Erika Korda is an extraordinary woman: warm, fun-loving, generous, beautiful, incredibly smart, interested in everyone and everything. She is also personally inspiring to me. I met Erika at the age of 12, when she became my new stepmother. For 45 years, I have considered myself blessed to have a woman of such wit and wisdom play a significant role in my life.

I learned early that Erika was a hidden child in WWII Hungary, sent by her mother at age 5 to live with a Catholic family, under the false identity of a young Catholic relative. Her experience was the inspiration for my new novel, At the Hour Between Dog and Wolf. While not at all Erika’s actual story — mine is about a 12-year-old girl living in hiding in Vichy France, with tragic results — the idea of being such a young and vulnerable child, having to navigate the rules of a new world with such terrifyingly high stakes, has always haunted and intrigued me.

Over the years, Erika — now a beloved mother and grandmother in her 80s — often discussed her experience with me, but I wanted to interview her more formally about having been a hidden child. Her story, and those of the thousands of other children with such stories, deserve to be told, preserved, and remembered. I’m grateful for her time.

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Tara: I’m speaking with my stepmother Erika Korda, who I’ve known since I was 12 years old. Ricki, I would love to ask you some questions about your childhood and your upbringing. Can you start by telling me when and where you were born?

Erika: Yes, I was born on April 4th, 1939, in a town called Mukachevo, which is now in Western Ukraine. (Note: formerly in Czechoslovakia, and before that in Hungary, it was incorporated into Soviet Ukraine after World War II, and is now in Western Ukraine.) My father died when I was six months old from an operation for appendicitis. And in 1944, the Germans came into Czechoslovakia, because they came in late into Hungary and that area. My mother got false papers for herself and me. And someone introduced her to a woman who was not Jewish, lived in Budapest, and decided that she would help us and take us in. She took my mother in at her house, and she introduced me to her parents, who lived on a farm. And that’s where I went to live, with them.

The night my mother explained this all to me, I was five years old. And my mother explained that I was no longer called Erica Weinberger, that now I was going to be called Marika Farkash, which means Mary Fox, and that I had to forget that I was Jewish. I mustn’t tell anyone that I’m Jewish, and that I would be Catholic. She taught me the Catholic prayer, and had me memorize it. And unbelievably, I did memorize it. But I said, ‘Oh, Nagyapa,’ which is grandfather in Hungarian, ‘told me to say the Shema Yisrael!’ And she said ‘Yes, but you can’t say that anymore. You have to remember to say this now.’

Tara: I want to ask you more about that, but I also want to back up a bit. What do you remember of your life before 1944? Your father died when you were so young, but do you remember much about your early years?

Erika: Not really. I had a lady who took care of me, a governess. We were very comfortable; my family was wealthy. My mother didn’t work. And she was very beautiful. But after my father died, I’m sure she didn’t date, because that wasn’t the way to do it in those days. My grandfather used to come and visit me every Friday. So, that was our Shabbat.

My grandparents were very observant. My mother was kind of observant. But yes, he would come and visit me. And the rest of the family would come to see me because I didn’t have a father. So, they were around me a lot, that I remember. But I don’t remember much else.

Tara: So now you’re five years old. And you’re taken to a farm and introduced to these people, given a new name, taught the new Catholic prayers, and warned not to make a mistake. Can you tell me what else you remember?

Erika: They had two grandsons. They must have been teenagers, and they weren’t nice to me. They were not nice to me at all.

Tara: Do you think because you were Jewish? Because you were a girl? Did they see you as a threat to the family?

Erika: I think they just didn’t like girls. I don’t think it was the Jewish part. I don’t know. But they were definitely not happy I was there. So, I was alone a lot.

Tara: What about the man and the woman? Were they kind? Were you pretending to be a relative of theirs?

Erika: Yes, I was supposedly their granddaughter, and my mother was supposedly a loose woman. (Laughing) So, she had me, and they took me in.

Tara: What were they like?

Erika: The man was very warm and nice. He used to take me to the beer halls with him, which was funny. Yeah, he was nice. The lady was kind of cold. But she was nice.

Tara: Was there food to eat? A warm bed at night?

Erika: Oh yes, yes.

Tara: Did you do chores on the farm?

Erika: No, I played by myself. No, I didn’t do chores.

Tara: What about other children in the area?

Erika: No, no. I was alone a lot. I used to make dolls out of scraps of material until my mother sent a doll for me. That was very exciting. And once I went to visit my mother in Budapest, and she lost her mind and called me Erika, and I said to her, ‘You want to be taken away? My name is Marika!’

Tara: Wow, you really learned that lesson!

Erika: Yes, yes, I did.

Tara: Do you remember how you felt about your mother doing this, at the time? I’m guessing from her perspective, she’s saving her daughter, placing her daughter in a place of safety. But do you remember how you felt about your mother leaving you with these people?

Erika: I think I understood. It’s amazing to me, because when I had my grandchildren — not when I had my children, but when I had grandchildren — and they turned five, I used to look at them and think, ‘Wow, how did I do that?’ But I did. My mother said to me afterwards, when I was a grown person, that it was amazing how quickly I understood, and how quickly I went. I just went away on the train with my governess, and I never turned around. And on the train, my governess told me to pretend I was sleeping if someone came in to check our papers. And that’s what I did. So, I learned quickly, and I seemed to understand.

Tara: Do you remember going to church?

Erika: Yes, I remember going to church. And I remember there was a smell, an odd smell, about the water that I had to cross myself with, when I walked in. That’s what I remember.

Tara: Do you know how long you were there, living as little Marika?

Erika: A year? Maybe a year.

Tara: Okay, so you were about six when your mother survived the war? And came back to get you?

Erika: Right, she did.

Tara: Were you ever confused about who you were, about what you were, when your mother came back and got you?

Erika: No, that didn’t happen. I wanted to leave. I know there are other stories, about hidden children who didn’t want to leave when their parents came back for them. I wasn’t like that, I wanted to leave. I understood that it was all over, and I wanted to go with my mother.

Tara: And you were able to just go back to being Erika?

Erika: Yes.

Tara: So that would have been 1945. And after your mother came and got you, what happened then?

Erika: We went back to my grandparents’ farm. And slowly, other family members that survived came back.

Tara: But there were family members who didn’t survive.

Erika: Yes. And I used to hear the stories, and they were sad, very sad. My grandpa didn’t survive. And my uncles didn’t survive, and my cousins didn’t survive. But my grandma survived, my grandma who was probably in her 50s. But she was a very strong looking and tall woman. And when she and my aunt got off the train at the camp, they told my grandma to go one side, and my aunt was told to go to the other side. And my aunt said, ‘No, I want to go with my mother.’ And the officer said to her, “Do you know where she’s going?” And she said, “I don't care. I want to go with my mother.’ And he actually, probably for the first time in his life, did something good. He actually allowed my grandmother to go with my aunt. So that’s the reason that my grandmother survived. And my cousin was there, she worked in the kitchen and she got my grandmother a job in the kitchen, too. That was a prime job, that’s also how my grandmother survived. It was a miracle, because not many women in that age group survived. But she did.

Tara: How long did you stay on the farm with your grandparents?

Erika: Maybe a few months. And then we went back to our apartment in Kosice, and I started to go to school. And then one day my mother, and my aunt Gita, who survived, were in a coffee shop. And my aunt said to my mother, ‘okay, it's time for you to look for a man. And my mother said, ‘No, I’ve already had one, and anyway, if I were to look for a man, I would only want Joe Kornreich.’ Joe Kornreich was someone that she used to see before the war, and probably was in love with. But my grandfather didn’t think he was religious enough. So, they didn't go any further. I think my grandfather wanted my mother to marry my father very much, because my father was a religious man, and a Zionist and well thought of, and so my mother did. And then suddenly, Joseph Kornreich walked into the coffeeshop! And they got married four or five months later. It’s amazing.

Tara: It’s nice to hear a happy story like that!

Erika: Yes, it’s wonderful. (Smiling) He was my stepfather.

Tara: You went through the war as such a young child, living in hiding, with a false identity as a little Catholic girl. How do you think that has impacted the rest of your life? How do you feel it has impacted the woman you are?

Erika: I think it hurt me. I’ve always felt it hurt me. I think I’ve always been afraid of... I’m always feeling alone. Yeah. Yeah...

Tara: Do you remember feeling in danger?

Erika: Oh yes. Okay, I remember walking outside, around a grassy area, and the planes went overhead. I got very frightened and threw myself down, that I remember. And then, some chickens were stolen. And the police were called. I thought they were, you know, German soldiers. And I got very frightened of that, and the policeman asked me to come over and sit on his lap, and I did, but I was so scared. I knew enough that it wasn’t a good thing. Anybody wearing uniform, I was scared. But he didn’t do anything, he didn't grill me, you know. He was very nice.

Tara: Do you remember any of the Catholic prayers?

Erika: No, no. Well, wait, maybe in Hungarian, it starts in me at times… My god... (Shaking her head.)

Tara: I remember your telling me one of the things you were told was, don’t ever, ever cry. They told you that at five years old, right? Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t be vulnerable, you don’t want anyone saying, “Little girl, what’s wrong?”

Erika: That’s right. I remember that. And I didn’t. I never cried.

Tara: And you know, I’ve known you almost all of my life, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.

Erika: No? Really?

Tara: You always stop yourself.

Erika: (Nodding.) I guess that’s true.

Tara: When you had your own children, you were...?

Erika: I was 22 when I had my daughter. And then I was 26 when I had my son.

Tara: How did you feel telling them about your childhood? Do you remember how old they were? Or how you decided to tell them?

Erika: I don’t remember exactly. But I always talked about it. You know, we always talked about it. My father, my stepfather, Joe, who I used to call Uncle Joe in Hungarian, he rarely talked about his experience in Auschwitz. He lost his wife and his son there. And he said once to my son, ‘Whatever you hear, it was much worse.’ That’s all he would say.

Tara: Did you ever discuss with your mother how she felt putting you in hiding, how she survived the war?

Erika: Yes, for a while she lived with a couple — the woman, Margie, was a Christian woman but married to a Jewish man. And my mother had false papers with her, always, in case she needed them. When there was an air raid, they would all go down to the basement, everyone in the building. And someone would always pray out loud, the Catholic prayer, of course. They didn’t know she was Jewish.

Tara: Did she have to participate?

Erika: Yes, once they asked her to lead the prayer. And she began, but then started to laugh — she and I both have that personality, when we get nervous, we start to laugh instead of cry. So, she was laughing, but then she thought about her father, if her father could see her now, saying a Catholic prayer, and she did start crying. And everyone put their arms around her, to comfort her. They didn’t know why.

But then the man, the Jewish husband, was caught, and taken away. And Margie got very frightened for my mother, so she helped her get into the Swiss Embassy, which was very lucky. The Swiss Embassy took some Jews in, and that’s where she stayed for the rest of the war.

Tara: As herself? No more false papers?

Erika: No more false papers.

Tara: Did you stay in touch with Margie?

Erika: My mother did. She was a very beautiful woman, looked like that blonde actress, I don’t remember now...

Tara: Do you know what became of her?

Erika: She died.

Tara: And her Jewish husband? Who was taken away?

Erika: I don’t know what happened to him.

Tara: When you see recent stories in the news, or the last 10, 20, 30 years, stories about the children of war, displaced, in hiding, orphaned...

Erika: And now Ukraine. That’s where I was born! Once Slovakia, now Ukraine. And it kills me to see the children suffering. It just kills me, the little children...

Tara: The most innocent victims.

Erika: It breaks my heart.

Tara: Did you ever wonder about the choice your mother made, to put you into hiding? Perhaps to give you up forever, for all she knew...? When you were a young mother, did you ever think about if you were in a similar situation, what you would do for your children?

Erika: I would do the same. Definitely. She said to me once, If I had kept you, and you were with me and I got caught, you would be finished. So, there was no way I was going to keep you with me.

Tara: By putting you into hiding, she saved your life.

Erika: Absolutely. It’s extraordinary, what she did. She was strong, a very strong woman.

Tara: So are you, Ricki.

Erika: (Laughing) Yeah, well...

Tara: You are. I’ve always admired you, so much. Thank you for sharing all of this.

Erika: Thank you, honey.

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Tara Ison is the author of the novels The List (Scribner), A Child out of Alcatraz (Faber & Faber, Inc.), a Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and Rockaway (Counterpoint/Soft Skull Press), featured as one of the “Best Books of Summer” in O, The Oprah Magazine, July 2013. Her essay collection, Reeling Through Life: How I Learned to Live, Love, and Die at the Movies, Winner of the PEN Southwest Book Award for Best Creative Nonfiction, and her short story collection Ball, were both published in 2015 by Counterpoint/Soft Skull Press.

At the Hour Between Dog and Wolf, a novel of life in WWII collaborationist France, from Ig Publishing, has been selected a New York Times Editors’ Choice. Her short fiction, essays, poetry and book reviews have appeared in Tin House, BOMB, O, The Oprah Magazine, Salon, Electric Literature, The Kenyon Review, The Rumpus, Nerve, Black Clock, TriQuarterly, PMS: poemmemoirstory, Publisher’s Weekly, The Week magazine, The Mississippi Review, LA Weekly, the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Chicago Tribune, the San Jose Mercury News, and numerous anthologies. She is also the co-writer of the cult movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.