As the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, I will admit that I did
some things as a child that were probably by all normal standards considered
very strange.
For example, I remember spending the time that it took between
closing my eyes and actually falling asleep brainstorming places that my family
could hide if the Nazis came to find us.
And while most childrens' first memories are about playing in sand
boxes or riding on carousels, I have etched in my mind the first time I saw
tattooed numbers on my great aunt's arm and the first time I realized that the
girl in the picture in her den wasn't my father’s sister, but my great aunt’s
daughter who was taken to a death camp with her younger brother and murdered.
My grandmother had a severe stroke when I was very young and it
was often hard to read her emotions, because she couldn't speak or move the
right side of her body. But, I will never forget the first and only time I saw
her cry intensely as my dad told her that my brother was in a play about the
Holocaust, and I remembering wondering if they were tears of pain or tears of
pride or both.
I’m sure that for many, this would all seem very strange. All of
these memories were produced before I was even 8 years old. And maybe it was too much. Maybe this
transmission of pain through generations was wrong. As a young adult, however,
looking back I wouldn’t trade these memories for the sand boxes or the
carousels, because above all these memories gave me a distinct sense of hope.
Today marks Yom Hashoah, the Jewish day to commemorate the
Holocaust, and the day is all about memory. Today, we, as Jewish people (though
many Jewish people are probably unaware of this day) take a vow to “NEVER FORGET”.
All my life, in classes, in college, at Jewish programs
commemorating this day “never forgetting” has been about ensuring that such an
atrocity should never happen again, and of course, this purpose is meaningful
and it is a purpose I deeply believe in.
My early college years were in the midst of the horrible genocide
that wrought Darfur and so much of the Jewish student community rallied around
the cause by remembering what happened in our past to change the present. And,
so many Jewish advocates relay their intense feelings of angst for communities
in pain with our communal pain that comes from remembering our own history.
But today, I am remembering the hope – a feeling I find much more difficult to
draw out amidst the monstrosity that was the killing of 6 million Jewish people
and 3 or 4 million more who were killed in vein and the suffering that came in
between and after and the innocence that was stripped from the world.
As a little girl, while I saw the numbers tattooed on my great
aunt’s arm, when I discovered that the little girl in the picture wasn’t my father’s
sister, when I saw my grandmother cry, I also have simultaneous memories of
looking at the survivors in my family and asking myself, even as a young child how
they held onto life.
8 years ago, I went on March of the Living an international,
educational program that brings Jewish teens from all over the world to Poland
on Yom Hashoah to march from Auschwitz to Birkenau, the largest concentration
camp complex built during World War II and then to Israel.
During my experience, my tour group was accompanied by two
survivors – a husband and wife named Sam and Regina. I distinctly remember
standing in Auschwitz where Regina had been 60 years prior and listening to her
story.
Regina told us about a friend of hers who had given up on life.
When Auschwitz existed as a death camp its barbed wire had electric current
running through it and many prisoners chose to committed suicide by grasping
the wires. Her friend was ready to face that same fate. It was the midst of
winter, and they were literally freezing, with minimal clothing, blankets and food.
But on that particular day the sun was shining through the clouds
and Regina could feel the rays heating her weak body. She told her friend to
look up into the sunshine and said that as long as the sun still existed there
was hope in the world, and she saved her life. A few days later the camp was
liberated.
I’ve carried that story with me through life, along with the
stories of my grandparents and great aunt and uncle, and I still can’t make
sense of them. They are stories that make me pause and think about how much
there is to live for – even in moments of immense pain.
I feel guilty on this Remembrance Day for turning my personal
introspection and focus on life. Millions of people were killed as a result of
senseless hatred. Nothing will ever negate that. It’s a burden we as humanity
must carry with us every day. People are lost every day. But I can’t help but
reflect on how, amidst this horror, people still found something to live for.
There’s difficulty in remembering painful histories. We don’t want
to disrupt a carefree existence with the burden of carrying memories with us.
But amidst the pain there is something incredibly meaningful about how deeply so
many people wanted to survive.
I hope that while we make the pledge to Never Forget, we’re also
reminded how to hold onto life, because after the tattoos numbered on arms, and
the photographs of children who were taken and killed, and barbed wires, and
tears there was a life worth living for. I learned that from the survivors.
(I included pictures of my grandparents' life after the war.)
