line from the cassette — ‘The voice of the Intifada is stronger than the occupation’ — in order to incite the judge so that my son would receive a harsher sentence.
He was imprisoned for six months. First he was held in Ayalon Prison in al-Ramla. He went through hell there. We were allowed to visit him, but I was not allowed to touch him; he sat behind a wire mesh. Later he was transferred to Prison Six, outside Atlit. It was an open prison, and there we were allowed to sit across from him at a table.
We never got the cassettes or the car back. My son’s lawyer gave one cassette to my husband. After his death, we found it in his safe.
The time in prison made my son more enthusiastic and determined than before. He continues to make music.”
The lyrics that cost him six months in jail:

My life and my honor are the most precious,
and from the blood that has been shed,
the voice of the Intifada is louder than the occupation.

The voice of the Intifada is high and will not be silenced;
nothing can mute this voice
except for the sake of precious justice.
Who longs for death?
The goal is not the death of human beings;
the goal is love of the homeland.
A people that has struggled for a long time
seeks independence.

We went down to the streets
with stones in our hands.
We rose like whirlwinds,
our flame blazing like fire.
With our chests we face the bullets;
we resolved upon liberation.
Justice must reach
the criminal and the occupier.

Our people’s rights are denied,
yet they do not sleep on their rights.
The principles of the enemy are empty,
its essence does not endure.
O world, look at us:
camp, village, and city.
Look at the Palestinian army—
flowers and lion cubs.

They want to storm our village;
we stayed awake all night
to defend our dignity,
no matter how long the night.
The massive army advanced,
a mountain armed with fire.
We filled the road with stones
and set the tires ablaze.

From the mosque loudspeakers
we called out to the people.
The awake roused the sleeper,
telling him: take up the axe.
We spread out along the fronts,
revolutionaries skilled in maneuver.
And the Zionist, however powerful,
kneels before children.

من حياتي شرفي أغلى، ومن دمي اللي سال
صوت الإنتفاضة أعلى من الإحتلال

صوت الإنتفاضة عالي، وما بيخرس هالصوت
غير لأجل الحق الغالي، مين بيهوى الموت
مش هدف موت الإنسان، الغاية حب الأوطان
شعب يناضل من زمان، بدو الإستقلال

نزلنا على الشوارع، وبأيدينا حجار
هبينا مثل الزوابع، لهلبنا كالنار
بالصدر نصد الرصاص، صممنا على الخلاص
لازم ينول القصاص المجرم والمحتل

شعبنا حقوقه مهضومة، وعن حقه ما ينام
مبادئ خصمه معدومة، عنصره ما دام
يا كل الدنيا شوفيني، مخيم قرية ومدينة
شوفي الجيش الفلسطيني، زهرات وأشبال

بدهم يقتحموا قريتنا، سهرنا طول الليل
ت ندافع عن كرامتنا، مهما الليل طويل
أقبل الجيش الجرّار، جبل مسلح بالنار
ملّينا الطريق حجار، وولعنا العجال

من سمّاعات الجوامع نادينا عالناس
والغافي نبهه السامع، قللو إحمل فاس
وتوزعنا عالمحاور، ثوار بنعرف نناور
والصهيوني إله خاطر، يركع للأطفال

Nakba #57 - The song that cost her son 6 months in jail

“My father worked as a governor for the British government, and the rest of the family followed him. He was later transferred to Safad. There we had good relations with our Jewish neighbors. That was normal. Women exchanged baked goods with one another during different holidays and celebrations.
In 1946 it finally became clear to him what the British were doing—that they were
preparing the way for the Jews to take over. His job became impossible, and he
decided to resign. He went to the King David Hotel to submit his letter of resignation.
As he stepped over the threshold of the hotel, he looked at his watch and realized
he was early. He decided to visit a friend in Mamilla in the meantime.
Shortly after he left the hotel, it was blown to pieces. The man my father was going
to visit was not as lucky. He had gone to the hotel and was killed by the bomb. This
was in 1946. Irgun was responsible for the attack, but the various Zionist
organizations constantly blamed one another. This was only the beginning.
Then came the bombing of the Semiramis Hotel and the massacre in Dayr Yasin.
That was when people began to feel real fear.
After my father resigned, he began teaching physics. We remained in al-Quds. I was
a happy teenager. I went to parties, and my aunts and cousins lived there. It was a
wonderful time. We used to go to the YMCA, where we were members. They had
leadership courses, tennis courts, a gym, and a swimming pool. It was a fantastic
place.
In 1948, the family moved to Birzeit, where my father taught and where I attended a boarding school—it felt like my second home.
Suddenly, rumors spread that something was wrong. People began pouring in from
al-Ramla and Lydda. They were fleeing and had been walking for two or three days.
I will never forget that sight. Everything was so sad; people were utterly exhausted.
Someone told us they had lost a son. One man was confused and rambling; he did
not understand what was happening. I especially remember a woman who had lost
all her belongings. Despite that, she was grateful to have survived. She said:
“Furniture can be replaced, but not people.”
My aunt told my cousins and me to cook food for the refugees. We boiled eggs and
potatoes, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers—everything we could get hold of. My
aunt also helped prepare a school building where some of the refugees could find
shelter.
My aunts and cousins had come to Birzeit to escape the unrest in al-Quds. Everyone believed this would be over in a few weeks, and that we would be able to return. But in October, we began to understand that this was no picnic.
After the war in 1967, East al-Quds was annexed by Jordan. It then
became possible again for my mother and me to visit our house. The house had
become a daycare center, so it was easy to enter. My mother began explaining to a
woman sitting in the office that it had once been her bedroom. It was painful to see
our house again. I had hoped, for as long as possible, that we would be allowed to
return. We never went back again.
The Nakba is still ongoing; the displacement is still ongoing. Everything here is so hard to predict under the Israeli occupation. When you get up in the morning and put your right foot down, you do not know whether your left foot will follow.
In 1993, during the first intifada, my son produced a song and made cassette copies
of it. He was arrested by the police and taken for interrogation at Moscobiyeh in al-Quds.
He was accused of spreading music that glorified the intifada. He was imprisoned for six months. First he was held in Ayalon prison in al-Ramla. He went through hell there. We were allowed to visit him, but I was not allowed to touch him. He sat behind a net. Later he was transferred to Prison Six, outside Atlit. The time in prison made my son more enthusiastic and determined than before. He continues to make music.

Andra generationen #44 - Abbe Lejbowicz

Lyt når som helst, hvor som helst

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