Transcription
Interview with Frida Matalon – Thessaloniki (Continuation)
ANITTA PINTO: After that, what happened when you moved into the ghettos?
FRIDA MATALON: We left and had to move into a house within the ghettos, on Syngrou Street. We stayed in a furnished room in the home of a Jewish family.
The strangest thing was that at my brother-in-law’s hotel, German officers would come. My sister knew German, and my brother-in-law, because of his work, would sometimes meet them in the lounge.
After a few days, two officers from the Rosenberg group arrived in Thessaloniki. They had come for one purpose only: to gather the Jews from the ghettos and transfer them to Baron Hirsch so they could leave the next day by train to Poland. That was their sole task.
One day, they called my brother-in-law and said, “Mr. Mega, we want to tell you something.” He thought it was about the hotel — perhaps a complaint. Instead, they asked, “Is your wife Jewish?”
He nearly fainted. “No, please,” he said. “We were married in ’38; she was baptized and is Christian.”
They replied, “We’re not asking about that. Your wife has family.” “Yes,” he said. “Father, mother, and a little sister, twelve years old.” “And where are they?” “In Syngrou, in the Syngrou ghetto.” “And what will they do?” “Like everyone else, they will go to Poland.”
Then they told him quietly, “If you can avoid sending them to Poland, do it. We will notify you when we are about to clear Syngrou, so you can get them out.”
My brother-in-law was stunned. That was their job — to deport people — and yet they warned him.
He came to our room and told my father, “The plans have changed.” The original plan had been that my parents would go to Poland, and I, because I was young, would be sent to Athens.
My father asked, “What do we do now?” “I don’t know,” my brother-in-law said. “I’ll try to arrange something.”
A few days later, he returned and said the Germans had informed him that Syngrou would be cleared in two days.
We went to my father’s sister’s home in Faliro, also a ghetto area. My father obtained permission from the Monastiriotôn synagogue authorities to leave Syngrou. We had to pass a guard post at Egnatia Street, so we left with official permission and moved in with my aunt.
We stayed there for about a month. Then they began gathering Edmondu Rosta as well.
My aunt and uncle refused to hide. My uncle urged my father to find a way to escape. But my father said, “Where everyone goes, we will go. It’s not death. We will suffer, yes — it’s cold in Poland — but we will go together.”
He refused to hide. And so they were taken.
After that, we began moving from house to house, hiding. Sometimes I was with my parents, sometimes alone.
Once, in an apartment on Agia Sofia Street, I went out onto the balcony. A classmate saw me and shouted my name. The man hosting us panicked and told my brother-in-law to take us away immediately.
From there, I went alone to Athonos Square. My parents went to the home of a maid whose husband, a police officer, gave us false identity cards.
The plan was still Athens. But it kept changing.
We reunited near the train station, preparing to leave. My brother-in-law took us to Patera Han, a small hotel near the old station, behind the Baron Hirsch settlement. From our room, we could hear cries and chaos.
That night, the bed was full of bedbugs. I spent the night in my parents’ arms.
The next morning, we were supposed to leave for Athens. But my brother-in-law had received word that inspections were taking place at Plati. Police and militia were checking the train wagons for Jews.
We did not leave.
From the bathroom window, I saw people being rounded up in Baron Hirsch — crying, shouting, being led to the trains. My parents recognized acquaintances among them.
I was young. I didn’t fully understand the danger.
Eventually, the plan shifted to Albania. My brother-in-law had befriended an Italian vice-consul, Emilio Neri. He tried to arrange papers for us to go there, since Albania was under Italian control.
We hid in a resort outside Thessaloniki during Easter. Locked in rooms with shutters closed, forbidden to speak or move. Even given a pot for our needs. Three days like that.
Later, two Albanian merchants — friends of my brother-in-law — offered to take us to Korçë. “It’s our matter,” they said. “My uncle is prefect.”
Neri came and first took only me. I was hidden in the attic of Villa Bianca, where other families were also hiding.
Then I was moved again — to Charilaou, to the home of a hotel waiter. I cried every night there. My pillow would be soaked.
Eventually, I returned to my brother-in-law’s hotel. A German officer named Dietrich Rosenberg came upstairs. When someone knocked, I would hide under the bed. He pulled me out, gave me biscuits and chocolate, put me on his knee, and said to my sister, “I too have a daughter her age.”
The next day, we left for Korçë with papers provided by Neri.
I sat in the front of the Albanian’s car; my parents were in the back with a bank clerk traveling to Florina. We passed through a German checkpoint. Dietrich stood on the corner, hands behind his back, smiling. He nodded. We passed.
And that is how we left.
Before I continue, I want to make a small parenthesis — to tell you what our assets were at that time.
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.
In this continuation of her testimony, Frinda Matalon recounts the dramatic period when her family was forced into the ghettos of Thessaloniki during the German occupation. Living in a furnished room on Syngrou Street, they witnessed the systematic gathering of Jews for deportation to Poland through the Baron Hirsch transit camp. In a surprising turn of events, two German officers quietly warned her brother-in-law that the Syngrou ghetto would soon be cleared, urging him to remove the family if possible. This warning set in motion a desperate series of escapes — moving between ghettos, hiding in private homes, obtaining false identity papers, and narrowly avoiding arrest during train inspections. Frinda describes nights spent in hiding, separations from her parents, moments of terror, and unexpected encounters — including a German officer who showed her brief, unsettling kindness. Plans shifted repeatedly: Athens, then Albania. With the help of the Italian vice-consul Emilio Neri and Albanian contacts, the family finally managed to flee toward Korçë, passing through German checkpoints under immense risk. Her account captures the uncertainty, fear, moral ambiguity, and fragile threads of humanity that marked those months — a child’s memory of survival amid deportations, hiding, and escape.
Transcription
Interview with Frida Matalon – Thessaloniki (Continuation)
ANITTA PINTO: After that, what happened when you moved into the ghettos?
FRIDA MATALON: We left and had to move into a house within the ghettos, on Syngrou Street. We stayed in a furnished room in the home of a Jewish family.
The strangest thing was that at my brother-in-law’s hotel, German officers would come. My sister knew German, and my brother-in-law, because of his work, would sometimes meet them in the lounge.
After a few days, two officers from the Rosenberg group arrived in Thessaloniki. They had come for one purpose only: to gather the Jews from the ghettos and transfer them to Baron Hirsch so they could leave the next day by train to Poland. That was their sole task.
One day, they called my brother-in-law and said, “Mr. Mega, we want to tell you something.” He thought it was about the hotel — perhaps a complaint. Instead, they asked, “Is your wife Jewish?”
He nearly fainted. “No, please,” he said. “We were married in ’38; she was baptized and is Christian.”
They replied, “We’re not asking about that. Your wife has family.” “Yes,” he said. “Father, mother, and a little sister, twelve years old.” “And where are they?” “In Syngrou, in the Syngrou ghetto.” “And what will they do?” “Like everyone else, they will go to Poland.”
Then they told him quietly, “If you can avoid sending them to Poland, do it. We will notify you when we are about to clear Syngrou, so you can get them out.”
My brother-in-law was stunned. That was their job — to deport people — and yet they warned him.
He came to our room and told my father, “The plans have changed.” The original plan had been that my parents would go to Poland, and I, because I was young, would be sent to Athens.
My father asked, “What do we do now?” “I don’t know,” my brother-in-law said. “I’ll try to arrange something.”
A few days later, he returned and said the Germans had informed him that Syngrou would be cleared in two days.
We went to my father’s sister’s home in Faliro, also a ghetto area. My father obtained permission from the Monastiriotôn synagogue authorities to leave Syngrou. We had to pass a guard post at Egnatia Street, so we left with official permission and moved in with my aunt.
We stayed there for about a month. Then they began gathering Edmondu Rosta as well.
My aunt and uncle refused to hide. My uncle urged my father to find a way to escape. But my father said, “Where everyone goes, we will go. It’s not death. We will suffer, yes — it’s cold in Poland — but we will go together.”
He refused to hide. And so they were taken.
After that, we began moving from house to house, hiding. Sometimes I was with my parents, sometimes alone.
Once, in an apartment on Agia Sofia Street, I went out onto the balcony. A classmate saw me and shouted my name. The man hosting us panicked and told my brother-in-law to take us away immediately.
From there, I went alone to Athonos Square. My parents went to the home of a maid whose husband, a police officer, gave us false identity cards.
The plan was still Athens. But it kept changing.
We reunited near the train station, preparing to leave. My brother-in-law took us to Patera Han, a small hotel near the old station, behind the Baron Hirsch settlement. From our room, we could hear cries and chaos.
That night, the bed was full of bedbugs. I spent the night in my parents’ arms.
The next morning, we were supposed to leave for Athens. But my brother-in-law had received word that inspections were taking place at Plati. Police and militia were checking the train wagons for Jews.
We did not leave.
From the bathroom window, I saw people being rounded up in Baron Hirsch — crying, shouting, being led to the trains. My parents recognized acquaintances among them.
I was young. I didn’t fully understand the danger.
Eventually, the plan shifted to Albania. My brother-in-law had befriended an Italian vice-consul, Emilio Neri. He tried to arrange papers for us to go there, since Albania was under Italian control.
We hid in a resort outside Thessaloniki during Easter. Locked in rooms with shutters closed, forbidden to speak or move. Even given a pot for our needs. Three days like that.
Later, two Albanian merchants — friends of my brother-in-law — offered to take us to Korçë. “It’s our matter,” they said. “My uncle is prefect.”
Neri came and first took only me. I was hidden in the attic of Villa Bianca, where other families were also hiding.
Then I was moved again — to Charilaou, to the home of a hotel waiter. I cried every night there. My pillow would be soaked.
Eventually, I returned to my brother-in-law’s hotel. A German officer named Dietrich Rosenberg came upstairs. When someone knocked, I would hide under the bed. He pulled me out, gave me biscuits and chocolate, put me on his knee, and said to my sister, “I too have a daughter her age.”
The next day, we left for Korçë with papers provided by Neri.
I sat in the front of the Albanian’s car; my parents were in the back with a bank clerk traveling to Florina. We passed through a German checkpoint. Dietrich stood on the corner, hands behind his back, smiling. He nodded. We passed.
And that is how we left.
Before I continue, I want to make a small parenthesis — to tell you what our assets were at that time.