Death Would Never Leave The Survivors' Minds Again
What happened to our parents and grandparents has had a profound impact on subsequent generations
Death would never leave the survivors’ minds again. For many, after Auschwitz, Treblinka, Buchenwald, or any of the other 40,000 ghettos and forced labor or death camps, life essentially stopped. For writers like Romanian-born poet Paul Celan, Italian chemist and writer Primo Levi (author of If This is a Man), Polish writer Tadeusz Borowski (This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen), and Austrian writer Jean Améry (At the Mind’s Limits), returning to live among the survivors ultimately proved to be a price they could not bear.
The Holocaust was a rationally organized and “clean” system that combined modern technology with the ruthless efficiency of horrific human brutality. Ghettos and concentration or labor camps were spread throughout Europe, all interconnected by rail. The process of human slaughter was mechanized, utilizing poison gas and meticulous record-keeping. Between 1933 and 1945, Nazi Germany and its supporters established over 40,000 of these sites.
What happened to our parents and grandparents has had a profound impact on subsequent generations. This is evident in the work of many “Second Generation” writers, such as Art Spiegelman (Maus), Thane Rosenbaum (Second Hand Smoke), Nicole Krauss (The History of Love), Daniel Mendelsohn (The Lost), and Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is Illuminated). Freud referred to these as “shadow memories”—acquired traumas resulting from the attempt to atone for what can neither be undone, understood, nor resolved.
My journey of writing my book, Memory is Our Home, took over six years. As Prof. Kenneth Waltzer of Michigan State University put it, the process required “belief, determination, passion and persistence,” and Elie Wiesel’s advice to me was: “Do not be afraid of the journey ahead”. Aaron Elster, a child Holocaust survivor in Poland, even called it “A Jewish version of Angela’s Ashes”.
Even before the book was published and the pages made pristine, the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute acknowledged in 2012 that “Your mother’s memoir [is] an important source in the historical investigations of social history of Eastern European Jewish women and Eastern European Jewish family in the years 1918-1968”.
My mother passed away in 2006; my book was subsequently published in English in 2015 and followed by a Polish edition in Poland in 2016. The second edition was published in 2020.
The inspiration during my long journey and my “belief, determination, passion and persistence” came from many different places. Jewish refugees and immigrants throughout different historical periods escaped pogroms, poverty, and religious persecution; many made their way to America and helped build this country. During the era of slavery, the Jewish population in America was approximately 1,000–2,000 people, growing to about 15,000 by 1840 after slavery had ended. Notably, in the 18th century, the largest Jewish communities were located in Eastern Europe, particularly in Poland.
The destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple led to the Diaspora, or the scattering, which explains why generations of Jews were born outside of their ancestral homeland. The oldest Jewish community outside of Israel is dated to Rome; according to historian Flavius Josephus, tens of thousands of Jews were sent to Italy as slaves by ship, while others fled to Rome to escape the conquest. Over the centuries, they traveled across the globe, yet regardless of where they settled, they possessed few rights and suffered from discrimination, persecutions, and pogroms that ultimately culminated in the Holocaust.
The story of the Jewish people shares significant parallels with that of the Pilgrims, who crossed an ocean to worship freely and build a new life. The Pilgrims viewed themselves through the lens of the Hebrew Bible, seeing their journey as a passage to a “New Israel” across a “Red Sea,” with America serving as their Promised Land. Like the Israelites, the Pilgrims experienced oppression, migration, and severe conditions—including starvation, sickness, and death—before eventually finding freedom and blessing in their new territory. William Bradford even brought the study of Hebrew to the New World, as he considered it the oldest surviving language.
Furthermore, the first Thanksgiving in 1621 has roots in the Jewish ritual of Birkat HaGomel—a prayer of gratitude for surviving a voyage, recovering from serious illness, or being released from imprisonment. During that inaugural occasion, the Wampanoag Indians joined the 53 surviving Pilgrims, nearly half of whom had died during their first brutal winter. Thanksgiving also draws inspiration from Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles. This Jewish agricultural and historical holiday celebrates the harvest and commemorates the 40 years of wandering in the desert; its traditional prayers for rain serve as a reminder that bounty results not only from human effort, but that in the end a higher power is in charge.
Book, Waiting for Snow in Havana, has had a profound influence on my own writing. Our narratives share a common thread, as both are set against the turbulent backdrop of history.
Carlos Eire account of the 14,000 children airlifted out of Havana—exiled from their families and homeland to escape Communist persecution—deeply resonated with me. The heartbreaking reality of him and his brother leaving their parents behind, never to see their father again, illustrates the true cost of such an upheaval.
While his story captures the loss of an idyllic childhood in pre-Castro Cuba, my own background involves growing up in Poland, which remained under communist rule from 1947 until the fall of the regime at the end of 1980s. Although we come from different corners of the world, America became our shared adopted home, and we both understand the weight of living under and fleeing from oppression.
But it is what we did with our lives in our newly adopted home that is of the essence. Holocaust survivors and refugees who escaped communism contributed significantly to building America. They did not come to destroy this nation; instead, they embraced the freedoms it offered. These immigrants accepted humble jobs, pursued education, learned English, and pulled themselves out of poverty to become proud, contributing American citizens. That first generation sacrificed in the present to ensure that the next and future generations would have a better life. The Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side of NYC preserves this vital experience of those newcomers. The living conditions I observed evoked memories of how my mother lived in her tiny apartment in Warsaw during the interwar period. In most cases, these living quarters also served as small workshops, housing their entire livelihood within the same space. “As a family of seven, we had to make do with two beds, three chairs, a large table and a dresser. Finding a place to sleep for everyone was a challenge. We slept two to a bed. At night, Mother unfolded an additional cot and my older siblings took turns sleeping on a hay-stuffed mattress that we placed on top of the table. This was the least comfortable place to sleep, but every spring before Passover we stuffed this mattress with fresh hay, which infused the room with its sweet smell.”
Waiting for Snow in Havana, like Memory is Our Home, provides firsthand historical testimony that captures the emotional toll and trauma of exile. These accounts reflect the profound loss of a homeland and the challenges of adapting to a new country while striving to preserve the memories of the life left behind.
When the train pulled away from the platform of our city, my mother became hysterical, emitting a cry so inhuman that I have never heard anything like since. I understand now that she saw herself as a deserter; she knew she would never return to Poland. Having already lost so much, she felt she was losing everything once more—including her identity. Throughout her years in America, her homeland remained the essence of her being, as her heritage, her husband’s grave, and the ghosts of her murdered family lingered forever in Poland.
Determined to survive, my mother would wake at six in the morning for a one-hour subway commute from the Bronx to Manhattan. Despite the language barrier, she navigated her way to a cosmetic factory job using only scribbled addresses and the kindness of strangers. Though she was already fluent in Yiddish, Polish, Russian, French, and Esperanto, she enrolled in nightly English classes after her long shifts at the factory. At nearly fifty years old, her persistence paid off; she became fluent in English and, within two years, secured a position at a bank. I watched her navigate this new life with quiet strength, never complaining or burdening us with the worries she kept buried deep inside.
The documentary film “The Long Way Home” (1997) illustrates how survivors remained in German Displaced Persons (DP) camps for over four years following the war. These camps often mirrored the conditions of Nazi concentration camps, consisting of barracks surrounded by barbed wire, deplorable hygiene, and extremely low morale. In many instances, survivors were even housed next to their former tormentors while the world largely ignored their continued existence. Despite these conditions, the film highlights how survivors actively worked to transcend a “ghetto mentality” and victimhood, looking toward the future by prioritizing marriage and building families.
Thomas Sowell, the renowned economist and social theorist, has written extensively on how culture, institutions, and historical context shape such economic and social outcomes. He examines traits associated with success—such as work ethic, risk tolerance, and adaptability—while noting that “middleman minorities” who achieve such success are often envied by the majority.
After clinging to life for six years in Russia, my parents returned to Poland to find their community decimated. It was rare to find surviving grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, or siblings; my mother’s search in Warsaw revealed that not a single member of her immediate or extended family had survived. Her siblings and their families had all been murdered, leaving no one to answer her cries. A lasting memory from my childhood in Poland remains the image of my mother watching the door, never abandoning the hope that a loved one might miraculously return from the dead. No one ever did.
The first Jewish survivors who returned to Poland following the war were often met with violence; it is estimated that between 500 and 1,500 survivors were murdered in Poland during 1945 and 1946. A pivotal moment of this period was the Kielce pogrom in July 1946. The violence began after an eight-year-old boy did not come home, he came home a day later. A false rumor spread claiming he had been kidnapped by Jews for religious sacrifice. The mob, comprised of ordinary Polish citizens and police, killed more than 40 survivors and left another 40 in critical condition.
My mother’s sister, with whom she had survived in Russia, was separated from her upon their return to Poland in the summer of 1946 and eventually ended up in a Displaced Persons (DP) camp in Germany. She lived there behind barbed wire from 1946 until 1951. Although her husband was able to reach New York City earlier, his American family could only afford his passage at the time. It took several additional years of effort before he was finally able to bring his wife out of Europe to be reunited in America.
Almost one year after the war had ended and after communism was established in Poland, the refugees who survived throughout the Russian territories were allowed to go home. The two sisters were separated during their return trip from Russia. Although they both left Karsi on March 25, 1946, they followed very different paths. Due to the chaos and overwhelmed freight trains, my mother arrived in Poland on June 14, 1946, while Pola ended up in a displaced persons camp in Germany.
Pola eventually immigrated to America, arriving alone on January 7, 1951, aboard the General S.D. Sturgis. Her destination was 15 Park Row in New York City. It took nearly ten years for my mother to discover that Pola was alive, and another decade passed before the two sisters were finally reunited. This also meant that my sister and I had an aunt.
When we arrived in America, we struggled to maintain a delicate balance between the old world and the new. Despite our desire to cling to our heritage, we were desperate to fit in. Our family dynamic changed significantly upon our arrival; my mother and sister began working while I attended school.
My mother was overwhelmed with guilt because she prioritized education above all else, yet my seventeen-year-old sister—who graduated at the top of her class—had to work to support us instead of attending university.
At that time, it had been twenty years since my mother had seen her sister, Pola. Although Pola and her husband had recently retired to Florida, they were no longer in a position to help us find employment. Ultimately, my mother decided we would stay in New York rather than follow them, as she believed Florida offered fewer opportunities for our future.
When we left Poland, my hope was that we would finally be reunited with family and live near Aunt Pola and Uncle Morris in Florida. I longed for the support of an extended family, but the trauma of my mother’s past—marked by poverty and hunger in Poland and Russia—shaped her priorities differently. Her primary focus was our financial survival.
When my older sister was offered a job as a bookkeeper in New York through a friend with whom my mother survived Uzbekistan, my mother accepted immediately. While my sister worked and attended night school and my mother worked in a factory, the possibility of being near our relatives eluded us once again.
The Holocaust left our family with both tangible and emotional losses. My sister and I never experienced the warmth of an extended family. Aunt Pola, who never had children and was afraid to fly, only visited us a few times by train. She passed away in Miami in 1980, and it was only then, for her funeral, that we finally made the trip to Florida.
Reflecting on the life and legacy of Czesław Miłosz, the renowned Polish poet and author of “The Captive Mind.” After fleeing Communist Poland in 1951, Miłosz eventually made a home in California at UC Berkeley. Having spent World War II in Nazi-occupied Warsaw, he was active in the pro-independence organization “Wolność” and provided aid to Warsaw Jews—efforts for which he was honored as Righteous Among the Nations by Yad Vashem in 1989. One of his most poignant quotes remains: “The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.”
Although Miłosz became an American citizen, he remained a Polish patriot, and his longing for his homeland was a constant theme in his work. Though his writings were banned under the Communist regime, he returned to Poland after the fall of the Iron Curtain and passed away there in 2004.
I find myself deeply identifying with his nostalgia for our mother country. However, while Miłosz was born Catholic, my own roots in Poland are inextricably linked to my identity as a Jew and a Zionist. My memories of being a Jew in a Communist country, where antisemitism persisted, often complicate my own sense of nostalgia for the land of my birth.
The Jewish experience in post-war Poland shaped my understanding of identity and belonging. Growing up, I struggled to understand how we were identified as Jews and not as Poles by the community regardless if we practiced or not our religion. We were defined by how others saw us rather than how we saw ourselves. This reminds me of the French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas and his notion of ethics as determined by the encounter with the “other,” a model that helps explain the complexities of Jewish assimilation and belonging.
These reflections bring to mind the stark contrast between my mother’s school experience and my own. Following WWI, my mother viewed school as a sanctuary from poverty and a precious opportunity for education. However, my first day of school on September 1, 1958, was very different. The day began with so much anticipation. I have been looking forward to this day for four years, since the day my older sister first started going to school. On my first day, I was met with taunts before even entering the building. I was told that I was Jewish, Poland was not my country and that I belonged in Palestine.
This was the first time I was confronted whether being both Jewish and Polish was actually possible. The rest of the day became a blur, but I remember clearly that I was already crying as I opened the door to our kitchen.
My mother explained to a confused and upset child, what it meant to be Jewish. I still remember the sadness in her voice as she told me that our true homeland was in Palestine. My response then was simple: “Let’s go to where we belong.”
History is on record for the anti-Zionist campaign in Poland between 1968 and 1969. During this time, the government and its leader Wladyslaw Gomulka used Jews as scapegoats to divert attention from a political and economic crisis.
The campaign intensified after Israel’s victory in the 1967 Six-Day War, which angered the Communist Party. When Israel won the six-day war in 1967 and the young Jews of Poland openly celebrated for the first time, the Communist Party was infuriated. Poland was ruled by Russia and Soviet tanks were found in the desert. Israel defeated not only Egypt but also Russia. The Polish party took ‘this Jewish pride’ to jumpstart a “Zionist conspiracy” rhetoric to target Jewish students, professors, and professionals. Through mass media propaganda and secret police involvement an unmistakable Antisemitic tinge followed, the terms “intellectual” and “Jew” became interchangeable. The result was that most Polish Jews lost their jobs and about 40,000 were forced out of Poland.
Of the over 3 million Jews who lived in Poland before the war, about 100,000 Jews remained at the end of World War II. By 1958, 50,000 left, the rest chose to stay, and ten years later they were forced to leave once again. By the time communism fell in Poland in 1989, only 5,000–10,000 Jews remained in the country. Most of them were the elderly or those who chose to conceal their Jewish identity.
And in the words of Richard Lourie, the critically acclaimed author of both fiction and nonfiction, “We do not learn from our mistakes and never change.” Something to ponder in the 21 century.
https://memoryisourhome.com/