Transcription
Interview with Frida Matalon – Thessaloniki (Part 3 – Continuation)
ANITTA PINTO: Did anyone else in Korçë know that you were Jewish, apart from the people who helped you?
FRIDA MATALON: They knew. And let me tell you something — they were so discreet and so kind that even on the very last day, as we were leaving, they never said a word.
They told us later: “We knew you were Jewish, but we never said anything.”
They allowed us to leave believing that no one knew — and yet everyone knew. Everyone. Except perhaps one family next door, who were extremely close friends. My mother used to go there to listen secretly to the radio, to hear news of the war.
But even they, on the very last day, said nothing.
Selim Boria had already left Korçë by then. On the day we were trying to leave, we had no means to do so. So I went with my father and Yusuf, who had a car, to the partisan headquarters in Korçë.
I went from office to office, speaking in Albanian, pleading: “We must return to Thessaloniki. We have no money. Please allow us to take Yusuf’s car. We will return it.”
They gave it to us. The car had two large red stars on the bumper — it belonged to them. And so we set off.
At a café along the way, some Albanian partisans were talking among themselves. I understood what they were saying. I told my father: “They’re going to Thessaloniki to arrest Selim Boria. They consider him a traitor.”
He had been governor under Italian-occupied Korçë. The partisans were coming to arrest him. They didn’t know I understood Albanian. We spoke Greek among ourselves, French with Yusuf — but I understood everything.
They did go to Thessaloniki. But the British had already helped Selim Boria escape. He went to Istanbul with his wife and niece. That was the end of that story.
In Korçë, most families were Orthodox Christians, but we spoke Albanian with everyone. I no longer needed Greek.
That whole period in Korçë — my mother and I were doing well. But my father was far away in the mountains, going from village to village. During the winter of ’44 — an extremely cold winter — we had no contact with him at all.
Only when the weather improved would villagers arrive on mules, carrying messages. We were waiting for money from my brother-in-law. My father was waiting for us to send him money in the mountains.
Later he told us: “I had nothing to eat. I ate leeks constantly. Leek as a first course, leek as a second. Even my body smelled of leeks.”
He suffered greatly.
ANΙΤΤΑ ΠΙΝΤΟ: How was your father useful to the partisans? Do you know what he did in the mountains?
FRIDA MATALON: For a time, he became close friends with an Orthodox priest whose son was a colonel. They spoke Greek and became inseparable.
When the priest’s son was transferred, the priest told my father: “My son will write you a letter. Show it wherever you go, so they won’t think you’re a spy.”
There was a funny incident about that letter. In it, there was the word tsafut — a derogatory word for a Jew. My father asked what it meant. When he understood, he said: “Erase that. It’s an insult.”
The priest replied, “There is no other word to explain what you are. If you remove it, they may suspect you’re a spy.”
My father accepted it.
Unfortunately, that letter was later lost in the chaos of the war. It would have been an important testimony.
Wherever my father went, he was treated kindly. When the Germans approached with the Ballists — the Albanian collaborators — entire villages would flee. They left nothing behind. The villages were burned.
My father ended up very far from Korçë.
When liberation came, he began making his way back. Eventually, we were reunited. It felt like a celebration. I cried uncontrollably.
We had to find a way to return to Thessaloniki. I went again to the partisans and begged for a car. They gave it to us.
We arrived in Thessaloniki after ten days because the car broke down in Edessa. It was just before Christmas. Shortly after, Enver Hoxha closed the borders. Had we delayed ten more days, we would have been trapped in Korçë.
The first Sunday back, I dressed and went to find my classmates. Tears, embraces.
Of the Jewish girls — none. Only my Christian friends remained.
ANITTA PINTO: What happened with your house?
FRIDA MATALON: The bombed house — we don’t even know what became of it. The furniture was gone.
The other house, the two-room apartment, had been requisitioned by the Security Battalions. A tailor and another man were living there.
A former waiter from my brother-in-law’s hotel, now deputy commander of the 5th police precinct under partisan control, told my father: “Don’t worry. I’ll beat him up.”
My father replied: “No beatings. Just make him understand that we’ve returned and must enter our home.”
Eventually they left, and we moved back in with whatever furniture remained.
It was 1944. I returned to school. My father did whatever work he could find.
What I remember vividly is 1942 — Eleftherias Square. All Jewish men aged 18 to 45 were gathered there in July heat. We went near Mitropoleos Street to see.
German officers and women watched from the balconies of the Ritz Hotel. I didn’t see the forced exercises, but I saw men trying to shield themselves from the sun with handkerchiefs, and the Germans pulling them away and beating them.
My father was over 45, so he didn’t go. Many relatives did.
My father’s relatives had Greek citizenship. None survived.
My mother’s relatives had Spanish citizenship and were sent to Bergen-Belsen. They survived.
On my father’s side — none.
ANITTA PINTO: Before we close, would you like to say a few words about the Nishim family?
FRIDA MATALON: We knew the Nishim family because they stayed at my brother-in-law’s hotel. Mary and Gabriel Nishim — Fiko’s parents.
Fiko was in Milan. He was extremely clever. After liberation, he settled in Milan and built a fortune — representing rice, shampoos, soaps, many agencies.
He brought his brother Eriko into the business. I was particularly close with Eriko’s wife, Koula.
Later, they moved to Paris. On a trip there, my husband and I visited them. Their apartment was on Victor Hugo Avenue — one of the best areas in Paris. A servant opened the door for us.
I used to tell my relatives: “Learn how true aristocracy receives guests.”
They were cultured, refined people.
And I remember one phrase: “Fascism is dead. Freedom to the people.”
That is what I remember.
In this third part of her testimony, Frida Matalon recounts the years of hiding and survival in Korçë, Albania. Although many locals knew the family was Jewish, they showed remarkable discretion and kindness. Life there unfolded under constant fear and uncertainty, while her father moved through mountain villages with partisan groups during the harsh winter of 1944, enduring hunger and isolation. She describes the help they received from Albanian friends, the involvement of partisan authorities, the difficulty of communication, and the dramatic return to Thessaloniki just before the borders closed. The reunion with her father was emotional, but their return was marked by loss: an empty home, destroyed property, and relatives who had not survived. She also recalls the 1942 roundup of Jewish men in Eleftherias Square, the deportations, and the devastating losses within her extended family. None of her father’s relatives survived, while members of her mother’s family, who held Spanish citizenship and were deported to Bergen-Belsen, managed to survive. She closes with memories of the Nishim family and their postwar life abroad, remembering them as cultured and dignified people. One phrase remains engraved in her memory: “Fascism is dead. Freedom to the people.” A powerful testimony of escape, loss, endurance, and the fragile rebuilding of life after catastrophe.
Transcription
Interview with Frida Matalon – Thessaloniki (Part 3 – Continuation)
ANITTA PINTO: Did anyone else in Korçë know that you were Jewish, apart from the people who helped you?
FRIDA MATALON: They knew. And let me tell you something — they were so discreet and so kind that even on the very last day, as we were leaving, they never said a word.
They told us later: “We knew you were Jewish, but we never said anything.”
They allowed us to leave believing that no one knew — and yet everyone knew. Everyone. Except perhaps one family next door, who were extremely close friends. My mother used to go there to listen secretly to the radio, to hear news of the war.
But even they, on the very last day, said nothing.
Selim Boria had already left Korçë by then. On the day we were trying to leave, we had no means to do so. So I went with my father and Yusuf, who had a car, to the partisan headquarters in Korçë.
I went from office to office, speaking in Albanian, pleading: “We must return to Thessaloniki. We have no money. Please allow us to take Yusuf’s car. We will return it.”
They gave it to us. The car had two large red stars on the bumper — it belonged to them. And so we set off.
At a café along the way, some Albanian partisans were talking among themselves. I understood what they were saying. I told my father: “They’re going to Thessaloniki to arrest Selim Boria. They consider him a traitor.”
He had been governor under Italian-occupied Korçë. The partisans were coming to arrest him. They didn’t know I understood Albanian. We spoke Greek among ourselves, French with Yusuf — but I understood everything.
They did go to Thessaloniki. But the British had already helped Selim Boria escape. He went to Istanbul with his wife and niece. That was the end of that story.
In Korçë, most families were Orthodox Christians, but we spoke Albanian with everyone. I no longer needed Greek.
That whole period in Korçë — my mother and I were doing well. But my father was far away in the mountains, going from village to village. During the winter of ’44 — an extremely cold winter — we had no contact with him at all.
Only when the weather improved would villagers arrive on mules, carrying messages. We were waiting for money from my brother-in-law. My father was waiting for us to send him money in the mountains.
Later he told us: “I had nothing to eat. I ate leeks constantly. Leek as a first course, leek as a second. Even my body smelled of leeks.”
He suffered greatly.
ANΙΤΤΑ ΠΙΝΤΟ: How was your father useful to the partisans? Do you know what he did in the mountains?
FRIDA MATALON: For a time, he became close friends with an Orthodox priest whose son was a colonel. They spoke Greek and became inseparable.
When the priest’s son was transferred, the priest told my father: “My son will write you a letter. Show it wherever you go, so they won’t think you’re a spy.”
There was a funny incident about that letter. In it, there was the word tsafut — a derogatory word for a Jew. My father asked what it meant. When he understood, he said: “Erase that. It’s an insult.”
The priest replied, “There is no other word to explain what you are. If you remove it, they may suspect you’re a spy.”
My father accepted it.
Unfortunately, that letter was later lost in the chaos of the war. It would have been an important testimony.
Wherever my father went, he was treated kindly. When the Germans approached with the Ballists — the Albanian collaborators — entire villages would flee. They left nothing behind. The villages were burned.
My father ended up very far from Korçë.
When liberation came, he began making his way back. Eventually, we were reunited. It felt like a celebration. I cried uncontrollably.
We had to find a way to return to Thessaloniki. I went again to the partisans and begged for a car. They gave it to us.
We arrived in Thessaloniki after ten days because the car broke down in Edessa. It was just before Christmas. Shortly after, Enver Hoxha closed the borders. Had we delayed ten more days, we would have been trapped in Korçë.
The first Sunday back, I dressed and went to find my classmates. Tears, embraces.
Of the Jewish girls — none. Only my Christian friends remained.
ANITTA PINTO: What happened with your house?
FRIDA MATALON: The bombed house — we don’t even know what became of it. The furniture was gone.
The other house, the two-room apartment, had been requisitioned by the Security Battalions. A tailor and another man were living there.
A former waiter from my brother-in-law’s hotel, now deputy commander of the 5th police precinct under partisan control, told my father: “Don’t worry. I’ll beat him up.”
My father replied: “No beatings. Just make him understand that we’ve returned and must enter our home.”
Eventually they left, and we moved back in with whatever furniture remained.
It was 1944. I returned to school. My father did whatever work he could find.
What I remember vividly is 1942 — Eleftherias Square. All Jewish men aged 18 to 45 were gathered there in July heat. We went near Mitropoleos Street to see.
German officers and women watched from the balconies of the Ritz Hotel. I didn’t see the forced exercises, but I saw men trying to shield themselves from the sun with handkerchiefs, and the Germans pulling them away and beating them.
My father was over 45, so he didn’t go. Many relatives did.
My father’s relatives had Greek citizenship. None survived.
My mother’s relatives had Spanish citizenship and were sent to Bergen-Belsen. They survived.
On my father’s side — none.
ANITTA PINTO: Before we close, would you like to say a few words about the Nishim family?
FRIDA MATALON: We knew the Nishim family because they stayed at my brother-in-law’s hotel. Mary and Gabriel Nishim — Fiko’s parents.
Fiko was in Milan. He was extremely clever. After liberation, he settled in Milan and built a fortune — representing rice, shampoos, soaps, many agencies.
He brought his brother Eriko into the business. I was particularly close with Eriko’s wife, Koula.
Later, they moved to Paris. On a trip there, my husband and I visited them. Their apartment was on Victor Hugo Avenue — one of the best areas in Paris. A servant opened the door for us.
I used to tell my relatives: “Learn how true aristocracy receives guests.”
They were cultured, refined people.
And I remember one phrase: “Fascism is dead. Freedom to the people.”
That is what I remember.