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STORY OF THE WOHL FAMILY TORAH SCROLL


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Joe Berliner's description of his visit to Orlik (Vizni Orlik) and the cemetary of Ladomirova, where many of our ancestors are buried. My father, Jacob Goldstein, was born and lived until he was 16 years old in Nizni Orlik, at the Goldsteins home that was facing across the street with the Eisenbergs. The Synagogue and the Mikwah (Ritual bath) where in Vizni Orlik.
During Poli and my visit, at the cemetary also guided by a gipsy. we found my Granfather's, Hershel Goldstein's grave.



A VISIT TO ORLIK


This is an account of a trip to Orlik -- more precisely, Vyshnyi Orlik, to be distinguished from the even less notable Nizhni Orlik. They were called Ober-Orlich and Unter-Orlich in the good old Hungarian days. Ann and I flew from Prague (in Bohemia) to Kosice (in Slovakia), then rented a car and drove north to Preshov, which became our base of operations. Preshov is the city that my mother used to call by its Hungarian name of Eperies when I used to ask her what was the nearest "real" city to Orlich. Only a few years ago did I learn that what she always referred to as Hungary was present-day Czechoslovakia. I am not sure that she ever knew that Orlich has not been part of Hungary since World War I; for her it was forever Hungary.

From the hotel in Preshov it's about an hour's drive north. When the highway sign identified the turnoff to Stropkov, I knew that we were getting close. Stropkov is another of the towns that used to be cited in the tales of the old country. Steve Berliner remembers the name; it may be the town where our grandmother's family, the Schoenfelds, hailed from. From that point on it's a short drive to Svidnik, where the road divides. The road on the left goes to Orlik and the road on the right goes to Ladimirova.

Svidnik is a fairly large town and I wonder why mother never mentioned it. It's only about eight miles to Orlich, and she is more likely to have visited there than Preshov, which she probably only heard about from the grown-ups' talk. Perhaps Svidnik was a very small town in those days, meriting no more mention than Orlik itself. But nowadays everybody in Prague knows where Svidnik is, while poor Orlik is still something of a hicktown.

The countryside is attractive, with rolling hills and rather neat looking farms (as in all of Czechoslovakia.) I imagine that view of the countryside was not very different in the years before 1903 when mother embarked for America. But the town itself is rather undistinguished. The paved road runs right through the center, and it takes about three minues to drive from one end of the settlement to the other. In the middle of the town, fronting on the main road, is the beer hall, a photo of which I had seen in Teddy Goldstein's collection.

I parked the car near the beer hall and set off on foot up one of the side streets to look around. The blacktop quickly gave way to a dirt road, with rather shabby houses on both sides. One was a two-story multi-family house. in the courtyard of which sat an old man, a few children, a dog and some chickens pecking about. I called to the old man over the gate to tell him that I'm an American and that my mother was born in this town, and could I talk to him about whether he remembers any of my family. I talked in Russian and he answered in Slovak, which made conversation possible but difficult; I am not absolutely sure, however, that I got it all right.

When he understood who I was and what I wanted, he got quite animated and began searchding his memory for names and persons. For a while we talked over the fence, but when I started taking notes he invited us into his yard so that I could sit at the table and write more comfortablly. The children also crowded around and their mother came out too; they all tried to help explain to me what the old man was saying, but since they also spoke only Slovak their assistance didn't help to clarify very much much. There was a particularly long charade trying to explain to me the meaning of a term that sounded like "bliznata dvoichata." I never did figure out the sign language, but after returning home it is clear from my Russian dictionary that it means "twin." If my Russian were better I would have known that.

When I told him my name was Berliner, he brightened up and exploded. "Of course, Sholko Berliner was my friend. We were both born in the same year, 1912. I knew his father, Mor (it sounded like that) Berliner, and he had two sisters." After a bit he recalled that the sisters' names were Vrukha and Chaya. There were also Lieba and Laya who were twins, but I don't know where they belong. The Berliner house no longer exists, but its foundation remains and the House of Culture was built on top of that foundation. He pointed to the general direction of the house, but we didn't have the time to try to locate it.

I never heard of those Berliners, but I think I know who they are. In 1880 my grandfather Josef Berliner began sending periodic dollar remittances from New York to a Mendl Berliner in Ober- Ohrlich, Ungarn. Mendl must have been his father; which may be why one of his sons was named Emanual, my Uncle Mannie. These Orlik Berliners must derive from the other sons of my great grandfather Mendl, those who stayed behind. The remittances ceased around 1889, which may signify that Mendl had died.

My informant was named Mikhail Pan'ko. Did he know a family named Eisenberg, which was my mother's name? No, he did not recognize that name. But there were many other Jewish families he knew before the war. There was Emanual Goldstein and Toshka Rosenwasser. This was his only mention of the Goldstein name, and he did not know any other Goldsteins. The Lorber family lived there too, but they all went to America (the Lorbers are captured on Teddy's geneology.) Then there was Shia Antal nglander, and the Berger family.

When I asked what happened to them, he seemed to grow sad and reflective, and said that they went away, to the camps; those were very bad times, and they were terrible things that Hitler did. I found myself wondering what he thought and did during those bad times.

Mikhail described himself as a plain farmer. His mother had once lived in America, in Hazelton Park, New Jersey, but after some years she came back home. When I asked why she came back, he said in a tone of disgust, "because we had this farm here." I guessed that he was thinking that he might have been an American if she had not been so dumb about it.

Then we ran out of things to say or to ask. I was preparing to say goodbye when he asked if we would please come with him and have a glass of beer as his guest. We then walked with him to the beer hall on the roadside; by this time he was so xhilarated by the events of the day that he had his arm entwined in ours. When we entered the hall, there were about a dozen men in working mens' clothing sitting about the tables drinking beer. Mikhail guided us in, and some men moved to clear a table for us. All eyes were upon us, and I supposed they were trying to figure out how old Mikhail came to have these rich foreigners in tow. He, for his part, was enjoying his prominence normously, and put a quick end to the efforts of some of the men to talk to us.

People kept coming in and leaving during our visit, including two very dark women wearing overalls. As they drank their beers and laughed together, there was something about them that intrigued me. Suddenly it came to me. Mother used to talk about the Gypsies who lived in the neighborhood, and there was no doubt that here they were. We later talked with a number of our Czech and Slovak friends about the Gypsies and heard some fascinating accounts of how the Communist government has tried to socialize them but never succeeeded. I have seen Gypsies before, but never in what my mind regards as their natural location -- mother's Hungary.

Mikhail wanted us to linger on, to keep the encounter from ending, but it was time to go. I gave him my card and he promised to write to me if he happens to think of other people with the names I had given him. We took some photos together, which I will mail to him. It was a big day for him, in a life that I imagine does not have many big days. It was big day for us too.

After leaving Mikhail, we drove up some of the side streets on the other side of the highway, which appears to be the newer part of the town. Those streets were paved, and the houses rather better looking than those on Mikhai's side, the old town, which may not have looked very different in the first years of the century. The streets were extremely narrow, however, and we soon returned to the highway and headed back to Svidnik, There we took the right turn, to Ladomirova, about ten miles up the road.

I had received good directions to the old regional Jewish cemetary in Ladomirova, thanks to Teddy Goldstein's contacts with people who had been there before. There is a rest area on the left side of the highway, where we parked the car, and we quickly found the milestones that mark the point of entry for the climb up to the cemetary.

The rest area is at the base of a fairly steep, wooded hill. You enter the woods and start climbing the hill, holding on to whatever saplings you can grab to keep from falling back. There is no path; you just plow slowly up the hill looking for places to plant each foot so that it won't slip back. The deeper you get into the woods, the darker it gets and the bolder the mosquitoes. You begin to wonder whether you have been following a straight line as you are supposed to, whether you passed it without knowing it, and whether you'll ever find your way back to the highway again. All this in clothes and shoes packed for an academic seminar rather than a mountaineering holiday. Definitely not the most sensible diversion for a couple of sextuagenarians from Massachusetts.

After about a quarter of an hour the slope begins to diminish, and eventually the land becomes level as the woods thin out. Finally, after another quarter hour, you come upon a clearing, and there it is in the distance. There is a small army of gravestones, standing silent. Awesome.

We strode among the stones, trying to make out the contours of the cemetary, and to read some of the more legible scriptionns. I was looking particularly for the name "David" and several other names that might help identify the grave of the the venerable David Goldstein, whose 25 children produced the huge geneology developed by Teddy Goldstein. David was the great grandfather of both my mother and father. The grand hope was that if David's gravestone could be found, it would contain the name of his father, thus extending Teddy's geneology back one more generation, and providing some dates that are presently lacking.

Alas, only the latest of the stones were legible -- the last before the Holocaust. The inscriptions had long disappeared from the older stones. Others could not be read because they had were leaning too far forward, as if bowing to the earth. Only a few, were completely toppled over, however; ironically, they were the tallest and most elaborate. Here too, the bigger they are the sooner they fall. The big disappointment, however, was the realization that I would not succeed in finding the grave of my most fertile forbear.

It was approaching dusk, too late to do any photography and a prudent time to start making our way back down the hill through the darkening woods. We drove back to Preshov for the night, returned to Ladomirova early the following morning, and once more made our way up to the cemetary.

I collected a batch of photos of the scene, some panoramic and some of individual stones, and Ann made rubbings of five of the stones. These are the physical remains of our excursion. The rubbings took more time than the photography, so I was able to explore the cemetary fully.

The women's graves are in a different section from the mens', unlike the practice in the US where even in Orthodox cemetaries the families are kept together. There was no sign of vandalism; that is not a trivial fact, for I have seen an estimate that about a third of all Jewish cemetaries in Eastern Europe have been vandalized. I have seen pictures of patios in Poland paved with stones from Jewish cemetaries. But the Ladomirova cemetary had been left in peace. There were some signs of people having been there recently -- bits of plastic here and there and other human droppings -- but one has to go out of one's way to get to this place, which must be a major reason for its good condition.

In the steep climb up through the woods, I figured that there must be another access to the cemetary. I couldn't quite imagine people making that climb hauling a coffin behind them. In fact I did find a clearing behind the cemetary which looked very much like a road, very likely the road that had been used by the funeral processions of the past. It must also have been used fairly recently, and by a heavy truck, for on the side of the road was the stump of a large tree that had been cut by a chainsaw. The woodchips lay scattered about, with the fresh color of newly cut wood. The access to that road must lie somewhere on the other side of the hill. It is therefore probably not inaccessibility that has protected the cemetary, but the fact that it is out of the way and no one has any reason to visit there. Except for the tree cutter. I wonder why he bothered; perhaps for the value of the timber. But there are no trees in the cemetary worth the effort of cutting and auling.

The toll has been taken by nature, not by people. In the fifty-odd years since the Jews were removed, it must not have been tended at all. Few of the stones are still erect, they lean over in all directions. Trees have grown up among the stones, pushing many of them askew. It is therefore no longer a treeless clearing in the woods, as it must once have been, but it has become a part of the woods itself. It is like a section of the woods in which the trees happen to be somewhat younger and sparser, and in which people have planted a small sea of stones.

Teddy had asked about the possibility of arranging for the restoration and future care of the cemetary by hiring some local people to tend it. I now think that it may not be a good idea. There are, first the practical problems. Someone would have to undertake to contract for the work and to visit the site from time to time to supervise and certify that it is being properly tended. Perhaps some persons in the remaining Jewish community in Prague might be engaged for that purpose, but it would take some considerable managing.

The larger question is whether the idea has merit in its own right. Perhaps the future of the cemetary ought to be left to nature. Nature has already begun to reclaim the land for itself. The stones are slowly bowing down to the earth and all will one day be folded under the ground and the woods will return to what they had once been. This must have been the history of graveyards -- Jewish and Gentile -- throughout history. Those graveyards that were located in regions of long habitation were maintained longer than others, but all must eventually have been reclaimed by nature. Some, no doubt, were destroyed or built over -- the graves of populations defeated in war and displaced by other peoples. But the Ladomirova cemetary, after these fifty years of silence, has a good chance of returning silently to the earth. It seems to me now that that would be a better history for it.

We packed up the rubbings and the cameras and made our final way back down the hill through the woods to the highway. On the way back I noticed a dirt road off the highway that seemed to bend round to the back side of the hill. I turned on to that road, thinking that it might take us to the point of access to the road up to the cemetary. There were some ramshackle houses a long the way, with some dark ragamuffin kids staring at us as we bumped slowly by. Gypsies, like those in my mother's memories of Orlich. The road was not meant for cars, however, and after a short while we gave up, returned to the highway and then on to Prague.

J. Berliner

Joe Berliner's Seder Pesach (Passover) Memories.

Here are some of my recollections about the Seder songs that you might pass on to Melody. The melodies that Steve wrote out must be the same as those I remember. I learned them from hearing them at every seder year after year, that were attended at various times by all the Berliner brothers -- Mike, Mannie, Harry, and even Max occasionally - and their wives and children. They remain in my memory as lusty and joyful occasions. My father Mike, as the oldest, used to lead the seders at our home. I have a dim recollection of Grandmother Hannah also being there; I must have been pretty small then. Grandfather Joseph Scholem had died years before I was born.

Steve says he doesn't know any more "Berliner" melodies, but next time we get together and have a little schnapps I bet I can help him recall one or two more.

Teddy Goldstein has all the info on immigration, but I recall that Joseph Scholem immigrated around 1887. I have inherited a batch of receipts for the money (usually around $5-10) that he would send every month to Emmanual Berliner (his brother?) for the support of the family.

In our family the old country was "Urlich" (Orlik, in Slovak). not "Stropkov" as in Steve's family. As I understand it, the Berliners lived in Urlich, as did my mother, Yetta Eisenberg Berliner. Hannah Schoenfeld was from Stropkov, and she moved to Urlich to marry Joseph Scholem. But the stories she used to tell her children must have been about her own childhood in Stropkov, much as my own mother's stories were about Urlich. That must be why the "old country" was always "Stropkov" in Steve's family but "Urlich" in my family.

I have no knowledge of a family named Freir. Steve is right that I did meet a Slovak farmer in Urlich who got very excited when he learned i was from the Berliner family and he claimed to have gone to school with Chaim ?? Berliner who was a friend of his. I tried to talk to him about the holocaust years but he clammed up and would only say "those were terrible times."

Fond memories -- Joe Berliner

TOM VENETIANER'S,(a Brasilian resident), REPORT OF A TRIP TO SLOVAKIA.

Back from long vacations along which I really missed H-sig threads. Most of the time I spent in Israel but a week was dedicated to visiting cemeteries in Slovakia. I went to Bratislava, Brno (Czech Republic), Kosice, Presov and Kezmarok. The visits were rather short even so I was able to pay my respects at all graves of my ancestors. I have compiled a short report about each one of those cemeteries, including some photos. Those interested in reading it please contact me in private.
Now to my travel impressions...
What shocked me most is that the Slovakia I left 52 years ago *hasn't changed much*. The population continues xenophobic to extremes. They hate about everybody. Mostly they hate Hungarians and the Romani (an euphemism for gypsies). Since my Slovak was rusted, with my cousin I was speaking Hungarian. At a tram trip a guy sitting in front of us turned and very nastily told us to stop speaking "that disgusting language". That much for tolerance and ethnical diversity.
Anti-semitism is widespread. Besides several similar accounts from people I talked with, this was confirmed by a cousin who is actively engaged in the work of rebuilding the Slovakian Jewish communities. He is director at UZZNO (Federation of Slovakia Jewish Communities). According to him, even as the country "registered" only about 3,000 Jews, antisemite drive has reached it highs, specially during the past Meciar regime.
The term "registered" applies to those individuals who declared themselves as Jews in some kind of a census. Seemingly there are about some other 5,000 persons who either hide their religious affiliation or have converted and assimilated. My other cousin told me that "it is not wise" to brag about ones Jewish backgrounds. She declares herself "atheist", which is now socially very acceptable, given the previous religious policies of the communist regime.
There is a very strong revisionist movement, trying to rehabilitate archbishop Tiso (president of the 1939-1944 fascist regime) and his goons. The "Guardists" (Hlinka Guards, the Slovak equivalent of the SS), who were condemned by the communist regime to spend some time in gulags, have received large sums of reparation money, whereas Jews (only inhabitants) are getting 3,000 crowns (75 dollars) for each month spent in a concentration camp. For a parent killed the government will pay 100,000 crowns (2,500 dollars). This is the "price" Slovakia is willing to pay to get access to the European Common Market and to be cleansed from its dirty past. This also indicates how much a human life is worth there. BTW, the Russian Mafia is active there too, willing to kill anybody for about 150 dollars per kopf.
Another shocking experience was to see the Slovak militaries. It may be some personal paranoid but I could swear that their uniforms strongly resemble those used during the 1939-1944 fascist era. Trains are constantly being inspected by some kind of a "train police". Although educated, the border inspectors at the Slovakian side looked quite intimidating. Quite different were the Czechs (I went to the Czech Republic for one day) who continue to be a warm and friendly folk. Anti-semitism in the Czech Republic is claimed to be minimal. They do have a tremendous problem with the Sudetten Czechs, the same group of pro-German residents who facilitated Hitler's takeover of Czechoslovakia.
Life in Slovakia is not easy. Retired people live at the brink of poverty,getting a pension of 5,000 crowns ($125) per month. Each one has to try to work and make some extra income, although this is forbidden by law. Most of them take parttime and underpaid jobs. My cousin works as secretary although she carries a PhD title in history and bibliotheconomy. She earns an extra 5,000 crowns. Her husband, a reputed civil engineer and bridge builder, gets 3,000 ($75) crown per month for delivering structural projects to a large engineering firm.
Young people are doing better. They earn 20-40 thousand crowns per month ($500-1000) which allows them to have a decent apartment, a car and to raise their children, sometimes to travel abroad. The average per couple is 1-2 kids. For Americans (even Brazilians) everything is cheap in Slovakia, thus, to get the real value in American terms, one has to multiply those numbers by at least 3. Nevertheless, my impression on the streets of Bratislava was that people dress very modestly, sometimes even shabbily. Particularly, the shoes are terrible, clearly of low quality. It was Christmas time, so the streets and shops were crowded. Even so,according to my cousin, people are buying the essentials. Her Christmas presents to her 4 grandchildren was worth about 40 dollars. There is one English supermarket chain (Tesco) which carries all kind of local and imported goods. Nevertheless, still according to my cousin, people buy the bare minimal, there is no place for fancy foods or toiletries. She almost killed me because I purchased a Hungarian Pick salami (the best in the world) for $12 a kilo ($5 per pound). What really impressed me is that, at one of the supermarkets I went, I saw people "disputing" the carts. There were two lines - one of those paying their purchases, the other, on the checkouts opposite ends, of people waiting for empty carts and baskets.
The Slovak privatization program was a total disaster. My cousin's son-in-law tried to explain me what has happened. Frankly I didn't get most of it. What came out clear and sound is that the old communist bosses are now owners of large enterprises and are screwing them up, stealing everything. Also, being the friend of the king still works miracles.Namely, all those who have politicians as friends are having all kinds of advantages and privileges, whereas the majority of the opulation lives under meager conditions.
Even in Bratislava, there are very few good restaurants. Fast food joints exist in all places visited. One of the Czech-Slovak specialities are "parkys" (smoked sausages) which I heartely recommend but can't warrant that they are kosher. They are as good or better than Nathan's. One can find them in most of those fast food places. If you wish to eat well in Bratislava, go to Chez David, a kosher restaurant kept by the UZZNO. Not only the ambience is fancy - reassembles Vienna in the 19th century with waiters in full garb - but also the food is excellent and, for Americans,moderately priced. I was told by my cousin that most of the dignitaries who visit Slovakia are taken there for lunch or dinner. Good to know that those brass enjoy kosher food :-) Besides my visits to cemeteries, I went to UZZNO in Bratislava. Given the limited time, this was my sole genealogical incursion. Finally I put my hands on the photographs taken of the demolished Liptovsky Mikulas cemetery graves. I did find the grave of one of my close relatives, but was disappointed to discover that that of my forefather wasn't photographed. According to Mr. Weisz, UZZNO's chief-secretary, when the pictures were made, not all graves existed and many tombstones were already laying on the ground. Also, the place has been taken by brushwood, making difficult the taking of pictures.
A jocund note: I got my visa to Slovakia at the Tel Aviv Slovak embassy. It was a nightmare of bureaucracy, I almost give up on my trip. In the process they "offered" me Slovak citizenship even at the expense of keeping my Brazilian one. I refused it at the spot, even as not having yet seen what I just described. Would you be willing to buy a car from those "dealers"?
I wish to all a belated happy new millennium. For those willing to comment on the above or to obtain further information about Slovakia, please contact me in private, as this is barely a genealogical subject.
Friendly regards,
Tom Venetianer
Sao Paulo - Brazil

Dr. Dudley Shoenfeld, our family member.
He was the psichiatrist that helped the New York Police
to capture Bruno Hauptman, the Lindenbergh's child kidnapper.


The Lindenbergh Case.
The Ransome Note.

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