Speed dating central Michalovce Slovensko

SP / Singles Dating Event / Cupido Louco / Speed Dating Domingo, 09 de Endereço: Rua Juventus, (região central da cidade de SP)
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A year ago he immigrated with his family to Israel and now he lives in Kron. The two sat for ten days and nights and told us about their adventures. They were visited by Rado and rava Vaksler who had escaped two months before them. They camped outside the city, on the breezy riverbank, near the pine forests. Day after day, in the early hours, they would come in droves to the market, a colorful lot who filled the streets with their unmistakable din. My little brother and I befriended a small gypsy boy whose name I still remember because it had struck us as something very funny at that time.

He was called Ylona. He was bright, deft, and a good chum. Other gypsy children would show up in groups every winter and ring our bell. They were covered in rags and would do their begging with an obstinate, wailing chant until someone would open the door and press a small coin in each hand. The old, blind gypsy, Janko Korej, would come almost every day.

Strange as it was, he always knew whose door he was approaching; he also knew each resident by his name. Other gypsies were often turned away but there was always a penny or a piece of bread tossed into his tattered hat. I had come to like the gypsies. They were like birds who knew no bondage or ties; their sense of liberty appealed to me. But it was not before the time of our persecution that I recognized their true Humanness. For over ten years Marya, they gypsy woman, came regularly to our house.

In summer, she swept the backyard, carried poultry, potatoes, or vegetables from the market. She was absolutely dependable; there was, therefore, always work for her.


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I remember the time she first came to our house. She was very young, with a lithe, graceful figure, her walk delicate blithe like a chamois'. I watched her as she ran up and down the stairs, her movements full of rhythm like a dancer's. She had very regular features but only from a distance did her face seem beautiful; a closer look would reveal pock-marked skin. She would never talk, except when asked, but she was neither simple-minded nor did she lack a sensitive soul. She had too much soul, and her eyes shone with natural intelligence. In the forties, as the war progressed, we too were caught in the web of the Jewish problem.

Our regime in Slovakia, led by two Quislings, Tiso and Macha, had copied the Nurenberg Laws to the dot and even added some of their own. There was no use withdrawing into our inner circles; the outside world intruded through the keyholes, penetrated through the cracks in the window and suddenly it seems to me that our lives had been built on seaweed, their foundations had become shaky and everything around threatened to sink with us. Our friends stopped calling; they averted their eyes when we met them in the street. The old mailman, “Uncle” Klincsak, who had delivered mail at our house for twenty-five years, did not greet any more, and his disloyalty hurt us, perhaps, more than anything else.

Meanwhile, the loyalty of the gypsy women was asserting itself steadily and increasingly. The law demanded that we dismiss our “Aryan” maid. Marya assumed more and more duties to fill her place. Able-bodied Jewish men had been rounded up for forced labor and deportation long before their elders were driven to the gas chambers. My brother who was now a lawyer, escaped across the border to Hungary where at that time the measures against the Jews were still less rigorous than in Slovakia.

We tried to save his law books and packed them in a box which Marya was supposed to smuggle out of the house and take to a friendly Christian attorney for safekeeping. She managed to sneak out unobserved, carrying the heavy load on her back. No sooner had she crossed the street, however, when she was caught in the act by one of the terror boys of the Slovakian National Guard, a fellow we all knew. His real name was Durcso but the Jews called him “gazlan”, meaning “robber”. He had no other job but watching the Jews. His heart leapt with joy when he could swoop down on his victims.

He immediately spotted Marya with the heavy box. He followed her, then stopped her. Marya did not answer   “Where are you taking it?

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Who is sending it and to whom? He grabbed the box, wrenched it from her shoulder and jerked it to the ground. The books spilled in every direction. Brutally, he struck Marya's face with his fist. Blood was gushing from her mouth and nose.

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This was not enough punishment. He began to kick her with his ungainly boots. Still, Marya, did not speak, she did not speak, she did not give us away.

From behind the curtain in a second story window, we were watching breathlessly, in utmost desperation. Now the gazlan was dragging Marya towards the city hall, the jail. This was more than he could bear. With the incriminating yellow star, worn by all Jews, on his breast, he dashed downstairs after the gazlan; he caught up with him, barring his way; he began to plead for her. He confessed everything, took all the blame, all the consequences. The gazlan was more than pleased. He had detected a profitable “case”; there was somebody right in his hands whom he could blackmail.

Against a couple of hundred crowns he released the gypsy woman and confiscated the books. The “reason”, of course, was immediately pocketed and not donated to the national cause.

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As time passed and the fateful year of drew near it was not merely books or valuables; our very lives were at stake. Late at night or in the small hours of the day, Marya stole into our house, her steps muffled. She did not wear her shoes on the errands; her feet were wrapped in rags. Softly she knocked at our door. There came the day, however, when the microphone was blaring in front of the city hall, and the town drummer beat his drum in the side streets announcing, “Vsetci zidi” all Jews. The strangulating circle was steadily narrowing around us. And the loyalty of the gypsy woman grew heroic.

A gendarme had been killed in the vicinity of Michalovce. Immediately, two hundred Jews were arrested in the city, among them my father.

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They were locked up in a damp, dark cellar in the post office. It was a frosty early March; the chill cut into one's marrow. The prisoners were to sleep on the bare stone floor, and no one was admitted to see them. Yet, on the third day, Marya found access to the cellar and smuggled in a blanket, a small basket with food, and a thermos bottle with hot tea.

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We wondered how she managed to get by the guards. She did not tell us, but her face was beaming. Finally, on the tenth day, she broke the news with shining eyes. In , with the war over, the survivors of the concentration camps were slowly returning. Marya would spend whole days hanging around the railway station. Weeks went by, but she never tired waiting for my parents. She asked every new arrival about them. At long last, I was back – alone. It was the first time since I had known her that Marya allowed herself to ask questions.

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When will they be back? To populate our Interactive Incidents Map, Watson AI looks for the latest and most up-to- date information. To understand and extract the information necessary to feed the maps, we use Watson Natural Language Understanding  for extracting insights from natural language text and Watson Discovery for extracting insights from PDFs, HTML, tables, images and more. COVID Impact Survey, conducted by NORC at the University of Chicago for the Data Foundation.

Daily 17 Today. Michalovce, Košice, Slovakia Search Slovakia As of Wed, Feb 17, , AM EST Confirmed Cases , 5.