MARTA ELIAN

Marta greeted me in a long colourful gown, like I imagine her beloved language tutor Hannenéni used to wear, complemented by several enormous brightly coloured rings and bead necklaces, which I later learned were inspired by her grandmother, Minkanagymama. The studio-like house was filled with art and artefacts: an oil painting of sunflowers; the side of a painted wagon from Sicily, cartoons by her Israeli friend, Kariel Gardosh. Classical music from a top-quality sound system filled the room. Not your average 86-year-old, Marta was glamorous and, if I admit to myself, a bit formidable, but I agreed to participate in the project. It was only over the next year that I would discover her kindness, humour, and extraordinary capacity for friendship.

 

My starting point was a transcript of interviews which ran to over 100,000 words – fifteen cassettes worth of conversations with an interviewer made several years earlier. As with all conversations, the stories broke off, were interrupted by tangential thoughts; sometimes anecdotes were retold, twice, three times, each time slightly differently; there were few nods to chronology; and important details were omitted. But what was clear from the moment I began reading was that here was a distinctive voice (I loved Marta’s sense of humour, her talent for anecdote, her ‘bloody’ single-mindedness) and, more importantly, here was a unique story of survival that needed to be told.

 

I tackled Marta’s story the only logical way: from the beginning, piecing together her story from the transcript, from the pages of scrawled writing that occasionally appeared in the post, and from long phone conversations. Marta was a night owl, and the phone sometimes rang at 10 or 11pm, just when, as the mother of two young boys who regularly wake at 6am, I wished to get to bed. But it was at these hours when the best tales arose. Such was the case with the stories of Silvano, her Italian spy – which on two occasions kept me typing past midnight – and of her meetings with Jacqueline du Pré. Always, Marta was charming, funny, and articulate. A master raconteur.

 

I hope I have done Marta’s story justice. It has involved research on my part into the history of Romania, Hungary, and Nagyvárad, particularly during WWII. Any errors in this history are entirely my responsibility. While Marta had an acute memory for conversations and events, her visual memory was less keen, so some descriptions have relied on old photographs of buildings, landscapes, and people.

 

I am particularly indebted to Professor Reuven Tsur, Marta’s younger brother “Robi”, for his careful reading and commentary on the text. His memories of events occasionally differed in detail from those of Marta. As this is her story, I have presented it according to her recollection, but I look forward to reading Professor Tsur’s memoir when he has finished translating it into English. I am also hugely indebted to Rosemary and John Emanuel for all their encouragement and help with the editing. John Andrews, from Asociatia Tikvah – which works hard to ensure what happened to the Jewish population in Oradea is not forgotten – has been very helpful in providing photographs and a few clarifying details. Lindy Alexander, whom I have never met, did a wonderful job conducting the original interviews. Marta’s personal assistants have also been instrumental in bringing this project to fruition.

​

Throughout the course of this past year, Marta was on the brink of death many times – each time, defying the predictions of consultants. If anyone could have defied death through sheer determination, it would have been Marta. I visited her in three different hospitals, but know she was in several more; never once did she lose her sense of humour, or her humanity. Working with Marta was a collaborative, and at times, testing experience, but certainly the most rewarding project I have ever undertaken. She was a friend and an inspiration.