to move; I never really understood why. Only in Sacramento, California did I realise the need to pack up and relocate. Right wing racists had placed a warning bomb in the mail slot of our front door.
We were having dinner in the kitchen of our home, when a loud ‘bang’ was heard. We ran out to the street, to see what had happened, only to find that our neighbours were doing the same. They were, however, running towards our house. “Are you all alright?” they asked. Looking over our shoulders, towards our house, was a frightening scene;
The front door and some of the windows were shattered. Red-painted graffiti screamed, “JEWS OUT!” Within several days a representative of the local Jewish community approached us. He explained that the culprit had been found. He was none other than the son of the local Chief of Police. Pressing charges may incite tensions between the Jewish Community and the authorities, he advised. The community would handle the affair quietly behind closed doors, we were assured. Abandoned, yet again, we got the message. America was huge enough to find our home without anti-Semites. America’s vastness meant there was always somewhere to go when things got a little too tight. Living amongst Americans, however, made Dad feel even more alien and insecure. Paradoxically, life among the immigrant community of New York City had the same effect. Hence, we moved a lot, like a yo-yo whose string is tied onto the finger of New York, (Columbus, Ohio to N.Y.C. to Upstate New York to N.Y.C. to California to N.Y.C. to Charleston, South Carolina and out.)
Israel seemed to be the only resolution to our dilemma. There, we had hoped to be among a nation of home-seekers like ourselves. My sister immigrated first. Later my brother and then I uprooted from the comforts of American Life to find a home in Israel. Eventually, Mom and Dad joined us to live in Tel Aviv.
The harsh reality of Israel clashed with the ideal image of a home, which we had created in our hopes, conversations, and dreams. Again, Dad became restless. His intense anger at God prevented identification with the religious community. Likewise, he could not find similarity with the mixture of immigrants from Morocco, Russia and Yemen, as well as the youth-orientated society characterised by impatient attitudes of a nation struggling for self-advancement.
Israel brought the war closer to consciousness. Dad would stroll the streets of Tel Aviv, peering into familiar faces of others, prepared to recognise or be recognised by fellow survivors. At any moment he would expect to be tapped on the shoulder by a stranger, who had shared the same nightmarish memories of Auschwitz, the Ghetto or the Death March. It was too much for him. Again, he returned to America seeking escape from his inner torment. Mom had had enough of this relentless search. They could no longer defer this crisis in lieu of the children or their career. There was no alternative but to go their separate ways. With the divorce settlement, Mom placed a down payment for her small flat in Tel Aviv, while Dad continued his solitary search for relief in America.
Mom’s life in Tel Aviv revolved around our occasional visits and her regular excursions to an army of specialists summoned to treat her medical complaints. Otherwise, she remained in her sheltered flat comforted by English or German game shows on the cable T.V. From her cushioned rocking chair, one could see a collection of curling family photos stuck into the frames of pictures on the wall. Nearby, was a crocheting needle attached to coloured thread and a partially completed ‘Kippah’ - probably meant for my son Tal’s upcoming barmitzva.
Opening the ‘Tagebuch’ would confirm Mom’s death. I had many questions to be answered. I wished only that Mike and Sara were with me. I was very much alone with Mom’s memories wondering what I would find on the yellowed pages within.
CHAPTER II
Opening the book would confirm Mom’s death. Opening the book would confirm Mom’s death. There would be no return. I wished that I had never found it. I wished that someone would call. I wished and I wished.
The first page revealed itself almost effortlessly. Relieved I was to find this page empty. Its yellowed surface was coarse to the touch. With trembling fingers I slid this aside to reveal my first surprise.
There were no words. It was a sketch of a powerful robed figure with expansive wings protruding from its head. Only the back was drawn, giving it a mystical grandeur that overwhelmed me. I had seen this shape before, I thought. “Oh my God,” I said aloud,” This is a nun!” Mom had drawn the back of a nun such as is seen in remote convents of old Europe. Had Mom known this nun? It could only have been drawn from personal memory. What could she possibly have meant to my mother?
The sketch was unsigned except for the word “Elsass” written discreetly at the top of the page. Mom had been hidden in this area during the war; that much I knew. Germany had considered this area their rightful domain. It was also where Grandma was born. She later met Grandpa there and married.
Their tale was none less mysterious and adventurous than Mom’s was. Grandpa Moshe came from Vilna. There, he apparently led an uneventful life as a Jew until the German forces invaded during World War I. Desperately in need of new recruits for the war effort, the Germans forcibly conscripted eligible men from conquered territories. Men would be picked up in terrifying raids. Many would never be seen again. Grandpa skilfully managed to avoid these round-ups. Ironically he would suffer the same dreadful fate in Terezenstadt twenty years later.
His beloved brother, however, was not so lucky. He was picked up one night along with a group of unfortunate men to serve the German forces in a camp near the French battle line. The community was distraught with worry and anger. They might never see their loved one’s again.
So, my grandpa and several others devised a courageous plan to infiltrate German territory and dramatically liberate their brothers, fathers and neighbours. A meagre arsenal of guns and explosives was accumulated for the treacherous mission into northwest Germany. Upon arriving at the camp they discovered, to their dismay, that the forced labourers had been relocated to an undisclosed location along the French battle line.
They waited patiently for additional signs. They waited and waited until the war suddenly came to an end. Meanwhile Grandpa Moshe had begun to enjoy life in Germany. Being a “wireless” technician, his skills were in great demand. He had accepted German life but refused to accept German allegiance. Therefore, he remained in Germany as a ‘non-national’.
At some point Elizabeth came into his life. Their passionate love proved strong enough to overcome many obstacles in their relationship. Firstly, Elizabeth was not Jewish. She was also un-married but with a child. Grandma agreed to convert in the strict orthodox Jewish tradition in order to marry Grandpa. This meant that she had to cut all ties with her family and the Gentile community. This also meant that she needed to relinquish her child, Friedchen. Little did she realise then how these forbidden ties would help her survive the Nazi persecution to come.
Shortly after the Nazis came to power, Grandpa was incarcerated in Terezenstadt. Mom’s older sister, Ruth, was soon afterwards taken to Auschwitz. Grandma quickly arranged shelter for her five-year-old daughter before the same fate would meet her. She was taken to a trusted Christian family in rural Germany. This, of course, was my Mom. She was carefully instructed to claim to be a Christian girl seeking shelter from the allied bombardment of the city.
Grandma disappeared for long periods of time, leaving Mom to believe her dead. She would, however, re-appear after several months bearing gifts of food for Mom and her carers. Grandma probably endured the war as a Christian, no doubt. Despite this, she was repeatedly interrogated and beaten by the Gestapo. Never was Mom’s existence revealed. It would mean certain death for her.
Only
