The Hidden® Child PUBLISHED BY HIDDEN CHILD FOUNDATION /ADL VOL. XXVIII 2020

RECONCILIATION RECONCILIATION

HATRED AND RECONCILIATION THE GERMAN AND THE JEWISH JOURNEYS FOLLOWING THE HOLOCAUST Flora Hogman, PhD 3 Dear Readers: ’m often asked, “How do you come up with the theme for each issue?” The answer is GERMAN-JEWISH RECONCILIATION simple: the idea often emerges spontaneously from the submitted articles. Recently, Marlene Wulf II became acquainted with the German organization Action Reconciliation Service for 6 Peace (ARSP), and was introduced to Marlene Wulf, a young volunteer and the ideal representative for her country and generation. Nearly simultaneously, but quite sepa- rately, clinical psychologist and Hidden Child Flora Hogman sent me an article she had REVISITING MY ‘MUSEUM’ AND MY FAITH written years ago on German-Jewish reconciliation, yet had somehow filed away — to Blanche Krakowski be resurrected at this time. Though the concept of reconciliation between Jews and 9 Germans has been around for some time, it took until now for all the stars to be aligned for The Hidden Child. Complementing Marlene’s and Flora’s articles, we have a very SEARCHING FOR HOME THE IMPACT personal essay from our own volunteer, Cordula Hahn, who writes about how she, a OF WWII ON A HIDDEN CHILD Child Survivor, ‘overcame the shock of a German son-in-law.’ Joseph Gosler As always, our main focus remains on our members’ stories, the raison d’être of this publication. Over the past few months, Joseph Gosler and Michel Jeruchim published 12 remarkable books, and we are pleased to present selected passages that we know will resonate with our readers. Also of great interest to our members will be the articles by OUT OF HIDING two medical doctors, Blanche Krakowski, who revisits her childhood memories and Sophie Turner Zaretsky probes her individual faith, and Sophie Turner Zaretsky, who is impelled to fulfill her 21 obligations to her children and posterity by speaking and writing about the Holocaust and the heroism of both the rescuers and the Jews. Esia Baran Friedman, who recalls finding her best friend Chaya Szczeranski after the war, has been trying to locate her LOOKING FOR ever since. (Please contact our office if you know anything about the fate of Chaya Szc- MY CHILDHOOD FRIEND CHAYA zeranski, born in Vilnius.) Cora Schwartz, another volunteer at the Hidden Child Foun- Esia Baran Friedman dation, penned a poignant poem about revisiting her late husband’s home in Ukraine. 24 Samuel Lauber sums up the story of his life and career, and recounts how he found the family that hid him in La Louvière, Belgium; and Simon Jeruchim, Michel’s older MY NAME IS SAMUEL, ANDRÉ, DEDÉ brother, writes about art as sustenance during adversity and as inspiration throughout Samuel Lauber his lifetime. 26 This year, as Covid-19 erupts everywhere, we’ve turned to two of our most distin- guished members, Dr. Robert Krell and Rabbi Joseph Polak, asking them to comment on the isolation Hidden Children are facing, once more — this time in our old age. We HOW I OVERCAME THE SHOCK OF are grateful to Dr. Krell and Rabbi Polak for their most valuable contribution to this A GERMAN SON-IN-LAW issue. We know our readers will appreciate their eloquent messages and reminder that Cordula Hahn “this time we are not alone.” 29

Rachelle Goldstein, Editor TWO BROTHERS, TWO DREAMS Michel & Simon Jeruchim 30 HIDDEN CHILD FOUNDATION/ADL 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158-3560, © 2020 Anti-Defamation League (212) 885-7900 WE ARE NOT IN HIDING Vol. XXVIII E-mail: [email protected], Rabbi Joseph Polak Website: https://www.adl.org/holocaust- 34 education/hidden-child-foundation

EDITOR Rachelle Goldstein ISOLATION: A PERSONAL ADVISOR Dr. Eva Fogelman PERSPECTIVE OF CATASTROPHE CO-DIRECTOR Rachelle Goldstein Dr. Robert Krell CO-DIRECTOR, DIRECTOR, SOCIAL SERVICES Carla Lessing 35 DIRECTOR, FAMILY TRACING SERVICES Evelyne Haendel

Cover Photo: Marlene Wulf, a German student, greets a survivor; New York, 2018. RECONCILIATION RECONCILIATION

HATRED AND RECONCILIATION THE GERMAN AND THE JEWISH JOURNEYS FOLLOWING THE HOLOCAUST By Flora Hogman, PhD

Reconciliation certainly implies a pres- general, until the 1970s when, very reluc- ent, active recognition of, and a listening tantly, I had to concede the war’s impact to, one another. Here is one personal on my life. Then, I steeped myself in anecdote to illustrate some of the many studying the period — reading, writing, issues involved. Some years ago, I spoke to researching, looking for family — trying a high school class about my experiences at last to come to terms with the subject as a Jewish child in France during WWII. I had long avoided. In 2001, while structur- My talk had been prearranged by Facing ing the course ‘The Holocaust, an evolving History and Ourselves, an American orga- Memory,’ at the New School, I reached an nization that uses lessons of history to epiphany: I came to the realization that challenge teachers and their students to Germans too have struggled and still are stand up to bigotry and hate. struggling with the integration of their war One of the students asked if I hated experience into their history. the Germans. As I was about to answer Perhaps I had become more capable of ‘yes,’ I looked at the young German stu- looking at, and learning about, the ‘enemy’ Dr. Flora Hogman dent I had invited to this event. He was in because I had been recognized as a survi- the U.S. on a one-year internship, working vor and no longer felt compelled to push towards reconciliation between Germans my story away as if it were a foreign body. and Jews through the organization ARSP That was a big relief! The ‘enemy’ was now (Action Reconciliation Service for Peace). a human being. Was this reconciliation? In We had spoken at length before, and I allowing myself to know, could I go beyond knew him to be a very nice young man. hate, beyond fear, and then maybe to trust? He’d come to the school on his motorcy- In the early years after the war, as sur- cle. I certainly did not hate him! vivors rebuilt their lives, most wanted to Suddenly, I realized how I had remained forget their trauma. More than anything, stuck in an era. Hate knows no time, no we child survivors wanted to blend in. change — it just maintains stereotypes. Besides, no one wanted to hear horror Then, I thought the young German and stories. In Germany, as well, there was I should address this issue together in silence, within families and in the history front of the next class, and I invited him books. An insidious sense of numbness to join me there. I told my story, and then prevailed, and much healing was needed he spoke about Germany today. I don’t everywhere. know how he felt about it, but I certainly A few forces arose that toppled the post- felt good that both our struggles were war silence in what became known as acknowledged. the struggle for/against memory. On the Throughout my life, there have always Jewish side, there was Simon Wiesenthal, been times when old feelings about the who began hunting Nazis when some war resurfaced. Once, out of the blue, a neo-Nazi Germans dared him to prove German friend’s husband apologized to me Ann Frank had been deported by the SS. for having been in the Hitler Youth, and we (He did prove it.) both cried. Still, we never discussed the On the German side, in the 1960s, war, or why we cried, and the whole matter there were two German psychoanalysts, remained an isolated incident. Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich, For many years after the war, I ignored who wrote the book, The Inability to such crucial events, both personal and Contined on next page

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Mourn. The authors described the Ger- had forced a different level of awareness, pushed themselves to relate their experi- mans’ idealization of Hitler as the omnipo- of language, of communication. Weizack- ences, partly to connect their children and tent, invincible, collective ‘father-hero,’ and er’s message was: there is no collective grandchildren’s needs to their pasts, but their inability to grieve for their profound redemption, only individual responsibility, then also out of a need to be heard — to loss of self-esteem, identity, and their an interesting concept in a country that bear witness. Rabbi Elliot Dorff address- deep sense of shame. Amazingly, though had been an authoritarian state. And, he es how the Jewish faith deals with all the text is dense, l00,000 copies of the added, there is no reconciliation without the elements of forgiveness, including book were sold in Germany. This book remembering. issues of justice, vengeance, repentance, had touched a nerve; there was a need to Some still wanted to exculpate Nazi duty, reparation, and reconciliation. Ask- understand. Germany. In one extreme example, the ing ‘shall we forgive, do we have the Of course, there was the Eichmann trial German philosopher-historian Ernst Nolte right to forgive?’ he talks about secondary in Israel. And then, second-generation Ger- said at one point that Chaim Weizman, reconciliation between the two sets of mans began to ask questions in reaction to their parents’ silence. When unanswered, the question ‘What did you do during the war, Daddy,’ left these youngsters with the MUTUAL DIALOGUES ARE CERTAINLY AN ESSENTIAL burden of their parents’ war. Children of survivors also began to PART OF THE RECONCILIATION EFFORT. SUCH ask questions about a war their parents had seldom discussed. Speaking about the INTERCHANGES CAN EVENTUALLY PROMOTE FURTHER war brought out painful memories, and survivors also feared such stories could DISCUSSIONS AND HEALING ACTIONS, AND GIVE RISE shatter their children’s trust in people. But TO VARIOUS JEWISH/GERMAN ENCOUNTERS. at some point, one has to connect to one’s past, and silence becomes unbearable. The second-generation movement of the 1970s, asserted its existence as a group — chil- dren of survivors — whose identity and a leading Zionist at the time, was partly second-generation, linking reconciliation to struggles bore the legacy of the war, and responsible for the war because he had admitting wrongs, and then being forgiven. they got their parents to talk. ‘declared war’ on Germany in September Mutual dialogues are certainly an essen- In the late 1970s, as Germany tried 1939, and Hitler was afraid of him. On the tial part of the reconciliation effort. Such again to forget the war, the NBC telefilm other hand, there is Anya Rosmus, who interchanges can eventually promote further ‘Holocaust’ was shown in Germany. Fif- singlehandedly took on her hometown discussions and healing actions, and give teen million Germans watched it. Then, to find, and then tell, the truth about the rise to various Jewish/German encoun- in 1985, there was the Bitburg Incident, townsmen’s wartime activities. She dis- ters. One such meeting, initiated by Israeli where President Reagan and Chancellor pelled the widespread myths of their hon- psychologist Dan Bar On, connected chil- Kohl of Germany agreed to forgive, forget, orable behavior during the Holocaust and dren of survivors with children of Nazis. and reconcile. President Reagan presided as a result became the subject of hatred in They met in Germany and in Israel. over a wreath-laying ceremony at the base her town. This predicament was portrayed Dan Bar On’s immediate family had of a memorial looming over the graves in the film ‘The Nasty Girl.’ fled from Germany to Palestine in 1933. of nearly 2,000 German soldiers, includ- Still, with various degrees of success, The rest of his family was murdered in ing 49 Waffen SS troops, who were said much has been done in Germany in edu- Germany. In the 1980s he decided to inter- to have participated in the massacre at cating about the war. Some efforts prompt- view children of Nazis in Germany, and Oradour-sur-Glane, a small village of 330 ed acknowledgment and reconciliation, this evolved into joint meetings between inhabitants in France that had sheltered publicly and personally: there were visits them and the children of survivors. In an equal number of refugees, including a of Germans to Israel, and of Israelis to the preface of his book, Legacy of Silence: few Jewish children. Many reacted with Germany, and invitations to German Jews Encounters with children of the 3rd Reich, indignation. One cannot force forgiveness, to return to their old German towns for Dan Bar On answers why he united the or forgetting. commemorative visits. Yet, many Germans two groups: “It was the quest for hope.” Survivors needed to be heard. Too are just plain tired of the topic and simply I think I understand. We need to go many had been quiet for too long. The out- want to forget it. beyond hate: hate destroys everyone. As cry by Jews and Christians led to Germa- Conversely, for survivors, reconcilia- Bar On stated, the group’s purpose was ny’s President Richard von Weizacker’s tion implies forgiveness, and thereby rais- ‘working mutually through the betrayed notable address to the parliament, on May es the fear that what happened to them and trust.’ With all the bumps in the road, it 8, 1985, about responsibility and memory. to their families will be made right by the became a profound, powerful, and lasting As the first president of a reunified Germa- act of forgiving, and hence, be forgotten. experience. It turned out the two groups ny, he used his platform to urge Germans For survivors, forgetting is a violation of had much in common: silent parents, the to face and accept responsibility for the the memory of their murdered kin, which burden of finding meaning in, or making crimes of the Nazi regime. The crisis is all they have left. At first, survivors Contined on next page

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sense of, a horrible past. compassion to one another’s stories of for self-esteem in general. If we are all to Ultimately, listening means respecting pain, guilt, anguish, loss and fear. As the go beyond hatred, fear, or self-hatred, it is everyone’s struggles; perhaps, creating a stories resonate within us, the burdens essential that each side acknowledge the mirror for one another — a ‘holding envi- are lightened and we begin to transform other. ronment,’ as psychoanalyst Donald Winn- the impact of our legacies, offering hope I must admit, as I write this, I, a Holo- icott would say, so each can feel whole to future generations.” caust survivor, have a little voice inside, again, and not alone in the process of As Germany was forced to ‘remember,’ saying ‘but don’t forget all the horrible (for instance) facing the truth about Nazi its people needed to recapture a coher- things that happened.’ The fear is there. parents, and integrating painful feelings ent identity and a sense of integrity as a The best I can do is to acknowledge it. and experiences. Interestingly, and inde- nation. Many efforts were made to place Hate does not face the past — it keeps pendently, at the time of Bar On’s visit to the Holocaust in a historical perspective, you mired in it. Reconciliation does not Germany, articles by and about children of to make it a ‘chapter’ in German history, mean to forget. Whatever its meaning, Nazis were beginning to be published. The and to deal with the issue of shame. Feel- reconciliation starts with remembering, time seemed ripe, finally, to deal with the ings of unending shame/guilt may prevent acknowledging what happened, and ulti- truth and the shame. some from feeling redeemable, reinforce mately sharing and respecting one anoth- Over the years, more Germans and Jews for others the need for total denial, and er’s feelings and struggles — be it a sense convened in Germany and elsewhere. New at the extreme, project blame onto the of shame, or despair about losses and York psychoanalyst Isaac Zieman (1920 – victim. Rather than focusing on shame and victimization. Thus, a gap of trust may be 2007), a survivor of both the Holocaust and guilt, the emphasis needed to be placed bridged, ultimately helping to mourn what Stalin’s gulag, devoted his life to resolving on responsibility. Responding to the con- happened. long-standing hatred between people. Each tentiousness surrounding a Memorial to What more can one do? Reconciliation year, starting in 1973, he lectured various the Jews in Berlin, Wolfgang Thierse, the involves individuals, social forces — indi- groups in Germany and other countries Speaker of Parliament stated, “We are viduals in governments and governments about the roots of racism, and he con- building it for ourselves. It will help us con- themselves. Such efforts eventually lead to ducted theme-centered group interactions. front a chapter of our history.” oppose (and hopefully diffuse) hatred and After one such workshop, held in New York But there is also the strong ongoing prejudice, and to the restoration of human City in 1992 at the Anti-Defamation League, need for Germans to find their war heroes. bonds. Where does forgiving stand? Maybe Zieman said, “It is exhilarating to see peo- For example: a soldier who had been shot it lies in the recreated human connection ple from different ethnic groups getting for helping Jews in the Vilnius ghetto, was and in the trust constituting the process to know each other and finding common honored for his courage in defying orders. of forgiving. n humanity in one another … I consider it His name replaced that of a Wehrmacht my responsibility, as the sole survivor of general on a military base’s monument in Flora Hogman is a clinical psychologist my family, to work on improving relations Germany. There is now an acceptance that with a private practice in Manhattan. She between different groups of people.” One the war happened, that there were choices, has done extensive research on trauma and identity relating to aspects of survival from the Holocaust, especially concerning children during and after the war, the effects HATE DOES NOT FACE THE PAST — IT KEEPS YOU MIRED of conversion to Christianity on adult iden- tity, and resolution of trauma. This article IN IT. RECONCILIATION DOES NOT MEAN TO FORGET... has been excerpted from a paper she pre- sented a few years ago in New York at the RECONCILIATION STARTS WITH REMEMBERING, United Nations’ NGO Committee of Mental Health. ACKNOWLEDGING WHAT HAPPENED, AND ULTIMATELY • Dr. Hogman’s publications include: SHARING AND RESPECTING ONE ANOTHER’S FEELINGS Hogman, F., l995 Memory of the Holo- caust, An organizing vehicle for Identity, in AND STRUGGLES... Echoes of the Holocaust, Jerusalem, Israel. • Hogman, F., l988 The Experience of Catholicism for Jewish Children During WWII, Psychoanalytic Review, 75 (4). of the participants commented, “It would and that some, if few, did make life-endan- • Hogman, Flora, 1985, Role of Memo- be a tragic loss if all of us came away with gering ‘moral’ choices. ries in Lives of WW II orphans, American these new feelings and didn’t share them I believe it is important for Jews to Academy of Child Psychiatry. with other people in whatever sphere of accept and sustain the Germans’ needs for • Hogman, F., l983, Coping Mechanisms influence we have.” this recognition of the ‘good’ in Germans, of Jewish Children During WWII and its The group One-by-One, focuses on rather than the ‘good’ Germans (which aftermath, Journal of Humanistic Psychology. ‘transformation.’ On their website (one- implies its opposite, the ‘bad’ Germans, • Hogman, F., l998, Trauma and Identi- by-one.org), they state: “We seek out the dichotomies which can only further the ty through two generations of the Holocaust, humanity in each other as we listen with hate), and to support the Germans’ quest in Psychoanalytic Review, V. 85, no. 4.

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GERMAN-JEWISH RECONCILIATION ‘WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT 75 YEARS AGO THAT SOMETHING LIKE THIS WAS POSSIBLE?’ By Marlene Wulf

It is 6:00 am. For eleven hours I have integral part of the German educational been sitting with many others in a syn- system. Again, and again, we were taught agogue on the Upper West Side of New about the killing apparat of the Nazis and York, reading innumerable names of its consequences for millions of people. unknown people who died in the Holo- However, two years ago, my knowledge caust. Yet, we are only up to the letter about the Holocaust was limited to this B: B, as in Birnbaum. For eleven hours, rather theoretical knowledge. I had never we’ve read out the names of Jews from spoken with a Holocaust survivor, and the France who were deported during the NS people I had met who identified as Jewish occupation. I am devastated and speech- could be counted on one hand. I had a lot less. My mouth is dry. I feel tired, but at of basic knowledge about the Holocaust, the same time, shocked and troubled. but I did not have a real understanding of Never have I come closer to understand- its actual meaning. Now, two years later, ing the suffering of millions of Jews. Never I think that the comprehension of these have I felt more the burden of guilt that horrors is a process. I am not sure that has been placed on my people. Never any human being who has not experienced have I been more determined to stand up the Shoah himself can ever grasp it in its against hatred, racism, and antisemitism. entirety. For me, the process began when Never have I felt the need to be coura- I finished high school and went to the USA geous and compassionate this strongly. It to do my voluntary service with ARSP. is the morning of the 11th of April, 2018. ARSP is a German organization that was It is Yom Ha’Shoah, the day of remem- founded in 1958 during the synod of the brance of the Shoah. Evangelical Church in Germany. The first I was born and raised in Germany. I sentences of the appeal read as follows: am 20 years old. Thus, I was born 60 years “We Germans started the Second World after World War II started. Nevertheless, War and for this reason alone, more than German-Jewish history is tragically con- others, became guilty of causing immea- nected through the Holocaust. In the year surable suffering to humankind. Germans 2017/18, I volunteered for service with the have in sinful revolt against the will of God organization Action Reconciliation Ser- exterminated millions of Jews. Those of vice for Peace (ARSP) in New York City. us who survived and did not want this to For one year, I worked with and learned happen did not do enough to prevent it.”* from people who survived the Holocaust. With this principle in mind, the newly For one year, I had amazing experiences founded organization aimed to work for and met so many extraordinary people. peace and reconciliation in countries For one year, I learned about and expe- that had been affected by the Holocaust. rienced Jewish culture. But most impor- During the years that followed, ARSP wid- tantly, for one year, I felt the timeliness ened its scope and built collaborations of history by seeing how the past affects in more countries, and with diverse part- people — including ourselves — in our ners. Today, 60 years after its foundation, daily lives. German and Jewish history is ARSP is still committed to this policy. intertwined, not just since the Shoah, but Every year, 180 young Germans are sent for more than a thousand years. to thirteen countries, including Israel, the I do not know when I first heard about Netherlands, the US, and Poland, to build the Shoah: Holocaust education is an Contined on next page

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bridges and to reconcile with former ene- welcomed with open arms and the survi- the people I visited. There are countless mies and victims. In these countries, the vors were eager to learn about current moments I remember and value. Writing students work as volunteers on different life in Germany. Many of them still spoke about all of them would be out of the projects at various venues: such as, at German and often asked me to sing Ger- scope of this article, but I can describe museums, with political organizations, or man folk songs with them. In that way, I a few situations that stick out more than in the Jewish community. was introduced to a namesake, Marlene others: During my year of service, I was one Dietrich, and I am now able to sing most There is Ms. D. for example. I do not of the volunteers for the Holocaust sur- of her songs by heart. While it made me know much about how Ms. D. survived vivor program of the home care agency happy to see the survivors recalling their the war. Only occasionally, did she share Selfhelp Community Services, Inc. (Self- happy youth in Germany, it also made me little pieces of her story with me. Most help) in New York City. There, I served sad and thoughtful. Why had people who of the time, she did not want to talk as a “friendly visitor” for Holocaust sur- felt entirely German, whose parents and about her experiences. Ms. D. was the vivors. This meant I had thirteen clients (although I prefer to refer to them as my friends, or even my second grandparents) whom I visited every week. Together, we played games, sang songs, took little trips … the activities were as diverse as the people I visited. In Germany, it is very common to do a gap year after graduating from high school to get practical experience before starting college. However, ARSP focuses on the creation of continuance and sus- tainability by placing German volunteers in projects that deal with the history of Germany. Since I was interested in history and was eager to take an active part in reconciliation in the name of the German people, I decided to apply for voluntary service with ARSP. In Germany, ARSP is called Action Sign of Atonement Service for Peace. This Learning from the past and forming new friendships: Marlene Wulf and a Holocaust survivor at a SelfHelp meaning is very different from its English gathering in New York. counterpart, and in the beginning, I had some difficulties accepting and adapting to this name. How can I atone for some- grandparents had lived in Germany all their only client that confronted me with my thing that happened sixty years before I lives, been treated with such hatred? heritage as a German by saying that “you was born? Do I need to feel guilty for a I still do not understand how anyone were all Nazis during that time,” and by crime I did not commit? Am I automatical- is capable of such horrors. Working at asking me about my grandparents and my ly a Nazi because I was born in Germany? Selfhelp showed me what blind hatred great-grandparents. She laughed about These were questions that accompanied can do to an individual, but also to a soci- the German name of ARSP. She had lost me during the time of my voluntary ser- ety as a whole. I hope that in the future her entire family in the Holocaust, and vice and beyond. I had several discus- people will focus on their similarities for her, I could not atone for the crimes sions about them with my co-volunteers, rather than on their differences. committed by my people. my family and the survivors. In that way, During my voluntary service, I met Instead, she preferred the idea of ARSP challenged me, from the beginning, many people, heard many stories, and reconciliation. Although it might be hard to question my surroundings as well as learned that there is no such person as for others to imagine, Ms. D. and I built my identity and values. a “typical survivor.” Everyone had a dif- up a very close relationship. When she I was very nervous before starting my ferent experience, and dealt with obsta- introduced me to others, she always told voluntary service. It was the first time cles and losses in individual ways. As I them that I was her student, learning that I was going abroad to live alone, was challenged each week to learn new about the Holocaust and Judaism. I think very far from home, for a long period. things, my work became very interesting. this is a good description of what I did in Furthermore, I was anxious about how Their courage and energy inspired New York as I visited so many different, Holocaust survivors would react towards me, and I was amazed by how people yet always welcoming, people. Already me, a German. I expected that they would who had lost everything in the Shoah during my first week, I was invited to cele- be repelled by me, as I might remind them found the strength to build a completely brate Rosh Hashana with a Jewish family, of their horrible experiences. new life in the USA. Luckily, I was able and during the year, I visited countless However, the opposite was true: I was to develop very close relationships with Contined on next page

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synagogues and became acquainted with various affiliations of Judaism. Another precious moment was my encounter with Mr. J. He was not one of my regular clients, and I only met him in July 2018. I think he is one of the kindest human beings I know. Born in Poland, in August 1939, he has only limited memories of the time of the occu- pation. Through a miracle, as he said, he was able to survive the war, together with his mother. After the war, his family fled to South America. He learned Spanish, went to university and even got a schol- arship along with his wife so that they both could go to New York. In the States, he worked as an artist. His whole apart- ment is filled with his artwork and while I was visiting, he and his wife told me a story about each one of his paintings. It was most interesting to hear the stories, which often dealt with his memories of the Holocaust. Another tender moment: Marlene Wulf with a survivor. At the end of my visit, he gave me a present, a painting of a window. That win- dow was in the barrack of the camp where my personal stories. But by living in this and am now taking European Studies in he and his mother were imprisoned. It is world, stories about hatred become the Maastricht, the Netherlands. Though my one of his earliest remembrances from narratives of us all. Together, we have to voluntary service and my studies have his childhood. The painting is small and make sure to ban antisemitism, racism, strengthened my interest in history and dark, and I can only surmise how he felt and homophobia from our thinking. Only especially in commemorative culture and while looking out that window. There is in this way, can we ensure to live in a free its impacts, I am still unsure about what no perspective beyond it. At first, I did and peaceful world. to do in my professional life. I only know not know how to react, and I was unsure My voluntary service has also brought who I want to be as a person: I want to if I could even accept this gift. His wife, me closer to my faith. Having had the be courageous, someone who speaks up however, told me then with tears in her opportunity to learn about a different against hatred, injustice, and inequality, eyes how much the gift meant to them. religion and traditions, I realize that we and who fights for a more just world. I Giving me the painting of the Holocaust are more united than divided, and that sometimes struggle in these tasks, but symbolized some kind of reconciliation we should focus on our similarities rather the strength and courage of the survivors to them. I realized that this was a very than on our differences. To promote this have inspired me, and continue to moti- special moment in the life of Mr. J. who idea, I organized an interfaith prayer, vate me each day. had lost his father, among others, in the together with one of my co-volunteers, Nowadays, my best friend is an Israeli. Holocaust. between the Jewish Community Center of I visited her family in Israel and my “sec- The three of us were hugging and Manhattan and Miriam Gross, the pastor ond-grandparents” are Holocaust survi- comforting one another as we cried of St. Paul’s Church, the German Evangel- vors. Who would have thought 75 years together. Even though I had not met Mr. ical Lutheran Church of New York. Even ago that something like this was possible? J. before, we had become close in this though it was only a small event, it meant During my year with ARSP I learned new one short visit, and I am very thankful a lot to me, and I hope that I was able to reasons to be happy and thankful: happy that I was able to help him to reconcile a contribute to the understanding of differ- that I had the opportunity to work on bit with Germany. If I were to summarize ent cultures. such a principled project, and thank- the impact my voluntary service had on I think that interfaith dialogue is ful to have met impressive people who me as well as on the people I visited, this a great opportunity to learn from one taught me about survival, compassion, moment would embody it. another and to reduce prejudices. There- and about truly caring for others. My voluntary service cannot undo fore, I am attending seminars on this I know now that, even though I cannot what happened in the past. However, it topic and am engaged in a refugee project atone for the past, reconciliation is pos- may have brought a new perspective for in my home town. sible. Together, we can stand up against the future — for me, and for the survivors. I am now in my second year at univer- hatred, and aim to work for a better What I learned that year is that I am now sity. After returning to Europe in August world. n a witness myself, and I have to talk about 2018, I decided to continue my educa- * Retrieved from: https://www.actionreconciliation. what I’ve heard. Of course, these are not tion in an international environment, org/about-us/history/germany/; 15.09.2019

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REVISITING MY ‘MUSEUM’ AND MY FAITH By Blanche Krakowski Blanche Krakowski delivered the following speech to her fellow congregants at the Brooklyn Heights Synagogue in commemoration of Yom Hashoah 2002.

I was born in August 1936 in Paris, ably get evicted to take my own seat. And France. I was three years old when the war always, after each meal, my parents would began in 1939, and nearly four when Paris return to the workroom. At night, I went to fell to the Germans in 1940. I do not bed with them still working. remember much of family life prior to the The workroom was also my playroom war, but I have some recollections of the and classroom. I played under the table, occupation period and the years immedi- between their legs, dressing my doll with ately after the war. the scraps of material that fell down; and These memories appear mostly as imag- I learned how to use the sewing machine. es, unrelated to one another, like walking At the end of the war, at nine years of age, from picture to picture in a museum. I am I could sew and keep the machine in work- very familiar with my museum because we ing condition. were lucky to hold on to the apartment Another picture in my museum is of where we lived on and off during the my father taking me to the guignol (pup- war, and permanently thereafter, until we pet show) in the park on Sunday morn- moved to the States in 1953. ings, while my mother cleaned the house. One of its rooms was the atelier or Adults could not enter the theater, so he workroom, where my parents spent ninety would wait outside to retrieve me at the percent of their time. They subcontracted end of the performance. from a manufacturer of raincoats, taking Once he bought me a balloon that he home bolts of fabric and rolls of paper attached to my wrist. I had a hoop that patterns. I see my father standing in front one rolled with a stick, and I wanted the of a high table, cutting many layers of balloon attached to the hoop. My father cloth at one time, and my mother sitting did not do such a good job because within a at a sewing machine. When the garments few minutes the balloon got loose and flew were finished, they were packed way high away. The most vivid picture of all is of my Portrait of Blanche Krakowski, before she went into onto a two-wheel cart, with me sitting atop. father running after the balloon, trying to hiding. Paris, 1942. My father would slip his arms into har- catch it. CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF DR. BLANCHE KRAKOWSKI. nesses that were attached to the cart, and And then, I no longer had a father. I do to my delight, he would pull me and the not remember the transition between the finished goods, like a horse, to the man- day before when I had one and the next day ufacturer’s shop. The ride and the shop when I did not. I do not remember asking. were fun. The owner always treated me I do not remember answers. There had to with goodies. I remember a closely-knit have been. group of people taking pleasure in meet- With my parents working at home and ing one another. me of preschool age, the three of us were Another image is that of always waking constantly together. I do not remember my up with my parents already in the work- mother crying. I had to have felt an absence, room. My mother would leave her sewing a void, something. Children feel. Children machine and we would go to the kitchen sense when adults try to hide something where she would give me breakfast. from their children. I also see my father and me racing to But I do not remember anything. I feel the kitchen to see who would get there terribly guilty at the thought that I could first when my mother called to announce not have missed him, that I dispensed of dinner was ready. I always won. I see where him so easily. I remember taking the train he sat and where my mother and I sat. I to the transit camp outside of Paris where always raced to his spot but would invari- Contined on next page

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he was. We visited him once. He was there the harvesting machine. I saw artificial 13 months prior to his deportation to insemination of cows and the birthing of Auschwitz. I was five years old and while calves. I went to school with the farmer’s in the camp he had built me a wooden bed kids and to church with the family. At night, for my doll and a picture frame. I imagine I recited my prayers before going to bed. the guards allowed the prisoners something But none of it made sense to me. I did to do. not know where my mother was. She had We received some letters from him with come once, very early on, I guess to check the word “censured” stamped on them. I that I was not in any danger. I was okay, am in possession of only one, his last one, and I no longer saw her. where he scolds my mother for sending I do not remember how I was reunited him more food than he could eat instead with my mother, or when. She told me the of giving it to the ‘little one.’ I appeared war had ended, we were going home, and very thin to him in a photo she must have we would never be separated again. My sent him. That letter also states they were concept of war was rather vague. I went leaving the camp the next day and to hold back to my own school in Paris where the off any mailing until she heard from him director asked my mother what plans she again. had for her daughter. She did not hesitate, My father was deported to Auschwitz, “She will be a doctor,” she answered. The Poland, on June 27th, 1942. Forty-six days director replied, “Be reasonable, you are later he was dead. He was 35 years old. I Jewish, she will never be admitted to any medical school.” My mother contradicted emphatically, “She will.” I do not remember asking about my father. My mother never told me anything, and I became somewhat afraid to ask. To this day I do not know the circumstances of my father’s arrest. My mother died in 1988 at 83 years of age. I never asked her, she never told me, and the subject was never discussed. When the war ended for France, I did Blanche stands outside the farm house where she is ask why she was crying when everybody hiding. France, 1942-1944. was dancing in the streets, and all the CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF DR. BLANCHE KRAKOWSKI. church bells were ringing all day long. I do not remember the answer. If there was one, it must have been a generic nothing, somebody, must have put all this together. thus setting the stage for this conspiracy Intellectual curiosity led me initially. of silence that seems prevalent among I needed to know what I was all about. I Jews affected by the Holocaust. read everything I could about the history I knew nothing about Judaism. Religion of our people, how we started. Where did was not part of our lives: survival was. Oh, we come from? I read the Bible straight I knew I was Jewish, you could not avoid through as if it were a regular book. No not knowing, and we spoke Yiddish at home. easy task. The little I picked up along the Life before the Holocaust. Blanche with her doll, Paris, So why am I a member of a synagogue, a way got me to other questions. I took a 1938. former member of the Board? Faith? No, I leave of absence from work as a physician CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF DR. BLANCHE KRAKOWSKI. have little of it. Spirituality? Definitively. I and spent one year in Israel working in a marvel at everything. hospital. was 6 years old. After the war, government A single woman enters the delivery I attended Ulpan classes five nights and private agencies researched and col- room of a hospital and two people come a week for a year and learned Hebrew. lected documents. Whatever I know from out of this same room. A strange flower Unfortunately, with my French, Yiddish, that period is from those documents. encountered on a hike; I bend down to look Spanish and English as available alterna- When conditions seemed perilous for at it. I saw the Grand Canyon, traveled to tives, Hebrew was not used as much as us too, my mother became determined to Antarctica, and each time I wondered how I should have. The notes in the hospital save me. I was taken to a farm, somewhere this overwhelming magnificence came into charts were written in English, or Hebrew, in France, I never knew where. I liked it. I being. I majored in chemistry and physics or French. That part was fun. You did not followed the farmer’s children, taking the in college. understand your predecessor’s notes. cows to the meadow. I learned to milk the I could explain it all — well sort of. I was hospitalized for a slipped cervi- cows and to gather the wheat that fell off Something else is missing. Something, Contined on next page

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Our sanctuary is more formal now and I like it much better. Now what? I learned a great deal in 15 years. Faith is still as elusive as ever, except at funerals where doubts get a hold of me. The body is interred, but what about the person’s life, feelings, fears, joys, hopes and pains? I cannot accept that those are also gone. Do I believe in the soul? I do not know. Intellectually, no. Emotionally, I must say maybe, or even yes. I cannot tolerate the end of a person’s life that simply. Won- dering if that person ever existed is an intolerable thought. When all is said and done, what is faith anyhow? n

Blanche Krakowski, MD, MBA, is a retired pediatrician, living in Brooklyn, NY. She is the daughter of Israel (Jacques) Krakowski and Frajda, née Fajerman, who were originally from Lodz, Poland, and had immigrated separately to France. In May, 1941, Jacques and his brother, Albert, Elementary school class that Blanche (front row center) attended after returning from hiding. Paris, 1945-1948. CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF DR. BLANCHE KRAKOWSKI. were rounded up and sent to Beaune-la-Ro- lande, and from there to Drancy, and then to Auschwitz, where Jacques perished on cal disc resulting in a temporary paralysis left in the back. For someone who never August 12, 1942. Frajda remained in Paris of one arm. In traction for more than three attended synagogues formally, a sanctu- with Blanche, surviving by moving from months, depression became very intense. ary nevertheless demanded my sense of house to house until Frajda found a hiding A little blurb in the Jewish Week newspa- awe in spite of my ignorance. I could not place for Blanche on a farm in the country- per told about a choir forming at a nearby help but compare this with the respectful side. After the liberation of France, Frajda synagogue. I needed to do something. I silence I had encountered in Catholic picked up Blanche, and they returned to did sing in a choir in college, so I joined churches. their former apartment in Paris. the Brooklyn Heights Synagogue choir. I did not have to be a member, two others were not, but after two years I felt I needed to join and attend services, again for intellectual curiosity. I wanted to know about the prayers, how they are laid out, “WHERE...” their structures and their meanings. It occurred to me that others have said those We went back searching for your seventy-year-old beginning same prayers over the centuries. I began to think about those ancient people and Where the last of your people embraced you at the doorstep felt an obligation to them not to break the chain. Where you later stumbled and curled up in that corner Historically, we went through so much. Brooklyn Heights Synagogue started Bat Where I reached out to comfort you Mitzvah classes. I signed up, again for intellectual curiosity, wanting to know Where they stopped me and said what a 13-year-old child goes through. I struggled with the tropes of my Torah Leave him to cry. This is why he came home. passage. A friend told me I could read it without the tropes. If I was going to be reading the Torah, I would do it right, By Cora Schwartz, a photo journalist and behavioral psychologist whose essays otherwise why do it at all? So, I was a and short stories have been published in journals and periodicals. Her book, The Bat-Mitzvah at the age of 55. Forgotten Few, was written and photographed to fulfill a promise she made to her When I first came to the synagogue, I late husband, Rudy, a survivor from Ukraine. Cora is a volunteer at the Hidden was struck by the lack of respect for the Child Foundation. sanctuary: kids running around, bicycles

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SEARCHING FOR HOME THE IMPACT OF WWII ON A HIDDEN CHILD By Joseph Gosler

THE NETHERLANDS, 1942 - 1949 I was born on July 27, 1942, to Henri- ette Swartberg-Gosler and Maurice Gos- ler, in the provincial capital of Groningen, the Netherlands. My mother tells me the day I was born was a Monday morn- ing, not really distinguished by anything unusual except for British bombers flying Joseph Gosler overhead. My birth certificate notes the birth name, Joseph Gosler, but my name would change several times during and the deportation of Jews, first to West- after WWII. Every new name represented erbork and then to Bergen-Belsen, or to a segment of my life, ever connected like the various eastern European concentra- the canals that crisscrossed my birth city tion camps, like Sobibor and Auschwitz. of Groningen. Each experience and iden- Although people were still employed, tity fused into another, shaping me into more and more restrictions were set on who I am today. Jews in terms of where they could work, My mother grew up in the city of where they could shop and when they Assen, a short distance from Groningen. could leave their homes. She came from an upper middle-class It became clear that if we wanted to family that at one time owned a factory survive, we had to leave Holland or go that produced burlap bags, and she had into hiding. The resistance movement had one sibling, her older brother, Leo. She just developed. False identity papers were believed herself to be a modern woman: difficult to get. In retrospect, it seems she enrolled in bookkeeping classes after strange to have a child during wartime, high school, studied to become a beauti- but I believe the Dutch, including most cian, belonged to an athletic club, spoke Jews, were determined to hold on to a several languages and was politically sense of normalcy, even if it was out of aware and socially active. a sense of desperation. It may even have My father came from Groningen, from been a form of personal resistance to have a working-class background. The middle a child at a time of daily Nazi raids and child of six siblings, he was stricken with roundups. That was the paradox of life in polio as a child and lost hearing in his Holland, at least through 1942, and since I right ear. He left school in the eighth never heard that my birth was accidental, grade, became a butcher, and like my I must assume that my parents felt secure mother, also belonged to an athletic club. enough to have me. Whether it was due to the polio or leav- On the surface, my birth and infancy ing school early, he was both timid and were no different than any other young cautious with other people, yet unusually child’s, except that I was Jewish, and my sincere. It was common in those days for father, Maurice, had been arrested and brothers and sisters to marry into one sent to a forced labor camp near Kloos- another’s family. After the marriage of my terveen at a time when my mother was mother’s older brother Leo to Maria, my pregnant with me. father’s older sister, my parents married At the camp, he worked 16-hour days in 1941. and had no means of escape. My mother A month before my birth, in June sent him a letter, stating that she was of 1942, the Nazi administration began Contined on next page

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ill, and asked if there was a way for him that they needed to remain mobile and hunters, the Dutch police, and civil ser- to come to her. Although the Nazi stran- flexible and that I undermined that pos- vants paid by the Nazis to ferret out the glehold on everyday life was becoming sibility. Jews and other undesirables. crystal clear, here was an example of The new Dutch resistance movement, My parents and grandma decided to the schizophrenia of wartime Holland, although primarily engaged in intelligence travel to Gelderland, an agricultural prov- because my father received a three-day gathering for the Allies, also had a mission ince southeast of Amsterdam. They hoped pass. He came to us in August of 1942 of saving Jewish children. Through their to work and hide on one of the many small when I was one month old. friends, my parents contacted someone farms that dotted the fertile plains. The After three days, my father was ready from the Resistance, and a plan and a distance between Amsterdam and Gelder- to return to the camp, but my mother place to meet were devised. land was less than fifty miles. noticed there was no return date stamped At seven or eight months old, at an age Each day, they travelled at dawn, on his pass. My parents argued vocif- when an infant can barely see beyond his carrying valises filled with their meager erously for hours about this error. My mother’s breast, I was taken from my par- belongings. They stayed off main roads father, ever true to his word, had every ents. In March 1943, a nursing student on and looked for shelter and food for each intention of going back until my mother convinced him otherwise. My father’s typ- ical Dutch sense of civic duty and honor that was evident through every strata of society would have cost him his life had he not been swayed by my mother. Worrying that the administration at Kloosterveen would find the omission, we and my widowed maternal grandmother, Martha, left Groningen and travelled to Amsterdam. The city still had the largest Jewish quarter in Holland, and they hoped that it still held the promise of shelter, extended family and community. On the road, we stayed at small fam- ily farms, never remaining more than a single night, and usually leaving at dawn. We kept away from train transportation, which was watched all the time, travelling instead in the countryside by foot, bicycle and local buses. The trip, which normally took three hours by train, took us four days. The Jordaan or Jodenbuurt (Jewish Rescuers, Vader Dijkstra and Moeder Dijkstra. neighborhood) of Amsterdam was still a thriving quarter of nearly eighty thousand Jews. Many families could trace their fam- a bicycle with a basket came to our house, night. The journey was particularly hard ily roots back four centuries. The Nazis bundled me in a quilt, placed me in the on Oma Martha, who found it difficult to had effectively turned the neighborhood basket, and peddled off into the darkness. walk long distances. into a ghetto, forcing various restrictions Much later in my life, my parents told One night, while sleeping in a small on movement, whether beyond the ghetto me about their feelings at that time: they barn, my mother woke up convinced that or during nighttime, but the mass depor- were in a state of controlled fear and their host had informed on them. The gut tations and the more extreme measures numbness. Full of remorse, yet relieved, feeling meant they had to leave imme- were still to come. they hoped I would be safe, but there diately. Needing more time to rest, my It was October 1942, and though life was no guarantee they would ever see me grandmother decided she would meet was more sobering, it was still manage- again. From time to time, they received them later in the day. They never saw her able. We found a place to live and my news about me, and once they even got again, and later learned she was taken by father found day labor, but my parents a wrinkled photograph of me sitting next the SS police, deported, and murdered in could tell this was just a reprieve. The to a fat cat. Sobibor. When I was much older, I became storm was near and more restrictions Living in Amsterdam became progres- painfully aware, as had my parents, that were placed on the Jodenbuurt. sively worse. With deportations and night- instinct and timing spelled the difference The Jewish Council, serving as police ly raids, my parents remained there for between life and death, and, ironically, and record keepers, kept the community another three months. Each day became that we were born under lucky stars. in check, while the nightly Gestapo raids more dismal: informers were everywhere; My journey was gentle as compared to surgically removed any “troublemakers.” you could trust no one, and work was my parents’ and grandma’s. I was placed It became somberly clear to my parents impossible to find. There were bounty Contined on next page

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with Meneer and Mevrouw Dijkstra, a sides, but whether numb, curious, dumb perilous, and they often moved from one Christian family in Wageningen, a small or defiant, I remained in the middle of the farm to another in the surrounding coun- city near the Rhine River, and by coinci- street. The other children motioned for tryside. dence also in Gelderland. me to move to one side or the other, but Their luck ran out when they were My wartime family consisted of I didn’t move. Miraculously, the troops arrested in Doetinchem in March 1945. “Vader,” a landscape architect, “Moeder,” divided into two streams as they passed My father was sent to Westerbork the fol- a housewife, and their two daughters, me by. Moeder saw all of this from the lowing day, and my mother—believed to Anneke and Folie, who were fourteen and front yard, and ran to retrieve me, but be a Christian—was beaten for living with eleven years old respectively. Both girls they had already passed. These were dan- a Jew. She received a stern warning that had straight blond hair and blue eyes, in gerous times, but from my two-year-old if she was ever caught associating with a contrast to my wavy dark brown hair and eyes it was part of my everyday existence. Jew again, she would be killed. hazel-green eyes. In 1944, on the Eastern Front, the Red In the beginning of spring 1945, in the Not long after my arrival, the Dijkstras Army and a particularly harsh winter south of Holland, near Maastricht, the added me to their family register and I combined to freeze the Nazi machine fighting had stopped and the people were was called Peter Dijkstra, or Pietje. Safe from pushing forward into Russia. At the free to walk the streets. It was not until and content with the only family I knew, same time, Canadian forces were nearing May 11 that the rest of Holland was freed. I cannot remember whether I missed my the Rhine River from the west. Food was It was a period of euphoria. It was also scarce, and the Canadian bombing flights a period of hysteria, hate and vengeance. meant that we spent much time in our These were frantic times, and many vic- tiny cellar. tims felt all these emotions simultane- During those evenings I sat quietly ously. Adding to this and the physical on Moeder’s lap, while Anneke and Folie turmoil, the economy was in chaos. sat between her and Vader. We wore It took weeks before my mother knew extra layers of clothing to ward off the if my father was still alive. They reunited damp cold. A single overhead light bulb after he made his way back to Gelderland flickered, but surprisingly remained lit on a bicycle with wooden wheels. for long periods of time. Vader or Anneke The two months at Westerbork had would read books to us; songs were sung, taken a toll on him. His feet were bleeding, and the collective hum of airplane engines his lower back was debilitated, and he had overhead blended to create white noise lost 35 pounds. The stress and despair that lulled me to sleep. he felt, and the oppressive labor, had left My underground family began to pack him gaunt and listless. But at least they valises and trunks with the idea of going were together again, and my mother was further north, to Moeder’s family, who ten weeks pregnant with my sister, Marja. lived on a small farm in Friesland. Nestled It took my parents another four weeks to in the countryside they hoped would find me and to finish the legal paperwork spare us from the bombing, the harshness before they could embrace the child they of daily life, and the fear of betrayal. had given away. Joseph in hiding with the Dijkstra family, 20 months of age. My life seemed relatively normal. In Three years had passed. The baby contrast, my parents were not as fortu- they remembered had not only changed nate. They lived with false identities: my physically, but had wrapped himself, emo- mother, or the familiarity of my parents’ mother, Yetta, was now “Dina Elisabeth tionally and psychologically, in the arms home, or the warmth of my mother’s Buttikhuis,” and my father, Maurice, was of the Dijkstra family. My parents were breast and smell of her skin, but my child- “Sijbe Wjaarda.” My mother, Dina, was strangers. I did not recognize them, and hood with the Dijkstras was as whole- a small woman, about five feet tall with wanted to return to my “real” parents. I some as wartime would allow. brown hair and thick glasses. Her grey- was confused and angered by the loss of I was Pietje Dijkstra, the son of Moed- blue eyes and plaster-white skin suggest- my underground family. er’s sister, who had died soon after giv- ed she was not of Jewish descent, and We were back together again, but ing birth to me. Some neighbors knew this allowed her a degree of safety. On the each member was forever damaged by I was Jewish and this awareness fright- other hand, my father, Sijbe, was a little the experience of war. We went north to ened Moeder and Vader. They constantly taller and muscular, nearly bald, and the Groningen. My parents were shattered by reminded their daughters to be careful to hair that was left, was dark and almost the loss of their family—parents, broth- ensure that neither one would acciden- kinky. His brown eyes, full lips and tanned ers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. tally tell Pietje’s true story to one of their skin, betrayed Judaic ancestry. Moreover, they lost their homes, jobs, friends. Sijbe worked in an institution for the careers, friends and—more importantly— One day, while I was playing with other insane in Rekken (Gelderland), while Dina their spirit. Each day bled into another young children in the street, a platoon of lived on a farm not too far away. Between and they were consumed by painful mem- Nazi soldiers and tanks came rolling by. late 1944 and early 1945 as the Nazis ories. My parents were in an endless state The other children scampered to the began their retreat, life became even more Contined on next page

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of mourning. boarded the train for Marseille, France, At three years old, I was still wrapped for the cargo ship that would take them in my own innocence, but cracks were across the Mediterranean. Once again, beginning to form on my porcelain psy- I was displaced, separated from all that che. Although reunited with my real par- was “home” and secure. ents, I felt abandoned by the only family I knew. I cried for Moeder. I was angry, ISRAEL, 1949 – 1953 anxious, distant and confused. I trusted We were not prepared for kibbutz life, no one. and we each experienced it very different- The war had ravaged us all. In early ly. The separation of children from their summer, my mother suffered a nervous parents, a heavenly reality for me, was breakdown. The feelings she held in so hell for my parents and sister. valiantly during the war, tied up in neat, I craved the distance from my parents, little, sealed boxes, now popped out like the independence to wander, and looked a grotesque jack-in-the-box, and she was forward to the camaraderie of children overwhelmed by sadness and rage. She my age. The distance from my parents could barely move; her thoughts were allowed me the precious psychological absent and her spirit was not to be found. space to sort things out and to begin to My father, emotionally void, could understand who I was. I felt totally smoth- not help her either, and was desperately Joseph with baby sister Marja; Groningen, 1946. ered, bewildered, and resistant to my par- looking for work. My parents were so ents’ attention, and subconsciously still needy and self-absorbed that the normal mourned my own losses. The kibbutz was bonding between me and my parents did a boy who lived nearby. Still, my restless- a perfect haven. not occur until much later in life. It is also ness persisted. I felt stuck, controlled, and Yet, my parents and sister found it dif- possible that my longing for Moeder and possibly still exposed to danger. ficult to adapt. The traditional family unit Vader and my inability to forgive my own At our home, Marja and I would play so ingrained in their consciousness, was parents, delayed the bonding process together, though our age difference dictat- undermined and everything they used even more. ed that I would play or perform and Marja or wore was communally shared. While Struggling with severe depression and would watch. At the time, I liked playing I needed distance from my parents, Mar- fatigue, my mother experienced the life with finger and hand puppets, using dif- ja’s needs were just the opposite. Even forming inside her, and the healing grace ferent voices to personify different emo- in Holland, Marja intuited that Mommy of time itself helped her regain some emo- tions and characters, and to develop my was emotionally fragile and self-absorbed, tional footing. My father found a job as own fantasy world. Marja was a great and Marja felt neglected. At least a few an electrical supply salesman and a sem- audience. But she was more than that, evenings per week, for quite a while, she blance of order developed in our home. she filled part of the emptiness that I felt. made her way to our parents’ bungalow I did not know it at the time, but the Guiding her, and being the “big” broth- and would wake up sleeping in their bed. cracks in my psyche were ever more er, gave me stature and meaning, which As she grew older, she became more recognizable. What could a three-year-old helped counterbalance the distance I felt independent, so much so that at age five know about the after-shocks of being a towards my parents—a separation I could she was hitchhiking and wandering off by hidden child. For that matter, what could not understand, a distance that narrowed herself along the main road outside our anyone know? I was confused and could only when I was much older. kibbutz, Beit HaShita. not understand or accept why I was sepa- My parents were planning to move. This sense of independence, that I also rated from Moeder and Vader. The post-war economy in the Netherlands shared, was very much the result of living Within weeks after they claimed me, I had not rebounded. My father was dis- on the kibbutz. Experiencing relationships found a box of matches and promptly set satisfied with his job, and the nightmare beyond the nuclear family, as in this com- the bathroom window curtains on fire. My ghosts of war were ever present. They munal setting, was as much a transition parents were alarmed, but this was not a needed a new environment, to distance of emotional connectedness as it was a time when adults were psychologically themselves from the memories that con- shift in one’s political consciousness. To aware. They did not understand it as a tinued to haunt them. my mother’s chagrin, no longer was the cry for help, an expression of my inner They attempted to get visas for Amer- traditional home and family the only place anguish, my way of displaying rage, or my ica, but applied very late. It would be of safety, the kibbutz and the surrounding longing for Moeder and Vader. I wanted to years before a “host” could be found and community were as well. go home. I yearned for my other life. The visas to America were secured. On the My father, now “Moshe,” worked pain was overwhelming, cumulative and other hand, Israel was in its first year of with the livestock and spent most days remained raw. existence and was eager to embrace new outside. He was a shepherd, and each In time, the family gained some nor- arrivals. After months of planning, pack- morning he would take his flock to the malcy, if not vibrancy: Poppy had his ing and a series of goodbyes to a small valley and fertile hillside where there job and Mommy tended to us. Marja was group of family and friends, the Gosler were many streams and lush grasses. The nearly two and I made friends with Dimo, family waved their final goodbye and Contined on next page

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warm breezes, the sounds of turtle doves and the incessant baas of sheep, created a soothing rhythm to his day. Moshe was at peace when he was outdoors, whether tending to his sheep or planting seeds in the earth. He was energized and was deeply consoled by nature’s hum. My father flourished in the kibbutz, but the same could not be said for my mother. She was prone to sinus- and stress-related headaches, and depending on how hot and humid it was, would sometimes have difficulty breath- ing. Her daily work shifted between the cafeteria, the laundry and the library. She washed the dishes and pots, and washed and ironed the clothing. She didn’t mind working indoors—in fact she preferred Class trip in Israel; Joseph is in the second row, in front of the teacher. it—but it certainly wasn’t as fulfilling as my father’s work. Besides, my mother felt that this work was not up to her stature. at 6:30, washed, brushed my teeth and kibbutz from the dorm area, so that the When she worked in the library it was dressed. We were all dressed alike: short children could feel secure and intimate different, because there she could take khaki pants with shoulder straps that within their surroundings. It was a foot time to read a magazine or rifle through buttoned in front and back and a short- thick and over nine feet high but I didn’t shelves of books. She felt lonely and sleeved light-colored shirt. After dressing have any trouble navigating it. found it difficult to adapt to kibbutz life. In we went out, and led by an adult or a teen- Where was I going, especially at that Holland, she had her own home, her own ager, we ran barefoot, through various hour? The mystery was resolved a few clothing, and her children. Now every- terrain in and around the kibbutz. days later. It seems that I quietly strolled thing was shared, clothing, property, and I enjoyed those vigorous runs, and into the other dorm and came back a few children. Her children no longer identi- looked forward to the breakfast that fol- minutes later with a large stamp album. fied only with her, they identified with lowed. After a morning of classes, we But, unlike other thieves, I shared “my” an extended family, a whole community. would take our lunch to the fields. I never new stamp album with all the other chil- This was hard to accept, especially for a grew tired of the black bread, slathered dren. woman who had survived the war. with mayonnaise and filled with scallion Naturally, I was caught, embarrassed One individual who had a profound greens, that was “baked” by the noonday and forced to return the album to its impact on me was Beersheba, my Hebrew sun. rightful owner. I still felt like the outsider, tutor. A soft-spoken woman in her thir- In the afternoon, we worked in the envious of the popularity of other chil- ties, Beersheba had black hair, speckled fields, harvesting grapes, eating some and dren, and I had hoped the album would with grey that she wore in a single long taking little snoozes in the shade of the make me accepted by my peers. It did the braid. I don’t know whether I was the vines. Sometimes, we spread large tarps opposite. only child being tutored at that time, but I around olive trees, milked the branches Every day of those first six months felt special. I soaked up the affection and of green olives, then scooped them off was fraught with conflict and awkward- understanding, and because I was deeply the canvas and packed them into wooden ness. There were bullies everywhere, and bruised, I thought I kept my true self hid- crates. I was the new kid, the Dutch boy. The den from view. Free time after dinner was devoted to more conflict I experienced, the more I Daily, this woman tutored me in playing games on the big lawn near the distanced myself, and the more time I Hebrew, gave me books, allowed me to dining hall. The lights would go out in the spent in the library with Beersheba. I felt come late to class, and basically nurtured dorms about 8 p.m. Although it sounds lost as in the middle of a bridge, stuck me in a way my mother could not, or I monotonous, to me the daily experience between an alienating kibbutz experience would not allow. I became a prolific read- was rich, sweet, predictable and secure, and the distance felt towards my parents. er. The greater command I had over the and created a rhythm that was as sooth- It came as no surprise that I rarely visited Hebrew language, the more I read. I was ing as it was exhausting. The sky was clear my parents’ bungalow. eager to learn, to escape and to block out and I slept deeply. There were exceptions though, and what I couldn’t control. One night after the lights were turned on one such occasion my father could tell The daily routines for a six-year-old off, I snuck out of the dorm and climbed a that I was unhappy, and more importantly were quite consistent. I didn’t mind it concrete wall. There was a full moon and that I seemed hurt, physically. I had a being so specific; in fact, it gave me struc- my shadow was long as I walked on top of large welt and a couple of scratches under ture and security. I knew what to expect the wall connecting the two dorms. The my left eye, a bruised arm, and a slightly and what was expected of me. I awoke wall was meant to divide the rest of the Contined on next page

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swollen lip. a small bottle and five cents for a large buildings, including several trailers, were My father, not known as a big talk- one. In my pursuit of pocket change, I concentrated on approximately three er, teacher or supervisor—preferring the was keenly aware of life on the beach. acres near our living quarters. role of simple worker and problem solv- My observations, like a voyeur, made me The main house was large enough to er—asked me what had occurred. Never acutely aware of how detached I was, not accommodate all of us; the two house- wanting to show my vulnerable side nor just as a foreigner, but how empty I felt holds of the joint owners, as well as the wanting to add to their burdens, I said, “I inside. I wanted to recapture the indepen- grandparents, who had a separate apart- fell into a hole.” There was a pause, and dence and camaraderie of the kibbutz, of ment in the back. At first, we lived on the he replied, “Well the next time you fall in a belonging to a community and working on first floor, squeezed in between the two hole take a stick with you.” I took the hint. shared goals. I longed for Israel! I sensed owners’ families. I am sure that my moth- A week later, I no longer had problems er must have thought she was back in the with these boys, and one of them, Alon, kibbutz, where she had a lack of privacy, became my close friend. My childhood, and little she could call her own. uneven at best until then, now flourished. Both grandparents died within two I felt as though a major weight had been years after our arrival, and we were given lifted off my shoulders. A burst of energy their modest apartment. At last we had a I never experienced before enveloped separate entrance, privacy and a place we me. New friendships formed, adolescent could call home. adventures abounded. It was an exhilarat- My father took his job with the same ing time. Finally, I felt I belonged! sincerity, dedication and loyalty that he But this bounty of joy was not to last. displayed to everyone and everything. Although my father, sister and I were He collected the eggs, put them in round thriving in kibbutz life, my mom couldn’t metal mesh baskets, and dutifully dragged adjust. Four years had passed and she still two baskets, each weighing about 30 suffered from headaches and occasional pounds, in his hands to another building, shortness of breath. She still longed to be where they were cleaned and candled by closer to her extended family and was less the owner, Florence, and my mother. happy with the climate and the communal Marja, now aged eleven, attended nature of kibbutz life. the same school I went to, and slowly In early 1953 we left the kibbutz, with she developed her own set of friends. the intention of immigrating to the US. The Somehow, though younger, she was less move itself seemed quite simple because restricted by my parents than I was. I was all we carried was some clothing, photos, not allowed to stay overnight at other jewelry and other small mementos. Marja people’s homes. My mother always wait- and I felt a tremendous loss. Uprooted yet Joseph in Israel, age 7. ed for me to come home at night, even again, I felt a loss of community, security when I turned seventeen. But Marja, as and friendships that I had finally attained. a young teen, slept over at her friends’ Those feelings could never mend, and that my parents were at a crossroad, homes quite often. trust was ever fleeting. though happy to be in America, they were Giving me away as an infant, and hav- neither comfortable nor content, and they ing me return as an angry and disoriented AMERICA, 1953 - 1960 argued a lot. three-year-old, had made my mother even Our family stayed in Brooklyn with The following summer, in 1955, our more protective. I think she knew I had Tante Judith and her husband, Oom family moved to a chicken farm in Mon- not forgiven her for abandoning me, and Caballes. I do not remember much of our ticello, NY. Poppy was eager to get away for taking me away from the Dijkstra fam- stay, but I had a sense that our hosts and from the garment industry work and ily. What we had, at best, was a détente. my parents were glad, after a five-month looked forward to working on the farm, On weekends, the Concord Hotel was stay, that we left when we did. where he was hired as the foreman. For where I wanted to be, and realizing I In late spring we moved to Rockaway me it was yet another emotional earth- could earn good money there, I applied Park, to a house where other relatives had quake, where I had to once more leave the for a position. My first job was hard to stayed previously. The red brick house familiar, all that had become home—my describe: one day I was serving hot cocoa, was close to the beach and boardwalk. friends and my neighborhood—and move the next day I was handing out boots, skis We lived in the basement and entered to places unknown. I entered Monticello and poles. I was willing to try anything the house through a concrete paved rear Central High as a seventh grader—again, and often convinced my supervisor that yard. My parents were eager to find work the outsider in a tight-knit community I was an expert at doing just about every- and my mother began cleaning nearby that had many unwritten rules. thing. Soon I became an elevator boy in homes, while my father got a job (through The owners of the 150-acre farm were the main building, then a page boy, and at Tante Rose) in the garment industry. Russian Jews, who tended to 150,000 times, I bell-hopped. I brought soda and During that summer, I combed the chickens. Although the farm was mostly ice to guests as part of room service, and beach for empty bottles, two cents for acres of open fields, the coops and other Contined on next page

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I was a cabana boy who adjusted lounge abilities, and they were happy to have me mother to take my arm so I could guide chairs and umbrellas at the poolside. speak for them. her. She said, with an annoyed tone, “I When I delivered phone call notices to the The more I played out these other don’t need you; I can cross the street by professional gamblers, I always got a tip in roles, the more they distorted my fragile myself.” She may very well have said the the form of a crisp dollar bill. identity. What happened to that little boy same words before, or maybe I heard Those weekend jobs gave me plenty who grew into a teenager, whose sense them for the first time. of spending money. In fact, I was earning of self free floated between the ages of In any case, I felt like my head was cut more than my father. My father, who ten and twenty-five? Who was he really? open and my brain was oozing out onto received free housing, eggs and chickens, Who was guiding him; who had his back? the cobblestone street, splattering my had a modest salary. Sometimes I earned There were no role models. Where were identity. My childhood had prepared me as much as $100 a weekend. Although the trusted elders to seek counsel from, I would give most of it to my parents, or to bounce ideas off? There were no the fact that it was all cash tips allowed echoes, no responses, just the grinding of me enough control to keep a chunk for teeth at night. myself. As my contributions to the household NEW YORK CITY, 1974 grew, so did my demands. I had an opin- I was determined to maintain my cur- ion about everything, and realized that I rent lifestyle, but like “Mr. No Where Man” carried an inordinate amount of author- in the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” I was ity in the family. I do not know what my going in circles. With my long thinning father was like before the war, I do know hair, and wild mustache intact, I con- that his spirit was crushed by the physical tinued to work part time, smoke weed, and psychological pain he had endured play basketball, and I wanted to believe during the war and he never recovered that I was still “on top of the moment.” from it. Reluctantly, he simply followed in The sunshine was gone; I began to feel my mother’s footsteps. At the same time, progressively isolated, fragmented and my mother became more and more an disconnected from myself, so much so, advocate for me at my father’s expense. I that it affected my sleep. was her prince! The walls seemed to shake at night, not A wide gulf developed between my just metaphorically, but literally because father and me, the Oedipal Complex was the bar below us had new ownership and in full bloom as I competed for my moth- shifted from great jazz to Latin disco. er’s hand. I eclipsed my father’s authority At about three AM every morning, a and became the center of our family. In booming microphone announced, “last fact, I loathed my father and felt embar- dance,” and suddenly the music amped up rassed by him. It was no wonder that he and the walls vibrated. There were uncon- Joseph with his mother and nephew Steven, 1972. sought refuge in his 1955 second-hand trollable vibrations running inside of me Buick. The Buick, became his private as well, as wave after wave of anxiety space, his sanctuary. My father spent washed through my chest and stomach, to function well on a landscape filled with more and more of his free time waxing making it difficult to breathe. moving objects; like the dancing bear, I and preening his big gleaming idol, while I At times, it would also come on with- was trained to dodge the bullets. But I was filled the parental void as the disciplinari- out warning during the day. I could not not ready for this! I felt profoundly reject- an and guardian of my sister. eat for fear I would suffocate, and at night ed, disoriented, and angry. Didn’t she real- I saw my father as a weakling and when I finally fell asleep, I feared I would ize I was her prince, her advocate and her strived to be different and stronger. I never wake up. This fear, which I was protector? Now I felt gutted, diminished understood that in this country, money always able to tuck away and hide neatly and demoralized. was all powerful and worshiped. It was inside fissures of my soul, now reigned A couple of months went by and I through those narrow lenses that I mea- unchecked, like a punishing wind across remained in the same dark and dank sured and evaluated people and the world a barren landscape. I felt increasingly place. If not for Sheila, I don’t know where I lived in, and my moral compass became vulnerable, porous and defenseless, as if this would have gone. I asked her to stay further obscured. air could pass through me, and I feared awake every night until I would fall asleep. Besides the role of financial supporter, I would be overwhelmed. I felt as though Somehow, Sheila’s love and patience gave I took on the roles of advocate and cheer- I had no body, no frame, that I was ethe- me a sliver of serenity, so that I could leader. As a confidant and counselor, I not real, wasting away, and susceptible to sleep for a little while. Wine, which I had only advised my parents, but also became anything and everything. always loved, now served another pur- their representative when it was neces- The winter of 1974, we visited Amster- pose. It became a form of daily self-med- sary to communicate with the outside dam—as we did every year until 1980, ication, dulling my senses. I realized that world. My English language skills were while my parents lived in Holland. Cross- these actions were superficial and that I quite good in contrast to my parents’ ing a heavily trafficked street, I asked my Contined on next page

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needed help. “cure” myself. During one session, I asked by what someone else said. It seemed like I had never been in therapy. Whether about group therapy as an alternative. an archeological dig where each week out of fear of what might be found out, or The dynamic of a group, though emotion- I discovered a new foundational layer, the macho myth that real men didn’t need ally risky, appealed to me because I trust- revealing a mosaic of my feelings. I began outside help, I loathed and despised the ed groups more readily than individuals. I to experience emotions other than anger. idea of therapy. I was distrustful of the recalled my kibbutz experiences and the Eventually I owned them and gained the whole therapy process and this exacer- level of trust and friendships I felt within confidence that they were real and part bated my agony until I saw no other way. that setting. I truly believed that the fami- of me. Fortunately, both Marja and Sheila, sepa- ly nucleus was eclipsed by the communal My nightly anxiety waves did not rately, were in therapy with the same ther- experience. cease, but were shorter. I felt that I could breathe without gagging, and I continued to participate in the group therapy ses- sions. I was no longer the outsider. I knew as much about each person as he or she was willing to share, and I appreciated the dynamic of the group and its commitment to honesty, without ceremony. In that trusting environment, I exposed my feelings. I talked about my sense of loss, of abandonment and my lost inno- cence. I revealed my inability experiential- ly to differentiate between pity and love, between anger and depression. It wasn’t until I entered group thera- Left to right, Sheila, Marja, Mom, Pop and Joe at a family celebration in 1980. py, that I could focus on the anger deep down that I felt towards my parents, most notably my mother. I was guilt ridden and apist, Millie. That the two people dearest My first group session was more like terrified to face my anger towards them. to me knew a therapist was all important a parody of the Bob Newhart show. I felt How could I be angry at them, after all and made my decision easier. as though I was hovering above the room, they had gone through?! They had to send A short, plump woman with intelli- observing these people sharing their triv- me away, for my safety as well as theirs, gent eyes, inviting smile and sharp sense ial problems, and questioned why I was I rationalized. But they had done more, of humor greeted me at her front door. there. As I did under most circumstances, they took me away from Moeder and Millie’s apartment had many small rooms I assessed the room, watched the clock, Vader, and without calculation, robbed with high ceilings, warm bright light, lots and studied the faces of each person, me of my childhood. of books and fresh-cut flowers. Her work including Millie’s, and how they interact- It was not until I dealt with the anger space looked more like a living room than ed within the group. I felt towards my mother that matters an office. Millie’s warmth and élan made Then, out of the blue, I was asked by changed. At first, the anger towards her the setting even more comfortable, as if I one member of the group, “So Joe, tell us felt forced, but with time, effort, and sup- were visiting an old friend. about yourself?” The suddenness, made port from the group, it began to feel real. After my first visit during which I me scramble for words, as I tried to collect The anger was washed with tears of joy, described my background, my recent myself. I joked, “I am here to do research apprehension, and self-pity. experience with my mother, my confusion for the Bob Newhart Show.” Silence filled It also opened me to the feelings of and vulnerability, I met with her again. the room, and Millie tried to shift the love. No longer a frozen slab of marble, I Therapy felt more like a game of chess attention to another participant, but the was thawing out, able to distinguish my where one observed the other player for person who had asked the question angri- feelings and bursting with new vitality clues about their state of being, before ly retorted, “That’s not funny, and don’t and hope. Not too surprisingly, our annual revealing something about one’s self. waste our time!” Beet red, cornered with trips to Holland became more difficult to The process felt artificial to me and no place to hide, I apologized, just as Mil- tolerate. My anger towards my mom made at some point, maybe in our fifth session, lie announced the end of the session. I left these brief gatherings awkward and bitter. I felt as though we were in a verbal duel. her apartment and scrambled down the Concurrently, though my parents had I believed that I was more intelligent stairs to avoid the awkwardness of small moved to Amsterdam to be nearer to our and my sense of superiority or intellect talk in the elevator and my embarrass- extended family, they felt more and more served as a wall, rather than a gateway, ment for acting so inappropriately. lonely. Like many other WWII survivors, into the realm of the subconscious. I was I forced myself to go back the follow- they could not overcome their wounds, defensive and did not trust anyone else to ing week. Each week thereafter, at least lived solely through their children, and guide me, yet I understood that I needed for the first few months, was a revelation. were psychologically unable to develop to continue therapy. I was astounded to find myself at times new roots, interests or friendships. This It was clear to me that I could not crying, venting in anger or deeply touched Contined on next page

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created a dilemma for me and Marja. age fifteen. Sheila, on the other hand, was in many ways, to gain new skills, find Although we wished them well, we, sur- ready to move into an “adult” apartment, meaningful work and start a family. But prisingly, found the physical distance especially since it was affordable, rent sta- what kind of work did I want to do? I between us to be therapeutic. It lifted a bilized and most importantly, had rooms enjoyed management and collaborating burden we had carried since childhood. with doors and privacy. on projects, as well as bookkeeping and We weren’t ready for them to come The change from the tenement to the accounting, but hated the idea of “busi- back to New York, even though the Dutch apartment building was less traumatic ness.” My work experience was spoiled government had changed its guidelines than I thought it would be. Our sixth-floor, by feelings of servitude and enslavement for WWII reparation eligibility. Now, recip- two-bedroom apartment was sunny, had to my parents, by the boredom felt while ients no longer needed to live in their oak parquet floors, an eat-in kitchen plus doing mundane tasks, the narrowminded- native country, but could return to the a real bathroom. The furniture and car- ness of fellow workers, and the general countries they had adopted. When our peting we brought over was scattered as concept of making a profit. Flustered, I parents approached us about returning neatly as we could, but we could still hear found it difficult to envision what direc- to the US, with trepidation and awkward- an echo whenever we spoke or moved tion was best for me. ness, I told them that we needed more about. During one of my therapy sessions, time apart from them. The fragile child in I quickly learned to tolerate the ele- I shared my frustrations and paralysis me wasn’t ready yet to forgive and forget. vator greetings and small talk. In fact, we with my group. Someone who worked To our surprise, they did not go against became part of a group of neighborhood as an executive ‘head hunter’ said, “You our wishes and dutifully remained in Hol- people who formed the Good Food Co-op, mentioned that you were good in business land until 1980. a food co-op that has been functioning for matters and enjoyed working in day care Anger and pity were no longer the over forty years. Moreover, I helped Say- centers and Head Start. Why not find a only feelings I experienced. Love and lor, our neighbor and the quintessential full-time job in a school, possibly as a empathy created a new balance for me. good citizen, to mulch the trees on our business manager?” The title, Business Skyscrapers cannot be built on quicksand, block. Living in our new home brought Manager, Finance Director or Chief Finan- nor could my personal development be about some obvious and subtle changes cial Officer, was a revelation and I mulled achieved without reducing my subter- in my life. it over. Business manager sounded just ranean anger. Through trial and error, My mustache and long hair, which right. I had always enjoyed a nurturing and even mechanically counting to ten until then were my façade, my symbol of school environment with people who had before responding, my smoldering anger rebellion, counter-culture, and indepen- dreams and interests that I could identify slowly subsided. Although mistakes were dence, now felt like a glued-on mask. I felt with and whose collective purpose was landmines that needed to be avoided at imprisoned by it. One night I could bare to guide and support the development of all cost, I became less rigid and relatively it no longer and unbeknownst to Sheila, children, and by extension, my develop- more tolerant. I slowly, painstakingly, removed the mus- ment. n With anger becoming more sporad- tache. At first the thick mustache resisted ic and less explosive, I experienced the the razor, but eventually succumbed. It This article has been excerpted from the pervasive fog of depression. For the first was astonishing how this small alteration author’s newly published book, Searching time, I no longer viewed myself as the changed my appearance and opened up for Home: The Impact of WWII on a Hidden last of the buccaneers, but instead as new opportunities. The following morning Child (ISBN 9789493056343) published someone who was only good enough to Sheila shrieked with anger to find a differ- by Amsterdam Publishers as ebook and wash toilets, a perspective that disturbed ent person in her bed. Her anger stemmed paperback, available on Amazon, Barnes me deeply. Of course, neither of these as much from not being told of what I was & Noble and in brick and mortar book- self-sketches truly represented me, since planning to do, as from the radical dif- stores worldwide. Mr. Gosler’s journey has they were extreme opposites. ference it made in my appearance. Soon often been a circuitous one, exemplified by I resisted change. I cherished my wild thereafter my long hair was shortened as the 20 years it took him to achieve his BA mustache and long hair and savored living well, but this time I gave Sheila plenty of in History and MBA in corporate finance in our tenement home. When an opportu- notice. The mask ripped off exposed me through the City University of New York. nity arose that would allow us to move to new ideas, risk taking, and heightened For nearly 40 years he has worked in two blocks north to an apartment building my sense of self awareness. A new face, no educational settings ranging from day care with an elevator, I envisioned that it was longer hidden. centers to private schools in the capacity a move “uptown.” The idea of recognizing Whether it was the move to the apart- of Business Manager. He and his wife Shei- and greeting people in the hallway and ment building, the results of therapy, or la founded a pre-school called Beginnings elevator, holding doors open and helping simply waking out of an endless slumber, Nursery, have one son and live in New people carry their shopping bags, all the I no longer wanted to live on the edges York City. Mr. Gosler retired from Friends hallmarks of civility and good citizen- of everyday life, hiding within my own Seminary in 2004, and today is actively ship, were an anathema to me. I believed shadow and licking my wounds. Instead, involved in several Quaker projects, writ- that these conventions would stunt my I wanted to become a complete person, a ing, gardening, traveling and walking his daily rhythm and enslave me once more, mensch, regardless of the risks involved. dog. “Searching for Home,” the story of diminishing my spirit as it did when I was As my confidence grew and I under- his life as a result of having been hidden forced to work after school each day at stood myself more fully, I wanted to grow during WW2, is his international debut.

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my most unusual role was as a survivor of OUT OF HIDING a deadly game of “hide and seek,” where By Sophie Turner Zaretsky the seekers were the Nazis and their col- laborators, and their prey were Jews marked for genocide. Tragically, there was no Jewish homeland at that time, so there were very few possibilities for fleeing to safety. And so, Six Million individuals were murdered simply because they were Jews. One and a half million of them were children. I was born on September 2, 1937, in Lwow, a city in eastern Poland (now west- ern Ukraine) with a large Jewish popula- tion. I was the adored first grandchild in a large urban Jewish family. My parents were sophisticated, educated and secular. My grandparents were Orthodox. Every- one envisioned a comfortable life for me. But I was born in the wrong place, at the wrong time, when there could be no childhood, no adolescence, and no bright future for a Jewish child. On June 29th, 1941, when Germany over- ran Lwow, conditions deteriorated imme- diately. Members of my family began to disappear, food was scarce, and I could no longer play. Parks were forbidden to Jews, and we were forced to move from Sophie, age 1 year, poses with her mother, Laura Lit- our lovely apartment to the ghetto. My wak Schwarzwald, in a park in Lvov. September 1938. resourceful father, Daniel Schwarzwald, PHOTO CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF SOPHIE TURNER-ZARETSKY. bought papers for my mother Laura, me, and my aunts, identifying us as Polish Christians. The local population enjoyed a As a member of a dwindling popula- windfall by selling their documents to des- tion of Holocaust survivors, I have certain perate Jews, and then taking over their responsibilities: to remember those who property. died, to pay tribute to the survivors, and On September 1, 1942, one day before to honor the rescuers – Jews and Gentiles my fifth birthday, my father did not return – who at great peril to themselves and to to us. He had gone to the Jewish Council their families made it possible for us to to apply for accommodations for us in the live when so many around us perished. ever shrinking Lwow ghetto. He was mur- This duty is also my legacy to my nearest dered by hanging, together with members and dearest, my sons Daniel and Jeffrey, of the Council. Their crime? They were daughter-in-law Andrea, and grandchildren Jews. I was inconsolable. To this day I can- Emily and Jack. They represent my victory not forget nor forgive this evil. over those who sought to annihilate me. Shortly thereafter my mother and I Over my lifetime I’ve had many roles: shed our yellow stars, left the ghetto with daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, our new identities, and fled to Krakow. physician, caregiver, and advocate. As a My mother’s younger brother, Emanuel member of Graduate Women International, a Litwak was to join us, but he was recog- Non-Government Organization accredited nized by a Pole, hanged by the Nazis, and to the United Nations, I have advocated became the second victim of a “lynching” for girls’ education and social justice. But Contined on next page

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in my family. and every step posed a danger of being rienced were acknowledged. After experiencing fear, hunger, lone- discovered as Jews. Moreover, the Com- The second event was the opening of liness and cold, my mother, who spoke munists who dominated Poland censored the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in perfect German and Polish, found a job as all mail, and regarded any communica- Washington DC in 1993, which I attended a translator and bookkeeper for a Gesta- tion with the West as treason. with my husband. The ceremonies and po official in Busko Zdroj, a small Polish Finally, in February, 1948, we left Busko the tour of the Museum were wrenching. resort town. To protect us from Nazi by train, and after stopping in Warsaw, Since I had donated personal articles to roundups and from Polish opportunists which had been almost completely flat- and sympathizers, who identified Jews tened by the Germans, we made our way and handed them over to the Nazis for to the Polish port of Gdynia where we board- reward, my mother trained me to become ed the liner Batory. By some miracle, we a perfect Christian child. I completely were on our way to England where we had forgot my previous Jewish past, and in a relatives who sponsored us. The United place without Jews, I became unaware of States had turned us down because the their ongoing slaughter. quota for immigrants from Poland was full. In May, 1945, after several days of fight- At the beginning, our life in London was ing in our vicinity, the Russian army beat very difficult. Money was tight, we had to the Germans and entered our town. From learn English quickly, we were stateless, then on, we lived under a repressive Com- but worst of all, I had to face the shocking munist regime. Now they and the Poles, revelation that I was Jewish. I regarded not the Germans, could turn on us. In fact, this as a catastrophe, because in Poland I on July 4, 1946, there was a pogrom in had been taught to despise Jews. Should Kielce, a town very near to us. Forty-two we even have wished to talk about our Jewish survivors who tried to return to history, there were no support services available for refugees like us. Moreover, no one was interested. We were left to man- age mostly on our own — and so we did. Gradually, life settled down. I went to school, and did well. I was accepted to medical school, became a physician and eventually settled in New York, where I met and married David Zaretsky, an American Jew. We had two sons, who I am proud to say have a strong connection to their Jewish heritage. I had a successful career as a radiation oncologist. I almost never spoke about the Holo- Sophie poses with a novice nun at a summer camp for caust, particularly as it pertained to me. orphaned children at a convent in Rabka, Poland. 1947. PHOTO CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY Several events propelled me to examine OF SOPHIE TURNER-ZARETSKY. my past and its effects on me. Starting with the First International Gathering of Hidden Children in New York in 1991, the Museum, including a photograph of which was a watershed experience, I me in my first communion dress, I was finally felt I belonged to a group of people the subject of an article in my local paper, who understood me perfectly, and with which exposed my past to the community whom I had a great deal in common. where I lived and worked, making contin- In particular, I was given permission to ued “hiding” impossible. The revelation realize that I too was a survivor, and that resulted in an outpouring of empathy by I too had been a victim of terrible injus- both my colleagues and my patients. A Sophie in 1945, dressed for her First Communion. tice and trauma. This was particularly line had been crossed into my personal PHOTO CREDIT: UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM, COURTESY OF SOPHIE TURNER-ZARETSKY. significant because I had been told time sphere which caused me great distress. and time again by people who should The third event was a chance meeting have known better that only my mother with author R. D. Rosen in 2010. Richard, a their homes after the war were murdered had suffered, and that I, as a child, could Jew born in the Midwest, became interested in while the church and the police stood by. not have understood what was going on the experiences of Hidden Children after My mother was determined that the two around me. Neither the disappearance of hearing my story. A series of interviews of us, and her youngest sister Ann Rozy- most of my family, and especially the loss over a period of several years brought up cki, who had also survived, leave Poland. of my father, nor the bombings, hunger, long buried memories. The result was the It took three years to arrange our escape, cold, loneliness, and fear that I had expe- Contined on next page

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book Such Good Girls: The Journey of the Holocaust’s Hidden Child Survivors, published in 2014, focusing on me, Flora Hogman, Carla Lessing, and our entire largely ignored group MAPPING OUR HIDING PLACES of Hidden Children. Each of these events resulted in my Hidden Children, researchers, and organizations are remembering a little more about the past, invited to participate in a long-term project of great signifi- and in restoring many gaps in my memory. cance, the mapping of places where Jews hid in all of Europe Memory loss has been described as a pro- during WWII. tective device in trauma victims, and break- This project, initiated by Dr. Dienke Hondius, assistant ing through the barrier was depressing professor of history at Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, is the and anxiety-provoking. However, publica- historian’s newest method in obtaining a deeper understanding of what hap- tion of the book made it possible for me pened to Hidden Children and their families during the war. Digital and interac- to finally “come out of hiding.” It gave me, tive maps are a powerful tool for visualizing histories, transferring information, literally, a voice: for the first time I was and gaining new knowledge. able to speak in public without the severe Your family’s chronicles, memoirs, interviews, etc., will be brought together anxiety and even panic attacks that I had with those of others who were forced to hide in Europe during the Nazi era. experienced until then. Please send Dr. Hondius your (and/or your family’s) hiding information, whether Now that I’m retired, I have the oppor- short or long, to build a more comprehensive digital map and database. tunity to think about the past and the Here is the link to fill out a form for your hiding place(s): https://arcg.is/jfT0y future. While I still can, I am trying to Any and all information, even if incomplete, will be appreciated. Send what- fulfill my obligation to my children, my ever you can, even if just a name. Dr. Hondius’ aim is to complete the historical grandchildren, my family — and poster- record on the hiding experiences of Jews during WWII. Now is the time to bring ity — to share my experiences and the widely dispersed information together, and to preserve the records of European lessons I have learned. I also feel that by Jews during the Holocaust. telling my story I am speaking for survi- This project is envisioned to grow each year for at least the next ten years. vors who have been so traumatized by For further information, please contact Dr. Hondius directly at: [email protected]. their past that they are unable to speak for themselves. We, child survivors of the Holocaust, will soon be gone and there will be no witnesses left to answer indi- by Poles, Ukrainians and others, not vented many of us from doing just that. vidual questions about life before, during only because of their Anti-Semitism, but It is noteworthy that many children and after the Holocaust. After all, there is also their greed. Once Jews were forced who survived the Holocaust have gone hardly anyone alive now who can answer from their homes, their belongings were into professions such as medicine, mental our questions. plundered by the perpetrators. health specialties, social work and the It is my firm belief that survivors are Sadly, genocide and conflict are still arts in order to help others. We are very heroes. They fought to save themselves, a fact of life, and survivors can be — sensitive to the suffering of people who their loved ones, and especially their and are being — useful as mentors and experience trauma due to conflict, sick- ness, displacement, poverty or discrimi- nation of any kind. Because we survived, when so many did not, we feel we have a responsibility to give meaning to our I FINALLY FELT I BELONGED TO A GROUP OF PEOPLE existence. In spite of all the speeches and annual WHO UNDERSTOOD ME PERFECTLY, AND WITH WHOM events commemorating the Holocaust at I HAD A GREAT DEAL IN COMMON. the United Nations and internationally, it is a shameful and unforgivable fact that anti-Semitism and attacks on Jews are again rampant, not only in the Middle East but also in Europe and the United States. The children against insurmountable odds. role models for victims of war, genocide State of Israel, which survivors helped to We need to preach this message to our and other forms of terror. As more and build, is being vilified and denied its right young people, instead of dwelling on neg- more people, and especially children, to exist as a sovereign state, and it is ative portrayals of Jews as victims. With are exposed to fear, violence and loss, under constant attack by the internation- limited weapons, Jews did fight against our stories are increasingly important in al community. annihilation during the war. We were showing that, in spite of our permanent The cry of “Never again” is at great peril. surrounded by killers on all sides, and scars, we can still lead a full life. While We must all fight with everything in our the world was unmoved by our plight. our early years were difficult, sadness power to prevent another Holocaust. Jew- In many instances, the Nazis were aided and ever-present anxiety have not pre- ish lives matter. n

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LOOKING FOR MY CHILDHOOD FRIEND CHAYA By Esia Baran Friedman

The last time I saw Chaya, my old class- mate from the Leyzer Gurwcz school, was shortly after the war when we both came out of hiding. Our parting words at the time were, “Let’s not lose each other again.” During the Holocaust I was hidden in Vilnius, Lithuania. My mother found me shortly before the end of the war. After liberation, we still needed to protect Prewar photo taken in backyard of Baran home: ourselves from the evildoers who want- Brother Zev, Esia, and Mamma (Ida Baran). ed more Jewish blood. Eventually, we returned to our old home, which had been occupied and later vacated by our former One of the letters my Mamma read neighbors, Nazi sympathizers. was from Mr. Szczeranski’s sister, an My mother and I were the only survi- engineer who had worked for the Vilnius vors from a well-known street that housed Electric Company. Before the onset of the many Jews and had several synagogues. war, when the Germans were approach- In Yiddish, the street was known as Groys ing Vilnius, Miss Szczeranski and her Sznipiszik, and in Polish, it was called father were evacuated. They and the Wilkomjerska Ulica. Later, when Vilnius other employees of the electric com- again became the capital of Lithuania, the pany fled to Russia. She wrote that her street was renamed Ukmerges Gatve by father died, and she is searching for any the Lithuanian government. remaining family in Vilnius. As always, The Szczeranski family owned one of Mamma would give the same reply: “We the bakeries at number 52 or 54 Ukmerg- do not know, but there is always hope.” es Gatve. The father’s name was Shimon, We took our daily walk to the kehillah to the mother’s name was Rochl. They turn in the letters and to look for words had three children: an older daughter, of comfort from our rabbi. my friend Chaya, and a little boy. I no About one year after the liberation, longer remember the other children’s when I was on our street, standing in names. The family also employed a front of our home, I saw a little girl with nanny whom we called, Naszcza. She blonde braids staring at our house. would walk us all to school and we all I had to look twice, for we no longer spoke Yiddish. We also spoke Polish, believed any of my elementary school Russian and Lithuanian, but Naszcza friends were alive. I recognized Chaya spoke to us only in Yiddish. Szczeranski and crossed the street to Since my mother and I were the greet her. She appeared dazed, scared, only survivors, all mail that came for and tried to leave. I said, “Chaya, you Jews on our street was given to my survived!” As she looked at me, I said, Mamma, who replied to each sender. “Chaya, I am Esia Baran, and I survived Every letter would bring more tears to in hiding. Please do not leave.” She her eyes. After reading these letters, replied in Polish, “I do not understand my Mamma and I would deliver them Yiddish,” to which I said in Polish, “How to our only surviving rabbi, Israel Gust- did you know I was speaking Yiddish?” man. Rabbi Gustman opened a kehillah To ease her fears, I told her that and an orphanage for the few surviving her aunt is alive and looking for her. children. He also helped us and other We hugged and cried together. I asked survivors cope with the great tragedy her how she survived, and she told me that had befallen the Jewish people. Contined on next page

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her story. Naszcza, her nanny, saved her niece Chaya is alive. her. I asked her how that was possi- We were all grateful that Naszcza ble since Naszcza was Jewish. It was a had acted honorably in saving Chaya, shock for me to find out that her nanny but we did not realize how determined was a devout German Catholic. The she could be. One day, Mamma opened nanny converted her to Catholicism and the door and there stood Naszcza with placed her on a farm owned by a doctor two Polish men, members of the Armia and his family, where she took care of Krajowa.* Naszcza wanted to know the animals. where Anna (Chaya) was. My brave I told her that now she must come mother said to them, “Are you are ask- live with Mamma and me, and once ing for Chaya, who is a Jewish child?” again be a Jewish child. She answered She again praised Naszcza for risking her life and saving Chaya. Again, they asked, “Where is Anna?” Again, Mamma answered, “I have no idea where she is at the moment.” They told us they will kill us. Thank G-d my brother Zev,who had returned from the front and was ill, awoke and heard the uproar. He came out of the bedroom, wearing his Russian army uniform jacket, and holding a gun. He warned Naszcza and the two men that if they ever came near his family, he would take care of them all. My broth- er explained to them this is no longer Esia on her tricycle. Prewar. a time of pogroms, of Nazis, or of their brutal collaborators. We never heard from Naszcza again. *After WW2, the Armia Krajowa was a disbanded Mamma set in motion plans to leave Polish anti-Nazi resistance organization. the land of our birth and to get out of Europe for good. I went to an agency Eventually, Esia and her family ended that provided us with documents which up in the DP camp of Linz in Austria. From enabled us to leave Lithuania. There, there they immigrated to the US through I recognized another classmate, Merel the sponsorship of her mother’s brother. Fuks, with her older sister. I still wonder They were welcomed to America by her how we were able to cry. We cried, we mother’s grandparents, and many aunts and hugged, we screamed, we held on so uncles who had settled in Meriden, Con- tight for fear we would once again lose necticut, decades before the war. Esia attended one another. high school in Meriden, and continued her Watching us was a very pretty lady. studies at the University of Connecticut and She stood like a statue, crying along the University of Hartford. She spent 30 years with us, and then, grabbing us, she said as a teacher in the Meriden Public School “Yiddishe Kinderlach,” while hugging, System, where she also taught ESL, adult holding, and kissing us. And once again, education and citizenship classes. Also, she we all cried together. taught at her local Hebrew School (Tem- The lady told her story. She said her ple B’nai Abraham) in Meriden, and was Prewar portrait of Esia Baran. niece was found alive and that a little an adjunct instructor at Middlesex Commu- girl wrote her a letter, and because of nity College. She was chairman of the Yom that letter, Moscow gave her permis- Hashoah Commemoration Committee of she was scared that her nanny will kill sion to travel to Vilnius to unite with the Greater Hartford Jewish Community her. We agreed on a date to meet, and her niece Chaya Szczeranski. I told her I Center. Esia was honored as a “Woman of we would hide her in Rabbi Gustman’s am the one who wrote the letter. And so Valor” by the Jewish Federation of Greater orphanage. My mother would provide more crying, and kissing, and hugging. Hartford, and was president of Congre- the food for her and get in touch with It was our great joy when my moth- gation Agudas Achim in West Hartford, her aunt in Moscow. With G-d’s help we er, Chaya’s aunt, and I went to the where she also led a Yiddish language dis- saved Chaya and restored her to our orphanage to witness the reunion. cussion group. Esia, now a widow, has two people. Mamma asked me to write to Since then, I am still looking for sons, Dr. Barry Friedman and Rabbi Cary her aunt, giving her the good news that Chaya, my dear childhood friend. n Friedman, and six grandchildren.

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MY NAME IS SAMUEL, ANDRÉ, DEDÉ By Samuel Lauber

My family was originally from Poland: my mother, Sala, née Laufer, was born in Sucha; my father, Aron Lauber, came from Chrzanow. My sister was also born in Poland, in 1925. Seeking a better life, all three went to Antwerp, Belgium, in 1934, where my parents created and sold arti- ficial flowers at their shop, L’Orchidée. I arrived at a most ill-fated time, in 1942, on the first day of Passover. When the Nazis overran Antwerp, we Childhood photo of Samuel Lauber, also known as Dedé. left everything behind and fled to Brus- sels. But by the summer of 1942 there was no safe place for Jews anywhere in Belgium. Marie and I bonded quickly and became And by the spring of 1943, Jews lived ‘brothers.’ On Sundays, we all went to church, under the unrelenting threat of German where, as a toddler, my only requirement roundups. Hoping to escape the Nazis’ was to be silent. One day Madame Detry clutches, my father went to the train sta- asked my parents if I could be baptized. tion to obtain tickets for our family. There, Their reply was an emphatic “no.” a stranger warned him that the Germans Yet, my presence with the Detry family were checking everyone’s identification. presented a danger for all. Each member Fear of arrest and deportation had inten- had to be mindful of prying strangers and sified to the point that my parents now neighbors, placing everyone in a constant felt they had to find someone to protect state of anxiety. The cover story was that me. My mother approached the mother I was a distant cousin from another town. My superior of a nearby convent in Brussels. name was changed to Dedé, a nickname for The brave woman immediately understood my middle name, André. Madame Detry the urgency of our situation, and she provided me with all the basic necessities arranged for a group of nuns to take me of life, never asking my parents for reim- to a preventorium (an institution for chil- bursement. dren exposed to tuberculosis). During my hiding period, my sister Along the way, the nuns ran into Nelly visited me occasionally, sometimes taking Detry, a pediatric nurse. When Nelly heard me back to Brussels for short stays with that I was not ill and that I needed to be my parents. Right after Brussels was liber- shielded from the Nazis, she said she would ated, she came to La Louvière to pick me speak with her mother, Laura Detry, to up for the last time, and to bring me back see if I could stay with her family in La home for good. Louvière. Madame Detry agreed, and I joined When I share my Holocaust story with her family for the duration of the war. audiences, people often ask me, “How did Nelly told Mother Superior about my your parents survive the war? The answer placement with the Detry family in La Lou- is, I don’t know. My parents never wanted vière, and my parents learned about my to discuss the war and how they survived. hiding place. They received by-monthly Nor did my sister ever share her wartime notifications on my condition and activities. experiences. From early fall 1944 until I lived with the Detry family for a year 1948, when I was six years old, we lived and a half, and was treated as if I were in Brussels, but I have no recollection of their own child. Madame Detry had a what we did during those years. playground built behind the house so that By 1948 it was time to leave the war her son, Jean Marie, and I could play. Jean Contined on next page

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and Belgium behind. My parents wanted was able to secure a job in a fur shop in ahead. In retrospect, I can see that they to immigrate to the States where they had lower Manhattan. His work entailed sew- were both very much affected by life’s close relatives — my mother’s parents, ing fur tails onto fur coats, which was very adversities, but mostly by the Holocaust sisters and brothers, and my father’s stylish in those days. My artistic mother — a period spent in dread of a rafle (raid) cousins. Though my father’s brother and opened an artificial flower shop in Herald at any moment. Moreover, they worried his family settled in Israel, my father felt Square, on 34th Street, near Gimbels, the about my wellbeing, and wondered if they there were more opportunities in the department store. Her customers includ- would ever see me again. Such constant United States, and he believed I could get ed Lord and Taylor and Saks Fifth Avenue. anguish exerted a considerable toll, both a good Hebrew education in New York. By We settled in a tenement house on mentally and physically, on my mother then my sister had married, and she and 100th Street between Amsterdam and and my father. her husband sailed to the U.S. separately. Columbus Avenue in Manhattan. I was After my father died, I went to live with enrolled in a yeshiva. Speaking French my sister and her family in Bloomfield, STARTING ANEW only, I had difficulty with my studies in Connecticut. In 1961 I entered the State My parents and I boarded the Queen both Hebrew and English. I failed and was University of New York (SUNY) in Buffalo. Elizabeth in Cherbourg, France, to begin left behind in class years. The principal, In 1963, rather than being drafted into the our new life. As refugees we were limited Dr. Axelrod, told my father I had to leave. U.S. Army, I enlisted in the U.S. Air Force. to certain cabins and dining facilities. My No consideration was ever given to the many First, I was stationed at Lackland Air Force parents got sea sick, but I didn’t. My father upheavals I had withstood in wartime and Base in San Antonio, Texas; then at Chan- and I toured the ship, and on Friday night, postwar Belgium. Much to my father’s cha- ute Air Force Base in Rantoul, Illinois; and we attended a Jewish service in a makeshift grin, I had to enter a public school. then at Niagara Falls Air Force Base, in

Photo and postcard, dated September 5, 1975, indicating the house and street in La Louvière where young Samuel was hidden by the Detry family. shul. Some days I played shuffle board on My parents attended evening classes to Niagara Falls, New York, where, starting in the upper deck. The journey from Cher- learn about their new country and to prac- 1965, I resumed my studies by taking night bourg to New York took one week. When tice their new language. In 1954 they passed classes at SUNY Buffalo. we saw the Statue of Liberty, all the pas- their citizenship exams and both were sworn In 1967, after completing my four years sengers cheered. in as new Americans. As a result of their of service in the Air Force, I rented an Once docked, we met with the admis- citizenship, I too became a U.S. national. apartment in Buffalo with two classmates, sions officials and with representatives of Soon after my Bar Mitzvah, my moth- and continued my undergraduate studies HIAS (Hebrew Immigration Aid Society) er died of kidney failure. She was only part-time while working full-time. Meanwhile, for processing. My father, who spoke fifty-seven years old. In 1960, right after I maintained an active social life through mostly Yiddish, had an initial interview I graduated from high school, my father Hillel, where I met my wife. We were mar- with Mary Haggerty, a counselor. Speak- died of coronary disease at the age of six- ried in 1970, and I graduated in 1971. ing through the aid of an interpreter, they ty-four. Life had always been difficult for In 1973, we moved to Ann Arbor, Mich- focused on employment opportunities for my parents — in Poland, in Belgium, and igan, and I entered the University of Mich- both my parents. My father told the coun- even in New York City. They had come to igan to earn a master’s degree in social selor he had extensive experience in the America in middle age after the biggest work, with specialization in community fur business, and he was referred to the setback of their lives, starting once again organization. Once completed, I began a vocation department of HIAS. from nowhere, while learning another long career working for the American Fed- Through such assistance, my father language and working hard just to stay Contined on next page

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eral Civil Service in the U.S. and in Europe. to make the arrangements with a civilian cations with Jean Marie. In 2005, I corre- In 1983, after a stint in Hanau, Germa- attorney, and the adoption process began. sponded with him, raising many questions, ny, I returned to the U.S. to work at the By Monday morning, we met with the most of which he could not answer. For Philadelphia Navy Hospital as a Family child’s grandmother, the baby’s guardian instance, he did not know the names or the Advocacy Representative, dealing with fam- because his mother was underage. The order of the nuns who had brought me to ily violence on base. One Friday evening the interview went well. Madame Detry. But he did write that when Navy duty officer told me that a mother in After passing many other hurdles — I lived with his family, I was “very kind, easy the delivery room was relinquishing her legal petitions, and background, financial going,” and “we got along well together.” and medical checks — we were awarded our son, and we officially became his parents We returned to Europe as a family of three. First, we were stationed in Würzburg, Mönchengladbach, and Mannheim, Germa- ny; then we relocated to The Netherlands. In 1991 I organized the Dutch/American conservative congregation in Brunssum. Since there was no rabbi, I conducted the services, and my wife made the necessary arrangements for the Dutch non-military people to attend our gatherings. For the High Holy Days, a group of us went to SHAPE (Strategic Headquarters Allied Personnel Europe) near Mons, Bel- gium, because they had an American mil- itary rabbi conduct the services. On the expressway, I saw a sign for La Louvière. I Young Samuel, or Dedé. wanted to stop to look for the Detry fami- ly, but the time was not favorable. Rescuer Nelly Detry Yet that sign had rekindled a desire to learn more about the small child I had once been. The following month, my wife, By sharing my story with numerous son, and I made a separate trip to La Lou- audiences, I relive my hiding period. For vière. The address I had didn’t pan out. many years after the war I did not con- But when I called the telephone number sider myself to be a Holocaust survivor. I from a phone booth at the hospital in La could not attend the 1991 First International Louvière, Madame Detry replied, “Dedé Gathering of Hidden Children in New York c’est vous? (Dedé is that you?) because I was stationed in Europe. But Madame Detry picked us up and brought I did attend the 2006 annual conference us to her present house, not the house where in Detroit, Michigan, and participated in I was hidden. We spent three lovely days various workshops in the hope of finding with her and her husband Camille Mollet. other attendees who were hidden in La Madame Detry showed us pictures of the Louvière. None were. Still, getting togeth- time I was with her in La Louvière. Jean Marie er with others who were hidden was a Son of rescuer, and former playmate, Jean-Marie Detry. came over, and we hugged. Later we had very moving and healing experience. dinner at Jean Marie’s house, and met his As we grow older it becomes even more girlfriend who was warm and welcoming. important that the Holocaust be remem- child for adoption. I called my wife, who said We returned to the U.S. at Wright-Patt bered. This is our only hope to prevent immediately, “Go to the hospital attorney Air Force Base and settled in Dayton, history from repeating itself. I want my son to and tell him you’re interested.” The hospital Ohio, where we still reside. At Wright-Patt teach his children, and for this to become attorney told me that the federal govern- Air Force Base my job as outreach pro- part of our legacy to future generations. n ment cannot get involved in state affairs. gram manager in mental health entailed Not giving up, my wife replied, “Go see the conducting in-person suicide prevention Excerpts of Samuel Lauber’s background hospital commander.” briefings to all units on base and writ- appear in two books, The Holocaust Sur- So, ignoring the usual protocol of going ing articles for the Skywrighter, Wright- vivor Cookbook, by Joanne Caras, and A through the chain of command, I went to Patt’s community paper on mental health Gift of Life, by Sylvain Brachfeld. Mr. Laub- the hospital commander, telling her that issues. After twelve years I retired from er’s hobby is photography. His photograph the mother in the delivery room wished Wright-Patt Air Force Base. of the Eiffel Tower in multi-image color to surrender her child and that my wife and I As a retiree with more time on my appeared for several months at the Louvre wanted him. She called the hospital attorney hands, I was able to renew communi- Museum in Paris.

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HOW I OVERCAME THE SHOCK OF A GERMAN SON-IN-LAW By Cordula Hahn

Cordula Hahn’s bookcase containing her father’s cher- ished collection of German books.

It helped that his name was David, and My two languages divided me — separated people forsaken somewhere in a misty field. that my daughter was in touch with her me or attracted me to different loyalties. I would struggle my entire life with the dou- family’s past, when I was told she intend- My country’s flag is beautiful, the German ble-faced head of the German language: the ed to marry a German. flag is scary with an image in the center I sweet whisperer and the threatening screamer. So why did I have to swallow so hard believed to be the devil. We cried when our My daughter and her husband moved back when I got the news over the phone from soccer team lost against Germany. I was to the US years after my initial, very hesitant Europe, where at the time my daughter was terrified that my father would accept a acceptance of a German addition to our fam- living in the country where I was born, a position in Germany and a big fat D would ily. Indeed, it helps that his name is David, country bordering dangerously with Germany? deface our license plate. that he studied in the country of my child- My parents were German speaking Czech But how not to love the mountains, hood, that he speaks both my languages. refugees. German was my first language — unknown where I grew up, the food deftly What makes our relationship valuable the language that loved me, and the language prepared by my grandmother and mother, — and it took me some time to understand that reprimanded me when I misbehaved. and the language that resounded through- — is that David is part of a new generation My parents, my older brother and I sur- out our house? Lining our walls were my of Europeans who have faced their past vived the war. At home, we spoke German; father’s bookcases with all the great German and deserve to be understood. n outside, we played with the neighborhood writers beckoning me to be read and trea- children and spoke their language without sured. The more I read, the darker the books Cordula Hahn is a volunteer at the Hidden any accent. became, with photos of striped or naked Child Foundation.

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TWO BROTHERS, TWO DREAMS By Michel and Simon Jeruchim

THE UNLOCKING crowded around a large bulletin board, Many children were hidden in convents, and By Michel Jeruchim on which hundreds of index cards were many, like me, were hidden in plain sight My awakening arrived on May 20, pinned with messages seeking persons from under a false identity. This is not to sug- 1991.The occasion was the First Interna- their original neighborhoods, or asking gest that every means of survival was an tional Gathering of Children Hidden during if anyone knew the whereabouts of their equivalent experience. Nothing can compare World War II. It took place at the Marriott brother or sister or other relatives. The with surviving a death camp. Neverthe- Marquis in Times Square. There had been air was crackling with energy, as if the less, all Jews were at risk, at any moment. other gatherings of survivors in other pent-up repression of grief for nearly In the first plenary session of the gath- places, but this was the very first specif- half a century was about to erupt. And it ering, set in a large ballroom, Abraham ically aimed at hidden children. Why the seemed to for most participants. Foxman, the president of the Anti-Defama- first time, after so many years? Not long We were like children impatiently wait- tion League, (who organized the event), him- after the war, survivor groups began to ing to unwrap a gift, in this case an encoun- self a survivor from Poland, addressed us. organize. At that time, survivor implied ter with our own lost childhoods. The He spoke of the Polish woman who had only someone who had lived through presence of so many who shared a similar sheltered him, and his voice quavered with the death camps. Hidden children were history, to whom nothing needed to be emotion. I found myself sobbing uncontrol- not generally considered to have experi- explained, with whom this mutuality was lably, but quietly. I think this was the first enced significant trauma, certainly not in understood, produced such a high of time I had allowed myself to cry for my comparison to camp survivors. However, well-being that it shattered the natural parents. hidden children had trauma of their own: reticence of hidden children who had now After Foxman’s speech and some other separated from parents and family and come out of hiding so many years later. I speakers, we sat down to lunch with Joan, bewildered by circumstances they could was fifty-four years old and taking baby and my brother’s wife, Cécile. Cécile was not understand, resulting in lifelong psy- steps to recover from a trauma inflicted herself a hidden child at a convent in chological repercussions. nearly half a century earlier. Even as I write Belgium. At that meal, for the first time in In the immediate post-war years, we this remembrance many years later, my fifty years, Alice, Simon and I spoke about hidden children were not telling our stories. eyes water involuntarily. our parents with love, with wistfulness, What could we say, we were children! We My brother, Simon, and my sister, Alice, with humor, and with regret, and we rem- felt the effect of our trauma in our core, attended as well. They were initially resis- inisced about our childhood. It was as if but we didn’t have the adult language to tant, as was I, a typical symptom of our a weight had been lifted, and we could express our hurt or the maturity to put it experience. At the time we ourselves did speak about our parents as persons with in a context that would have made sense not identify as survivors of the Holocaust. foibles and celebrate their lives, rather to us. And for many, the actual sequence We still reserved that term for people than mourn them as numbered victims. of events that landed us in hiding places who survived the death camps. It was All this, of course, was unsaid: I don’t would simply have been unknown. But if also probably true that we did not want know if Alice and Simon registered the a child had actually ached to tell his or to open ourselves up to the inexpress- moment in that fashion, but I did. At the her story, would they have trusted the ible pain of the loss of our parents. Since time of this conference we still had not adults to hear it? Hidden children were that time, I have changed my mind about known our parents’ fate in detail. For “invisible,” and no one asked for our the definition of a survivor. I now think some years after our arrival in the States, stories anyway, so we kept these stories that any Jewish person living in parts of I had fantasized that they would turn locked inside. It took some years before Europe controlled by the Nazis who lived up; perhaps they had escaped to Russia, we “children” became adults and were through the war to be a survivor, because as had happened to some, or perhaps able to speak for ourselves. Mental health it was the Nazis’ goal to kill every Jew they didn’t know where we were. These professionals, many who had been hidden in Europe. Jews were hunted animals, thoughts were unrealistic, of course, and children themselves, understood that we and once caught were slaughtered. Males little by little, I discarded this hope. The had endured significant trauma. We could were especially vulnerable; a suspicious facts of my parents’ deaths were to be now be identified as a distinct category of Nazi could force him to strip, and circum- revealed about ten years later, through survivors. Thus, was born the conference cision was a death card. Simon’s tireless research. that took place in New York almost half Surviving took place in various forms, I know now that my emotional prepa- a century after the end of the war. The hiding, false papers, fleeing if possible, ration for this conference took place two stories that wanted to be told could now and luck. For children, “hiding” took place years earlier, when Joan and I planned a be safely tiptoed out of the locked drawer. in different forms. The word often conjures trip to France. For some time prior, Joan The gathering was buzzing with about up a literal interpretation: secreted in a cel- had been quietly lobbying for that trip. sixteen-hundred no longer so-young peo- lar, under a trapdoor; in a room sealed off She was somewhat insistent that we take ple like me, and most of them older. People from the outside; in the hayloft of a barn. Contined on next page

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it, even if I wasn’t sure that I was emo- less loss of lives. I cried there, not only for to mind a song I used to sing as a boy, Sur tionally prepared. We would return to my parents but for all those young men. la route de Louviers. As we set out for St. the place where I was hidden in St. Aub- After the beaches, we were to head Aubin, I couldn’t help mumbling the song in-lès-Elbeuf, about 75 miles northwest of further west to Mont St. Michel, turn to myself: Paris, to find the family who had sheltered south and repair towards Paris along Sur la route de Louviers (bis), Y avait me. We engaged the services of Jacques the Loire valley, where we would stop un cantonnier (bis), Et qui cassait des de Larsay, a travel specialist for France, at many of the beautiful castles along La tas d’cailloux, Pour mettre sur le pas- to map out an itinerary that would have Vallée des Rois. Our first stop after leaving sage des roues…. been (and was) lovely in itself, with lodg- the Paris airport was in the town of Saint- It so brightened my spirits that my ings at picturesque farm houses or small Pierre-du-Vauvray. There, in St. Pierre, we anxiety almost melted away. châteaux. One such place was relatively checked into L’hôtellerie St. Pierre, a very After the fact I realized how unrealistic near St. Aubin. My ambivalence was such, charming inn selected by Jacques, on it was to assume I would know exactly however, that prior to landing in Paris, I the banks of the river Seine, where from where to find the Leclère house, as if time had actually not yet decided whether or our window we could see barges lazily had stood still since the day in 1945 when not I would go. Many years after the fact, drifting past. Somehow, just seeing the I was “reclaimed” by my uncle. It would I am sure that my hesitation to contact not have been realistic to expect an eight- them so long after the fact had a compo- year-old to have such pinpoint recall. Yet, nent of embarrassment if not shame for I had a mental image that I thought would not having done so, long before. guide me to the right place. St. Aubin had My brother and sister had also spent grown quite a bit from the little village I the war in Normandy. After Normandy thought I remembered. Even more, I had had been liberated, we started to write not only forgotten the address but the letters to one another. My brother had correct spelling of the Leclères’ name! known from the start where I had been After innumerable twists and turns and hidden. We kept most of those letters and retraces in our rented car, I was ready to they are now preserved in the Holocaust give up. I just couldn’t accost someone Museum in Washington, D.C., to which on the street and ask, “Do you know the they were donated. From one of the imme- Leclère family?” But then, while going diate post-war letters, I discovered that around a square, out of the corner of my the Leclères were on my mind at least eye, I spotted a sizable building on one as late as 1948. One such letter from my side: It was the Mairie, the town hall. I brother provided me with their address, decided it was worth a try to go in and see which I had requested. Did I write to what the civil servants could do for us. them? I don’t remember. We entered the reception area and You might ask, why did it take forty-four addressed a young lady behind a counter. years to find the Leclères and thank them Bonjour, Mademoiselle. J’ai vécu ici pen- for protecting me? I was twelve when I left dant la guerre, et je me demande si vous France, and at that age I was only looking pouvez me donner l’adresse d’une famille forward. I was excited to be in America que je connaissais alors, la famille Leclère, and I wanted to fit in. France was in the countryside, the river, the fields, triggered I said to her. rear-view mirror. Then there was school, a sense of joy, a primitive reconnection I explained somewhat vaguely that I and work, and life. Returning to see the to the land I remembered from my child- had lived in this town during the war and Leclères would have taken too much emo- hood. We had dinner at the hotel and then was trying to find the family with whom I tional energy. As time passed, it became collapsed from the long trip. Refreshed in had stayed, without giving further detail very clear that I owed them a great deal, if the morning, I decided that it would be than their name, which of course sounds not my life, but by then I had such a sense impossible not to take this opportunity to the same, whether spelled Leclère or the of awkwardness – how could I explain visit the Leclère family. I was also tempted more common Leclerc, which I had always this long absence to them? But then, with to visit Cailly-sur-Eure, the site of the first thought it was. She furrowed her eyebrows Joan’s help, I took the plunge. orphanage where my siblings and I found for a moment, said that she could not be We rented a car and planned to pass ourselves after the war, which was less of help, but there was a certain Madame not too far from St. Aubin, in any case, since than thirty minutes away. But it was in the de Latour in the back office, who had been our first destination was to be the landing direction opposite St. Aubin. Going there around a long time and might be of assis- beaches in Normandy. The cemetery and would simply have been a delaying tactic, tance. She went and fetched Madame de memorial there were deeply moving for me. and I was afraid of losing my “courage” if I Latour, to whom I gave the same informa- I had not expected it, but the sight of end- delayed my visit. It happens that St. Pierre tion, namely, that I had lived during the less simple crosses and a few scattered is across the river from a town called Lou- war with Marcel and Suzanne Leclère, and Jewish stars brought to mind the sense- viers. The sign to it immediately brought Contined on next page

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was trying to find them. Of course, she been all this time.” I had only thought of thing that astounded Joan was the stack knew the Leclère family, she said, in fact my separation from the Leclères as a loss of letters sent to me by my brother and lived near them. I further learned at that for me, but I had never thought about the kept for forty-four years by the Leclères. moment that the first name of the man of possibility that my departure would have One might think that they had simply bur- the family was Léon, although everyone been a loss for them. As I learned later, rowed them somewhere in the house and referred to him as Marcel, his second the Leclères had wanted to adopt me forgotten about them until we showed up. name. She apparently knew the family after the war. Had they fallen in love with But that’s not the case. First of all, these well, for she knew that Gaston, their son, a little orphan boy? So it would seem. letters were delivered to the Leclères’ had recently had heart surgery and was My unease was quickly put to rest. original house, and something meaning- in retraite, retirement. Gaston smiled and forty-four years melt- less would not have been transported At that moment, I imagined hugging ed away. I felt so good, and yet so bad at to their new one. Gaston knew exactly Suzanne and clasping Marcel in a tear- that moment because I still ached with where they were and proudly showed ful and happy reunion. But before the the realization that I would not ever see them to us. I can only conclude that these thought had fully crystallized, Madame Suzanne and Marcel. It may be that, to letters were somehow a link to me that de Latour explained that Suzanne and some extent, I have conflated the Leclères they didn’t want to lose. Marcel had passed away some years with my parents. I do not remember the I have difficulty smiling for cameras. prior. That reunion was not going to hap- immediately ensuing moments, but soon But there is a photograph taken by Joan of pen. I had half-expected that they might after, Joan and I were ensconced in their Gaston, Micheline, their grandchildren who not be alive, but still, I felt really sad. house and Micheline couldn’t stop fuss- were there that day (Cécile and Étienne) My mood turned around again when, ing. We spent the day with them, eating and me, sitting around the dining room to my surprise and delight, Mme de Latour and bringing one another up-to-date, if table, with the quintessential companion said that she was about to take her lunch one could only remember forty-four years – a French poodle. My smile is as wide and break and would be happy to guide us of happenings. Their current house was genuine as has ever been taken of me, for to Gaston’s house. We accepted and the not the one that I had been sheltered in, on that day I recovered a piece of myself. three of us took off in our rented car. Very but we took a walk to where that was, a soon after, we arrived in front of a small small pilgrimage that I should have taken brick house with a white picket fence. At years before. The address of that house A LIFELINE DURING ADVERSITY the gate, Madame de Latour said Attendez had been 88 rue de Tourville (the street By Simon Jeruchim ici, while I go in and tell the occupants of was renamed after the war), and I have I was born in Paris on Christmas day in the house that we are here. The protocol wondered if it’s pure coincidence that the 1929. Until the massive July 16, 1942, ‘Vel in France for “dropping in” is not the same house in Paoli where I lived for nearly 42 d’Hiv’ police roundup, my family lived as in the States. The French are much more years, before moving to Philadelphia, is in Montreuil, a Paris suburb. My father, formal. In this case, however, it was more numbered 88. Samuel, my mother, Sonia, my older sis- than formality. She said she did not want During that walk, Gaston took us next ter, Alice, my younger brother, Michel, to shock Gaston, especially since he had door to his parents’ neighbor, a sprightly and I miraculously escaped arrest at that had recent heart surgery. Although I had 82-year old Mme Louise Brida. When Gas- time, and with the intervention of com- been circumspect about the exact nature ton told her who I was, she broke out in passionate gentiles, my sister, brother of my connection with the Leclères, I sus- smiles, hugged and kissed me. Although and I were hidden separately in Norman- pect she knew more than I had said and I had completely forgotten about her, I dy. Eventually our parents were arrested wanted to prevent a double shock. had apparently spent a lot of time with and deported to Auschwitz where they I watched Mme de Latour emerge her and her family – she had had seven were murdered. At the end of the war my from the house along with a portly rud- children. Because the Leclères worked, siblings and I were reunited and placed in dy-cheeked woman: Micheline, Gaston’s she took care of me when I returned from Jewish orphanages for a few years. wife. She was clearly protective and want- school at which time no one was yet As far back as I can remember I loved ed to make sure I was not an impostor. I home. She used to give me a tartine (a to draw and, even at a young age, my told her who I was, and why I was there, snack) till it was time to go. She invited dream was to become a professional art- and I suppose I gave her enough detail no the three of us in the house and gave ist. While hiding on a small farm, I felt iso- one else would know, satisfying her that I was us un petit coup, a “drop” to drink. The lated and lonely. Art became my lifeline, a the genuine article. She then returned to French use any excuse to open a bottle! reprieve from harsh days. Even though I the house and re-emerged with Gaston. It was such a happy reunion. I can’t say didn’t go to school, I had the good fortune He shuffled up to the gate and looking that memories came flooding back, but of meeting Monsieur Crochet, the teacher me straight in the eye, he said “Alors, c’est her joy was so infectious that I almost felt at the elementary school in the village of vraiment toi?” So, is it really you? like that schoolboy again. Savigny­le-Vieux. Upon discovering that I I don’t think that I ever thought about During one of our conversations, I loved to draw, he gave me the princely what kind of reception I would have had learned that Marcel had been in the résis- gift of a watercolor set and a drawing pad, at this point. Perhaps there was a hint of tance, the source of a connection that art materials that had belonged to his reproach, as if he meant “where have you landed me in the Leclères’ home. One Contined on next page

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uncle who once had dabbled in art. I had drafted in the United States Army in 1951. After being discharged from the Army, never used watercolors before but with I was sent to Korea, assigned to the 5th I took the first job that was offered to me excitement and daring I filled the drawing Regimental Combat Team, and spent most and became a package designer for a man- pad with paintings of people and places of the next twelve months in combat. But, ufacturer of paper bags in Queens, New around the village. once more, my passion for drawing came to York. I was thrilled to get this job, even if it I saved those watercolors for over half my rescue – at least, I believe that without was not what I had hoped to do. I was still a century and eventually donated them it I would not have survived that bloody more interested in the graphic arts, but I to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum conflict. Soon after arriving to my unit, as I stuck to this profession and moved on to in Washington DC on the occasion of the sketched my buddies and generously gave better jobs. Eventually, I worked as an art exhibit: “Life in Shadows – Hidden Chil- them drawings of pin-up girls to hang in director for Revlon, and I became a spe- dren and the Holocaust.” My childhood their bunkers, the word spread around my cialist in cosmetic and fragrance packag- watercolors are now in the Holocaust battalion that a French artist was in their ing design. I subsequently left Revlon to start Museum’s permanent collection. midst. Instead of pulling patrol duty, I was my own design firm and for many years I After the war my siblings and I were given a job at the Battalion Headquarters designed cosmetics and award-winning per- sent to a Jewish Home in the village of fume lines for leading U.S. corporations. Still, Cailly sur Eure in Normandy where I had I had not forgotten my dream to pursue to learn a trade. I was given but two choic- graphic design. Luckily, I fulfilled this aspi- es, either that of tailor or electrician. I ration by designing many book jackets and opted for electrician. I had to face the illustrating books for leading publishers. fact that my hopes of becoming an artist Drawing and painting have always been would remain but a childhood dream. a big part of my life. Now that I am retired, Once more fortune smiled upon me. I devote even more time to being creative I had already shown my artistic ability and have been rewarded with many exhibits. in the Home by painting several murals. More recently, writing also became another One, a mural in the dining room, depicted aspect of the joy of self-discovery. My inspi- the crossing of the Red Sea. But instead ration to write resulted from Abraham Fox- of using a biblical theme, I portrayed Jews man’s remarks at the 1991 conference of driving jeeps, being chased by German ‘The Hidden Child’ in New York. Abraham soldiers. It was a hit! Foxman struck a chord in me when he said: Aware of my talent and imagination, “We, the Hidden Children, have an obliga- my teacher encouraged me to apply to an tion to testify to the events we witnessed art school in Paris, where I was accepted during the war.” I took his urging to heart and even received a scholarship. I stud- and wrote my memoir in 2001. ied at the School of Applied Arts for three Against all odds, I have realized my years, and graduated just before immi- childhood dreams, and more. I was lucky to grating to America. meet and marry the talented Cecile Rojer, My siblings and I arrived in New York also a Hidden Child, born in Brussels, Bel- in October 1949 and went to Brooklyn gium. We have two wonderful daughters and to live with Sam Shapiro, our maternal Operations, where I handled maps and artil- six grandchildren. We hope they will not uncle and his family. My sister and I had lery liaison. I was still vulnerable to the ene- forget to bear witness to the bitter lessons to find some work to help our American my’s artillery and mortar fire, but the odds of our past; and may they be able to hold family with the added expenses. My sister of surviving had somewhat improved. on to their dreams, as I did. n found a job, but I was not successful. I Facing danger every day I found a had almost given up finding work when a wonderful escape from the grim reality by Michel Jeruchim’s The Unlocking is the friend recommended me to a small adver- drawing my buddies and cartoons making first chapter of his newly-published book, tising agency in Manhattan. I was hired fun of daily life in the army. My command- “Out of the Shadows: A Memoir, Survival as a messenger with the promise that ing officer liked my cartoons and sent in Nazi-Occupied France and Making a I would be given a job as a layout man them to the “Stars & Stripes” army publi- Life in America,” Tree of Life Books, 2019, should there be an opening. But months cation, where they frequently appeared in www.outoftheshadowsmemoir.com; passed with no opening in sight. the newspaper’s centerfold. My regiment Available at Amazon During one of my errands, the clerk in went off the line for a short while, and this Simon Jeruchim’s memoir is titled “Hidden one art supply store told me that a French gave me the opportunity to create many in France -- A Boy’s Journey Under the Nazi designer was looking for an assistant. The sketches of Korean people. Incidentally, I Occupation,” published by Fithian Press, in designer, Jean Carlu, was a world-famous donated all those drawings, and they are 2001. This was followed by a sequel, “Frenchy poster designer. Once more, luck had come now in the permanent collection of the – A Young Jewish-French Immigrant Discovers my way. I was hired as his assistant, and Korean War Veterans National Museum Love and Art in America – and War in Korea,” worked for him for nearly a year, until I was and Library in Illinois. also published by Fithian Press, in 2005.

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The Talmud (b. Shabbat 60b) records all of society. In the Talmudic story, the a rather harrowing tale which may hold Jews forgot that their hasty stampede would some lessons for our own current, coro- impact others, thus making the loss of life navirus-centered lives. and destruction inevitable. The scene, set in the 2nd Century during the Hadrianic persecutions, is of a group So, one of the great positive teachings of Jews hiding in a cave, huddled together about our Coronavirus times is that there in mortal fear for their lives. is not an act, not a behavior that we engage WE ARE NOT IN HIDING They soon establish two rules: in during this pandemic that does not hold By Rabbi Joseph Polak 1) No one may leave the cave, for such within itself the possibility of benefitting Av Bet Din of Boston a person has no control over being discov- other human beings. This lies at the core ered. The Roman military may well be watch- of all Jewish ethical teaching. When we ing, and the cave and its sorry inhabitants recuse at home, for example, we are not could be mortally compromised. merely protecting ourselves, we are pro- 2) Anyone coming to the cave, on the tecting everyone. Even if we are not carri- other hand, must be allowed in, on the assump- ers, we are modeling behavior for carriers tion that she would approach cautiously, con- — we are able to restrain ourselves so that cealing her whereabouts and tracks. people will not congregate socially and Suddenly a great noise is heard near spread the dreaded disease. the cave. “It’s the Romans.” Certainly, this is very different from The Jews panic; they burst out of the hiding during the Holocaust, where terror cave, fleeing for their lives, and in their stalked at every moment, and around rush to escape, many are trampled to death. each corner; where a hiding place could It wasn’t the Romans. be betrayed for $10, and where — howev- er valid and critical — the only lives we Many lessons await us in this tragic could protect somewhat were our own. vignette: And perhaps most significantly, we are 1) Leaving your roost too early, before not alone during the pandemic. We are not the virus has run its course, doesn’t just in hiding; we are in seclusion. imperil you with the chance of contracting The whole world, every country, every the virus, it imperils everybody else. city, has stopped all activity; unlike during 2) Irrational behavior, immature, impul- the Holocaust, everyone is trying to do what sive actions (like socializing in bars, beach- is right — not just to save themselves, but to es, shuls…) while the coronavirus still hov- flatten the curve, to protect all of human ers, can be deadly not just for you, but for civilization. n everyone. 3) We cannot turn down those who need Rabbi Joseph Polak is a Child Survivor our help, but we have to do so in a way of Westerbork and Bergen-Belsen. His book, that doesn’t compromise either our own After the Holocaust the Bells Still Ring, safety or that of the rest of society. This received the National Jewish Book Award. message strikes me as especially import- In this memoir, Rabbi Polak wrote about ant for first-responders, but is true for all his family’s deportation from the Nether- of us. lands to the Nazi concentration camp at 4) There are no soloists during a pan- Westerbork and about the difficulties of demic. Everything everyone does — all living with traumatic early childhood mem- of our behavior — affects everyone else. ories. He is an Associate Professor of Therefore, Health Law, Ethics & Human Rights at 5) when we live our lives thoughtless- Boston University School of Public Health, ly, with little regard for the suffering of and rabbi emeritus of the Hillel House at others, whether their pain be from eco- Boston University. Rabbi Polak also serves nomic hardship or illness, from loneliness as Chief Justice of the Rabbinical Court or isolation, or from the constant loss of of Massachusetts. His story as an infant loved ones to the illness, we bring down survivor appeared in the 2016 issue of our

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ISOLATION: A PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE OF CATASTROPHE By Dr. Robert Krell

Crisis, catastrophe, panic: words that from my parents with whom I was mirac- come to mind in the midst of the global ulously re-united, I therefore experienced assault by an uncontrollable virus. Per- a second separation from the family I had sonal isolation and a rupture of social come to think of as mine. I had become contacts is just one important response “Robbie Munnik.” required to defeat this silent threat. Some of my anxieties were alleviated by Not since World War II, 75 years ago, has the postwar friendship between the Mun- there been an event affecting nearly all niks and the Krells. But my heart bleeds for nations at one and the same time. War’s children who for any variety of reasons, conclusion in 1945 led to an outpouring of are in situations that remind me of forced revulsion upon the revelation of what had separations. As a doctor who specialized transpired not only with respect to the in child and family psychiatry, it is partic- horrors of war itself but also the Nazi war ularly painful to witness the virus sepa- within the war, visited upon the largely rating families of first responders, many helpless Jews of Europe. of whom must leave home to be close to A new vocabulary emerged from the their vital work. And adults, who have aging ashes, the language of atrocity. Over time, parents, are unable to visit and/or care for concentration camps (hardly an original them. These are painful times for so many. term) came to have new meaning, and The enormous psychological pressures Dr. Robert Krell addresses the United Nations on worse, extermination camps. The world January 27, 2012, for Holocaust Remembrance Day. and psychiatric consequences of being in came to know “the final solution,” even- the trenches has not been seen in such tually encompassed in the words “Holo- massive numbers for generations. And while caust” in English, and “Shoah” in Hebrew. do not recall complaining, reporting illness- so many of us must hunker down, so many The concept of “genocide” entered aware- es, and I did not cry. And 75 years later I millions remain at work delivering mail and ness. Some consequences were the found- do not complain, ignore illness (at my peril), food, newspapers and special services of ing of the United Nations, Nazi War Crimes and cry only where I cannot be seen. The all kinds. Tribunals, and the Genocide Convention. first time I cried was in protest of having As a retired physician, I can still feel The reverberations of the gratuitous, to go to bed when others were out in the the inner engine running as if I were the brutal slaughter of innocents are with us street celebrating the end of the war. 25-year-old intern at the emergency room still. It was humanity at its peak of inhu- There was also hunger. All of Holland of the Philadelphia General Hospital. We manity. No Jewish baby, elderly man or was starving in the “hunger winter” of 1944- young doctors felt invincible, or were just woman, expectant mother was spared. 45. I can still recapture the mealy taste of too naive to grasp the potential dangers All Jews were condemned to die — even tulip bulbs, but I do not recall the taste of infections and violence. We worked in Einstein or Freud had they been caught. of rabbits, occasionally brought home, a danger zone, with police close by. There While my wife and I were in quarantine slaughtered and skinned by my Vader. were 90 interns and 270 residents training for 14 days (and continue in self-isola- Confinement now is vastly different. in this large ghetto-based hospital, and tion), a friend asked what it was like for Being pursued by the Coronavirus is not our patients coughed and bled all over us. me to be confined to home. She knew my personal. And we are housebound in Yet, I recall no serious illnesses amongst background. A good question, for I was comfortable surroundings with a stocked my colleagues. confined to “home” for nearly 3 years with fridge (so far) and televisions that work Now approaching 80, I “suddenly” belong a Christian family in The Hague, Holland, (so far). But my imagination runs wild. What to the most vulnerable group, the elderly from 1942 to 1945. As a Jewish baby, I if there is no electricity? What if we could with preconditions who cannot withstand was meant to die. Of 108,000 Dutch Jews not reach our children and grandchildren? a Coronavirus infection. So, despite my deported primarily to Auschwitz and Sobi- What if we fall ill for any reason and must inner desire, I must sit this one out. Here’s bor, about 5,000 returned. And of over go to the hospital as one of the “vulner- hoping it will be brief. 20,000 Jewish children hiding throughout able elderly”? But forced into social iso- As I reflect on survival, we children of the the Netherlands, over half were betrayed, lation, this is definitely an improvement. Holocaust (1.5 million were murdered), we as was Anne Frank and her family. There is another psychological compli- who are so few carried with us the hope that During my period of hiding, aged 2-5, I cation. Having first suffered the separation Contined on next page

35 RECONCILIATION

Contined from page 35 been able to function so efficiently. Columbia in Vancouver, Canada. He is ISOLATION: A PERSONAL PERSPECTIVE OF Holocaust Education aims to derive devoted to understanding the problems of CATASTROPHE lessons that inform us how to do better. Holocaust survivor-families and support- One such lesson concerns the degree to ing their well-being. Born in The Nether- we would leave a better world than the one which so many, otherwise good people, lands in August 1940, he survived the war we endured. But instead, we have witnessed stood by and did nothing. Almost every hiding with the Munnik family. He earned a spate of genocides in all corners of the survivor can point to one small act by a his medical degree from The University globe, the resurgence of anti-Semitism on non-Jewish person that inspired a spark of British Columbia and completed his a massive scale, and an ominous breakdown of hope and provided strength to go on. psychiatric training at Temple Universi- of conventionally moral and kind behavior. So, in this time of catastrophe, wrought by ty Hospital in Philadelphia and Stanford The virus has forced us to know what is hap- nature rather than people, such acts can University Medical Center in Palo Alto, pening to our neighbors in cities, provinc- also inspire those who fall ill and those California. In his private practice, Dr. Krell es, states and nations. And news reports who treat them. treated Holocaust survivors and their fam- with statistics and images are flowing into our Many have responded heroically. But ilies. He has published several books, lives, raising both awareness and anxiety. all too many behave as if they are immune. among them And Life Is Changed Forever: Is it too much to hope that we will learn They are not, nor are their families. These Holocaust Childhoods Remembered with from what we see? Is this the catastrophe by-standers do not consider the effects of Martin Glassner, Medical and Psycho- that will inform the three generations who their behavior on the health of others, nor logical Effects of Concentration Camps have largely escaped massive tragedies? do they pose the question, “Is there some- on Holocaust Survivors, co-edited with Will journalists and reporters impress upon thing more that I can do?” This moment in Marc I. Sherman, and The Children of us all what might be a probable response time demands a constructive response to Buchenwald with Judith Hemmendinger. to this tragedy? I like to think that had that question. n Dr. Krell’s interests remain in the psychi- there been daily press coverage on what atric treatment of aging survivors of mas- was known, even thought, about the bru- Dr. Robert Krell is a Professor Emeritus sive trauma and participating in programs tality of Auschwitz, that it might not have of Psychiatry at the University of British against racism and prejudice.

WORLD FEDERATION CONFERENCE POSTPONED TO 2021

The World Federation of Jewish Child Survivors of the Holocaust and Descendants (WFJCSH&D) has postponed its 32nd Annual Conference in St. Louis, MO, until the Fall of 2021.

The Kindertransport Association (KTA) will join the conference once again, as will members of Generations of the Shoah International (GSI).

The conference will be held at the Vancouver 2019, the most recent World Federation Conference. St. Louis Marriott Grand Hotel.

More details and information on registration will be made available as soon as possible. Watch for updates at www.holocaustchild.org .