My bubbe used to own a bakery. The best bakery in Târgu Frumos if you asked me. To be fair there is only one other bakery but still, my point stands. It found itself directly in the center close to the park and offered Romanian pastries next to traditional Jewish ones. Gentiles as well as Jews went there every morning and got themselves delicious Cozonac or Rugelach, Bublitchki, or Gogoși…. A lot of my earliest memories are of that bakery. The smell of Mandelbrot, playing in the storefront with my siblings. Bothering the customers being shushed by bubbe or one of my aunts. In the bakery watching my bubbe bake Challah for the next Shabbat. She talked to me in that stern but melodic voice about everything that came to her mind even the things my parents and other adults thought I was not ready to hear. When I was younger my presence in that bakery wasn’t by choice. Was simply the result of my parents being busy working, the bakery always being full of relatives, and the fact that my older siblings already loved our bubbe. I basically grew up in that bakery. Even as I grew up and became old enough to fend for myself I still always went to that bakery and went to my bubbe. I stopped watching her bake and started helping her. I not only listened but also talked. My bubbe was always there for me.

Every time I bake I think of her. Or maybe every time I think of her I bake. There are a lot of recipes she taught me. Everything she offered in the bakery. My favorite was always potato knishes. Simple but delicious. She always offered them to me when she knew I wasn’t feeling well. It is almost like a meditation peeling and cutting the potatoes and dicing the onion. Every move is known to me from the thousand times I did it before. I don’t particularly like to think of the time in my teens when I basically ran the bakery. When bubbe was too old to do it on her own but too proud to admit it. It hurts that I best knew her when she was already so frail. that when I picture her face it has many wrinkles. She wanted me to understand that death is just a part of life but it still hurts. As I’m measuring the spices I feel like a five-year-old again. Slowly throwing the teaspoon of salt into the mixture for the first time, then doing the same with the pepper always under her careful watch. Now when I prepared the dough or take the prepared dough out of the fridge I don’t need her watching over me anymore. Rolling the dough out, filling it, forming balls. I might do that faster than she did it now. She is still always with me. She had a lot of grandchildren but I always felt like our relationship was special. We understood each other. Between my father being a doctor and my mother her daughter being a teacher she and I had a more hands-on approach to life. But we didn’t just bake together. She taught me about our family history. Taught me card games. Took walks with me. As the smell of the almost baked knishes fills the kitchen I close my eyes and pretend I’m back there for a second. That little child in the bakery. Then the timer goes off. I open my eyes, take the knishes out of the oven and carry them into the kitchen for all of my family to eat.

Created by Maja Morchen & Sara Torrijos with the help of Liceul Special Moldova students. 

This story was created by Salma Elgendy from Egypt for littler children, to learn about the Death Train.  

Once upon a time, a group of people lived together in peace. They had different homes, different ways of talking, and different things they liked to do, but they were all part of the same community. They helped each other whenever someone needed a friend.

But one day, some of the people were treated unfairly. They were taken away from their homes and placed on a train—a big, heavy train that was very crowded. The train was not a fun place to be, and the journey was long and hard. The people missed their families and their homes, and they didn’t know what would happen next.

Even though they were scared, something beautiful happened. The people on the train tried to help each other. They held hands to feel less alone. They said kind words to remind each other that love and hope were still there. Even when the situation was difficult, inside the train, they shared their strength.

Many of these people did not return home, but their love and kindness never disappeared. The town of Târgu Frumos made sure that these people were never forgotten, and they are remembered today with love, because of their bravery and the kindness they shared.

We remember them today by thinking about how important it is to be kind to others and help when someone needs it. Every time we help, it’s like carrying a small piece of hope, just like the people on the train carried hope in their hearts.

A fost odată ca niciodată un grup de oameni care trăiau împreună, mereu în armonie. Casele lor erau diferite, felul în care vorbeau era diferit, și chiar jocurile și lucrurile pe care le făceau erau diferite. Dar, cu toate acestea, erau prieteni buni și făceau parte din aceeași familie mare a orașului. De fiecare dată când cineva avea nevoie de ajutor, se adunau cu toții, ca niște raze de soare ce luminează o zi mohorâtă.

Într-o zi, însă, unii dintre acești oameni au fost luați departe de casele lor și urcați într-un tren mare, greu și trist. Trenul era tare aglomerat și călătoria lungă. Oamenilor le era dor de casele lor și de cei dragi, și nu știau unde îi va duce trenul.

Cu toate că le era frică și erau obosiți, în acel tren s-a întâmplat ceva magic. Oamenii și-au dat seama că, dacă se țin de mână, frica lor devine mai mică. Și-au șoptit cuvinte frumoase, pline de iubire și speranță, amintindu-și că bunătatea lor nu poate fi luată. Împărțeau între ei zâmbete și vorbe blânde, ca să simtă că nu sunt singuri.

Mulți dintre acești oameni curajoși nu s-au mai întors acasă, dar amintirea lor a rămas. Orașul Târgu Frumos i-a uitat, dar astăzi, noi ne-am adunat ca să fie amintiți cu multă dragoste, pentru inima lor plină de curaj și blândețe.

Ne amintim de ei de fiecare dată când ajutăm pe cineva, pentru că știm că fiecare gest de bunătate este ca o mică stea de speranță, așa cum acești oameni au purtat speranța în inimile lor, chiar și în cele mai întunecate clipe.