“I remember the night the Nazis came for us. They were looking for my father, “Where’s that baker? The Jew and the Communist?’ A Christian neighbor grabbed my father and hid him. Soon he was on the way out of town, also protected by Christian friends. Somehow, somewhere, he got a tourist visa from the British consulate to Palestine.My poor mother didn’t know what was going to happen, but she knew it wasn’t going to be good. She went to the British consulate to get a visa for us to leave, but they had on the records that our father was there on a tourist visa. So no, they told her. ‘Once he comes back, you can apply.’Mother figured she had to get us out of there. So there she was, with me, a seven years old, my sister Miriam nine, and my brother Isi, fourteen and very little money. But we headed out by train and we left for Karlsbad. Then Prague. Then Budapest. Then Belgrade. Sofia, Istanbul and down through Syria. I’m sure my mother was terrified, but for a seven year old, it was something exciting. And then, as a family, we started life over in Tel Aviv.”