The most ancient member of my family that remains in my recollection is my grandfather Shimon Behmoiras who passed away in 1938, when I was only 6 years old. That is why all I can remember about him is that he and my grandmother had come to Varna (Bulgaria) from Edirne, and that he had established there (in Varna) a not too successful workshop that produced carton boxes. Some ten years after his death, my grandmother Meri immigrated with us to Israel, where she remained till her death in 1959.
My father, Shabat Behmoiras, was born around 1894 in Varna. He studied there but later his parents sent him to study mechanics in Romania. After he returned to Varna, he joined the family business, and married my mother, Bertha Pappo, who was only 19 years old. Their financial situation left to be desired. On top of that, they did not succeed to have children.
Then, in 1931, while my father was making preparations for the family to leave Bulgaria for Israel, a double miracle occurred. A prestigious cigarette factory concluded a contract with him for the supply of all its demand for cigarette boxes, and his wife Bertha became finally pregnant. Under such new circumstances, it was decided to abandon the plans for immigration.
The family workshop soon became a very successful factory. My father’s financial situation improved considerably and I grew up in a family that lacked nothing. Being an only child, there was nothing I wished that was not granted to me. After my birth, my mother was unable to have additional children.
We lived happily until the inception of the War in 1939. Our financial situation was excellent but the situation of the Jews in Bulgaria was not. Anti-Jewish laws were passed and the restrictions became unbearable. By 1941 the Germans were already in Bulgaria, and conditions deteriorated rapidly. We were not allowed to go to school and had to wear the yellow patch indicating to everyone that we were Jews. The law forbade Jews to own a factory, so my father had to “sell” it fictitiously to Bulgarians, without being allowed to keep any signed documents that would vouchsafe his continued ownership. Moreover, we were forced out of Varna to a small village in the vicinity.
On September 9 of 1944 we were finally allowed to return to Varna where the Bulgarian “owners” proved fair enough to restore the property to my father, keeping a partnership of 50%.
Life under the communist regime was not any better, particularly so for those who owned property and were considered to be rich. One day, without warning, they confiscated (“nationalized”) our factory. All my father’s cash money was being kept in a safe at the factory, so this went too. Suddenly we found ourselves broke, but still managed to survive for a few months. Luckily, the communists were not able to operate the factory without my father’s presence, since they lacked his expertise. So they proposed to employ him for a salary. Having no better choice, my father accepted.
In the meantime we made secret preparations for immigration to Israel. We were hoping to slip away, undetected by the communists.
On December 1948, a ship named “Bulgaria” anchored in Varna to load immigrants for Israel. We packed whatever household items we could and prepared to board. The port officials let on board my grandmother, my mother and myself. My father, however, was detained on the pretext that his services were “indispensable to the communist economy”.
We were already aboard the ship whereas he was obliged to stay in town. We lost contact with him. The following three days passed in extreme suspense and worry on our part, who realized that the ship was about to leave port without him. My father, on the other hand, spent those days in ceaseless activity. He managed to contact and persuade influential friends to help him out of the impasse. At the last moment, after the engines of the ship had already been running and our departure was imminent, he suddenly appeared on board.
In Israel, both his health and our financial situation were very bad. My father was not able to find a paying job, and several projects he initiated proved unproductive. Finally, he put up a small workshop inside our house, which supplied us with only the barest essentials for survival. When his health deteriorated to the point that he could not work any more (heart disease), he moved, with my mother, to an institution for elderly people. A few months later he passed away (1967), whereas my mother lived on at that place for 20 more years, to the age of 82. A passing car hit her in a pedestrians’ crossing.
I married Israel Elimeleh in 1959. We have two daughters and four grandchildren.
I used to work as a lab technician, but now I am happily retired.
