Tsilya Basin
Tsilya, have you always gone by this name?
In the Soviet Union, it was difficult for Jews to keep traditional Jewish names. By tradition, I was supposed to be called Tsipa Chana, after my grandmother. But my father, on his way to the civil registry office, met an acquaintance. When he heard the name, he grabbed his head in horror: “You want to ruin the girl? How could you give such a name in the Soviet Union?” By the time my father reached the office, he had softened the name and registered me as Tsilya. Even this name attracted teasing. At school, I was given hurtful nicknames. Yet I always knew: this was my grandmother’s name, my family name. I am proud of it. Later, in Israel, it was received quite differently – beautifully, with respect. Here in Canada, people often call me “Tsila” because English has no soft “lya” sound. But I accept that with a smile: a name, wherever it comes from, remains part of the soul.
What is your family's geographical roots?
My family comes from small towns in Lithuania. Jews were not allowed to live in big cities, so both my mother’s and father’s families lived in quiet Jewish towns. My mother’s family lived in Jonava, and my father’s in Šakiai.
Tell us your father’s story during the war?
My father was married before the war. When it began, he went to the front. Upon returning, he found only ruins. No one was alive. Neighbors told him the horrific truth: Lithuanians collaborating with the Germans had shot his pregnant wife along with other Jews. They had stood at the pits themselves and fired…
My mother also suffered. During the war, two of her small children died of illness. She was left alone.
After the war, two lonely, devastated people met, married, and began life anew. I was born in 1947, followed by my sister. My mother died very young; my father lived longer and eventually passed away in Israel.
Was your family religious?
Yes. Both my parents observed Jewish traditions. In the Soviet Union, keeping kosher was very difficult, but we tried. On Shabbat, our table was always kosher. I would take a live chicken across town on the bus to the shochet (ritual slaughterer) in Vilnius, one of the most beautiful synagogues in Europe. After he prepared it, my mother soaked and salted the chicken according to the rules. On Shabbat we always had traditional chicken soup and homemade challah.
During the week, we mostly ate dairy and what we could grow in our small garden. It was not easy, but we lived modestly and with dignity.
What about your own family?
My husband’s father died in the war, and his mother struggled to raise two sons alone. During the Soviet era, keeping strictly kosher was not really an option, though they never ate pork. I remember one episode: after I married, I made a tasty borscht with meat. My husband added sour cream. My father saw this and said, “From today, we separate.” So parents ate from their dishes, and we from ours.
What was your profession in the Soviet Union?
I worked in a kindergarten, in a regular group with children of all backgrounds: Lithuanian, Russian. Only one Jewish girl.
Once the headmistress, a kind Lithuanian woman, called me. “Tsilya Semenovna, you know we respect you, but I must tell you: a complaint came to the City Department of Education. It says you pay attention only to Jewish children.”
I was shocked. What Jewish children? I had only one, and I barely remembered her name. I said, “I love all children. A child is a child. Their nationality means nothing to me.”
The headmistress sighed. “I didn’t want to upset you, but you should know how people are.” She treated me with respect and, of course, did not punish me. Around that time, many Jews began leaving Lithuania for Israel. Seeing friends gradually depart, I told my husband, “I can’t stay here anymore. Things are getting worse.” That began our conversation about leaving the country. It was the early 1970s.