I was born in Budapest, Hungary, on March 7, 1937, as Erika Berger. My parents were Sophie (Zsofia in Hungarian) and Henrik Berger. My mother was a first-rate dressmaker, who learned her trade from her early teen years. She worked in an elegant salon in Budapest’s elite shopping districts. My father was a tool and dye maker; he worked in the then well-known “Wertheimer” elevator factory. We were not rich but lived comfortably with two incomes.

My parents kept company for seven years before my father was allowed to marry, as his parents needed his income to support the family. Mother patiently waited (like Jacob for Rachel). Father had one brother and one sister. We had very little contact with this side of the family. Ultimately, I lost all contact with my father’s family.

I came along four years after my parents were married. My paternal grandfather died three months before I was born. I was an only child.

My warmest and practically only recollection of my family was on my mother’s side. My grandparents, Eduard-Elias and Anna Steiner, had seven offspring: three boys and four girls. Having lived in the Austro-Hungarian territory and given the difficult economic conditions of the time, my grandparents became “wandering Jews” throughout Germany and Austria, before they finally re-settled back in Hungary. Along the way, two children were born in Germany, one (my mother) in Vienna and the rest of the children in Hungary.

My grandparents were good, decent, hardworking people. Even though I barely remember my maternal grandmother, as she died when I was only three, I always think and reflect on her as a kind, loving person like a mother hen . . . she came from a traditional Jewish background, whereas Grandpa was a totally secular person and a laborer. They barely spoke Hungarian; the language in their home was German, which all the children spoke fluently. One of the boys died as a young child and a sister as a young woman.

The years scattered the family: the two brothers left Hungary for France: one settled in Paris, the other in Algiers (then French territory) and moved to Nice in the ‘50s. One of the sisters moved to France before WWII, where she died. Out of the entire family only mother and one sister (Catherine) remained in Hungary with their parents. My aunt Catherine never married; she lived with her parents to the end and supported them. She became my closest – and almost only known – relative. She was intelligent and basically self-educated. She learned English before the war and I remember seeing National Geographic magazines in her home in the ‘30s. I recall, as a young child, enjoying the smell of the newsprint and looking at those wonderful pictures. She held an important position with a prominent firm; had a very nice, spacious apartment in the fashionable downtown part of the city, had a live-in maid/housekeeper to attend to her parents as well. She was a lady of society, frequented coffee houses, theatre, opera. She took me once to Lake Balaton, a famous resort area.

Life in pre-war Budapest flowed smoothly, in spite of some economic difficulties. Budapest was a cosmopolitan city, considered at the time to be the Paris of Eastern Europe. Most Jews in the city were assimilated and considered themselves as staunch Hungarians (just like the German Jews). Little by little, anti-Jewish laws were brought about. One of the laws called for Jewish men to enlist in order to serve in a Labor Battalion. These Labor Forces were annexed to the Hungarian army, to do their dirty work, like digging ditches and clearing minefields.

As the Hungarian army advanced toward Russia and the Eastern Front, with winter coming on, many of these men starved, froze, were abused or simply shot by their Hungarian superiors. My father, at age 37, was taken for forced labor and became one of these unfortunate victims . . . only because he was Jewish! My paternal grandmother received a notice, years later, from the Hungarian state department, claiming he “disappeared in Russian activity territory between 1941 and 1942 and was declared to have died a hero’s death”! Hungary did not deserve him dying for her! We never heard from or about him again. I barely knew my father as I was only five when he was taken from us.

After father was taken away, mother had to take over being breadwinner and both mother and father. I was the only child in the small family, the apple of their eyes, but still very unspoiled. Children of my generation had to grow up fast, understand the conditions we were subjected to and mature faster than children in today’s world. We were robbed of our childhood. We had no money to splurge on toys, dolls or frivolities. I remember asking my mother when I saw something I liked in a store window: “Anyuka(mommy) – will you buy it for me when you have money?” The answer, of course, was always “yes” . . . but it never came to pass.

Eventually, more anti-Jewish laws came about. One made all Jews wear the yellow star. Then, one that called for all Jews to be concentrated in one neighborhood, move into “Jewish Houses,” or as they were called, “Star Houses.” I was in first grade but I had to quit school; that was the total sum of my “education” in Hungary. We had to leave our home on a minute’s notice, with only the small amount of personal belongings we could hand-carry. Luckily, we knew a family in that “Jewish district” who agreed to share their apartment with us; so mother, aunt, grandpa and I all moved in.

Conditions were getting harsher. Food shortages, curfews, bombings, fear, arrests. Every time we heard sirens, we had to rush down to the cellars. News started filtering in about the death camps. People were searching for ways to hide, if they were lucky. Mother and Catherine were among those lucky ones. They found false Christian ID papers and hid as housekeepers with Christian families. Grandpa was taken into the ghetto, where he survived the war. Mother found a place for me in a home for children whose fathers were taken to Forced Labor, organized by Protestant clergy. Here I was hidden throughout the war, under false names. I remember not having any fresh foods during this period, only dry staples like beans, peas, lentils, etc. As the Russians were advancing and the Germans retreating, Budapest got caught in the crossfires. Water lines were severed. During snowy days, we were taken outside and were able to eat the fresh snow, in lieu of fresh water. They also used it for cooking and sanitary uses. Speaking of sanitation: we had none. Many of us, including myself, developed skin sicknesses and lice.

During one of the bombing episodes our house was hit; debris, glass, beams, concrete all over us; we were all in panic and were rushed to the cellar; kids pushing each other. I slid on the stairs, head down, cut my head on glass, which left a scar where hair never grew again.

After liberation by the Russians, pedestrian, daytime movement was possible; however, evening curfews were still in effect. My mother was the first parent to show up to claim her child. She was taking me to her place of hiding, on foot. There was no motorized transportation; we had to walk. Darkness caught up with us; we needed to get indoors, but where?

After knocking on several doors and basement windows and not being accepted, although mother pleaded that she had a small child, we were luckily admitted to a small house where we spent the night: mother on a beach chair and I in a baby’s crib. They also gave us a warm drink and a bite to eat. We were very grateful to be treated kindly and to be out of the dark and the cold street.

Eventually, people started coming out of hiding and the lucky ones who survived trickled back home, toward the city, searching for family members. Some of the bridges were destroyed between Buda and Pest. No transportation. People everywhere walking in hordes, carrying small satchels, bags, carts or bicycles. We managed to get to our old apartment only to discover that it was occupied by strangers; no one expected the Jews to survive and return to claim it and their possessions! We had nothing left but our lives and no place to live. We proceeded to my aunt’s apartment. Luckily, we found her and grandpa alive. Their place was also settled by strangers but they were allowed to have one room.

Things were chaotic at this post-war city; buildings bombed out, food practically non-existent . . . we had nowhere to stay. Somehow, my mother found contact with a Zionist organization, where she was hired as a cook, in a home for teens. Conditions after liberation were so harsh that people turned into savages: dead horses left by the army were quickly cut up by the hungry hordes. Some food was left on farms outside the city (whatever was not taken by the Germans or the liberating Russian troops). People in the city, who had any valuables left or hidden, headed to the farms to exchange them for food. Trains were few and far between. The ones that did leave the city were jam-packed with people, baskets, suitcases heading to the farms. Those who could not get inside rode on top.

The organization mother joined also had a home for the younger children, where I was placed. We were told they would help us go to Palestine. Mother was fed up with Hungary after the way they treated us. We were given Hebrew names: She became Lea and I, Ora (light). We were smuggled out of Hungary in February, 1946, by train to Vienna. We had assumed identities (again!) and were taken to a transit station, which used to be a hospital; we were promptly fumigated with DDT (for lice, etc.) There were hundreds of refugees of various nationalities assembled there, speaking all languages of Babel! We were grouped with other Hungarians. After a few days, we were transferred to a DP camp in Germany, near the town of Ansbach, in Bavaria. This camp used to be a sanatorium named “Strüth.” It had pleasant grounds, surrounded by shrubs and trees of all kinds. Children of similar ages were housed in barracks; couples were accommodated in rooms. The place, like many others all over Europe, were run and maintained by the American Joint Distribution Committee. Slowly, things got organized: school for children, sewing room, medical personnel, etc. Some of the original German maintenance personnel remained to tend the grounds. Meals were served in a communal dining room; we had occasional entertainment by our own talents.

All this while we were waiting for aliyah (immigration to Palestine). Mother got together here with a man who also had two teenage sons. We spent two long years in this camp. One day, mother and I visited some distant relatives in another city and upon our return discovered – to our astonishment – that the camp was empty! While we were gone, they made aliyah. After waiting all that time, we missed the boat!

Somehow, we were directed to another camp in the south of France, near Marseilles. From here we got a transport boat. It was a small fishing vessel; they built double bunks in its hull, where we were paired up for sleeping. It carried 200 people – we were packed like sardines, but we were on our way to Palestine! When we passed Cyprus, it flew the Turkish flag, so we managed to pass under the noses of the British unnoticed. It took us 12 long, arduous days from Marseilles to their shores of Palestine, which normally takes three. The Mediterranean in mid-November is no bowl of cherries, especially not in a tiny vessel. It was named quite appropriately: Aliyah. At last, at dawn on November 16, 1947, we arrived at the shores of Palestine; we anchored out at sea, near Nahariya (in the north) and were brought to shore with small rubber boats, in shifts. When mother stepped off the boat onto land, she knelt down and kissed the ground. We were welcomed by the Haganah (the Jewish underground personnel) and taken to several kibbutzim. By the time the British realized there was this illegal boat at the shore and seized it, all they caught was an empty ship.

After a few days in the kibbutz, we were sent to Rechovot, where we got an apartment. We had nothing but the clothes on our backs. Mother was able to get a job in an army camp as a cook. I was left with some new friends. I started school but my Hebrew knowledge was weak. Shortly thereafter, mother found the man she lived with in Germany. He wound up being on the ship Exodus, which was sent back to Germany, then ended up on Cyprus, and finally in a kibbutz in Israel. She bailed them out from the kibbutzafter a quick marriage; exchanged our apartment in Rechovot for one in Haifa, where we got an old Arab apartment. The marriage lasted six years; it got rockier each year and ended in divorce. These were miserable years for me, living in a household with two older sons from another marriage. I was treated like Cinderella.

In 1948, the state was formed and became Israel. Again, tough times, rationing of basic staples, primitive conditions (like cooking on petroleum lamps, leaking iceboxes). People thrown together from many countries, speaking many languages with varied cultures. None of the conveniences we take for granted today. Israel was a poor, up and coming country, fighting for its existence. It was very hard to make a living.

Around this time, my aunt Catherine immigrated to the U.S., after grandpa passed away. Mother applied for a visa too, which was a lengthy procedure. Because of the family problems, she sent me (at age 17) to my uncle in Paris, hoping I could get to America from there, when she got her visa, thereby avoiding the army service in Israel. Well, things turned out differently. The French would not extend my visitor’s visa and Israel demanded my return to serve in the army. So, I became a soldier at 18. During this time, mother’s visa came through, which would have expired if not acted upon. She had to leave me and sail to America to join her sister. She had a tough time making ends meet, and I was left alone in Israel. During this time I met someone, Tibor-Zeev Goldstein, who later became my husband and father of our two daughters, Sara and Michelle.

Sometime after being released from my two-year army service (which I ended as sergeant), I followed mother to the U.S. I arrived in 1957 on the S.S. United States, which was the fastest ship in the world. It was an awesome feeling seeing the Statue of Liberty in person! I couldn’t believe I was actually in New York. HIAS was very helpful at this critical time for me; a representative met me on board, whizzed me through the maze of red-tape of immigration, customs and the general confusion of it all. She accompanied me off the ship to the happy arms of my mother and aunt.

It was not easy adjusting to the new homeland: economically, socially, etc. I felt quite lonely and lost. I “imported” my husband-to-be, after marrying him in Israel. The marriage lasted 22 years and ended in divorce. I am now remarried to Kurt Dattner, who is a survivor as well as a hidden child himself. After 42 years in New York, I moved with him to Tucson, where the sun always shines. We have seven grandchildren between us, unfortunately much too far away. Reflecting on my life, I know I was handed the short end of the “stick” and I only hope for the leftover years in good health, and hopefully peace.