The Jewish Cemetery Of Ardud

Attorney, Bogdan IONESCU
Former judge, Cristian Eugen GUTTMANN
Attorney, Petru-Rareș VODĂ

A Romanian version of this article is available
at https://specialarad.ro/cimitirul-evreiesc-din-ardud/

I. Ardud – A Brief History

According to the Monograph of the Town of Ardud (author: engineer Ioan Suciu), the locality was first mentioned in written records in the year 1215, under the Latin name Herdeud. Over time, under the influence of various socio-political developments, the locality has also borne the names Erdowd, Erded, Erdeud (older variants), Erdöd (in Hungarian), and Erdeed (in German).

In a concise synthesis of the town’s history, it may be stated that Ardud was under Habsburg rule from the late 17th century, then became part of the Austrian Empire (1804–1867), subsequently of Austria-Hungary (1867–1918), and, from 1918 onward, of Romania, following the collapse of Austria-Hungary and the union of Transylvania with Romania.

There was an interlude between 1940 and 1944, during which Romania was forced to cede a large part of Transylvania (including Ardud) to Horthy’s Hungary. This territorial concession was imposed on Romania by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy under the so-called Second Vienna Award. The ceded area became known in history as Northern Transylvania.

Today, Ardud is a town (it obtained this status in 2006) located in Satu Mare County, Transylvania, Romania. To better understand its geographical position, it should be noted that Ardud lies 18 km south of the centre of the municipality of Satu Mare. According to the national census conducted in 2022, the town of Ardud has a population of 6,124 inhabitants. Based on the distribution of the population by religion, no person declared belonging to the Mosaic faith. Likewise, no person declared Jewish ethnicity.

II. Ardud and the Jewish Community

According to The Encyclopedia of Jewish Life Before and During the Holocaust (Volume I, A–J, New York University Press, 2001): Ardud (Erdöd in Hungarian), Northern Transylvania, Romania. Jews settled here in the mid-18th century and were engaged in agriculture. The Jewish population in 1930 was 124 persons (3% of the total). In May 1944, the community was transferred to the Satu Mare ghetto and, from June onward, deported to Auschwitz. In 1947, 80 Jews still lived here, but they soon left.

From other sources (Ioan Suciu, The Monograph of the Town of Ardud), we learn that:

“In the Satu Mare region and in the plasa Ardud (plasă was a historical administrative unit similar to a district – n. ed.), the first wave of Jewish emigrants came from those expelled from Vienna before 1672, as well as from other parts of the Empire. Thus, in Ardud in 1582 there were 28 Jews. In 1737, a law was enacted limiting the number of children in a Jewish family to one. Also during this period (1728), 365 Jewish families were expelled from Bukovina by General Enzenberg, and part of them moved to Satu Mare County, where they were received. In Ardud, their situation evolved as follows: if in 1851 there were three Jewish families here, by the 1930 census there were 119 Jewish families.”

On the other hand, it is indisputable that the Jewish community of Ardud suffered enormously under the Horthy occupation, the Horthy regime in Hungary being an ally of Nazi Germany during the Second World War. The closeness between the two states was also ideological in nature, as both had authoritarian and profoundly antisemitic regimes.

We also possess detailed, more personal information about several members of the Jewish community of Ardud. For example, from the work 40 Years Since the Massacre of the Jews from Northern Transylvania Under Horthyst Occupation (Bucharest, 1984), we learn that among the well-known rabbis killed during the Holocaust and their places of ministry was Katz Ioel (Yoel), who led and provided spiritual guidance to the Jewish community of Ardud. He was known as an expert in the Jewish laws of divorce and agunot (literally “chained woman”; in Jewish law, this refers to a married woman who cannot obtain a religious divorce—usually because her husband refuses it, has disappeared, or cannot be confirmed as deceased). From another source (B. László, Erdöd nyolc évszázada, Szatmárnémeti, 2010) we learn that Chief Rabbi Ioel Katz established in Erdőd (Ardud) a school, a Talmud Torah (meaning “study of the Torah,” the name traditionally given to community schools, especially in Eastern Europe).

We also recall here Marta Marton, born in 1938 precisely in Ardud, who met her tragic end in the Auschwitz extermination camp in 1944 (https://collections.yadvashem.org/en/names/14055949).

The photograph (Fig. 1), capturing her in all the innocence and candour of childhood, has become — however paradoxical or unnatural it may sound to some — both a memento and a permanent warning of the atrocities that human beings, in the name of an ideology of hatred, can inflict upon any fellow human being, even upon a defenceless, innocent child.

We also commemorate Gross Malka, born in 1930, likewise in Ardud, a schoolgirl who was deported and killed in the machinery of death at Auschwitz in 1944 (https://collections.yadvashem.org/en/names/13983723).

The photograph (Fig. 2), bearing “tears of time,” heavily damaged by humidity, may have blurred the features of her face, yet all these traces can serve as a profound impulse for continual remembrance — for something enduring and universal.

In those barely perceptible, almost ghostlike features of a child, we can recognize each of the nearly 1.5 million Jewish children murdered during the Holocaust.

We also commemorate Gross Herman, born in 1925 in Ardud, a student, who was killed in the death camp of Auschwitz, likewise in 1944 (https://collections.yadvashem.org/en/names/13983071).

We see him in a photograph (Fig. 3) taken during his childhood, upon which time has left its mark. With his hair tousled, he looks as if he has just been playfully ruffled by his sister — the same sister who, decades later, filled out the testimony page for Yad Vashem – The Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Authority.

Finally, we commemorate Chai Rifka, born in 1939 in Ardud, who died at Auschwitz (https://collections.yadvashem.org/en/names/763373). We know almost with certainty the circumstances of her death — identical to those of other very young jewish children.

From R. Jan van Pelt, L. Ferreiro, M. Greenbaum, Auschwitz: Not Long Ago. Not Far Away (Abbeville Press Publishers, 2017), we learn that once the prisoners arrived at the camp ramp, they were taken off the trains and typically lined up in two columns: men and boys aged sixteen and over in one column, and women, girls, and children in the other. Of the 1.1 million Jews deported to Auschwitz, only 200,000 were registered as camp inmates. The remaining 900,000 were killed immediately upon arrival. Among them were 200,000 children. With very few exceptions (such as twins, who were sought out and wanted for medical experiments), all Jewish children arriving at Auschwitz were automatically condemned to death.

Equally harrowing is the following testimony of Tibor G., a Holocaust survivor, essentialized as follows (https://portal.ehri-project.eu/units/us-005583-hvt_2520):  Who was born in Ardud, Romania in 1928, one of four children. He recounts attending Romanian school; Hungarian occupation; attending Hungarian school; his father’s draft into a Hungarian slave labor battalion; his release; ghettoization in Satu Mare; deportation to Auschwitz; separation with his father from his family upon arrival; slave labor with his father in Buna/Monowitz; a kapo giving him a privileged job and extra food that he shared with his father; public hangings; separation from his father; evacuation to Buchenwald in January 1945; receiving food en route from the Red Cross in Prague; liberation by United States troops; traveling to Paris in 1946; assistance from relatives in the United States; boarding a ship for Palestine; interdiction by the British; being returned to France; emigration to the United States in 1948; hospitalization for tuberculosis; marriage in 1950; and the births of two children. Mr. G. discusses continuing nightmares of the separation from his family and sharing his experiences with his children. He shows photographs, documents, and artifacts.

III. The Jewish Cemetery – General Remarks

Although the histories of Jewish communities vary greatly from one time and place to another, there is, nevertheless, a remarkably common pattern running through these life stories. As has been emphasized in the scholarly literature (and also observed empirically), traditionally the very first action of any Jewish community was to acquire land for a cemetery (see Joshua N. Azriel, Enduring Jewish Communities around the World, Rowman, London, 2024).

Expressing essentially the same idea, another author (Avi Y. Decter, Exploring American Jewish History through 50 Historic Treasures, Rowman & Littlefield, London, 2023) notes that once a sufficient number of Jews had gathered in a locality, their first expression of communal life was to purchase land for a cemetery.

Localities that did not have their own cemeteries buried their dead in the cemeteries of the communities to which they belonged. For example (to remain as geographically close to Ardud as possible), it is known that in Botiz (a commune in Satu Mare County, Transylvania, Romania), the Jewish cemetery was opened in 1850 and was also used by Jews from surrounding localities that did not have cemeteries of their own.

Among the larger towns in the area of interest, the last to be permitted to purchase a parcel of land for the establishment of a cemetery was Satu Mare, whose community had repeatedly been denied this acquisition. The Jews of Satu Mare were thus compelled to bury their dead either in Carei or in Botiz—the first locality along the Satu Mare–Sighetu Marmației route. Even today, the exact date when the land for the first Jewish cemetery was purchased remains uncertain (these details were consulted in F. Grigorescu, Forms of Art in the Jewish Cemeteries in the North-West of Romania, Satu Mare Museum Publishing House, 2013).

Similar—and also some new—information can be found in the work of Rabbi Isaac Klein, A Guide to Jewish Religious Practice (KTAV, 1979): ”Proper burial is considered so important that the community as a whole is held responsible for the proper burial of an unclaimed body. To ensure that the dead are buried properly, and need not be sent to another community or be buried among non-Jews, it is an established practice for even the smallest Jewish community to have a cemetery of its own. When the community is unable to buy a separate cemetery but can purchase ground in an area set aside for all burials, both Jewish and non-Jewish, the Jewish section should be set apart with a fence or another form of barrier.”

We know, from R. R. Madden, The Shrines and Sepulchres of the Old and New World: Records of Pilgrimages in Many Lands (London, 1851), that: The modern Jewish cemetery is called Beth Hachaim, or House of Living. For those who have left this life are held to be in the enjoyment of another existence more worthy of being designated a place of living than this miserable world.

From an even older and foundational work in the field (The Religious Ceremonies and Customs of the Several Nations of the Known World, vol. I, London, 1731; a translation of Cérémonies et Coutumes Religieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde, the result of the collaboration between editor and author J. F. Bernard and engraver Bernard Picart), we have discovered the following particularly interesting information: Thus the dead are carried to the burial place, which is generally a field employed for that purpose, called Beth Hachaim, or House of the Living, they looking upon the dead as living, because of their souls. One of the company makes an oration in praise of the deceased, in case he deserved it. They also repeat a prayer, which they call Ridduc addin, the justice of the judgment. It begins with these words of Deuteronomy, chap. xxxii, ver. 4: He is the Rock, His work is perfect; for all His ways are judgment, etc.

Within the (inherently limited) scope of this chapter, we would also like to note that the care of the deceased, burial, the design of cemeteries, the carving of tombstones, and cemetery visits are all governed by various Jewish legal rules and traditions. For instance, there are strict rules regarding the minimum distance at which a cemetery should be located from the city and/or other structures, as well as a certain distance to be observed and respected between individual graves. The cemetery should be situated at a minimum distance of approximately seventy-five feet from the town (Bava Batra 25a). The deceased is buried in a single grave, and the distance between graves should be six spans (about four-and-a-half feet), as we learn from The Encyclopedia of Jewish Folklore and Traditions, Routledge, 2015, edited by R. Patai and Haya Bar-Itzhak.

Finally, it has been accurately observed (F. Grigorescu, op. cit.) that: Over time, Jewish communities have generally adopted the practice of placing stones on graves throughout the Jewish world, but this was done in varied forms, depending on each community. Not only the shape and size differed from one community to another, but also the manner of placement. Among Ashkenazi, tombstones were placed vertically at the head of the deceased, whereas Sephardi and Ashkenazi in Israel placed them horizontally, covering the entire grave. In north-western Romania, vertical stones predominate, but there are also horizontal monuments and even mausoleums and sarcophagi, such as those found in the cemeteries of Bihor County.

We reinforce the conceptual framework above by referring to Reader’s Guide to Judaism (Routledge, London and New York, 2000, edited by Michael Terry), where, inter alia, it has been noted that Sephardic cemeteries generally had simple, unadorned tombstones laid flat on the ground, while Ashkenazi cemeteries typically featured vertically raised tombstones, sometimes richly carved.

IV. The Jewish Cemetery of Ardud

There is very little concrete and detailed information about the history of the Jewish cemetery of Ardud. For instance, from a Hungarian-language work dedicated to this locality (B. László, Erdöd nyolc évszázada, Szatmárnémeti, 2010), we learn only that: “The Jewish religious community had its own separate cemetery. After the disappearance of the community following the Second World War, the cemetery remained completely neglected, practically in a state of ruin.”

According to information found on the JewishGen Online Worldwide Burial Registry (JOWBR), the Orthodox Jewish cemetery in Ardud was established in the second half of the 19th century, and the last known burial dates from the interwar period. According to other sources (which we consider more accurate—namely, the already cited work by F. Grigorescu, Forms of Art in the Jewish Cemeteries in the North-West of Romania, Satu Mare Museum Publishing House, 2013), the Jewish cemetery in Ardud “was identified as early as 1820.”

From the same website (the data there being quite old, dating from the year 2000), we learn that the cemetery is located in Ardud, 3959, Satu Mare County, 4738 2253. Today, the coordinates provided by the Google Maps application for the Jewish cemetery of Ardud are MW22+5G. The cemetery is situated outside the inhabited area (extra muros), on a hill. Personally, I did not see any sign or marker indicating the direction to the cemetery, but by using the aforementioned application, I found it relatively easily. At the date of the visit —20 October 2025— the road adjacent to the cemetery was under construction, at the stage of a compacted stone layer being levelled.

According to address no. 9050/16.10.2025 from the Ardud Town Hall, we were informed that the Jewish cemetery is not under the administration of this institution, and we were directed to contact the Jewish Community of Satu Mare.

From information gathered by the United States Commission for the Preservation of America’s Heritage Abroad (2010) and presented in the document entitled Historic Jewish Sites in Romania, we learn the following regarding the Jewish cemetery in Ardud: there have been no threats and no acts of vandalism. The location of the cemetery is indicated only by reference to number “3959.” The site’s current use is listed as a Jewish cemetery. Restoration work is attested, consisting of: removal of stones, repair (patching) of broken stones, and cleaning of the gravestones.

We also have information, including from public posts, that during 2024, the Jewish cemetery of Ardud was enclosed with a protective wall. The fencing project was made possible thanks to the financial support of the Federal Foreign Office of the Federal Republic of Germany. It is known (see I. Abrahams, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, London, 1896) that a protective wall was a customary feature of Jewish cemeteries—an extremely necessary precautionary measure, since the desecration and plundering of Jewish graves was a common offense in the Middle Ages. Even though today the desecration and plundering of Jewish graves are far less frequent than in past historical periods, such threats nevertheless persist; in this respect, the mentioned enclosure is most welcome and, as an initiative, deserves the appreciation and gratitude of all people of good will.

Nevertheless, merely enclosing the cemetery is not sufficient to ensure its protection and survival. Inside the walls, although it does not have a desolate appearance (as is unfortunately the case with many entirely abandoned Jewish cemeteries) it is more than evident that the cemetery is not properly maintained. Uncleaned, overgrown with vegetation/weeds, with many tombstones chipped, cracked, displaced, some on the verge of collapse and others already destroyed or irretrievably lost.

The overwhelming majority of the inscriptions on the tombstones are only in Hebrew, with just a few instances where some words appear in Hungarian. Essentially, the funerary stones here display the characteristics typical of the period (late 19th – early 20th century) and of the geographical area (north-western Romania). One finds both tombstones composed of a base/plinth and the actual gravestone, as well as those without a base/plinth, in which case the monuments are set directly into the ground.

The gravestone proper has two distinct sections: an upper field reserved for decoration, and a lower one for the epitaph. The decoration may be very discreet—for example, consisting of a simple frame enclosing the formula “Here lies / Here is buried,” abbreviated in Hebrew as פ״נ (po nikbar / po nitman), a formula found on every Jewish tombstone, the letters themselves sometimes also serving a decorative function. Researchers (see F. Grigorescu, Religious Symbols in Jewish Cemeteries in North-Western Romania) have noted that in this region the majority of tombstones display in the decorative field either a single symbol or a composition of symbols.

The cemetery of Ardud seems to be an exception to this rule, as such symbols are encountered extremely rarely. More precisely, among almost forty tombstones, I identified as a symbol:

• The Sabbath candle, on a single tombstone (Fig. 4). To mark the beginning of the Sabbath, a Jewish woman lights candles, an act regarded as one of the most important religious duties of Jewish women. Consequently, the tombstones of women are often decorated with symbolic Sabbath candles, a symbol indicating not only the gender of the deceased but also that she was a righteous woman who observed the religious laws.

• Menorah, on a single tombstone (Fig. 5; the menorah being one of the most frequently used and recognizable symbols of Judaism; it is employed as a decorative motif not only on tombstones but also in synagogues, and it even appears in the emblem of Israel).

•  Weeping willow, on four tombstones (Fig. 6; symbolizing pain, sadness, and sorrow; a common motif found on funerary stones—both Jewish and non-Jewish—especially in the 19th century and the early 20th century; moreover, right next to the Jewish cemetery of Ardud there is a small Hungarian cemetery, where, upon visiting, we observed many tombstones decorated with the weeping-willow motif).

Some epitaphs on these funerary stones go beyond mere dates and plain facts. They express a special sensibility, profound feelings, a touch of poetry. The translation was first produced using ChatGPT-5 and subsequently verified by a native speaker of Hebrew. Nevertheless, we must exercise a certain degree of caution with these translations, as we are dealing with a complex Hebrew epigraphy in which certain letters and abbreviations may be interpreted in various ways if one is not familiar with the poetic and biblical conventions of funerary language. A few illustrative and revealing examples are presented below.

V. The Importance of Preserving Jewish Cemeteries

According to the very first paragraph of Resolution 1883 (2012) of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe, concerning Jewish cemeteries, it was recalled that the Jewish communities have made a historical contribution to the creation of Europe’s social, cultural, and economic fabric, and it underscored the importance of preserving the religious, historical, and cultural identity of Jewish communities.

The same Resolution further observed and underlined that: „The Jewish people’s tragic history led to the extermination, exodus or resettlement of many local communities. While there are often traces of former cemeteries in towns and villages that have lost their Jewish populations, their preservation and protection are under constant threat.”

Finally, the Assembly noted that the damage suffered by Jewish burial sites in Europe is not limited to the desecration of graves but is very often the result of inadequate management, lack of funding, the disregard of protective measures, inadequate town planning or the misuse of property.

Although the authors of this material are lawyers/legal professionals by training and although the Resolution quoted above is admirable in its essence, neither we nor anyone else should need a legal or normative text to understand the importance of preserving Jewish cemeteries. One should not even need to know or grasp that the contribution of the Jewish people to human genius (especially given their tiny share of the world’s population) is truly remarkable, indeed unparalleled.

We, too, believe that the first sign of civilization was the intentional burial of the dead, for such an act reveals (perhaps more clearly than any other) a higher, more refined form of thought, social cohesion, care, and genuine concern for others. Thus, there is a profound connection between human civilization and respect for the dead, and, implicitly, for their resting places.

It has been elegantly and profoundly observed (see Raj Tamás, “Tanú ez a kőhalom” [These Stones Are a Witness], in Váli Dezső: Zsidó temetők, 2007) that he fate of cemeteries has always followed the fate of the communities. If the Jewish population of a country or region has been eradicated, sooner or later the cemetery meets the same fate.

Nevertheless (and this is the point we wish to make) even in the absence of a Jewish community, there remains a responsibility of the local community (whatever its composition) to offer due respect to the Jewish cemeteries existing there. It is a responsibility not only before history and before our fellow human beings, but, perhaps above all, a responsibility toward one’s own humanity and civility.