An appeal for stories from young Jewish people The Amazing Bomb Story
My grandmother lived in Warsaw, while her family lived in Chelm. It was September 1939, and it had just been announced that Germany had invaded Poland. There was a mad scramble to get out of Warsaw as it fell victim to relentless German bombing. No inklings of 'Holocaust' or genocide were developed, it was merely a time when every Polish citizen tried to run, hide and contact family. My grandmother was one such Pole.
She decided to try to get to Chelm to see her family and take them with her safely to Russia. She was a devout Communist. She had been involved in smuggling communist propaganda into Poland, against strict Government rules and hatred of the Communist regime. She told me that she had once had the audacity to post a communist poster directly behind a polish soldier/guard standing in the street. If she was caught, immediate prison. However, she safely got away and people walked past the soldier and saw the poster, laughing on their way at his failure to see the catch onto the trick.
Anyway, on one of her dashes around the city as she prepared to go to Chelm, the sirens began to wail and foretold of the coming bombing raid. As always, there was someone willing to provide shelter in the basement for the public who got strande when the sirens sounded. It was a fairly civic minded Poland at that stage. She was huddling in the basement of someone's house, and could hear the bombs falling all around her. For someone of my generation it is difficult to imagine the fear of the bomb-lottery.
It is said that if you hear the sound of a bomb, you can breathe a sigh of relief. It has exploded already and you have heard it. It was this feeling of complete balance in the hands of luck, and complete terror and impending doom, that blanketed all in this house (and certainly many other houses). Many houses in the immediate area were being demolished, along with their huddled occupants.
As she huddled, a sudden terrible crash and shake enveloped the house. They had obviously been hit. There was a perceivable moment between the initial impact and the time the bomb ripped through the floors of the house. But then, no explosion. This was the real moment of terror. They had definitely been hit, but the bomb had yet to go off. Surely a matter of moments, incalculably long moments, until the inevitable massive trauma of the shrapnel and heat ripping through the house and themselves.
But more moments passed. Nothing happened. There was the faint sound of whimpering, crying and huddling. The sound that only people can make when they are too frightened to make noise. Slowly, the huddling strangers got up and gingerly moved about. It took about 2 minutes to locate the unexploded shell. Everyone had a sense of where it had fallen. It was big and shiny, and had broken into several pieces on impact. Perhaps this is what it was supposed to do.
The more brazen of the bunch touched the metal pieces, and found that there was no material, powder or explosive inside. Indeed, it was an empty shell. However, there was something. A piece of card or paper had survived the impact, and lay in between two of the broken pieces. The brazen man picked it up and found that it contained some scrawled German. One of the bunch read it, and translated it into Polish - "This is the best that we can do."
No-one knows who wrote it, but we all know why. Some decent person or persons in the German war machine was doing their bit to stop the waste of human life about to occur with the dropping of the bomb.
In Jewish experience, time and time again, it has been said, "If not for this, then I wouldn't be here!" Now I have my own "if not for" and there is a person or persons to thank, but I'll never know who.
Recollections of Kristallnacht
by Irene Leeron, in a letter to a friend, November, 2002.
Good morning,
Kristallnacht! I remember it well. November 1938, and
even though I was only a nine year old child it still
sticks in my memory. For how could I forget it, it changed my whole life.
That was the day/night my parents realised at last,
once and for all, that there was no future for us Jews
in Germany and started making plans for getting out of
the country. Till then they had believed things
couldn't get worse. There had been restrictions for
Jews, no entrance to many places, no work in different
professions, no owning of certain property and more,
but they had innocently thought, that there it would
stop. Now no more.
That evening, knowing what was going on outside, we
huddled silently in our humble flat, afraid of the
fatal knock or kick on the door. I was too young to
understand, but I felt their fear. We were the only
Jewish family in our street, I would have known if
there had been others, but we had all felt the jeers
of the Nazi ruffians surrounding us, with my then 15
year old brother getting beaten up regularly for a
long time before. My sister and I, being girls, were
evidently spared this experience.
The next morning when we went outside, we found many
of the streets covered with broken glass, and people
walking about with smiling faces, "They had it coming
to them", they seemed to be saying about the Jews. All
Jewish shops which had still remained in their hands,
were broken into and destroyed. Synagogues were burnt
to the ground. And of course many people had been
arrested and were sent to concentration camps in
Germany which had already been set up (like Buchenwald
and Dachau - thr latter I visited in 1987, and if
you're interested will tell you about this
experience), but then they were still not death camps,
but more like prisons, although people died there
because of the poor conditions, typhus and such. Jews
were sent to clean up the streets.
But back to preparations for leaving Germany - which
was a very difficult task. Not because Germany didn't
let the Jews go (then they did so easily), but because
no country was willing to take Jews in. Some with
relatives abroad managed to leave, others managed on
some quota to certain western countries, but most of
us just had nowhere to go. There were many who tried
to enter Switzerland, climbed over the Alps to get
there, but those "lovely" Swiss, just returned them to
Germany. After all they were a neutral country and
didn't want to get involved - but none of us will ever
forgive them for this dastardly deed. There was even a
ship which left for South America with thousands of
Jews abroad (can't remember its name, but it is part
of history, and when arriving there, the Argentinans
changed their minds about the visas they had formerly
given, so the ship sailed from country to country on
that continent, even to north America,USA, but no one
wanted so many Jews, and in the end the ship returned
to Hamburg, and their fate was sealed.
And then England came to the rescue for children up
to the age of 16. They were willing to take in these
youngsters, but only on one condition, this being that
someone would vouch financially for each child, so
that they would not become an economic burden to the
country. So Jewish committees in England started
setting up, finding families who were willing to take
children in, or others who were willing to fund them
so that they could be sent to hostels. Both Jewish and
Christian families were found. My parents didn't want
to wait. They knew a woman (Christian) who was going
to England on a visit and they gave her photographs of
us three children, and begged her to try and find a
family ,who was willing to take us in, or even only
one or two of us.
And that is how I managed to leave
Germany, because a Christian family with four sons of
their own, gentlemen farmers in a small village in
Sussex, agreed to take me in, until my parents came
over too and took me back. As I am sure I've already
told you, none of the other members of my family made
it, and were all sent to concentration camps in Poland
where they found their death. It took till May 1939
that I was able to leave leave Germany, had to get so
many different documents, certificates, inoculations
and what not first, and then I left together with lots
of other children on a train for England. These groups
of children were called "Kindertransports" and I
believe about 10.000 children managed to get to
England from Germany, Austria and Czchechoslovakia. (I
may be wrong about the number).
Irene
The Menorah Story
Young Private Winneger was with the US Army
as it marched through Europe at the end of World
War II. His unit was assigned to a European village
with the orders to secure the town, search for any
hiding Nazis and to help the villagers in any way
they could.
Winneger was on patrol one night when he saw a
figure running through a field just outside the
village. He shouted, "Halt or I'll shoot." The figure ducked
behind a tree. Winneger waited and eventually the
figure came out and figuring that Winneger was no
longer nearby, went to a spot near a large tree and
started to dig. Winneger waited until the figure had
finished digging and was once more on the move
before he stepped out and again shouted, "Halt or
I'll shoot!" The figure ran. Winneger decided not to
shoot but to try to catch the furtive figure. He
shortly caught up with the figure and tackled it to the
ground.
To his surprise he found he had captured a young
boy. An ornate menorah had fallen from the boy's
hands in the scuffle. Winneger picked up the
menorah. The boy tried to grab it back shouting,
"Give it to me. It's mine!" Winneger assured the
boy that he was among friends. Furthermore, he
himself was Jewish. The boy who had just survived
several years of the Holocaust and had been in a
concentration camp was mistrustful of all men in
uniforms. He had been forced to watch the shooting
of his father. He had no idea what had become of
his mother.
In the weeks that followed, Winneger took the young
boy, whose name was David, under his wing. As they
became closer and closer, Winneger's heart went out
to the boy. He offered David the opportunity to come
back to New York City with him. David accepted and
Winneger went through all the necessary paperwork
and officially adopted David.
Winneger was active in the New York Jewish community.
An acquaintance of his, a curator of the Jewish
Museum in Manhattan, saw the menorah. He told David it was a
very valuable historic, European Menorah and should
be shared with the entire Jewish Community. He offered
David $50,000 for the menorah.
But David refused the generous offer saying the
menorah had been in his family for over 200 years and that no
amount of money could ever make him sell it. When Chanukah came, David and Winneger lit the menorah in the window of their home in New York City.
David went upstairs to his room to study and Winneger
stayed downstairs in the room with the menorah.
There was a knock on the door and Winneger went to
answer. He found a woman with a strong German accent
who said that she was walking down the street when
she saw the menorah in the window. She said that she had
once had one just like it in her family and had never
seen any other like it. Could she come and take a closer
look?
Winneger invited her in and said that the menorah
belonged to his son who could perhaps tell her more
about it. Winneger went upstairs and called David
down to talk to the woman and that is how David was
reunited with his mother.
This is retelling from memory (so some of the details
may be wrong) from a true story told by Rabbi Allan
C, Temple Shalom, Levittown, PA.
Led by an Angel
She was taken to a dark cramped room by several Nazis and was ordered to take off her clothes (who presumedly wanted to rape her!). She began praying to G-d and asked for forgiveness, then she prayed for him to help her and take her to heaven right then.
When she opened her eyes the Nazi men were gone and she saw a light out side the frameless window. She climbed out the window and followed it, and she was led to a tall German man. The man had no expression on his face and he took her out of the camp (he never said a word). She died happily married to my great great grandpa, and she had 3 children.
I truly believe that she was led by an angel sent by g-d.
Demonstration in Vilna
Contributed by Ephraim Zackson
My father was born in Vilna in 1890, and came to a
America in 1910. He would tell stories of his early life that sounded
made up, or at least exaggerated. One was of the demonstration in front
of the governors palace in 1905.
Russia had just lost a humiliating war
with the Japanese in Manchuria, with the Russian fleet being sunk in
Port Arthurin in what is now Korea. Theft, malfiecence, bribery,
corruption were the norm in the czarist society, and defeat was
inevitable. The people of Russia, always under the heel of the regieme
,finally began to demonstrate for Democratic reforms.
On this day, a huge crowd gathered in the square in front of the Governor.s palace. The
square was closed by high walls on three sides, with the Governors mansion making up hte forth side. The Governor came out onto a balcony, promising a constitution and democratic reforms. This was but a subtrifuge, giveng the Cossacks time to enter the square. The horses hoofs were covered with cloth to reduce the sound of the approach. At a
given signal, the brigade of cavalry entered the square through three
portals, and systematically, shot or sabered hundreds of people.
My father sait that he lay down in the street, only to have bodies fall on
tio of him, seceral layers deep. He said that he would not move until
evening, when he climbed out from under the pile of death. To be honest, I always felt that the story was, a little, inflated, of his feigning death to preserve life.
Years later, in 1965, I made a house call to s sick patient, and
was informed that the patient would require a few mor minutes to dress,
and that I should read the "not very good books on the table." Being an
avid reader, I grabbed the large coffee-table book on the table, which
was intitled~The Jews of Eastern Europe" Thumbing through the pages, I
suddenlly froze, unable to speak. There in front of me was a book, which
included the history in great detail, of the Jewish communition in
eastern Europe.
There staring into my depths, was a photograph of young
people, Jews and non-Jews alike, with intertwined arms, marching in
defience of the dectators orders, The picture gave in great detail,
everything that my father had described. It was as though I had
traversed time and distance, and was indeed on the same soil that had
muddied up Dad"s clothing.
The caption read " A photograph taken of the march in protest the day after the massacer in Vilna in 1905"
Ephraim Zackson Going to the Goldener Land
Contributed by Ephraim Zackson, MD
In 1910, my father at age 20 decided to go to America from Vilna, then
part of the Russian empire. His sister had already migrated several
years before and had a bake shop in New York City. The Hebrew Immigrant
Aid Society was contacted and they arranged for the exodus. This
entailed the bribing of both the Russian and German border guards.
My father got as far as the border between Russia and Prussia, when he was
placed under a pile of hay on an hay wagon. The non Jewish wagoneer was
told to remain seated by the Czarist Russian border guard, who then
shoved his bayonet into the hay surface. The depth of the bayonet thrust
was determined by the size of the "donation", the greater the amount of
"donation", the shorter the depth of the bayonet thrust. He survived
this ordeal, and a few days later, embarked on the SS George Washington
of the Hamburg-American Line to New York , in steerage. A year later,
he sent for the remaining family.
Eggs as Weapons
Contributed by Ephraim Zackson, MD
My father lived in Vilna from 1890 until 1910, at which time
he emigrated to America. During his youth it was customary for peasants
from the surrounding countryside to come into town to sell their
produce.
After the produce was sold, they would go to the nearest
tavern, and drink oceans of vodka, becoming totally inebriated.
At that time, they would gather together, meander down the streets,
and for sport, beat up any Jewish male that they would come upon.
On several occasions, the victim was my father. On one particular
day, a peasant well over six feet in height came into the ghetto of
Vilna with a large cart of eggs. He was wearing the usual long tunic
with a rope for a belt.
My father told him that he was sent by his mother to buy many dozen eggs. The peasant, happy to make such a large sale, held up the lower edges of the tunic, making a cradle for the eggs. My father then proceeded to transfer one egg after
another into the concavity bounded by the upturned tunic. Dozens
after dozens were thus transferred. When this was accomplished,
and no more eggs remained in the cart, my heroic paternal predesessor
proceeded to pummel the previous aggressor, whose hands now held
up the precious egg load. He could not respond without an economic
disaster resulting.
My father continued to extract a just revenge for the previous injustices done to him. The only response from the howling victim was a string of invectives that turned the surrounding iron fences red. Dad then beat a hasty retreat, possessing a lifelong
satisfaction, and, regretably, a widened vocabulary of Russian adjectives.
Mama and the Four-Legged Chicken
Contributed by Ephraim Zackson, MD
My mother's parents came from small shtetles in the vicinity of
Grudno and kuvno in czarist russia, emigrating in the 1880's. Her
Father became a glazier and a locksmith, fathering 13 children in
This ,the "goldener land." the family made many moves, eventually
Ending up in the bay ridge section of Brooklyn, New York.
My mother was the twelfth child. Though the family was perpetually poor,
Books were always a common item inthe household, and mama became
A reader at an early age. When she entered the first grade in the
Public school, it was rapidly apparent that she was an excellent
Student.
The first grade teacher felt that mama could do second
Year work and advanced her to second year class during the first
week of school. The second year teacher had a reputation of not
liking Jewish people and was upset in having mama in her class. She gave mom a test, including the question: ,"how many legs does a chicken have?" my mother wrote down "four". The teacher, angry that this stupid child was skipped into her class, immediately took her down to the principal's office, and demanded that this "idiotic
Child "be sent back to the first grade.
The principal asked my mother how she came to the answer. Mama replied that her mother would send her to the kosher butcher to get what they could only afford,
namely "ein viertel chicken". Since a quarter of a chicken had one leg, a whole chicken[which she had never seen] must have four legs.
The principal sent her back to the second grade, and mom went on to become an outstanding student!
L'Chaim....to Life!
By Eliana Michal bat Avraham as told to her by Erwin
The word "aliyah" in Hebrew means a going up. It may mean being called to the bemah (alter) to recite a blessing or to read from the Torah. It also means moving to Israel, as this is also considered a going up.
Erwin and his family had made twenty-three trips to Israel prior to 1989. It was this year that they decided to make aliyah. They purchased a condo in the town of Nahariya, only eight miles from the Lebanese boarder, and. were given a warm reception by the neighbors. A young woman who had lived in the US for awhile and spoke English, befriended them.
In 1989 also, the Russian government started allowing Russian Jews to leave the country. There was mass emigration, and many of these immigrated to Israel. Upon arrival at the airport, these new families were given money by the Israeli government to rent an apartment, buy a TV, refrigerator, and a washer. The government had also been giving out furniture and bedding, but because of the influx of thousands arriving daily, at this point the supplies were depleted.
About a week before Chanukah that year, his wife came running in with the news that a Russian family was moving into their building. All they had that she could see was a few chairs. Erwin and his wife knocked at the Russian's door, carrying a large box of chocolates, and to say "Shalom." The family consisted of a husband and wife, two teenage daughters, and Yiddish speaking grandparents. Erwin spoke Yiddish, so there was communication.
Looking around the apartment he noted that the only furnishings to be seen were six wooden chairs. This family didn't even seem to have much in the way of food, so after leaving Erwin enlisted another neighbor to go to the local market with him and purchase a food basket.
On the morning of Chanukah Eve, another neighbor came knocking at Erwin's door. Excited, she told him that she had learned that the new Russian family was sleeping on the floor, and that they had no bedding. She told him that she knew where they could get all the furniture, bedding, and full kitchen equipment. Someone in town had a garage full, and they would give it away freely, but a truck was needed for transport.
"You are American," she told him, "You can do anything!" The American will use his vast resources to find a truck. It's that easy! He remembered that another neighbor had a truck, but wouldn't be home until late afternoon, so he stood outside waiting until the man came home. He explained the situation to this man who readily agreed to the use of his truck.
In spite of suffering ill health himself, Erwin rounded up several men from the building, and together with the woman to lead them, they loaded the furniture onto the truck and delivered it to the Russians. Others noticed what was going on, and soon the other neighbors pitched in, bringing gifts of linens, pillows, towels, and canned goods.
It was now very late in the day, and someone announced that Chanukah had begun. Another brought in a mennorah and candles. The first candle was lit, and all began to sing songs. The Russians stood with teary eyes, they were home at last. So was Erwin.
Happy Chanukah!
Jewish Life in the Bronx
By Eliana Michal bat Avraham as told to her by Erwin
This story is based on the recollections of my dear friend, Erwin, who lived the experiences.
To a Jewish kid growing up in our neighborhood of the Bronx from the 1930s to the 1950s it was like living in a vacuum. It was living in a Jewish world. Typical tenement living with many people crowded into the buildings, and our abode was five flights up. Air conditioning was yet unknown in those century old buildings, and in the sweltering New York City summer, I slept on the fire escape. During those summer months, we kids all wore moth balls in a sack around our necks because people thought this kept polio away. Nonsense! For years we smelled like a clothes closet. I think the people who started this theory must have come from Transylvania.
Pop came from "The Old Country" and had a wonderfully wry Jewish sense of humor.I remember as a kid attending a funeral for a cousin who must have been at least 85 years old. Now you know that at Jewish funerals, it is customary to have the coffin closed, but the family insisted that it be left open. He was such a difficult man all of his life, maybe they just wanted to be sure that it was him. As we walked by the coffin, someone remarked, "Doesn't Jake look good?" Pop retorted, "So, why not? He just came back from Florida!"
Pop worked as a waiter in a restaurant and always brought home the jokes. Tons of jokes. In many homes there had to be peace and quiet at the dinner table. Not in our home! We were the noisest bunch of joke telling people you ever want to meet! Since he worked nights, we only saw him two days a week. When I got up for school, he was sleeping, but I knew that he had been in my room because every morning I awakened to find a Hershey Bar on top of my dresser. Maybe America didn't turn out to be the Goldener Medina for Pop, but he left a king's treasure to us kids. My pop was a true mensch.
Mom was very American, but still had some Old World ways. For instance, when I came home from school, she would cut a large slice of pumpernickel bread that she spread with rendered chicken fat and pieces of fried chicken skin and fried onions. This was "just a little something to hold you over until dinner." It always gave me heartburn, but then I thought all Jewish boys and girls had heartburn. At the ripe old age of 21 I left home, and never had heartburn again.! It wasn't until then that I realized that Gentiles didn't eat this concoction.
There were six of us kids living in that apartment with Mom and Pop. Living in such close quarters, it was hard to keep secrets from the neighbors. Especially with the likes of Mrs. Nussbaum, our own Yenta (gossip) around. She knew all the scoop on everybody....who got a raise, who got fired, who was having a baby, who was having an affair, etc. When she died the shul (synagogue) had one of its biggest turnouts. Personally, I think people came just to make sure she really was dead. We called her "Zizzle Puss."
There was the usual assortment of neighborhood characters, like you would find in the typical European stetyl.(village) "Jake the Snake" was the wisenheimer, and we had our own "Reb Nachem the Begger," like in "Fiddler On the Roof." Only this one we called "Jascha Heifetz," after the famous violinist. Every Friday evening he came to the back alley of our building and began playing all the old Jewish favorite songs. He must have gone from building to building until sundown, and everyone threw him a few cents. Mom would give me our few cents to wrap into a piece of newspaper to throw down to him. Throwing down these few cents taught me a lesson about life, " If you're lucky enough to reach the top, always remember the people you left behind."
Down the street was the open market just like you see in the movies. There were pushcarts everywhere and every vendor had a name. There were butchers, fruitstands and live fish markets where you could pick out a large carp, whitefish or pike. If you bought a fish for the holidays, it swam in the bathtub until it was time to kill it. At the butcher shop was the shohet, a slaughterer who was authorized by the rabbinical council for the proper slitting of an animal's throat so as to initiate a quiet and painless death. Also to drain out most of the blood. The "Banana Lady" must have stood all of 4 feet 5 inches tall, and she was dressed in a coat, winter or summer. If you came by, she would give you a tiny banana only a couple of inches long to taste.
And then there was Jake. This is still another Jake. Jacob is a popular name. This one was "Jake the Pickle Man." It was my job to get the pickles and tomatoes every Friday after school. Mom had this very large Mason jar and I would get in line waiting for Jake to decide to open. He was a nut! If some woman angered him, he would close all his wooden barrels and shout in Yiddish, "Woman go home! I'm upset! No pickles today! No tomatoes! No sauerkraut! " The women would start to cry, "Jake! My husband will kill me if we don't have pickles on the dinner table!" It was no use. Nothing moved him.
In every Jewish home Friday was special, and preparations were underway for Shabbat. Mom washed all the floors on her hands and knees, and then she laid newspaper down on the kitchen floor so when we came in from school we wouldn't get it dirty. No Friday dinner is complete without gefilte fish or chopped liver, chicken soup, boiled chicken, or if you were lucky, roast chicken. Mom would roast a chicken especially for me. And most important, those sour pickles and tomatoes. No matter how good the meal was, you had to have those pickles! I had but one thought when we sat down to our Shabbat meal, "I hope we have enough Tums to go around!"
There were two shuls on our street and you either went to Friday night service or Saturday morning service. Then, until sundown Saturday it was a day for Torah study, family, and relaxation. All the stores were closed for the Sabbath, but reopened again on Saturday night. This was when you bought your Sunday breakfast of lox, (smoked salmon) smoked whitefish, olives, and lots of bagels and cream cheese. Mom might pick a herring from the herring barrel and sniff the gills to be sure that it was fresh. One Saturday, my brother who had just gotten out of the service, came down to the fish market with Mom and me. Mom picked a few herring out of the barrel and began to sniff the gills when the owner's son made a rude remark. My brother heard him, and in a flash he picked up the rudenik and shoved him head first down into the fish barrel!
Jewish humor is LIFE. That's how we as a people were able to endure everything the rest of the world threw at us. Shalom.
Summertime in New York
By Eliana Michal bat Avraham
Remembering with Erwin
With the days getting cooler and shorter now, we are more comfortable remembering the long, hot summers of years past. Summertime in the Bronx was somewhat different from the summertime in the slower moving deep south. People were crowded into large tenement buildings, and the children played in the streets where the traffic was light, and worry was little.
We may not have had the rivers, creeks, and ponds that our southern cousins had to swim in, but then we had... Coney Island! Enduring the three hour ride by train from the Bronx to Coney Island Beach was well worth the trip. For the kids it was paradise by the sea. There was a large amusement park with all the rides including even a parachute jump if you were daredevil enough to try it. There was all the junk food that kids dreamed about for days before going. Gastronomical delights like Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs, hot corn on the cob, fries, and all the other junk food you can name. To top it all off there was the cooling mist and crashing waves of the Atlantic to refresh the senses. I was lucky. On the days that I didn't make it to Coney Island, it was only a bus ride for me to the local beaches and pools where I could swim all day.
In my family the highlight of summer was going on summer vacation to the Catskill Mountains. These were about one hundred miles north of New York City, and was also known as the Jewish Alps. There were accomodations to fit any budget from boarding houses to large hotels, and in between that smaller hotels and bungelow colonies.The boarding houses were the most reasonable fare.You could rent a room with the community bathroom down the hall, and you prepared your own meals on a hotplate in the large community kitchen. Of course, someone else might be cooking right alongside of you on another hotplate.
A bungelow could be rented fully furnished for a seasonal rate. The smaller hotels were very reasonable for a weeks stay, but the services were limited. For instance, while three meals were served a day, there was no choosing from a menu. No swimming pool here, but there were the ponds and lakes like our southern cousins enjoyed. Now, the large hotels had everything their patrons could want. Elegant dining rooms with full service. An activities director planned the entertainment for the patrons, and in the evenings there was dancing and a show in the hotel night club. Many famous entertainers like Jerry Lewis and Red Buttons got their start in the Jewish Alps.
After dinner in the evening the waiters and bus boys from the dining room underwent a metamorphesis from server to dancing partner for all the young single women. For a young single man it was utopia set to music. For the young single woman it was the hunt for a husband. Arriving at the bus stop, we were picked up by the hotel staff car, and the adventure began.
All those wonderful times live on today only in memory. Time moves on and things change. There are only a few hotels still operating today, and you could probably count them on one hand. They are the almost ghostly reminders of a time when life was so much simpler. A causeway from the naivete of innocense to the sophistication of awakenings.
Where have all the flowers gone.?..long time passing. SHALOM
Grandparents' Stories
By Robin NJ
When I was in fifth grade my hebrew teacher gave out an assignment that required everyone in the class to interview a Holocaust victim and write up a report about their story. That night I went home and told my parents about my assignment. To my surprise, my father told me to call up his mother (my grandmother) and interview her. I hadn't any idea that she had lived through the Holocaust because no one had ever mentioned it before.
Eager to begin my assignment I proceeded to give her a call that very night. After explaining my assignment to her, she sighed and paused for a moment before replying. "Well if I tell you my story then it's only fair I tell you your grandfather's story as well."
I had never met my grandfather as he had passed away a few months before my birth, so being given to opportunity to learn about his past was a chance I didn't want to pass over. The following is my memory of the story told to me by my grandmother years ago that really has truly affected my life.
"Your father and I both grew up in Romania. The towns we grew up in were so small that they probably don't exist anymore. The family I grew up in wasn't very secularized and not very religious, but we went to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and we always had a passover seder.
"I remember the day that the Nazis came into town. I was walking home from school when i saw men in uniforms patrolling the streets. When i got home my mother was sitting at the kitchen table crying as she sewed yellow stars onto all of our clothing. The next few months were very tough for our family as well as for all of the Jews in the community. Things got really bad about a year later when all the Jews in the neighborhood were forced to move into a ghetto.
"Life in the ghetto was horrible. My mother usually spent all day trying to find clean water so that we could bathe everyday to prevent illness. Unfortunately this wasn't effective enough. A little less than two years later, my mother succumbed to tuberculosis and passed away. I was left alone with my father.
"However, not too long afterwards the Nazis came into the ghetto and took all of the able bodied men away to labor camps. My father was one of those men. I was left alone as a young teenager to fend for myself until the war ended and I was sent to a displaced persons camp. It is here that I met your grandfather."
At this point my grandmother told me briefly of my grandfather's experiences.
"Your grandfather wasn't as lucky as my family. His family was sent immediately to a labor camp. A few of his relatives escaped to Israel before the war, but most of his family stayed behind to wait things out.
"It was in this labor camp that your grandfather lost contact with the rest of his family. He was an energetic teenager and was therefore forced to do hard labor everyday. One day his entire work force was sent out on a death march. They were told that they were being sent to work on a railroad, but your grandfather found out afterwards that they were led to a concentration camp instead.
"It was on this death march that your grandfather decided to make his escape. Him and 2 friends waited until the line marched through a forest and ran off into the woods. The other Jews on line said nothing and the Nazis didn't notice them. Your grandfather and his friends then made their way up to Russia where they sold soap on the black market for two years.
There was one incident when the Russian police caught up with him and sent their dogs into his house. One of the dogs bit off a piece of his ear, but your grandfather managed to escape and find refuge with his friends until the end of the war when he came back to Romania and wound up in the same displaced person's camp as me.
"We got married in the camp and had your uncle. A couple of years later we managed to gain passage to America and moved to Boston where we had your father and your other uncle."
And so this is the story that was told to me at the age of 10 by my grandmother, and I've never forgotten it to this day.
My great great grandmother was an escapee from a death camp. I was researching my family line when I fell upon her story. I found out that she was a teen when she enetered the camp and she wasnt religous at all, although she was jewish! When she arrived my great great great grandmother (her mother) was killed on the train.
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Now it's your turn. Please email me your stories (as long or as short as they are), so that I may get them on the site ASAP.