Written by Arianna North Castell
For centuries, Thessaloniki (Salonica) was known as the “Jerusalem of the Balkans.” Its streets echoed with Ladino (Judeo-Spanish), the harbour bustled with traders and synagogues stood as pillars of a flourishing Sephardic culture. After the expulsions from Spain and Portugal in the fifteenth century, the city became a sanctuary, where Jewish traditions thrived and shaped its identity. But with the arrival of the Nazis in April 1941, this thriving community faced systematic destruction. Between 1943 and 1944, around 43,000 Jews were deported to Nazi concentration camps, and of those less than a thousand returned. In just over two years, they had decimated an entire culture and its people. Yet even in the face of annihilation, the voices of the victims survive. In Do Not Forget Me, Leon Saltiel compiles the final letters of three Jewish mothers writing from Thessaloniki to their sons in Athens. Their words, filled with love, longing, and grief, offer a deeply personal window into a history that might otherwise be lost.
These letters are deeply personal, emotional and invaluable. How often are we awarded the day-to-day perspective of real, ordinary people, as they confront historic oppression? How often are they women? How often are they mothers? Reading these letters forces you into their world. It forces you into the reality that, though it’s a story told time and time again, these were real people, experiencing the inhumanity of Nazism for the first time. Their confusion, anxieties, and hopes of reprieve radiate off the page, and the bitterness of knowing their fates is a sour companion to a modern reader. We walk alongside these women as their homes were stripped from them, as they were crammed into cold and filthy ghettos, and as they waited, with nauseating fear, for a deportation that they could sense was final.
Their words bridge the gap of centuries that divides us. The words they send to their sons are not unfamiliar. They nag them about schoolwork, eating healthily, the girls they date. They worry about their health and whether they are dressing warmly enough. The maternal concern almost makes one chuckle warmly- they are just like our mothers. Their pain at separation is evident, and familiar to any mother who is away from their children. They long to hear from them, to write to them often, send them provisions, and imagine them at holidays and family gatherings.
One such woman was Sara Saltiel, though she went by the nickname Sarina. An avid musician, she had a beautiful singing voice. She met her husband when he heard her sing on holiday, and he was completely taken with her. They had one child together named Maurice. He lived in Athens to study (a much safer place for him, as it was under Italian control and the same antisemitic measures were not enforced.) A year’s worth of letters from January 1942 to her deportation in March of 1943 survive. His responses to her did not, as she took them with her on the train to Auschwitz, where she perished. Her letters reveal a deep maternal love for her child, as well as a vital insight into life in Salonica as antisemitism increased. In her letters, she details a close-knit community. With measures prohibiting Jews from continuing their daily life, and a strict 5pm curfew, many spent their days visiting each other, providing what they could, offering emotional comfort.
Her letters begin with familiar maternal support.
She advises him about his studies:
‘I was surprised when you told me on the phone yesterday that you want to come back home without completing your studies. I don’t know what to advise you. If you want to come back, make a decision after having weighed the pros and the cons. You’ll always be welcome here.
…
I repeat, Maurice, for your return, do what you think is most reasonable. I know that you’re quite capable of making a decision on your own.’
26/05/1942
‘I beg of you to start studying diligently, so that you pass your exams. Most importantly, make sure you study foreign languages, as they are necessary nowadays. Get rid of your laziness, and get back to work. Also make sure you have enough provisions to get through the winter. Don’t do the same stupid thing you did last year. Buy yourself some coal to keep yourself warm.
If you give your blue-green jacket to the dry cleaners, make sure they don’t ruin it.’
17/08/1942
She tells him how she misses him:
‘I would really have loved to be with you. Salonica has lost its charm now that you’re gone, my darling, and I can no longer travel. Now I wish I could take a break.’
10/09/1942
‘It’s as if you had come yourself. It consoled me in your absence. I would have liked to have heard your blessings and to have blessed you during the prayers before dinner. Despite the distance between us, my heart is always with you.’
14/09/1942
She chides him to write more:
‘Why are you too lazy to send news of yourself to the only person who waits impatiently for it? Write to me often. I feel you are next to me when I hold one of your letters in my hands. At the very least, don’t deprive me of this sweet illusion. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have my daughter to fill the void of your absence during your studies. Don’t make me regret it more. Write down what you’re thinking about, what you’re doing. That way—it would feel like we were close to each another.’
26/01/1943
The details of their struggles are peppered in: her difficulty finding housing, their house being requisitioned. There’s a strong sense that she’s shielding him from much of the bad news from Salonica, and while she shares her emotional state with him, she tries not to worry him too much:
‘You asked me whether I felt anxious. Despite this anxiety, which is due to multiple reasons, I try to be in the best of spirits. I smile when I all I want to do is cry. I keep myself occupied and boost my morale as much as I can. I’m still living at your grandmother’s place since I haven’t found a house of my own.’
14/09/1942
This takes a sharp turn when the family are forced into the ghetto. The conditions are horrifying, and the reality of their situation has become apparent- it was no longer feasible for her to hide her worries and fears from her son. The deportations were thinly veiled death sentences, and their time was looming.
‘Don’t worry about not hearing from us. We can’t communicate any longer. We’re trapped in ghettos. We can’t communicate with our relatives from the countryside. All I can say is that we’re going through a critical period. We only have hope in God. One hopes not to lose reason. I try to be patient and philosophical about it as much as I can. We have all declared our assets and fortunes. Our stores are closed.’
03/1943
‘As I write these lines to you, my eyes are filled with tears and my heart is filled with ice-cold terror. We’ve been going through agony that has gradually increased these past two months—the workings of an experienced sadist. I can’t describe what we’re going through during this time without upsetting you.
The worst now is deportation. Our blood runs cold at all times. Our hearts beat to the point of bursting, we must abandon everything, country, parents. We’ll be separated from each other, from friends and fortune, and we’ll have to leave with a backpack only. We’re not even allowed to carry a suitcase. The first convoy has already left. We don’t know where to. The second one will leave today. On the day of departure, people go crazy; they burn their paper money, destroy their furniture with the cries of mortally wounded animals. Then, after abandoning all the fruits of their labor, they leave packed like sardines and treated worse than animals in cattle wagons.
This is what awaits us either today or tomorrow. We give everything to any poor person that comes along, shoes to one person, clothes to another, and money to yet another. Since nothing belongs to us anymore, we might as well clothe others.
I don’t know what awaits me tomorrow at dawn. If we also get deported, I’ll try to be strong and endure all the pain just to be able to see you again one day. May the vision of you give me strength during these difficult moments. I’ll say to myself, “No, we’ll never give up. The day will come when my beloved child will warm me with his love and make me forget this nightmare.” Be just as strong. God won’t abandon us. God can perform a miracle any time. There are so many hearts imploring him.’
17/03/1943
As their deportation is set, Sarina is confronted with a task that no mother should have to face: deciding on her final words to her child. It seems unthinkable to cram a lifetime of advice, care and love into a single page. Below is her final letter to him:
‘My dear child,
What else can I tell you besides the slow agony we’re going through?
Three trains have already left filled with the unimaginable suffering of people who are penniless, who have nothing—only a backpack. Those of us who are still here are dying every minute from a rush of so many emotions. We’ve tried everything, but we haven’t achieved anything.
This might be the last letter I write to you. I bless you. May the Lord keep you.
You’ll never be able to repay your friend for what he’s done for us. You must be more than a brother to him. You owe your life to him and to the other friend of yours who is by your side.
If the Lord grants me the joy of seeing you again one day, I wouldn’t know how to bow down before him.
Father is completely discouraged. I support him with the little courage I have left.
I’m leaving you my beloved child, and send you tender kisses.
My heart is broken.
Sarina’
21/03/1942
We have twelve letters from Mathilde Barouh to her son Fredy, who was also studying in Athens. Many times, she addresses his letters to him and his sisters, and mentions Annette, her cousin that Fredy lived with in Athens. Her letters began in March of 1943, when she had already been forced into the ghettos, and deportation was a looming threat. Her emotion was high, and her longing for her son was evident. Her deportation was pushed back multiple times, meaning that Mathilde wrote her final words to her son many times. The emotional toll of this is unimaginable. An incompressible grief, again and again.
She updates him on their friends and family, and her longing for the past:
You tell me to be courageous and patient. I can’t be either, anymore. Not knowing what will happen is agony for us. May God give us patience to be able to tolerate what awaits us and not to die far from you my darling Fredy.
Sometimes I have hope things will be like before—that we will be near one another, with me enjoying your presence, loving you as before. I am so unlucky being far away from you when we could have been close to each other with everything we spend.
This separation has ruined us. Nothing has been left to us anymore. Everything has frayed like cloth. There is nothing else left other than what I will take with me. The houses have been emptied with the horror that from one moment to the next we could leave.
I already wrote to you that they took Beni and Arie. You can imagine how unfortunate are Louisa and the aunt. All the time crying, which breaks your heart when you see them. I hope God will guard them and keep them safe, amen.
01/04/1943
She prepares for her deportation, still hoping for a reunion with her beloved son:
It seems that we’re leaving the day after tomorrow. I send you my love to all of you one last time, to you my darling whom I have loved so. Being separated from you is killing me. I’ll try to withstand this ordeal in the hope that we’ll be reunited one day, my darling Fredy. I’ll wait for your letter today so as to hear from you and feel you close to me once again. I imagine how anxious you must be feeling without me by your side, but that’s how it is.
We’re busy preparing food today. We don’t know what else to do, how to carry all this on the back. There are some moments that we start to cry with the misfortune that has got to us.
…
I read your letter, Fredy darling, and I bitterly regret having caused you sorrow. I was so nervous and desperate the day I struck out at you. I know you were a very affectionate son to your mother, my darling, but things are such that I am far from you. As you say my darling, let us have faith in God that one blessed day we will be together again, and that love and tenderness will make us forget everything.
07/04/1943
She gives last words of love and advice, thinking ahead to Fredy’s future that she will never see:
The postman just brought me your letter, my dear Fredy, as well Salamo’s, dated the 7th.
Your loving letter of today made me shed many tears. There are times when I feel I’m failing, my darling, and there are moments of hope when I believe I’ll see you again and be with you. You’re my only reason for living. I often think of how this news will alarm our dear Lily and Henry.
If I don’t come back, my darling Fredy, do everything you can—should you have the means later on—to go see them and, if possible, to live close to them or near our dear Annette and Henry, who are like brothers to you. They love you, and you’ll have some affection close to you. Just be brave of all the misfortune that will befall us.
…
We hope you’ll be spared until the end over there. In case the same thing happens to you my dearest Annette, you must find him a companion—a young girl worthy of him—with my blessing.’
10/04/1943
‘Don’t grieve too much upon our departure, my dear Fredy. I didn’t have the heart to do anything. It’s better this way. We’re leaving with God’s help. He’ll protect us and perform miracles so that we meet each other again’
13/04/1943
Her last letter comes a couple of days later:
My dear Fredy,
I’m taking advantage of Mr. Blejen being here, to write a few lines to you. I hope you received all my letters. I believe you saw Mr. Askirou, and that he relayed our conversation to you.
We’re still here. Mr. Blejen will inform you of our departure.
Goodbye, my darling Fredy. We’ll meet each other later with the help of God.
I embrace you with all my heart,
Your mother
17/04/1943
Not much is known about Naema Cazes, who’s six letters to her sons, Maurice and Berto, survive. Maurice was married and lived in Athens with his mother. Naema left for Thessaloniki for a few days in search of food to bring back to Athens, but due to transportation blocks, she was not permitted to return as she had planned. She stayed with her second son, Berto (whom she wrote the first letters with), who was able to return to Athens in February of 1943, but despite the efforts of her sons, she could not join them. She was deported from Thessaloniki to Auschwitz, where she died.
She updates her son Maurice, on the living situation and anxiously awaits her permit to return to Athens:
Soon, I’ll have finished ironing and cleaning the kitchen. Berto hasn’t come to eat yet, and it’s 2:30 p.m. It’s payday. I’m taking the opportunity to write to you so that I can tell you what I’m doing. Ever since it snowed five days ago, everything has turned to ice, and the roads are like mirrors. It’s freezing cold, and it’s very windy, too. The owner lights the stove every Friday evening, and we shiver like a bunch of wet cats. Luckily, the brazier helps a bit as it heats us in front and from behind. We try to keep as warm as possible in bed.
You asked me what kind of blanket we have: Berto covers himself with the woolen blanket, and I cover myself with a baby blanket, the carpet from the chest, my sport coat and Berto’s raincoat. The thought of having to get up in the morning and moving from one place to another in the cold gives me the goosebumps.
…
Let me know what the result is for my permit. What are you eating?
Did you look for the shoes? What condition are the shirts in? Last night, I dreamt of you, and you were in a good mood, making roskitas. My son, when will we be able to make good things together again?
29/01/1943
Her love, affection and longing for her son is evident:
For the first time since the beginning of the war, we had a dozen of ferik apples (at 1,500/oke) in your honor for dessert. Imagine, my dear Maurice, how much I was thinking of you, and of your love of pastelico even though it didn’t turn out that great. What are you eating?
…
I’ve been waiting a long time for the long letter you promised me. When I receive a letter from you, it feels like you’re with me for one or two days. Then your vision begins to fade, and it feels as if I’m very far away from you, my son. Your pajama bottoms are still hanging, and it’s as if you were here.
03/02/1943
God will let me see my children again, my only happiness, my only reason for living. She blesses me, may God hear the prayers and the blessings. My soul is with God day and night so that he helps me stay close to you.
Send me as many letters as possible because I have no other aspiration in life, besides my children.
27/03/1943
She tells them how she prepares for deportation, restless with fear:
I try to go to bed early in order to sleep in the evening. I sleep for two hours, and I then wake up with a start. What will become of me without my children? When will I see them again? Where is this “unknown” that I will be sent to alone? My brain is overtired, and the nightmare haunts me so much that I feel my head is made of cement and that my thoughts can’t find a way out. It’s true that I’m not the only one suffering, but I’ve been bled dry for a long time, and our separation has worn me down.
If God wants me to see you again, He’ll give me the strength to resist, to have you near me, to feel that I’m surrounded by the affection that was the only joy in my life.
01/04/1943
Her penultimate letter paints a painfully graphic reality. She implores her sons to not forget her:
Despite having to live in agony all day and night like inmates awaiting their death sentence, I’m writing to you to help you calm down a little. We were briefly under the illusion that we could run away from these terrible times. But things are rapidly gathering pace. My fatal moment will arrive in a few days or hours, too.
My dear children, despite keeping my self-control so as not to grieve you, I see that my last hours have arrived. Nothing can console me in the knowledge that I’ll be separated for good from my dear children, my loved ones whom I so desperately want to see, those by my side, and in my last days—the only joys of my life. I haven’t enjoyed a single day of my stay here because we’ve been separated. I had foreseen all this and I wanted to leave in time, but I met all sorts of obstacles. I don’t know if I’ll be able to live with the nostalgia, deprivation, and misery.
God, who sees my tears, have mercy and protect you. Live happily if you can. May God protect you from all evil—this is my prayer every night. Nothing can depict the tragedy that is taking place here. What hope is there in continuing to resist so much? I was expecting to see you at any moment, and now I must run with my backpack toward the unknown without anyone to protect me?
Don’t forget me, my dear children, my beloved ones, my only reason for living. If God could only give me hope that I’ll see you again, kiss you again, see your eyes again—eyes for which I spent my youth always hoping to spend happy days with. If I ever hear from you, or you from me, who knows whether God will protect me. I’ll go to the office or to Tiano’s. We no longer know when God will reunite us.
Think of me at all times, I suffer a lot. I foresaw these moments, and I thought we’d be together. May God have mercy on me so that I don’t fall ill, so that they don’t exterminate me. Because what we see is not very encouraging.
04/04/1943
Her final letter is lengthy, describing the communal grief and suffering of the deportations. She says her final goodbye:
I embrace you with all my heart and soul, my dearest children. May the
good Lord have mercy on the innocent who aspire only to simple family
pleasures. May God watch over you and keep you from all evil.
Your mother only has one thought on her mind: to see her children well.
Gina will write to you.
Your mother,
Neama
08/04/1943
Some letters survive from Maurice and Berto to her that never arrived at their destination. They anxiously wait for any updates from their mother that will never come.
An unsettling truth is put forward in the English publication of these letters: ‘As time goes by, the suffering of victims gives way to the fascination their executioners hold.’ We analyse the perpetrators, dissect their motives, and immortalise their crimes, while the voices of their victims fade into the background. To resist this erasure is the least we can do—to share these stories, to say their names, to remember these women not only for how they died but for how they lived. Yet even this feels inadequate. The horrors of the Holocaust stole their identities, their futures, and their place in the world, and no amount of remembrance can restore what was lost. But their words survived. They were cherished. They reach us now. The title Do Not Forget Me is haunting in its plea, but in reading, preserving, and carrying forward these letters, we ensure that this wish is fulfilled.
Bibliography
Ellis, Tom. “The Jerusalem of the Balkans.” Ekathimerini, 26 July 2022, https://www.ekathimerini.com/opinion/1189998/the-jerusalem-of-the-balkans/ [accessed 12/02/2025]
Saltiel, Leon. Do Not Forget Me: Three Jewish Mothers Write to Their Sons from the Thessaloniki Ghetto. Routledge, 2023.
Photo taken from Saltiel’s English edition, page 34.
Featured image credit: ‘An envelope sent to Neama Cazes on 13 April 1943, which was returned to sender as the recipient had “departed from Thessaloniki.” Italian censorship tape and stamps are visible. Archive of Marie Cazes.’
Retrospect Journal 