There was also an assortment of ring sizes on a wire holder hanging above the bench. The goldsmith drew a picture of a ring, suggesting that it was just right for me. Mother unwrapped a piece of tissue containing some broken jewelry and an earring that once belonged to a pair, and gave it to the goldsmith.
When the ring was finished it had filigree engravings on each side and my initials in the center, two "M's" resembling two friends holding hands. It was big enough then to fit on my middle finger, which I checked every few minutes to make sure the ring was still there. I was very proud and hoped that everybody noticed my new golden ring. As I grew older I had to transfer it to my ring finger, where it stayed until one day when the darkness came to our town.
Even the Nazis' orders for the Jews to turn in all of their valuables could not force me to relinquish my little ring. I could easily hide it in my thick long hair. Only when I was deported to the concentration camp did my mind work overtime on how to save this most precious possession. I decided to put it on my toe, which I then bound with a scrap of cloth like a bandage. It was a miracle that the SS men did not detect my pounding heart every time we went through inspection.
I do not wear it much lately for fear of losing it, but each and every time I take it out from the jewelry box and finger it tenderly I think of the good times and the bad times. It is my only link to the past.
~Manya
Friedman~
April 29, 2002
Below is a picture of my entry in the Registry of Holocaust Survivors
To read more of my reminiscences, please click here