ice cream, cookies, and cake for me, and tea for my mother, then tiptoe out once his work was done.
More than a decade later, I tried to recapture his stories within the confines of a college writing assignment. By then I knew that my father’s family had been killed in Poland, during the Holocaust, but I didn’t know exactly when or how. He had agreed to help me with some research for the assignment, and I remember sitting on the living room couch for several hours as he lectured me on the commerce, utilities, and transportation systems in his small Polish town. Not once did he mention my grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins; not once did he mention the war. I now see how naïve I had been: How could I have expected him to tell me—his innocent eighteen-year-old daughter—about the horrors he and his family had experienced?
WHEN I RETURNED TO SAN FRANCISCO after my dad’s 70th birthday, I kept thinking about his stories and the prediction made by his friend: He’s going to suddenly get old. Those words were a painful reminder that my father would not always be here to share his memories, to provide a window into the lost world of my aunts, uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents. Flashing forward to the future, I imagined myself alone in his office, rifling through his reams of notes and old photographs with so many questions, wishing I had asked them long ago. The answers would remain trapped in his mind, his descendants left with only a vague understanding of what he had experienced.
I realized that I needed to find out what happened, right then, before it was too late. Not knowing where or how to begin, I enrolled in several writing classes and immersed myself in biographies, memoirs, and Holocaust history books. As I gained confidence, I started thinking about the logistics: Could I write his stories on nights and weekends? Should I request a sabbatical from my job? And then it came to me: I had to quit my job and focus on his stories. Without a full commitment, it would end up just like my college writing assignment—a few interesting historical facts but not the real story. I had been saving money for a down-payment on an apartment; it was more than enough to support me for one year. The apartment in San Francisco could wait.
When I finally shared my plans with my father, I was expecting a long discussion full of awkward silences, but he simply said: “I always knew you would do it.” It was as if the date and time were marked on his calendar; it was as if he had been sitting there, waiting for my phone call. His response made me feel like I was doing the right thing, that maybe I was meant to do this in some weird, spiritual way. I pictured the homeless little boy racing through the forest, joyful that his stories would finally be told.
ABOUT TWO MONTHS LATER, I flew from San Francisco to Florida, where my parents had recently retired. I planned to spend the entire four days interviewing my father, starting from the beginning. I had no idea how far we’d get, but felt we now had enough time not to worry: I had already quit my job; this was my number one priority.
“So, what do you want to do while you’re here?” my father asked as we drove from West Palm Beach airport to their home in nearby Boynton Beach. “Your mother said you might like Morikami Gardens or the bird sanctuary—they’re only about 30 minutes away. And of course there’s the pool and beach!”
“They all sound fun but I want to work on your stories,” I said, confused by the sightseeing suggestions. “Unless you changed your mind?”
“No, no, that’s good,” he said, lowering the radio. “I have all my papers organized for you!” He proceeded to list all of the maps, photos, and news clippings he had arranged in manila folders for my visit.
“Great, I can’t wait to see what you have,” I said, relieved that he, too, was serious about the interviews. I pictured him proudly telling all of his friends: My daughter is writing a book about me! Quit her job and everything. Can you believe it? It was probably the only time a Jewish parent could justifiably brag about their child not having a job.
At the entrance to their community my father clicked the remote control that lifts the gate, allowing us inside. We passed a large fountain, wound our way along the main road, then turned down my parents’ street. From the outside, their house looks like most of the others on the block: one level, light stucco exterior, red tile roof. The houses are spaced fairly close together, but many of the neighbors don’t know each other. A large number of the residents still work full time while others are “snow birds”—winter residents who head back up north when spring arrives.
“Betty, your daughter is here!” my father called as we entered the house.
“Did you miss your old mother?” my mother grinned as she approached the front door with her arms wide. Before I could reply she had begun an impromptu house tour, showing me what she had bought since my visit the previous winter. She avoided my father’s office, the one room in the house she’d agreed not to decorate. What furnishings it contained were buried under assorted piles of paper: dozens of books and articles, stacks of unfinished personal stories, newspaper clippings, and countless black and white photos of people and places known only to my father.
THE NEXT MORNING MY FATHER STROLLED into the kitchen wearing one of his newly acquired Florida outfits: a yellow-and-white striped golf shirt, khaki shorts, and Rockports. “Good morning!” he said. “Your mother already left for the fashion show but she’ll be back in time for dinner.” Hadassah, a group for Jewish women, organizes group outings like the fashion show each month; last time the ladies saw the King Tut exhibit in Miami.
“You slept well?”
“Not bad,” I replied, as I finished setting up the video camera. I planned to take hand-written notes but I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The video would serve as backup.
“Look at these birds,” my father said, pointing out the window. “I enjoy watching them, especially in the morning when they come to eat. It’s amazing how long they can stay underneath the water.”
Watching my father gaze at the birds, I realized that I had to take the lead and start asking questions. If it was up to him, we would spend the whole day reviewing Polish, Russian, and German history and the various pacts that led up to the war. Brushing up on my World War II history was critical but I was eager to immerse myself in the little boy’s world, in my father’s lost world. I wanted to walk in his footsteps, see what he saw in Maciejow, Poland in 1939. At the same time, I knew it was important to ease my father into the interviews. If he felt rushed or pressured, I was afraid he might shut down. Being a novice interviewer, I started with the obvious questions.
“Dad, you were born in Machiev in 1932, right?”
“Yes, but you’re spelling it wrong, it’s M-a-c-i-e-j-o-w,” he tapped at my notebook.
“And you were called Noah back then?”
“Noah was my Hebrew name; Noike was my Polish name,” he explained.
“So, when did things start to change in Maciejow?” I corrected the spelling of his hometown in my notebook.
“1939—that’s when we got occupied by the Soviet Union. September 17th, 1939. You know how I remember that date?” He did not wait for a response: “Because they renamed the main street ‘Sedimnazietavo Verezina. September 17th!”
2
THE RED STORM
Maciejow, Poland.
