The Romanian Jewish Community

         My name is Iosif Lazar and I live in Turnu-Severin. I was born in 1923.

         On June 7, 1941, at four o’clock in the morning, my brother, Aron Lazar, also known as Nicu, and I were sound asleep. Because of the heat, we weren’t wearing pajamas. Suddenly, the agents of the secret police broke in and seized us. They rushed us to their headquarters in our underwear. They kept us in the dungeon until six-six and a half in the afternoon, when our parents arrived with clothes. We finally got dressed.

         At 11 o’clock in the evening they took us to Targu-Jiu, the center of the penitentiary system. They detained us for two days there. We were medically examined; those who were fit for work were sent to forced labor, while those who weren’t stayed there. We were sent to Siria, Pancota – further away from Arad – where they were digging an antitank ditch 11 meters deep; at the top, it was 10 meters wide and at the bottom it was 4. If a tank fell into that ditch, it was stuck. We worked there until September 1943.

         Then they took us to the backwoods of Moldavia, to a village with very few inhabitants called Batinesti. The only water source was the creek. They washed laundry in it and had their animals drink from it. But this didn’t prevent us from using its water as drinking water and for cooking, as we had no other choice. This went on until the great day arrived.

         On August 23, 1944, at 2 a.m., there was a knock on the gate of the man where we stayed, a certain Simion. Our host went outside and asked who was there. ‘It’s the constable.’ – ‘I’m not letting you in.’ He wouldn’t let him in, because he feared the man was there to shoot us. The village constable insisted: ‘Come here, man, I have good news for you.’ Simion went to the gate and the constable handed him his gun and told him the truce had been signed.

         On hearing the constable was there, we all rushed to hide; we were afraid he would shoot us. But Uncle Simion, as we used to call him, showed up and told us: ‘Folks, you’re free. Here’s the constable’s gun. He came to tell me about the truce; there’s peace now.’ The constable asked Simion for a glass of plum brandy. ‘If you got any.’ Uncle Simion was a fine man – may God keep him in good health if he’s still alive and rest him in peace if he’s dead. He came with the drinks and we all got out and listened to the constable’s story. The problem was that, by 5 a.m., the time of the wakeup call, the man hadn’t got any official order yet.

         Three of us went to the headquarters to catch the commander of the camp – his name was Nicolae Batcu. All they found was two empty rooms. At 3 a.m., the place was already deserted and all the papers were gone. The three guys came back and we all calmed down a bit. Yet in the morning, the head of the group had still orders to call the roll, which he did.

         We went to the worksite with our tools and just stood there until 11 a.m. We didn’t work at all. The moment we saw Russian planes overflying the Romanian territory, we threw our tools into the air: pickaxes, shovels, and spades – that’s all we had.

         We just threw them into the air and left.