The Fig Tree (16 page)

In the midst of this chaos there is a collection of Judaica. It occupies one corner of the upstairs room, like an enclave secreted away from the tumult. There are volumes on Sephardi communities of the Middle East, commentaries penned by biblical scholars, histories of Jewish migrations throughout the Balkans, and rare books in the Ladino tongue, a strain of medieval Spanish, the lingua franca of Sephardi Jews.

The Molho International Bookstore first opened its doors in 1888, in the heart of Thessaloniki's Jewish quarters. The city was then under the rule of the Ottoman Turks, as it had been since 1430. The store was founded by Isaac Molho who bequeathed it to his younger brother Mair, who, in turn, passed it on to his son Solomon. Now Solomon's son, Joseph, manages the store from a cluttered desk on the second floor.

Joseph rules his kingdom with a strong hand, but when he turns from business matters to his twin passions, books and the history of Thessaloniki, he becomes animated, alive. Joseph knows the history well. He offers eclectic glimpses into its Jewish past.

‘St Paul preached in Thessaloniki synagogues in the first century of the Common Era,' he tells me. ‘The Romaniots, as the Greek-speaking Jews were called, have lived here since the city was founded 2300 years ago.'

Joseph speaks of grand epochs. He ranges from Hellenistic to Roman times, from Byzantine to Ottoman rule. The city was an entrepot, a link between east and west, a haven for traders and entrepreneurs, for both adventurers and the dispossessed in search of new lives.

Joseph's ancestors fled to Thessaloniki from Portugal in 1497. They were expelled for refusing to convert to the Christian faith. They joined the many thousand Spanish Jews who had arrived five years earlier, in flight from the Inquisition. Despite the restrictions imposed upon Jews by various rulers, Thessaloniki provided refuge for a succession of communities in flight from Bavaria, Sicily, France and Spain, and other centres of European unrest.

Joseph has warmed to the task. He fetches a book, clears a space on his desk, and points to population tables. By the mid-sixteenth century there were 20,000 Jews living in Thessaloniki. A century later they had grown to 30,000. They were weavers, silk dyers, jewellers and textile merchants, physicians and craftsmen. And they were well organised, in independent congregations, with rabbinical courts and yeshivas, burial societies and houses of prayer. By 1900 there were 80,000 Jews in the city out of a population of 170,000.

The Molho family played a prominent part in documenting this history. Joseph's grandfather, Mair, founded a small publishing company, and his first great venture was to print, in its original French, the entire seven volumes of Joseph Nehama's massive
History of the Jews of Thessaloniki
.

The history came to an abrupt end with the mass deportation of almost the entire Jewish population of Thessaloniki to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Mair Molho was one of the many thousands who perished. His son, Solomon, escaped to the island of Skopelos, where he was hidden by the leader of the Greek community. His mother fled to Palestine with the aid of Greek partisans. The couple returned to Thessaloniki at war's end to find the shelves empty, the shop gutted, the building in disrepair. They immediately re-established the business.

Joseph does not want to dwell upon that time. He wishes only to sing the praises of his native city. He brings me books with sepia-toned photographs and hand-coloured postcards of Thessaloniki at the turn of the century. This was the era when the community reached its heights. There are images of prosperous Sephardi families and ornate synagogues, mansions and market places. The promenade is lined with warehouses and multi-storey hotels that front a crowded port. The sepia tones add a touch of grandeur, a sense of romance.

‘It is still a beautiful city,' says Joseph. ‘You can spend year upon year here, and always discover something new. All you must do is take your feet and walk, walk, walk!'

I walk. I circle the city for seven days on end. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Dora and Alexander. And we come to see it on many levels. There is the metropolis of avenues and squares, laid out after the great fire of 1917 that destroyed much of the port area. There are also glimpses of a more distant past, in courtyards and arcades, behind shutters and whitewashed walls. We ascend to the city fringes and climb the cobblestone alleys of the Turkish quarter, beyond the strip of flatland that runs against the harbour. On the heights, minarets and ramparts rise from the crumbling remnants of the Ottoman past.

We have been lured by Joseph's passion. Thessaloniki possesses a history that can seduce a traveller who has stumbled upon it. It was a centre of Sephardi life, a city of sages and scholars, false saviours and interpreters of biblical law. It was in Thessaloniki that Shabbetai Zvi proclaimed himself the Messiah, only to save his own skin by converting to Islam. His thousands of followers were either devastated or clung to their beliefs in rebel congregations that lived on for many years.

It was a city that could produce wonderful hybrids. There were Jews who consorted with mystical orders of whirling dervishes, and communities of converts to the Islamic faith. There was a brotherhood of stevedores who controlled the harbour and its trade; and clans of fishermen who trawled their nets in the depths beyond the port, and spent their Sabbaths at sea.

On autumn evenings families would gather on their balconies to watch the lights of the many ships at anchor offshore, conveying riches from foreign lands. The cafes and beer houses in Eleftheria Square were full of sailors arguing over the politics of the day. Breezes fanned the promenade that ran by the quay. A succession of trading companies and hotels blazed with commerce late into the night. Rabbinical scholars hastened past the docks on their way to prayer, while in the poorer quarters the families of street vendors and porters relaxed on wicker chairs after a day of work. This was the Thessaloniki of the imagination, veiled by the passing of time.

The romance did not last. Perhaps it never truly existed. In my journal I write notes for a short story. A young man wanders the streets of the city. He is a descendant of one of its survivors who had left Thessaloniki in 1945 vowing never to return. The wanderer cannot see its beauty. It flits by the periphery of his vision. He sees only the shadows of the past. And he knows the crucial dates well. They are the markers of his family's past.

He comes upon Eleftheria Square where, on 11 July 1942, the Nazis herded all Jewish males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. For hours the 7000 men were kept under the searing sun. They were beaten, humiliated, and subsequently sent to work in malaria-prone areas. For months they laboured, from dawn to dusk, on a ration of 100 grams of bread and cabbage soup, until the community paid a ransom for their release.

This was the beginning. The wanderer, whom we shall call Victor, traces a well-worn path. He makes his way to the eastern outskirts of the city, towards the grand railway station; but he sees only the old station. It was from here that the first transport for Auschwitz departed on 15 March 1943.

The victims were corralled in quarters built by the philanthropist Baron de Hirsch at the turn of the century, to house Russian Jews in flight from pogroms. From these quarters they were driven onto trains, in lots of 2500 or more. By August it was over. Thessaloniki was all but
Judenrein
. The property they left behind was ransacked, or handed over to local collaborators. A community that numbered 50,000 on the eve of war had been obliterated within months.

Victor is trapped within his own shadows. He wishes to rejoin the revellers, those who, in the thousands, frequent the tavernas, coffeehouses, theatres and dance halls, late into the night. The city is coming back to life. With the fall of the communist regimes in the Balkans the trade routes have reopened. The Via Egnatia, which once ran from Byzantium to Rome, is flowing with commerce again. But Victor is more concerned with the fate of his family, and with tracing the past.

He has heard there is a Jewish centre where the remnants of the community gather. They go there on weeknights, the elderly and middle-aged, to play bridge, gossip and enjoy each other's company. On Friday evenings, just after the Sabbath has been ushered in, they assemble in the centre for a communal meal. This is where he can piece together the story, Victor has been told.

He makes his way to Tsimiski 24. The winter is approaching. The November chill eats into the bones. Yet there is an air of festivity in the streets. Ships hover offshore. The languages of many lands can once again be heard upon the city's breezes. Thessaloniki exudes a sense of well-being.

Victor enters the foyer, and shows his passport to the security guards. After a search of his shoulder bag they allow him in. He takes an elevator to an upper floor. The community centre is a converted apartment, a jumble of refurbished offices and meeting rooms. Victor is ushered into the banquet hall. There are several hundred guests, sitting at tables crowded with food. His glass is filled with Sabbath wine. Eat, drink, you are our guest, he is told by the men and women who fuss about him. He is warmly welcomed as the son of a distinguished Thessa-loniki family.

‘You wish to know about the past?' one guest offers. ‘Come. Let me introduce you to Leon Benmajor. He saw it all. He went through the flames of Gehenna. He can tell you stories that will make the hair stand up on the back of your neck.'

Leon Benmajor leads Victor to an adjoining room where they sink back on leather-bound sofas. On the walls hang portraits of community leaders past. Leon is seventy years old, a stout man with a dignified presence. He is dressed in an elegant suit. His black shoes shine like mica. His white hair is combed back tight, well contained.

‘Benmajor means, literally, the son of Majorcans,' he says. ‘My forebears arrived here from Portugal in 1497, exactly half a millennium ago. They came here when they were ordered by King Manuel to relinquish their faith. We were prized for our skills so, rather than expel us, the king closed all ports and tried to force us to remain. But thousands managed to escape.'

Benmajor glances at his nails. Adjusts his tie. Lifts the cup of tea to his lips. ‘For five centuries we thrived here. We were well received by the Ottoman rulers. Thessaloniki became the Jerusalem of the Balkans. Even after the Greeks overthrew the Ottomans during the Balkan wars of 1912, we weathered the storm. We are masters of adaptation; but we also know it is important to have a suitcase ready in case we have to suddenly move.

‘The end came quickly. We were not prepared. Mussolini ordered his troops into Albania and Greece. I was conscripted into the Greek army. I fought in the Albanian campaign in 1941. We battled in snow and bitter winds for months. The Italians were put to the flight, but they were only a prelude to the final act.

‘When the Nazis occupied the city, they plundered and destroyed our property. They attacked our synagogues and homes. They desecrated our cemeteries and deprived us of our rights. But we did not know what they truly had in mind. How could we believe what was coming?

‘We were forced onto the trains on 28 April 1943. I will always remember the exact date. It was the end of all I had known. We travelled together—my father, mother, two sisters. In crowded wagons. We had been told that we would be taken to Krakow to resettle and work.

‘After five days we arrived in Birkenau. It was 4 am. We were surrounded by SS men. Most were sent to their immediate death. They took one of my sisters and my parents. I glimpsed the flames from the crematoria engulfing my loved ones.

‘I was loaded onto a truck and sent to Auschwitz, block 9. We built roads. We were sent to Katowice to construct a factory from the foundations up. The factory produced anti-aircraft cannons. We worked two eight-hour shifts per day. We could not believe this was happening to us.

‘In January 1944 I became ill. I weighed forty-two kilos. Can you believe it? I was sent to the crematoria. Many hundreds had already been gassed that day. I was in the last group. There were only fifty of us. It was not worth putting on another shift, so they sent us to the barracks to die the slow way. Five days later I was sent to the hospital.

‘This was my great luck. “I know that I am going to die,” I said to one of the doctors. “Listen to me,” he replied. “As long as we are alive we should think only of survival. We must be like animals. Do not think. Just eat. Work. And live.” It was the best advice I ever received.

‘I remained in the hospital for three months. The doctors fed me, and we bartered with Polish inmates for extra food that had been sent by their families. I put on weight. As soon as I had enough flesh on me I was sent back to work. I sorted and recycled aluminium and iron from destroyed aeroplanes. And I clung to the doctor's advice. I lived. And worked. And ate.

‘In November 1944, I was assigned to a special group. Our job was to destroy the crematoria, to get rid of the evidence. This is why I am telling you my story now. It is the only reason. I do not like recalling these things, but I saw what happened with my own eyes. I have an obligation to talk.

‘In January 1945 we were marched from the camps. We pushed our wasted bodies through the snow. Those that fell were left for dead. Those of us who still had some strength were sent to Germany for more slave labour. I just lived. And worked. And ate. And when I did not have enough to eat, I dreamt of eating. I came down with typhus and they sent me to Dachau. Again I managed to cling to life. When I regained my health, I was sent to the Austrian–German border for more work.

‘On 30 April we spent the night by a river. In the morning it was snowing. The SS were gone. They had vanished into the night. There were three thousand of us. We were bombarded by US airmen who mistook us for the enemy. Eight hundred died from the cold as we walked to the nearest village. At midnight we saw American armoured cars. We could not believe we were free, and that we could eat our fill. Those who overate died from dysentery. I took only tea and sugar. I knew this was the best thing to do from my school days.