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Grandpa’s Secret Shoah

My grandfather never talked about his time in a concentration camp. Five years after his death, I finally heard his story.

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The author and his grandfather in his Riverdale living room, 1977. (Courtesy of the author)
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There’s the exact date that he signs up for the Polish Army to escape deportation. The town where he hides when it becomes clear the German invasion will succeed. The name of the rabbi who marries him and my grandmother.

He talks about ditches: The schaffensfreude—the pride one feels from the act of creation—that is denied him in the ghetto when he’s sent to dig ditches and then simply fill them up again. The fear that every ditch could be a grave. And the ditch outside of Lublin that is to be his grave, until the local Gestapo head issues a last-minute reprieve.

Then there is the final selektion in the Krakow Ghetto before his deportation to Plaszów, when he forgets his jacket at home and has no number sewn onto his shirt. He describes a terrifying man with a gun and whip who screams at him and raises the whip to beat him. Here my heart pounds, here my mouth goes dry, here my lips curl as I watch him speak, effortlessly, about how my grandmother grabs the arm of Amon Gàth—the mad killer of Plaszów—and tells him, “Don’t you dare hurt my husband.”

There is so much in these two hours that cannot be captured in my words; they are barely captured in his. You have to hear his throat get dry when he talks about how cold it was and how lucky he was to work inside with the books. You have to see the moment he laughs when he recalls the endless series of coincidences that begin to add up to the improbability of his survival. You have to see his heart rate elevate as he describes the man caught whistling Russian melodies who was hanged over and over again because the rope kept breaking.

I cannot comprehend what it is to have survived. My mind balks at trying to hold in place the idea that he was truly there and that these events truly happened. And it is not until close to the end of the two hours that I finally find a glimmer of me in my grandfather and, as a result, can suddenly picture a fraction of the pain and horror that he must have felt.

“The rule in the camps was just like in the Army—never volunteer,” he says. But a man comes to the barrack one night and says that he needs men to perform a mitzvah: to dig a mass grave to bury Jewish women who were recently killed for living among the Poles. My grandfather agrees to go. He describes lifting a young woman’s naked body and holding her in his arms before burial. He says she was beautiful—a sculpture. He says he fell in love with her, then put her in the ground and covered her with a thin layer of dirt.

It is the falling in love that does it. It is the spark of humanity and truth that glowed within him that now burns in my chest as I watch this man retell these stories. All the confusion is gone. All the struggling, the pain, all the golems now melt back to Earth and all that is left is a man who once fell in love with the image of a woman and a boy who will forever be in love with his grandfather.

“To digress for a moment,” he says, his breath suddenly shallow. “As I am fully cognizant of the fact that this will be for posterity … I personally don’t like the term ‘survivor.’ It is my judgment that every morning each and every one of us waking up is a survivor. Conversely speaking, thousands of Vietnam veterans, hundreds of hostages who survived don’t identify themselves as former hostages as POWs. So, the whole notion of ‘survivor’ rubs me the wrong way, the whole notion of second generation and third generation …”

Here the interviewer interrupts: “Well, will you find a label for these people?”

“There’s no label,” my grandfather replies. “Former prisoners of Nazi concentration camps? I don’t mind following my name a B.A., M.A., or PhD … but I don’t want to brand myself as survivor … as being some accomplishment.”

These last words he speaks directly into the camera, as if to tell me that our equation will never be balanced, because the emotional calculus is false. The tape ends with photos. There is a sister I didn’t know existed, an afternoon by the docks, his father, his mother, a brother with a beard, then a photo of his grandchildren. This is the world. This is what mattered to him. The rest was just history.

***

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Flo_J says:

Thank you, this was beautiful and powerful.  There is no substitute for first-person accounts.

This was a nice piece.  My Mother OBM was also a Shoah survivor and made a tape with a similar organization. I also  never watched it until after she passed away.  I think I did not want to know in actuality the horrible suffering she went through.  The things on the tape were worse than I could even imagine, but many of the incidents had been hinted at by my mother over the years, they were just now in one place.  My Mother OBM was an amazing woman, she never had hatred in her heart or bitterness for what happened to her.  I am sure her PTSD was there, but she never showed it.  She wrote her own obituary before she passed and it consited almost solely of her thanking the Polish gentiles that harbored her during the war.  Truly, she died as a victim of  the European barbarians, as a study in Israel showed an overwhelming number of child survivors who died of cancer.  Enough that it cannot be a statistical anomaly.  They theorize that the emotional and physical traume had some effect on their bodeis that somehow leads to cancer. I take great comfort knowing that my Mother is ensconced in a very high place in Gan Eden, as are all Holocaust vicitms. May Hashem Avenge their Blood!

emunadate says:

Wow, very powerful. Also, see Oprah and Elie Weisel at Auschwitz Part 1, http://emunadate.blogspot.com/2012/04/oprah-and-elie-weisel-at-auschwitz-part.html

rocky2345 says:

Your grandfather’s generation did not want to talk about their war time experiences. Even the ones who lived in North America during the war didn’t discuss the war against the Jews or the cousins, uncles, aunts etc that they lost. That period in history was too painful for them and they were afraid of messing up their children with horror stories about Europe. One survivor had written his memoirs in Yiddish with a pencil while hiding in a Christian farmer’s barn in Poland from 1943-1944. After the war, he married and eventually moved to New York. When he died, his two daughters found his notes and had them translated and published by Yad Vashem. It turned out, he was good friends  with one of my father’s cousins. That branch of the family had not left Poland and some 20+ relatives were killed, as best as I can determine. The survivor’s name was Moty Stromer of Kamionka-Strumilowa. I am glad that his daughters published his memoirs.

esamet says:

I had the same experience except it was my father who had a been a child survivor. It was the first time I had heard his story in any detail and my cousin joked that each of the brothers only agreed to be recorded to contradict the other’s version.
Now though, the local holocaust council came and guilted him in to speaking to school groups. They had a certifiable argument that there is no body else left to tell the story.

Amy Spade Silverman says:

Powerful.  The paragraph near the end that starts, “It is the falling in love that does it”: suddenly all the threads of the essay came together for me and I nearly wept.  Stunning writing.

frances_leah says:

 As I looked at the photo introducing this memoir I stared long and hard.  There was something so familiar about that man in his elegant suit and tie.   After reading  halfway through I realized that this  absolutely had to be Leon Wolfe,  who had been  my Hebrew teacher 54 years ago in Brooklyn ( at the Flatbush Jewish Center.) He was  brilliant, funny and unforgettable just as you describe.  We attended after public school, a  class of boys and girls 12 and 13 years old who as I recall hung on his every word four afternoons a week.  And yes, I do remember that disappointed, disapproving look when we acted up or misbehaved or said something stupid.  I still have my report cards here somewhere with his handwritten comments. 

This is so beautifully written, your grandfather would indeed be very proud of this heartfelt essay.

Thank you so much Amy. I really appreciate it.

Thank you so much for your note! He would have loved knowing that he was remembered. 

This piece reminds me of what Primo Levy said about ‘surviving’ being worse than not surviving.
Despite how your grandfather did not talk about these matters when he was alive he found the courage to make those tapes in order to ‘bear witness’. This was the only good thing that Primo Levy said came out of surviving- other than which he could not bear to have life when it was denied others.
Thank you for sharing your story and your grandfather’s story.

Beautiful! Thank you for sharing your story! In some similar fashion I’m suddenly experiencing a deep need to find out about our family history and the Holocaust.  I have avoided this for so many years, and this past Yom HaShoah, I had a revelation that I am losing memory of the little fragments of information that I know.  I’ve started to blog about trying to find out about my family in order to honor their memory:  http://yomhashoahpictureproject.com/.  I’ve added a link to your story on the blog (Stories section). Being new to blogging, I’m unclear about the etiquette of linking to other people’s articles. Are you alright with this?  Again, thank you for your   story.

steve kay says:

My parents were ready to give their testimony. The idiots at the Shoah Center never responded to our REPEATED inquiries that they come and interview them.

cheryl says:

this is beautiful…i am not jewish but this selflessness resonates…that he could find that tiniest spark of love& beauty…thank you for sharing this…

disqus_gbJ8727SIz says:

Thank you for sharing this story. It brought tears to my eyes. Amazing that he could continue his life after going through this ordeal.

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Grandpa’s Secret Shoah

My grandfather never talked about his time in a concentration camp. Five years after his death, I finally heard his story.

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