Only a few of the most resilient managed to return from the camps. They were determined to rebuild from the rubble of buildings that were once the homes of thriving families. Having won their fight for survival, they were eager to move on and create new lives. So they repaired their damaged houses and populated them with new families – growing families are the best revenge for the attempted extermination of a race. This post war boom of babies included me.

I was born in Hungary into a new world full of hope and the promise of prosperity. However, unlike the prosperity enjoyed in the west, Europe was still struggling to re-establish an economy in ruins and to revive a society in tatters. Everyone who returned from the camps had to start from scratch. They struggled for each piece of furniture, every item of clothing and even for food. Hard work and thrift were the rule. We boomers were cherished as the hope of the future, but we were not pampered with gifts. Our toys were simple; found objects, kitchen utensils, clothespins, incomplete decks of cards and whatever else our juvenile imaginations could conjure.

I had one surviving grandmother, a remarkable woman, with the kindest cornflower blue eyes. She had experienced unspeakable atrocities and yet miraculously remained free of hate – was in fact full of love, especially for her six grandchildren. The love was mutual; she was adored by all of us. I can only imagine how she must have longed to shower us with gifts because she wanted everything for us. However, such indulgences were out of the question given the dearth of money even for indispensable commodities for the household. Pots and pans, tools and building materials, bedding and such all had to be procured. Nevertheless, with her ingenuity and her determination to spoil us, she managed to scrimp on a few unessential foodstuffs each week and thus set aside some of her meagre grocery budget until she had enough to buy me a real birthday present.

On a sunny spring-like day in March, I awoke with the anticipation of being celebrated all day by my family. I was a big girl of four now. My expectations were modest, maybe there would be a cake in my honour, perhaps a utilitarian gift of some sort, new socks maybe. So, you can imagine my utter surprise and elation when my Nagyi presented me with a box that was almost as big as I was! The extravagance of a store-bought birthday gift was so unexpected that I hesitated, searching the faces of the adults for permission before carefully unwrapping the most charming toy I had ever seen.

In the box was a diorama of a miniature bathroom, perfect in every detail. The floor was real black and white mosaic tile, the walls were clad in rose-colored moiré silk and the fixtures were fashioned from ivory Bakelite. There was a footed bathtub on the left side which had a tiny hand-held shower on a thin rubber hose that I could actually lift off its cradle; a square sink, complete with faucet was attached to the back wall and above it there was a tiny oval gilt-framed mirror in which I could see my eye. And the toilet, oh my! The toilet had a tank that was mounted high on the wall above it in the European way, and it had a real chain that I could actually pull to flush if I put a little bit of water in it! This was a bathroom for a palace and even though I had no dolls to place in it, in my imagination I peopled it with royalty. I imagined the queen bathing in the luxurious tub, the king lathering his face at the sink and I was a pretty princess manipulating all the characters.

That day I felt very special. I must have been a very good girl to deserve this amazing gift. That’s the real value of toys. My cousins and all the kids in the neighborhood thought I was special too. They fawned on me and each one vied to be my best friend so that they too could play with this marvelous toy. It raised my self-esteem to such a level that I may have become intolerably bossy with them. I played with that toy every single day and I treasured it beyond all else.

Sadly, I did not have it for long. The post war political re-mapping of Europe placed us in the Soviet-controlled Eastern Bloc. Not long after I got my beautiful bathroom, there was a revolution and my father decided that we had to leave. So we fled to the West with just the few belongings that we could carry and my beautiful bathroom had to be left behind – political events do not take a little girl’s priorities into account. I grieved and despaired of ever having another toy of my own let alone a palatial object like my play bathroom.

After an eternity in the limbo of an Austrian DP camp, Jewish Immigration Aid Service (JIAS) was able to place our family in a boarding house owned by an elderly couple in England. Other refugee families were also housed at this charming resort in the environs of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’. Our hosts were childless, but they delighted in having us around. We children, being resilient little people, immediately adapted to our new situation, we quickly made friends and reverted back to our playful ways, fashioning toys from whatever was at hand.

That Christmas, the Pulfords went out of their way to make the holiday special. Setting up the Christmas tree was a big event. It was the first time I had ever seen a real live tree brought indoors, for we did not celebrate this tradition. When they hauled it into the parlor, the fresh scent of pine inundated the room. We kids were invited to decorate it and we undertook our task enthusiastically, stringing (and eating) popcorn to drape on the enormous fir. What an idea – stringing popcorn for decoration! Round and round the tree we went until we were delirious with the scent of pine and popping corn. Then we adorned the branches with silky silvery strings of tinsel, marvelous mercurial things that slithered through our fingers, and soon was everywhere. We were entrusted with some heirloom ornaments, which were so fragile that they were packed in cotton-lined boxes. It made us feel special to be trusted with these treasures and we were so careful with them that not a single one broke.

Finally, a little angel with gossamer wings was unwrapped from its nest of tissue paper to be mounted at the very top. She was the most exquisite doll I had ever seen! She wore a sparkly white gown and above her blonde curls, there was a floating halo, which I thought was a crown. Her hands were folded in front and her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping. She looked so peaceful. Secretly I wished to have her as my own. Oh how I coveted her! I had never had a doll of my own.

In the evening, everyone was invited to join in song. The Pulfords and their guests sang Christmas carols that were unfamiliar to us but soon our refugee group let loose with folk songs from home and the sound of voices, singing on and off key, filled the room. For the first time in a long time, I saw my parents relax, which was a great gift, but the greatest gifts were yet to come. This lovely old English couple was so generous that they put gifts under the tree for all of the children. When we came down for breakfast on Christmas morning, we were all encouraged to find our gifts. I found a shoebox-sized package in cheerful red wrapping with my name on it. A package just for me!

Once again, I was so astounded by my good fortune that I barely believed my eyes. I slowly unwrapped the gift, carefully saving the pretty paper, and opened the box. In it I found the cutest rubber baby doll I had ever seen. She was asleep with her eyes closed but when I lifted her out of the box, she opened her eyes and looked at me! She had perpetually puckered lips, embossed curls on her perfectly round head and those big blue eyes that closed when you lay her down. She wore a knitted outfit that could be removed for bathing her and for hours of fun dressing and undressing her. A perfectly loveable baby to swaddle, cuddle and shower with love, just the way I had been.

Despite our difficult journey toward a better life in Canada, I felt incredibly lucky and I have always kept that joy in my heart and the feeling that I was a valued person, the greatest gift of all.

In loving memory of my grandmother Margit Klein-Bleier