The atmosphere in the Kitchen was surprisingly friendly. The crew worked like a group of entrepreneurs, having developed a feeling of solidarity and mutual responsibility. When anyone in the group was overburdened, others spontaneously pitched in, finishing the work together as a unit.

During the first weeks of my work there, while I was getting used to this noble routine, I felt a sense of guilt for leaving right after finishing my own tasks without sharing the crew's collective responsibility. My day began at dawn in the big wholesale market hall where I bought the basic food for the Kitchen. My mind was working overtime when I was leaving the Kitchen at the end of the day, heaps of vegetables still awaiting peeling and cleaning for the next day's meal. Finally I asked the chef, Mrs. Raab, how I could help and join the common effort. Moved by my question, she asked if I knew how to peel potatoes and if I would to join Tzipi, in which case I could sit down next to her, roll up my sleeves, and get to work. This did not sound bad at all. Tzipi was a good-looking and charming, with a smiling face and much joy of life. Working beside her promised to develop into quite a pleasant pastime, so I accepted Aunt Raab's suggestion on the spot. Tzipi proved to be an adroit and diligent worker, who possessed a fine and subtle humor and laughed readily. Our facile banter and amused chats gradually slid into a more personal level. We talked about our families, childhood and ourselves. During many such joint vegetable peeling and cleaning sessions, a profound friendship developed between us, which budded and bloomed gradually into the first great love of my life. This new elation filled my whole life and gave it a new meaning. While walking in the clouds we sometimes allowed ourselves the luxury of a good film or a stage play. Together we also attended Budapest's "Open University" to hear lectures by Jewish scholars who had been fired from their university positions because of the Hungarian Numerus Clausus law. These lectures were meant to benefit students who had been denied admission to universities for the same reason. In such fashion we attended an interesting course called History of Philosophy, which we enjoyed greatly. In the evenings we read the pertinent text the professor had assigned, a thick volume titled The Heroes of Thought. Such joint cultural activities brought us still closer together and cemented our relationship.

Our youth movement that was founded at the beginning of the 20th century was based on the same principle as the German Wandervogel movement. Our different age groups had names similar to those of the German model. When my sister Sara arrived in Budapest, at the beginning of 1942, she joined her appropriate age group of 16- to 17-year-olds. She soon fit in and made friends with its members. Her age group still needed guidance from an older scoutmaster and lacked one at that time. They asked me to become their leader, and I gladly accepted the challenge. It was a great experience to work with these intelligent teenagers. As an ancient sage declared, "I have learned very much from all my teachers, but much more from my pupils."

During the summer of 1942, my sister Rózsi managed to escape from Bratislava, the Slovak capital, where after elementary school she had learned hairdressing and specialized in cosmetics. Soon after the fascist Hlinka party tool over Slovakia in 1939 under the presidency of Monsignor Dr. Josef Tiso, the new government had begun deporting Jews to concentration and annihilation camps, mainly in Poland. Sometime early in the summer of 1942, Rózsi had received her order to report to a certain office for "work beyond the borders." This harmless-looking document meant deportation to those infamous camps. She fled from her residence and, with the assistance of her Movement, succeeded in crossing the border into Hungary. In Nagymegyer she had tried to work as a hairdresser but, unsatisfied with the local standard, she moved to Budapest where she joined Frida and Sara in their sublet room. She soon found a good job at a well-known beauty parlor.

The work in the Kitchen went on harmoniously until we received a visit of a prominent guest, Mrs. Zwack, the owner of the Zwack-Unicum liquor factory, who one of the directors of the OMZSA charity organization that owned the Kitchen. Mrs. Zwack was on inspection tour of the organization's kitchens and homes for juveniles. The lady had a long conversation with Rachel, our dietary cook. As we were told later, Mrs. Zwack offered her the position of a housemother in one of the organization's apprentice homes in Zöldmáli Road in Óbuda (Old Buda). Rachel had accepted on condition that Tzipi and I could join her. We consented gladly, since we did not care where we had to go as long as we could remain together. The prospect of working with Rachel sounded promising; we liked and respected her as a person of integrity and a true comrade.

The OMZSA apprentice homes had been founded to enable Jewish boys and girls from all over the country to come to the capital and learn a useful profession, since academic studies were out of reach, as I mentioned earlier. The homes provided them with a decent residence and with healthy meals (breakfast and a warm supper), during their apprenticeship. The Zölmáli home, although located in an almost new villa, had suffered from incompetent management. Some members of the "staff" abused the inhabitants, to the extent of stealing their belongings, such as packages sent from home. While playing cards and drinking all day long, some caretakers had neglected even their most basic tasks, so that the whole house was in shambles. Rachel planned to replace the entire gang, except for the curricular head, and to restore order and a proper atmosphere for the boys. Within a few days after we moved into the dirty villa, the three of us restored the cobwebby place to its original sheen. The youngsters arriving home from work couldn't believe their eyes as they witnessed shining parquet floors, sparkling clean bathrooms, and our shining faces welcoming them. Some of them yelled with joy, others burst into tears, repeating over and over "This can't be true!", "It's not the same house we left in the morning!" and "How did you do it?" Their joy and enthusiasm was our first victory in the battle for their trust. It took us only a few days of continued devoted work to convince them of our good will and sincerity to help them by improving their living conditions. They opened up, step by step, telling us about their previous lives and about the misbehavior of the earlier staff. "We would never have believed that things could improve that much!" said one of the more talkative ones.

Rachel fit perfectly into the role of the mother the boys had left behind in their remote town or village. They regarded Tzipi and me as their older sister and brother and the curriculum manager, Shmuel Hornstein, whom everybody called Hori, completed the family idyll by serving as the father-figure. He was a tall, good-looking young man, a Rabbinical Seminary graduate, who maintained order and discipline while his blue eyes emitted kindness and infinite love. Thus the Zölmáli boys received a second home and acquired in us a loving second family.

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